Chapter 1
Indigo Evans
Present
I held the stencil against the wall and sprayed three steady lines against it. Usually when I went kamikaze style, my heart pounded in my ears and my hands shook. But not tonight. Tonight, I was steady and clear and so goddamned mad.
Every time I thought about that notice taped to my door, my breath came out in a huff. A noise that was loud in this deserted alley. But not as loud as the hiss of my spray paint.
I tossed the can down and grabbed an orange one. I wanted this piece to be bright. So bright they’d have a hell of a time painting over it.
I wanted it to show through like the blood they had on their hands.
Stupid, asshole, rich pricks who didn’t give a shit about the little people they stepped on. As long as they made their stupid tv show and got their accolades at their appearances and collected all their blood money.
I doubted they even noticed the trail of destruction they’d left for me and others to pick up.
My dad was in jail because of these pricks. Or to be more specific, one prick in particular. Dylan Burns. Asshole extraordinaire.
Not that I expected his brothers were any less dickish. I bet they were all rich, entitled assholes who cosplayed at being regular middle-class people. Between their tv show and their custom motorcycle builds, they were raking it in.
And stepping all over us little people on their way up.
“You forgot to shade that corner there.”
I jumped at the voice that came from the other side of the alley. Whirling around, my terror filled wide eyes locked on the man standing in the shadows. “Shit.”
I scrambled to grab my kit. I couldn’t afford to leave evidence behind. And I really couldn’t afford to replace any of my paints either.
“Whoa.” The mystery man lifted his palms and stepped toward me.
I whipped up a spray can. “Stop right there. I get that I’m trespassing, but if you get any closer, I won’t be afraid to give you a new shade of eye shadow.”
He stopped moving but kept his palms up. “I believe you. And I honestly don’t give a shit that you’re painting my wall.”
I shoved two more cans into my bag, keeping an eye on the guy.
“It’s good. I really like the arc you got with the piss. You got some chops, kid.”
My painting was titled ‘The Trickle Down Economy’ and showed a fat cat standing on a mountain of thinner, poorer cats while the fat one on top peed on the mountain under him. Or it would show. I’d only got half of the mountain painted before Mr. Nosy here showed up.
“Right. Glad you’re a fan. I’ll just be going now.” I shook my head and reached for the stencil I’d dropped earlier.
“Wait. I’m serious. Who are you?” The guy took another step toward me.
I waved a spray can at him. “Never mind. Just…forget I was even here.”
He stopped and crossed his arms over his chest. “That’s gonna be kinda hard with that technicolored opus to greed decorating the side of my paint shed.”
His paint shed? He was one of them. “Yeah, well consider it a big middle finger from us little guys. Fuck you and all the fucking rich assholes.”
“Okay, seriously, who are you?”
“A ghost.” I bared my teeth at him as I fought to keep my rage in check.
“If my family or my father did something to screw you over, I need to know. And I’d like to make it up to you if I can.”
I snorted.
After shoving one more can into my backpack, I zipped it closed despite my shaking hands. “Unless you have time travel abilities, there’s literally nothing you can do for me. Fuck you very much.”
Hitching my backpack onto my shoulders, I slowly backed down the alley away from him, keeping him in my eyeline as I blended into the shadows with my all black clothes. Once I was a safe distance away, I turned and ran.
After a few blocks, I slowed to a walk, but my heart kept racing.
“So stupid,” I muttered to myself. This wasn’t the best end of town, so I kept a wary eye on my surroundings. But I was used to neighborhoods like this one. I grew up in neighborhoods like this one.
Only the best for the Evans clan.
I huffed a breath, watching the guy sleeping on the corner under a makeshift tent. There was generally a live-and-let-live mentality here, but all it took was one. One asshole who decided to make me their late-night snack. One asshole who wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer.
This guy continued to sleep and didn’t move. But still I crossed the street rather than pass in front of his makeshift home.
A home I might need to copy if I couldn’t figure out what to do about my own living situation.
When I finally reached my apartment, the notice taped to the door mocked me. I’d taken the first one down, embarrassed for my neighbors to see I was getting evicted. What an asshole move to put up another one.
I ripped this one down too and shoved it in my pocket.
After pulling my keys out, I tried to slide it into the lock, but it wouldn’t fit. Confused, I flipped the key over and tried it again.
Still didn’t fit.
My heart pounded in my chest and a sense of dread swept over me.
The notice yesterday said ‘three day notice to quit.’ I still had today and tomorrow. He couldn’t have locked me out yet.
I flipped my key over and tried again.
And again.
Then flipped it over and tried again.
And again.
It didn’t work.
I was locked out.
My breath came in hitches as I fought to stay calm.
It didn’t work.
There was no calm here.
My dad was in prison.
I was locked out of our apartment, and it was 3 AM.
What should I do?
Where could I go?
I didn’t know any of our neighbors. And the few I’d seen in passing, I wouldn’t ever want to go knocking on their door at this time of night—or ever.
I didn’t know any of my coworkers at the sandwich shop well enough to justify calling them to bum a bed or their couch. I’d only been working there for three weeks. Most of them still called me Cindy.
I’d made a few friends at school, but that had fallen away once the news had hit. Suddenly, no one wanted anything to do with the girl who had ties to 1%ers. I knew I should’ve gone to community college. Stupid me and my hubris of getting into a UC school.
Like that mattered now.
I hadn’t been to classes in over a month since my car got repossessed. Apparently dear ole dad had fallen behind on my car payments.
So now I was homeless, carless, and no doubt, soon to be jobless if I couldn’t figure out my living situation.
It all felt like too much. I didn’t know where to go, what to do.
I wandered back down to the street.
Shelters were out, since they did a lockdown at night. I’d volunteered at one back in high school in Ohio. It’d done wonders for my résumé. Though not my state of mind now. I was well aware of the trauma ahead of me.
Hunger.
Abuse.
Drug dependency when reality got to be too much.
I didn’t even know I was crying until the tears fell onto my arm.
Nothing to see here. Just a nineteen-year-old girl walking aimlessly around downtown Sac at 3AM. I tried to laugh, but it just came out as a sob.
What was I going to do?
I didn’t think life could get any harder. More painful. More fucking tragic.
Somehow my feet took me back to where I’d started tonight as I found myself walking up the alley toward Badass Builds and the paint shed I’d been decorating only an hour ago.
I half expected my art to already been painted over, but it wasn’t.
Somehow the painting I’d started was now complete.
The mountain of poor cats had been filled in with cats of different shapes and colors. The stream of piss coming from the fat cat arced high into the air before raining down on the mountain of poor cats and then pooling into a murky river streaming away to the side of the frame.
But it was the image of the fat cat on top that had me spellbound. I’d only given him a vague outline and a cliché monocle. But some unknown artist had put a Badass Builds leather jacket on him and morphed the monocle into a pair of dark sunglasses.
It was my vision but better.
The scent of wet paint hung heavily in the alley. And I knew if I reached out, I’d find the wall still wet and tacky.
“I didn’t think you’d come back.”
I jumped and spun around to find someone standing in the doorway of the shed just off the alley. Close but not within arm’s reach.
And yet, I took a few steps back and away from him.
He lifted his palms. “I’m not pissed. As I think you can see.” He nodded toward the mural. “I hope you don’t mind. I took a few liberties with your vision. But I kinda like how it came out.”
“Why?” My voice came out as a croak. But I couldn’t make sense of this. Why would he want to deface his own building with a painting of them being assholes? It didn’t make sense.
“I liked the message.” He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the door frame. “But I’m more interested in what’s going on with you. What’s your story? And why did you come back?”
“I didn’t mean to.” I laughed and shook my head. “I mean, clearly I meant to do that, though my version wouldn’t have had so many details. I didn’t want to spend too much time since I didn’t want to get caught.”
His eyebrows arched, and I shook my head.
“Yeah, clearly it wasn’t the best of plans. Not that anything has gone to plan here lately.” I gave a pitiful laugh and scrubbed my face with my palms.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” He tipped his head and gave me a long look. “You want to talk about it over a cup of coffee? I’m buying.”
My eyes widened. “What? No. I can’t—I don’t…”
“There’s an all-night diner around the corner. We can go sit. Talk. Or not talk. Maybe order some pancakes. I know I like to down some carbs when I’ve been up all night creating. What do you say?”
That he saw me as some kind of charity case stung—even though he was right. “I can afford to buy my own pancakes.”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t. All I said was that I would buy.” He stepped out of the doorway, turned, and locked the door behind him. “Come or don’t. It’s up to you.”
Then he walked up the alley and away from me.
I stared at his back for a long moment.
What just happened?
But the guy just kept walking. He didn’t look behind him once to see if I was following him.
Why was that so annoying?
He had confidence for days. And looking at the mural, he also had more talent in his pinky than I had in my whole body.
That he painted himself as the villain in my piece instead of painting over it was so confusing. Which Burns Brother was he? Why hadn’t he called the cops?
Why was I still standing in the alley talking to myself?
I could be eating bacon and carbs and asking him these questions.
And it wasn’t like I had anything better to do.
Or at least that was the excuse I gave myself as I jogged up the alley in the direction he’d disappeared.