Chapter 11
ELEVEN
It’s a slow night at Prism. Our crowd is mostly happy hour people who crow about “hump day” and then go back to their bland lives.
Crystal does not need to be here, in an empty VIP room with the smell of stale cigars soaking into her hair, but Kieran insists she keep a regular schedule even though fizz usage on a Wednesday is nearly non-existent.
I find it hard to complain about it, though. And I will certainly not try to convince Kieran to let her take the day off.
It’s the one day a week I get to talk to her without the pressure of performing.
She sits casually with her legs slung over the arm of a red leather armchair, eyes glazed and far off. Her outfit today is more reserved than Kieran picks out for her.
Because I get to pick on Wednesdays since the VIP lounge is closed, and Kieran doesn’t care what she wears.
Technically, she could pick what she wears, but I can’t help but leave her something every week.
Black sneakers and purple socks hang off the chair, and cut-off denim shorts cling to her thighs, showing off the incredible tattoo she has running down her leg. The blank spot in the middle is strange, but the collection of snakes and flowers that circle it is so well done that it doesn’t matter.
It looks purposeful.
She’s wearing a plain white, ribbed tank top that clings to her small chest, looking every bit like the girl next door if it weren’t for her fantasy-colored hair.
I wanted her to be comfortable. I like seeing her like this.
It’s how I imagine she’d dress in her off time if her life weren’t what it is now.
“What are you staring at, Puck?” The words could be full of venom, like they usually are, but they’re not. She sounds tired.
I wish I could show her that I’m not her enemy. I am trying to look out for her the best I can. I just can’t be loud about it.
But it feels like she won’t notice unless I am. Like I have to stand in her face and scream, “Crystal, I’m trying to keep you out of trouble!” for her to realize that I’m always watching her back.
Unfortunately, in an organization like the Conglomerate, you have to keep your head down. She already has enough attention on her. It would be pointless if she knew what I was doing to keep her safe, all the eyes I redirect from her.
Safety is in the silence, in the unknown.
“How are you holding up?” I ask quietly, even though there is no one here with us. “After everything with your-”
“Don’t say it,” she snaps, her head whipping toward me. “Don’t.”
“So, good then, clearly.”
She slams her feet on the ground as she spins to face me. “You don’t get to be sarcastic when you brought me into this life.”
I throw my head back, groaning. “Must we have this conversation every fucking day, Queenie? Why can’t we have a normal conversation like coworkers?”
“Oh, you want to tell me your favorite snack food? Your favorite color? The reason why you keep your head shaved?” She rolls her eyes sarcastically. “You wanna tell me about your hopes and dreams?”
I take a sip from the bottle of water dangling in my hands. “Kettle chips, purple, and because it’s how my father wore his hair. I always wanted people to tell me I looked like my father.” I crumble the empty bottle in my hands. “And my hopes and dreams are to make my sister proud.”
Some of the venom drains from her eyes. “You have a sister?”
“Had.” Why did I bring her up? This conversation is dangerous. “She died a few years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “I know what it’s like to lose someone you love.”
“I know.”
We sit in silence that isn’t awkward but hasn’t quite made it to comfortable yet for a few moments before Crystal speaks again. “Why purple?”
Because when you colored your hair purple and I saw the smile on your face, I thought maybe you’d come out of this shitshow okay.
Because you wear purple socks when you’re sad.
Because it makes your eyes glow whenever you wear it.
Because when I catch that glimpse of purple in one of the prisms reflected off the chandelier, it feels like I’m seeing you.
Because it’s the color of royalty, and you truly do deserve to be treated like a Queen.
“My favorite flower is the violet.”
She smiles and crosses her arms over her chest. “I don’t know many men with a favorite flower, much less a big tough enforcer like you.”
“I’m more than just the hired muscle, Queenie.” My voice breaks a little, emotion clogging my throat. I hate that this is all I am, all I’m known for. She doesn’t know any other part of me.
And whose fault is that?
The nature of our jobs doesn’t mean I can’t let her get to know me. Sure, she can’t know all of me, but would it be so bad to share small parts of myself with the pretty Omega I’m tasked with looking out for?
What would it be like if we walked side by side, telling jokes and trading smiles instead of me grabbing her arm and dragging her behind me?
“Did I ever tell you I wanted to be an artist?” I say out of nowhere.
“An artist? You?” She’s skeptical, and rightfully so. It’s not like much artistic talent is involved in painting these walls with the blood of those who’ve wronged Kieran.
“Surprising, I know. I wanted to be a sculptor. I liked the idea of taking something that others would think is worthless, and turning it into something beautiful.” It’s been a long time since I sat down and created for the sake of it, but I still feel the desire simmering under my skin.
“What’s your medium? We took several art courses at the Academy, so I played with clay a few times.”
“Found objects. Trash. Things that are overlooked or thrown away because no one sees their value.” Although I haven’t created in a while, I still find myself picking up scraps as I wander the city, storing them in a room in my apartment in hopes of one day creating with them. “I think there is something beautiful in the discarded. That I can take something unassuming and forgotten and make it eternal.” I pull a bottle cap I picked up on my walk to the club this afternoon out of my pocket.
“See this?” I hold it up. It’s bent, the bottom third nearly touching the interior of the cap. “Imagine it as an eye. The sleepy eye of a giraffe.” I spin it, showing her how the logo on the lid now looks like part of a pupil, obscured by a lower lid. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and all that, but beauty isn’t something static. It morphs and changes with us. This bottle cap isn’t beautiful or ugly. It is potential. It has the potential to be trash, to be worthless.” I slip it into my pocket, leaning forward and resting my elbows on my knees. “But it also has the potential to be heartbreaking, and moving, and priceless. It can be breathtaking.”
She chews her bottom lip, and I notice tears in her waterline that she’s fighting to keep from falling. I don’t call attention to them because this is the first time she’s looked at me with so much vulnerability. “Do you really believe that? That something worthless can be made into something beautiful with the right hand?”
I don’t think we’re talking about art anymore. “Of course I do. Everything has worth. Sometimes, it just needs help showing it to the world.”