8. Azalea
8
Azalea
“Whoa! Going somewhere special?”
As soon as I walked out of the bathroom, I ran smack into my boss. Henry’s mouth dropped open, and his eyes went right to my clothes. I’d changed out of my khakis and collar shirt and into a pink maxi dress. My hair was now down around my shoulders, and my makeup was fresh. He’d never seen me in this state.
“The Ridgley is hosting an artist I want to see,” I explained. “Sunday McLaren.”
Not only did I want to see him and his art, I wanted to ask him about potentially being involved in a project I was planning. It was just a dream right now, but I would make it reality soon enough.
“Nice!” Henry said. “Enjoy yourself. Any problems today?”
“Nope. Things are going great so far.”
That…wasn’t quite accurate. Earlier today, Samuel, one of my repeat drug offenders, had been picked up on robbery charges. I was heartbroken over it. With both of his parents locked up, three kids he needed to provide for, and a lack of support from family, he had very few legal options. I’d been in the process of setting up employment counseling for him when I got the news. I believe he did what he did as an act of desperation, but that didn’t make it any better for him or his victims. Thank God nobody was seriously injured.
So, my evening field trip to the Ridgley art museum was my version of self-care. I needed it, if only to avoid internalizing the happenings of the day.
Just after eight, I arrived at the museum, choosing to park in the adjacent lot. It was such a beautiful spring night, and my sandals were flat and comfortable. I took my time walking over to the museum, enjoying the fresh air and mild temperature.
As far as I was concerned, my day started now.
Once inside, the art enveloped me, capturing my attention and soothing the sting of the day’s events. I was particularly taken by one of Sunday’s paintings. The woman was nude, but most of her was in shadow. The rawness of it, and the beauty, evoked a deep sense of admiration.
They say we all have a shadow side of ourselves. It holds our hidden talents. Desires. Emotions. Things we’ve repressed. Things we know are unacceptable. I’d never attempted to discover that side of myself, but I knew she was in there. Whispering to me. Influencing me.
“Officer.”
I whirled around as my heart leaped into my throat. Isaac Jackson, my client, stood in front of me dressed in various shades of grey and tan. He had an eclectic style. Nothing matched exactly, but on him, it came together nicely.
The quarter-full glass of brown liquor in his hand was a terrible accessory, however.
“Mr. Jackson. You know you’re not supposed to be drinking.”
There wasn’t a smile to be found on that handsome face, but I detected a faint hint of amusement.
“Hello to you, too,” he said, his deep voice echoing in my head.
“Hello. You’re not supposed to be drinking. This is strike two for you.”
“Oh, you got me on a strike system?” His dark eyes sparkled with mischief. “I better behave then, huh?”
“Actually, yes.” I took a deep breath. The man had me off my square. “That’s what I would advise. Let’s try to stay on course, okay?”
“Sure thing, Officer.”
I shook my head. I couldn’t exactly ask him to call me by my first name, but Officer still didn’t sit right with me.
Not when he said it.
Not the way he said it.
It was…smug. Sarcastic. Facetious. Slightly condescending. An inside joke, but only he knew the punchline.
He eyed me from behind his glasses, his gaze moving up and down my body before finally settling back on my face.
“You look nice.”
I swallowed hard. “Thank you. I’m just here to see Sunday McClaren.
“Why are you explaining your presence to me?”
“I…don’t know.”
He approached me then, stopping inches away before joining me at my side to look at the painting.
“So, you’re a fan of his work?”
I couldn’t answer immediately. His proximity to me was too distracting. In this place, at this time, we were equals. And where there’s equality, everything is fair game.
“I am,” I finally said. “I first noticed him when I took an art history class in undergrad.”
“History?”
“We had a unit on up-and-comers.”
He nodded. “Well, me and Sunday go way back. I always hook him up with my weed man when he’s in town.”
He turned to look at me again and chuckled at the look on my face. “That’s not strike three, is it?”
“It’s just words. Right now.”
He drained the last of whatever was in his cup and set it on a high top. “So, what happens when I hit strike three? Are you gonna punish me?”
My eyes rolled, but my body tingled.
“I absolutely will violate you, Mr. Jackson. I don’t want to have to take that measure, but I will.”
Rather than respond, he turned to face the painting again. “You wanna meet him?”
“Sunday?”
He nodded.
“I don’t know…I’d be nervous.”
He shrugged. “It’s cool. Let’s look around, then.”
“Together?”
“Uh, yeah. Is that a problem, Officer?”
I instinctively scanned the room around me. “It’s just…it’s…we’re not supposed to…” I trailed off, searching for the words.
“It’s just walking. I didn’t ask you for sex.”
My stomach flipped.
Sex.
Why did he have to say that?
It was the last thing I needed to be thinking about right now, and with him of all people. But truthfully, it had crossed my mind. Deep in the shadows.
I swallowed hard and decided to be true to myself. It was only a thought, and it didn’t have to become anything more.
I stared into his eyes and went there.
I wanna sit on your face. Scream your name. Cum on your tongue. Take your dick from the back while you pull my hair.
There. Done and acknowledged. Now I could move on.
“Fine,” I said. “Let’s look around.”
He smirked as if he’d opened a window to my mind and stuck his head in to get a look around, finding my admiration and longing before I could throw a cover over it.
“Follow me.”
Carefully, gingerly, as if I was being watched, I followed my fine ass client from room to room. It was ridiculous, but Summerville, Texas is a small town, and I didn’t need any eyes on me. My lust felt so conspicuous, I swore anyone would be able see it with even a cursory glance.
I had to be careful.
“This one is my favorite.”
Mr. Jackson had made comments here and there that led me to believe he knew a little about art, but when we stopped in front of Secrets of the Moon , he made it very clear.
“I see a water motif in this one,” he explained. “You see the blue right there?”
I nodded.
“The red and orange invoke passion, for me. I like the composition, the way the moon is oversized in relation to the other elements. The moon represents femininity. Or emotion. Romance…” he trailed off, still staring.
I looked over at him in awe. Fine and knowledgeable. This was good, but not good.
“So, you know art.”
“I know when I’m moved by something I see.” His stare didn’t move from the painting. “What do you see?”
“I see the colors. The water. The moon. I don’t know what it all means, but I like how it looks together.”
My basic ass answer embarrassed me, but he just nodded.
“Give me one word for what you see. Something that describes the entire work.”
“Um…” I stared, squinting for good measure. “Peace.”
He was quiet for a moment. “I can see that.”
“Your turn. Give me one word.”
He turned his body to face me head on, staring down at me with those deep, dark eyes. “I told you already. Passion.”
“Oh.” I gulped down a whole lungful of air as he stepped closer to me.
“Are you the type that has to hear a thing twice?”
“W—what do you mean?”
“Just asking. I don’t mind repeating myself if that’s what you need.”
For some reason, breathing got more difficult for me. In, out, in, out. To be conscious of something so rote was a strange state of affairs.
I was starting to fear the effect this man had on me.
And what was he even talking about? I didn’t need anything from him. I couldn’t make sense of it. It was like he was speaking to me in a dream.
I was getting ready to smooth walk away from him when he looked behind me and said, “Here he is. What’s up, Sun!”
I turned to see the man whose work I’d just been ogling.
Sunday McClaren was short, at least relative to Isaac’s six feet and change. He was light-skinned, bald, and not particularly handsome, but he had that aura thing the kids were talking about these days.
The two dapped each other up and exchanged quiet words I wasn’t privy to before they turned to me.
“Aye, man, I won’t hold you, but she’s a big fan of yours. Officer Davis, this is Sunday. Sun, this is my PO.”
Sunday’s grin lit up his entire face. “Okay. I wasn’t expecting that.”
I forced out a laugh. “It’s so nice to meet you. We studied your work in my class.”
“Yeah, nice to meet you, too, Officer .”
“Azalea.”
Mr. Jackson snickered.
“I done made it all the way to art class, huh? I’m ‘bout to walk around with my chest out.”
I nodded. “You should. You’re an amazing artist.”
“Thank you, Ms. Lady. I appreciate that.” He nodded upwards in his friend’s direction. “Did he tell you about his stuff?”
I looked back and forth between the two of them. “Stuff?”
Mr. Jackson’s jaw flexed, and his back went rigid. “Uh, nah, man, it’s—“
“His drawings.” Sunday frowned. “You ain’t tell her?”
Mr. Jackson’s glare ended the conversation.
Sunday put up his hands and flashed a disarming smile. “Alright then, beautiful people. Gotta go kiss some asses. Nice meeting you, Officer Azalea. Isaac, I’ll get up with you.”
He gave a stiff nod in response.
Not even a full five seconds after Sunday walked away, I failed to read the room.
“You draw?”
My face heated when Mr. Jackson turned that glare on me. “Couldn’t you tell from my reaction that that’s not a subject I wanna talk about?”
“Why don’t you like to talk about it?”
His nostrils flared. “Does anybody like talking about their failures?”
“There’s that word again.”
His jaw tightened as his eyes shifted elsewhere, leaving me feeling cold. “Alright then, Officer. This is where I leave you.”
He went to walk away, but stopped short when I called out to him.
“Are you this closed off with everybody, or is it just me?”
He turned around. “All due respect, but I don’t know you. This little Sally Sunshine bullshit might work on your other convicts, but I’m not interested.”
“ Former convicts, and this is just who I am.”
“Whatever. Enjoy yourself, Officer .”
The dismissal shouldn’t have stung the way it did, but I stood there, reeling, watching him walk away, feeling like he’d just broken up with me. It was ridiculous, and inappropriate, but…my feelings were hurt.
So much so, I was ready to end my evening. I dug around in my purse for my keys and headed to the door, ready to put this night, and Isaac, out of my mind.