Chapter 18 Maxx
chapter
eighteen
maxx
lately, talking to Aubrey felt a lot like banging my head against the wall. I was getting nowhere . . . fast. Didn’t she see how much I was attempting to change?
I tried not to get frustrated, because I saw in her eyes how much she still loved me. But being kept at arm’s length was maddening when the connection between us was still as intense as ever.
I hated working at the coffee shop. The pay sucked and the hours were even worse.
Working at the stables was a little better. Sure, shoveling shit for ten dollars an hour wasn’t the best use of my time, but I got to be outdoors and no one really bothered me. I put my feelings aside because working my ass off was for a greater purpose. These were all steps in proving myself.
“You’re a hard worker, Maxx. I have to say that I’m impressed,” Mr. Wyatt said, watching me as I cleaned out one of the stalls.
I had gone straight from my shift at the coffee shop to the stables. I didn’t have time to change, so I was still wearing the brown T-shirt from earlier. I would have had time to run home and put on different clothes if I hadn’t stayed to talk to Aubrey.
Well, I had stayed only to be rejected by Aubrey. Again.
It was becoming a sad, pathetic pattern. “Thanks,” I grunted, lifting a shovel full of hay and manure and dumping it in a wheelbarrow. Mr. Wyatt patted a pretty gray horse named Harvey and inclined his head toward me. “Have you ever ridden a horse?” he asked.
“Sure,” I lied. I had never been on a horse in my life.
“Well, if you ever want to ride one of our beauties, come on out. You’re always welcome,” he said with a final pat on Harvey’s neck. Mr. Wyatt was a gruff fellow but he seemed decent. I knew that the offer wasn’t made lightly.
“Thanks, Mr. Wyatt. Maybe I will,” I said, wiping sweat off my forehead, knowing I left a smear of dirt behind.
“These guys could use the exercise. You’d be helping me out,” Mr. Wyatt continued, seeming embarrassed by his kindness.
“Of course,” I agreed, not letting on to the fact that I knew the old guy actually liked me. Mr. Wyatt reached into his pocket and pulled out some cash. “Here’s your first week’s pay. I don’t do checks.”
I took the money. “Thanks,” I said genuinely.
Mr. Wyatt nodded and left. I quickly counted the money and felt my stomach drop. It was only $250. I couldn’t pay bills and buy food with this meager amount. I was working my ass off and barely surviving. I left work feeling completely disheartened.
I walked into my apartment twenty minutes later and flipped the light switch, relieved when the lights turned on.
I wasn’t sure how long I’d get by without paying my electricity bill before they cut my power.
I collapsed onto the couch and let out a long, agonized breath.
I needed to do something. I had to find a way to make some money.
There’s one place I could go for some quick scratch, my subconscious teased.
It was tempting. I missed the club. I missed the dark world where I was king. I missed the adrenaline rush of doing something I knew was wrong and getting away with it.
God, I missed the drugs.
I’ll always be here, waiting for you, my addiction whispered seductively in my head.
My hands began to shake and something that felt dangerously like physical withdrawal racked my body.
My heart started to pound and sweat dribbled down my back.
I felt sick and dizzy. The need to use was overwhelming.
Get it together! I screamed silently to myself.
I needed to lose myself in something safe. I got up and rushed back to my bedroom and threw open my closet door. I dug around inside with my heart slamming angrily in my chest.
Get a grip, Maxx!
I finally found my sketch pad and a box of charcoal. I sat down cross-legged on the floor. The lighting was shit, but I didn’t need to see. I needed to feel.
My fingers moved almost mechanically at first, but then the fluidity of drawing took over. My breathing began to slow. My heart calmed down. The sweat dried on my skin. Minutes turned into an hour, my fingers never stopping.
When I was finished, I straightened my back, feeling stiff from sitting in the same position for so long. I stretched and held up the pad in front of my face and couldn’t help but smile.
The style was uniquely mine. Tangles of long hair becoming snakes as they reached down from the sky. Fingers sprouting up from the ground like talons.
It was warped. It was fucked up.
But it looked pretty freaking awesome.
I knew that I was good. Enough people had told me throughout the years that I believed it.
I thought with regret about that meeting with Mr. Randall all those months ago. I had really messed up something good.
It was the story of my life.
I walked over to the corner of my room where I had stacked at least two dozen canvases. I slowly went through them, pulling out the ones that stood out. The ones that best demonstrated my ability.
Feeling impulsive, I pulled out my wallet and found the card Tatum Randall had given me over six months ago. I was actually surprised I had kept it.
Maybe there was a part of me, even when I was bombed out of my mind, that held on to this small possibility.
I quickly dialed the number on the crisp, white card before I could talk myself out of it. I chewed on my thumbnail as the phone rang and rang.
“Bellview Gallery, how can I help you?” a woman’s voice chirped in my ear.
“Um, hi, is Mr. Randall available?” I croaked.
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“Maxx— I mean X,” I fumbled, sounding like a moron.
“X?” the lady asked incredulously.
I gritted my teeth. “Yes, X. He’ll know me,” I said through clenched teeth.
“Okay, then, hold on. Let me see if he’s still here.”
I was put on hold and had to listen to five minutes of really bad elevator music.
Just when the horrible strains of John Tesh were about to send me over the edge, the phone clicked.
“X. Hello. I must say I’m rather surprised to hear from you,” Mr. Randall said. He sounded cold and less than thrilled.
“Yes, I understand. I didn’t make the best impression when we met,” I said, hating to grovel, but what other choice did I have?
“I believe that is an understatement,” Mr. Randall scoffed.
He was starting to piss me off and I had to work hard to rein myself in.
“Yes, well, I wasn’t in a very good place back then. Things have changed considerably since then.” I paused a moment, mentally preparing myself to beg.
“I wanted to know if you’d still be interested in seeing my work. I’ve put together some amazing pieces—”
“X, after our last meeting, I think it’s safe to say that you wouldn’t be a good fit for my gallery.”
I felt myself bristle at his automatic rejection.
“Sir, I get that I was a bit of a mess. I was dealing with some stuff. Not that that excuses my horrible behavior. But I don’t think it’s exactly fair—”
“Look, I’m sure there are a lot of other galleries out there that would be interested in you and your . . . eccentricities.” The jackass wouldn’t let me get a word in. “But Bellview Gallery isn’t that place. I’m sorry.”
I felt what little hope I had about possibly using my art to generate a livable income dwindle away.
I crumpled up my pride into a tiny ball and shoved it away. “Sir. Please. Just give me another chance. I think you’ll change your mind if you just see my work. My real work.” I sounded desperate. He had to hear it in my voice.
Mr. Randall was quiet for a bit. I chewed through the skin on my lip and tasted blood, the sharp sting keeping me grounded.
“I’m sorry, X. When I saw your street art I thought you were a different artist. I thought you were someone I could promote and nurture.
Unfortunately, the impression you gave wasn’t one of someone ready to work hard and take their talent seriously.
I just can’t take that risk. Not right now. ” He actually sounded a bit sorry.
But he wasn’t as sorry as I was.
I couldn’t beg anymore.
“Okay, then. Well, thank you for your time.” I felt despondent. Dejected. Lost.
“Best of luck, X. I really mean that,” Mr. Randall said, sounding sincere.
I wanted to tell him where to shove his unnecessary well wishes.
But I held my tongue.
I hung up the phone and looked at the canvases propped against the wall.
I was quickly getting tired of being kicked when I was already down.
In a fit of anger I hurled the pictures across the room.
The one of Aubrey I had painted after getting out of rehab was split down the middle.
Broken and ruined.
Just like me.