Chapter 17 #2
“Oh, you don’t need to worry about that; they got rid of him ages ago. There were loads of complaints, from patients and staff.”
I blink at her. Oh wow, maybe that’s why my references were okay.
“Whenever something bad happens to a woman, it’s always a man’s fault,” Debbie grumbles as she tucks in a bedsheet.
And as we change beds and load up the cart with meds, she tells me a long story about how her husband lost his job because he got into a fight with a guy at his work, and how now he sits around all day doing nothing.
Sounds a lot like Dave, the asshole. But the whole fighting thing makes me want to laugh.
This place … honestly. Would I say everything bad was down to guys …
? But … fuck … I lost my job because of this goddamn doctor, and then I lost Charlie because of Mark.
Jesus. How many men are there out there treating women like shit?
Over the next few weeks, I manage to get into a routine.
Rig’s gone, and Marni starts seeing some guy who works for the county who she describes as “actually decent.” So it’s a rare Saturday night that I’m home alone with the opportunity to veg out and watch trash TV, but this is exactly what I’m doing—sipping gratefully on a weak vodka and orange like it’s holy nectar because it’s all I can manage these days with all the work—when my phone buzzes with a text.
When I peer at it, there’s a message with a link from an unknown number:
Made me think of your drawings.
The only person who’s seen those is Rig.
When I click on the link, it’s a video of some animated art, and I sit transfixed as the smoky shapes evolve into pictures of people walking and dancing.
How the hell did they do this? There must be some amazing software out there if they can create stuff like this.
Is this Rig?
He doesn’t respond, and I’m just about to put my phone down and restart the football I was watching when another clip drops into my messages of a man in a yellow oilskin trying to stand in a gale-force wind.
Holy shit. The screen moves to a view down over some railings to water miles below, full of ice.
Then it jerks and swings around for a few minutes. Crap. Is he all right?
Big storm today, the rig’s shut down and I’m bored.
So bored you’re outside?
Heading back inside. Thought you’d want to see it.
Why are you texting me? Where are you?
Alaska.
Crap. Really?
Is it cold?
Ball freezing, babe. What are you doing?
I glance down at the glass of vodka in my hand and the cup noodles on the coffee table that were my dinner, and my cheeks burn. I stare at the game on the TV.
It’s okay if you’re with another guy. I get that you ended things.
Ended things? I don’t like the thrill I get from him calling it a thing. We had six nights. I’d convinced myself he saw me as a place to lie low and a convenient fuck.
As long as you’re not with that asshole Dave.
No one’s here but me.
My phone buzzes with a video call, and so I press answer and his shaggy hair and broad shoulders appear. My mouth waters. There’s a bunk room behind him.
“Hey, babe, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”
I laugh. “Sweet talker. What are you calling me for?”
How easy is this to slip into? Even after such a small amount of time?
“What d’ya think of the moving pictures I sent you?”
“Amazing. I’m curious as to how they did it.”
He smirks at me.
“What?” I say.
“Thought you’d like it, that’s all.”
“What else have you been discovering on YouTube?”
He laughs. “A girl I know is an artist, so I’ve been doing a deep dive on artist’s stuff.”
“By no stretch of the imagination am I an artist.”
“Babe.”
Stop being nice to me, I want to tell him, but I can’t do that because I’ve actually missed it.
“How come you’re in on a Saturday night?” he says. “Why aren’t you at Callahan’s?”
“First night off in a few weeks. I took another job at the hospital.”
“I thought they fired you.”
Warmth seeps in that he remembers this. I told him ages ago.
I run through my conversation with the recruitment agent and the interview that followed.
But I don’t tell him about Angelo and the stripping because I think he’d lose his shit and I don’t need him getting all up in Angelo’s space.
All the while he listens and nods, and I want to tell him to stop listening so intently because it’s not helping.
But it’s like I’ve got verbal diarrhea and haven’t talked to anyone in months.
Just for good measure, I rattle on about my debt and how I’m behind on my rent and so strapped for cash, and how badly I need the work.
Why am I airing all my dirty laundry to him?
But he doesn’t appear fazed or bored. Maybe he found all the final demands when he cleaned my apartment.
“I’m going to come around and take those pictures and frame them when I come back. I’ll take ’em to a few local galleries. I bet you’d sell some.”
Oh, God. “No way, Rig. No way are they good enough to go in a gallery.”
“Babe.”
I shake my head.
“Well, do some more that are better, then.” He jerks his chin at me. “Go find your sketchpad.”
“Don’t be a lunatic.”
“I’ll take my shirt off.”
What? I gape at him. That’s supposed to be some kind of threat?
He smirks. “Babe, I know you like my chest. Either you draw, or I’ll strip.”
I can’t say that I’d prefer him naked, like by a long way.
And I shouldn’t even be thinking that. Friends, Carly.
Gah! I put my phone down and head off to the bedroom, digging all the art materials he bought for me out of the closet where I stashed them after he left.
When I pick up my phone again, he has taken his shirt off.
“What are you doing? You said if I drew, you wouldn’t take your clothes off …”
He smirks at me. “Just my shirt. And I’m giving you something to draw.”
My eyes wander over his skin. Yes. I grab a pencil and sketch a quick outline, drawing his shaggy hair and broad shoulders.
I shade in the curves of his muscles, the dips and the hollows, and even though he’s gorgeous, he’s just a life model to me right now.
My tongue sticks out as I try and add the shadows around his face, barking at him to stay still every time he moves.
I don’t know how long I sit scratching over the paper, but after a while he says:
“Babe, it’s dinnertime, I’ve got to go and …”
I wave my hand at him. “I’ve got enough.”
“Enough for what?”
“To complete it.”
“Can I see it?”
Gah, it’s terrible. “It’s not finished.”
“Then I’m coming by to see what you’ve done when I get back.”
I scowl at him. “And when’s that?”
“In two weeks.”
Is it a threat or a promise? I don’t really know. But I don’t want to examine how warm it makes me that he’s going to stop by. After he’s rung off, I stare down at my drawing; I’m going to have to finish what I’ve started.