Chapter 2
Toren
“Okay, so you get to work, and I’ll do the filming,” Juliette tells me after taking a two-minute break. Christ, my cousin is busting my balls. The sad part about is I pay her, not the other way around.
“Jesus, Jett.” I finish drinking my bottle of water, crushing it in my hands before standing up from my place on a cut-up log I use to sit on, and think about my next move with what I’m creating.
Shit’s still been slow going. My creative outlet seems to be running dry, which is the reason I opened up a few slots for commissioned pieces.
I’m hoping this passes, but every fucking day, it seems to be further in the distance.
“What? I only have a few more hours before I’m hopping on a plane for the next adventure.” The girl lives to travel. She’s fortunate that she landed the career she wants, doing what she loves—a social media curator where she’s hired and paid to go wherever she’s needed, whenever she’s needed.
“Fine, let me go inside for a minute. Gonna make a sandwich. You want one?” I also need to replenish the outdoor fridge in the workshop, but that’ll have to wait for another time. Juliette will no doubt string me up by my balls if I make her wait any longer.
“Oh, I’ll follow. Do like a day in the life but make it to where you can’t see every nook and cranny in the house while also maintaining your anonymity on the world wide web.
” That was the one caveat I asked for: keep my face off social media, and no address where I can be found.
I didn’t want people showing up on my doorstep at all hours of the night.
“I know you’ve got my back, Jett,” I tell her over my shoulder as she follows behind me.
The detached pole barn is a few hundred feet away from the house and where I keep everything I need for my metal artwork.
It also allows for ample air flow, an absolute freaking must when working with a welding machine, wearing a helmet, welding apron, and heavy-duty gloves.
I usually wear a shirt beneath the apron, but with my cousin here, needing to make what she calls thirst traps, it means it’s off, and I have to be a fuck of a lot more diligent with sparks flying. “Didn’t answer me. You want some food?”
“Yeah, sure. Now, quit looking over your shoulder. There’s only so much I can do to keep your face out of the frame when you’re looking at the camera.
” She rolls her eyes; I shake my head and continue on.
I kick the dirt off my boots, open the screen door, and step inside my house.
It’s still early enough in the day that the air conditioning hasn’t kicked on and I’m able to keep some of the windows and doors open.
“Yeah, yeah.” I hear her feet behind me, the shuttering of the camera when she takes a few still images while doing her videography deal. We walk into the kitchen. Having a side door near the pole barn comes in handy, keeps the dirt off the carpet, and the wear and tear down on the front entry.
“Can you flex some?” If this were coming from anyone else than my younger cousin, I’d think nothing of it, but damn, this part of the job never ceases to amaze me.
I do as she says, washing my hands at the kitchen sink, going the extra mile with the soap, and giving Jett what she swears my fans want.
Shit, it’s still fucking weird to think this is what they want, but at least it pays the bills, and I’ve been fortunate enough that the guys haven’t stumbled upon this part of the gig.
They’d never let me live it down and would probably keep at it until they took it so far one of us would throw a punch, and that person would be me. Then they’d shut up, we’d apologize and more along with our day.
“That’s perfect. You’re really giving the women what they way.
Which, by the way, I know you’re working on commissioned pieces right now, but the fans have made it known they want to purchase your art.
I’d suggest doing some smaller sculptures and wall art.
Those seem to sell faster and require easier and cheaper shipping.
” I finish up at the sink, grab the hand towel to dry my hands off, and I’m ready to hang my head.
I haven’t told her I’m blocked, got no idea what to create or where to go from here.
I’ve made a commitment to keeping everything original—no repeats of what I’ve done before.
“Yeah, about that. Been dealing with some kind of block. Trying to work through it. Shit has never happened before. Got any quick fixes?” I ask from one creative to another.
“Damn.” I hear Jett place the camera down on the counter, pulling out a chair to sit down, and when I look over, she’s got her chin resting in her hand, propping herself up.
“That’s about the size of it.” I pull everything out for our sandwiches: bread, condiments, lunch meat, cheese, lettuce, tomato, and bacon to make turkey BLTs. I go about putting it together, making two sandwiches for me and one for Jett.
“What about while you’re working on your project this afternoon, I pull some of your sales reports up.
Figure out what sold the fastest and what the high demand is in your comments and email submissions.
We can see what they like most, wall art, free standing, or table top size.
Maybe that will help?” She brings up a good idea.
The only problem is that’d be more along the lines of work, and I stopped working for a boss for a reason.
I grab a couple of bags of chips and sodas to take to the table.
“Maybe I need a vacation,” I grumble, placing everything on the table. Jett snags her plate and drink, then dives into the bag of chips, ripping it open like she hasn’t eaten in weeks. “Hungry?” I ask.
“Duh, plus it’s not like I’ve had real food in weeks.
Everything is aesthetically pleasing—avocado this, smoothie that—and carbs, well, those are the devil.
I love my job, but I can only eat healthy foods so much before my body caves, and today is that day.
Maybe I’ll stop by the diner and grab biscuits and gravy to go.
You know, piss off other flyers and eat it on the plane.
” I laugh at her mischievousness before taking a bite of my own.
“Do it. You need a ride to the airport?” She’s been staying here the past few days, came rolling in with a friend from high school and used the spare car I have here to come and go as she pleases.
Hell, the only time she’s been here is to do her monthly dose of working her social media gig and to lay her head down.
The rest of the time, she’s been burning gas and mingling with friends and family.
“Nope, got it covered. Thank you, though. About the vacation, you should do it. I’ll have enough material, and if your commission pieces are done, why the hell not?
” Jett makes a good point. I chew on it while I work on my second sandwich.
She’s not even halfway done with hers, going after the chips first and foremost. Jett always did love food on the salty side.
“Think I might. Not sure where I’ll go. Any must-see places?” I’ve been in Florida my whole life, born and raised. Only left to go on trips for work, mixed with a bit of pleasure when I’m away from home.
“Depends on what you’re in the mood for. There’s the mountains, the north east, city vibes, and the obvious beaches.”
“No to the city or the beaches. Guess there’s the mountains or the Pacific.
I’ll figure it out one way or the other.
Gonna get back at it before it gets too hot.
Close the door on your way out, yeah?” I take the last bite of my sandwich, finish off my soda, and ignore the chips.
Once I get started, I won’t stop, then I’ll want a beer, and no work will get done.
“I’m coming, I’m coming.” She wraps her sandwich in a napkin, tucks the chips beneath her arm, grabs her camera, and chases after me.
I can hear the noise of her heavy footfalls.
How my cousin is able to maintain holding it all together while capturing whatever moments she can is beyond me.
“Need you to saunter a bit more, slow and steady, flex and pull there, artist boy.”
“You’re pushing your luck, Juliette Marisol Navarro.
” I don’t bother stopping or looking back.
I can hear her disdain, and I know not to press my luck.
She’s got a wicked right hook, courtesy of her dad teaching her self-defense.
The men in our family don’t fuck around when it comes to the women in their lives.
While they learned to defend themselves, the boys were taught how to fight.
“Toren Cruz Navarro, I wouldn’t go there.
” I move faster, nearly running out of the house, and only stop once I’m back where my tools are.
“Why do your legs have to be so damn long? I swear this family gave you all the good genes.” I start to gear up with my welding gear, turn on the machine, attach the ground clamp, but just as I’m about put my foot on the pedal and start the arc, Jett chimes in, “Who the hell is that?”