Walking down the street, I find the café where I'm supposed to meet him. Marissa's father, my benefactor, the poor fucking sod who's dumb enough not to blame me for the death of his only daughter.
Sometimes I wonder whether Thom Hodge secretly knows I'm the one who killed his kid. If he does, he's never mentioned it or shown any suspicion. His love for his only child is overshadowed by what he sees in me. Even in death, Marissa is worthless to him.
I don't think about her often, because the thought of her fills me with an emotion I'm not familiar with – guilt.
Hers was the first life I took. Not the first blood I spilled, but the first time I hurt deeply enough to watch her life essence drip out of her. She's gone now, so it's no use obsessing over the fact she's dead. Her father sure as fuck isn't.
I slide into the booth next to Hodge, avoiding his gaze. He looks hopeful, the poor fucking fool. He has so much hope, sees so much potential in me. But I'm not the genius artist he wants me to be. I'm just an abused kid who grew up into a monster and likes to unleash the full fury of his anger on a blank fucking canvas.
"Hello, Nox," he greets me politely. "I'm so glad to see you settling in."
I narrow my eyes at him. The poor fuck flew in from New York just to see me, trying to convince me to do a show, to go public with my work and stop just selling it to loaded collectors with a taste for the gruesome art world. I'm not going to do what he wants, though. I don't want my brother and his wife finding me, not now that I'm so close to claiming my little bird, caging her and crushing her fragile wings so she can never leave me again.
"Why did you come here?" I ask him.
Hodge places his intertwined fingers on the table and smiles at me. "I already ordered for us."
"I'm not eating or drinking."
"Are you taking care of yourself, Nox? You look strong enough."
"Answer my fucking question," I hiss in lieu of an answer.
Hodge smiles and moves back as a waitress places two plates of food before us. I am hungry, but I'm not going to eat in front of this man. Once the woman disappears, he begins talking, and it's the same old shit, just a different day. Some gallery opening, so many opportunities, if I would just come to one of them, speak to some of the owners, the collectors, the benefactors. Everyone wants to know the sick, fucked up mind behind the shit I create. But I'm not some goddamn zoo animal, inviting people to poke and prod at my brain. I keep my thoughts private because I don't trust a soul.
"You came here for nothing," I hiss at Hodge. "I'm not doing a show."
"Nox, I know you need the money."
"Just sell more of my shit then."
"You'll have to paint more so I can do that."
The bastard's right, though I'll never admit to my own wrongdoings. He has nothing to sell because it's been months since I've painted anything. Art doesn't come easily now. It feels like I’m squeezing water out of a fucking stone. When I was younger, I was filled with inspiration, with the desire to paint, to put my filthy thoughts on paper. But not now. Now, it's a chore to get anything out that doesn't feel pretentious as fuck. A part of me does miss it. The part that's hoping Dove will inspire me, if for nothing else than to create something for Hodge to sell before I blow all the money I have left.
I live a humble life, and it doesn't seem as if Dove needs money, but I've gotta be at least self-sufficient. I'll be fucking damned if I let someone else pay for me.
"I'll do my best," I mutter, pushing the plate of food away from me as I get up. "You can go back home now."
"Please, Nox."
"No." I brush down my leather jacket. "I told you over the fucking phone, I'm not interested in doing shows or anything where I have to be there in person."
"I hope someday I can change your mind. Until then, Nox." Hodge smiles his stupid fucking hopeful grin. "Keep creating."
I want to fucking punch the bastard. I don't even understand why I hate him so much after all he's done is help me.
Ignoring my instinct to pummel his jaw into dust, I walk out of the café and back into the hot street. I hate this fucking weather. It's too fucking hot for me. I thrive in the cold, in the darkness. I'm a New Yorker, not a basic fucking LA bitch. But LA has Dove, and New York doesn't, so I'll stay here for the foreseeable future.