Bad Bad Girl

Rebecca held back a giggle, because the man didn’t just say the word ‘crazy’. He spat out the term in three syllables, making the word sound like ‘Kuh-Ray-Zee’. His exaggerated posture and tone, mixed with the over-the-top pronunciation, tickled her. The two newcomers looked her way, and she quickly went back to studying the picture of the sparrow, feeling their stares.

“Anyway,” the second man said, turning to the first. “You know the drill, right? Keep that shit clean. I don’t want you messing up my art.”

Rebecca looked over the second man, who must have been the artist. He was much taller than the other man, and his frame was much larger. His face was highlighted by a thin layer of black hair around his mouth—unexpectedly appearing well-groomed. His eyes were a soft green, and he had a trucker’s hat perched on the back of his head with the bill sticking straight up. The hat concealed most of his dark brown hair. His clothes were loose and comfortable-looking, though still not appearing sloppy. The short-sleeved black t-shirt showed that both of his arms were completely covered in tattoos. Some tattoos even covered the tops of his hands and fingers.

“Your art?” the first man said, and laughed.

“Yeah, Amos,” the artist snapped playfully. “You just get to hold it for me.”

“Whatever,” the man replied, with a wave. “See you soon, all right?”

“You coming over Saturday?” the tattooist asked.

“Nope,” Amos answered. “Gotta work. I don’t get to just sit around and draw on people all day, then go home when I want and throw big fancy parties.”

“Whatever, dick,” the artist growled. “If you don’t like your job, get a new one. I’ll catch you later, then,” he said, slapping the man on the pad and making him cringe. “So,” the artist said loudly, walking over to Rebecca. “You must be next.”

“Yeah,” she answered uncomfortably, sticking out a hand.

The artist shook it awkwardly and grinned. “I’m Sawyer,” he shared.

“Rebecca,” she countered.

“Don’t let this asshole be mean to you,” Amos warned her before walking to the counter. “He looks tough, but in reality, he’s just a softie.”

“Shut up,” the artist cut in. “Get out of here, and figure out a way to make Saturday.”

“Yeah,” Amos answered, paying the guy behind the counter.

“Come on,” the tattooist said, turning to Rebecca. He then strolled casually back to the studio, without looking back to see if she was following.

The hall was brightly lit, although with both of the walls painted in the deep red tone, the light was eaten rather quickly. A few plants hung hodgepodge, and there was a miniature tree in one corner. They passed a pair of closed doors before the hallway opened into a large room in the back of the space. The walls were covered with framed art, scraps of paper, doodles and drawings. Posters and advertisements filled the spaces in between. Blues music played softly through a speaker in the corner of the room. The effect was so complete, Rebecca became instantly engulfed in nerves.

“So,” the artist said, sitting at an old writing desk and gesturing to the chair in the center of the room. “Your idea has some direction, but your layout sucks.”

She reeled at his blunt fashion.

“There are too many flowers, and the bird has got to go,” Sawyer announced. “I have a couple of ideas, though.” He twisted in his chair and leaned back, pointing at a picture pinned to the wall above his head. “That’s what your layout should have been.”

Rebecca searched eagerly over a collection of drawings and photographs that eclipsed the wall behind them. She found skulls, flames, birds and insects. She also saw calligraphy, watercolor and baby footprints.

“That’s what you need,” he said, still looking at the wall over his shoulder.

“Which one?” she asked, rising from the chair to get a better look.

Sawyer spun around and tapped a finger on a small drawing pinned on a piece of white paper. It was pinned over a few other pictures, and Rebecca had looked right over it several times.

“That’s you,” he declared, pulling the drawing off the wall and passing it to her. “I made that up after seeing your initial idea.”

Rebecca looked at the image and lost her breath for a moment. The flowers were similar, though they were far more detailed and there were less of them. Where she had focused on drawing actual ivy branches, Sawyer used a technique that suggested branches and leaves. The bird had been removed completely, but wasn’t missed. The extensive floral system she had designed had been replaced with a more compact version that spread with new curves and angles. The effect would look sexy dripping down the curves of her back.

“I like it,” Rebecca admitted, “but you don’t think I need a bird or something to offset all the flowers?”