“I had to put fish into closets,” I say, dropping my bag onto the counter and grabbing my apron from the black iron hook on the wall.
Her chin rises, and her brows form a quizzical V. “Fish in closets? What the hell is that?”
“Five annoying house-hates plus five stinky fish equals five stinky closets and much retaliation.”
Naomi blinks twice before spluttering with laughter. “You seriously put fish in their closets?”
“I did. And I switched out the cream from Oreos and put ranch dressing in their milk, and I even walked around in my underwear and ignored them last night. The battle is heating up!”
A rush of breath leaves her mouth as she shakes her head. “I would pay good money to come home with you today to witness the fallout!”
“I will take your money,” I say. “Things are getting very tight around here.”
“Tell me about it,” she says. “The starving artist stereotype feels like it was based on me.”
“But you’re getting paid for that,” I say, waving in the direction of her almost-completed bust.
“Yes, and then the pipeline of work is dry,” she groans.
“I feel your pain,” I say. “I really need to get someone to take my dinner sets.”
“We need to exhibit our work,” she says. “It’s the only way to get our stuff in front of people.”
“But how would you get people to come to the exhibition?” I ask.
“Champagne,” she says. “And maybe walking around in your underwear wouldn’t hurt.”
We both snicker, and I pull out my camera, ready to take some images to upload onto my website. “If I’m getting my tits and ass out, you are too.”
“Tits and ass,” a deep voice says from the doorway. “What the hell did I miss?”
“Charli,” we both croon in sync. His broad grin and bright green eyes flash with affection. He calls us his girls, which we love because he says it in a tone that drips with affection. If he weren’t dating a hottie called Brad, I would have a serious crush on him. As it is, we flirt relentlessly, both comfortable in the knowledge that it’s not leading anywhere at all.
“Why are you talking about the good stuff without me? No fair!” He drops his bag on the floor by his workstation and unzips his black hooded jacket. Beneath, he’s wearing his favorite band tee, that’s splattered with paint, and shredded black jeans that are as tight as a second skin.
“We’re talking about earning more money,” Naomi says, throwing her hands up. “We’re getting desperate enough to be talking about using our fine bodies.”
“Things must be bad.”
“We’re not all successful artists like you,” I say, sticking out my bottom lip.
“You’ll get there,” he says brightly with absolute certainty. “You both make beautiful commercial art. There’s no way you’re not going to be successful. It’s just about getting it in front of the right people. It’s all about connections, like everything else in this world.”
“And I have none.” The bitterness that creeps into my tone isn’t lost on my friends.
“With your sunny personality, everything will work out,” Charli says. He crosses the room to lay his tattooed hand on my shoulder. Heavy with silver rings, it’s a comforting weight. “Have some faith.”
“The guru has spoken,” I say, but my smile is watery. It’s as though their kindness has touched a nerve, and suddenly, all my bottled emotions are ready to spill over.
“And if all else fails, you’ll make a killing selling this sweet ass.”
I’m so shocked at his ridiculous crooked smile that I splutter with laughter.
“She’s been giving away looks at that sweet ass for free,” Naomi says. She begins to drape the bust with the fabric, and I can already see how good it will look.
“Whose eyes do I need to tear out?” Charli asks, and it’s enough to bring me out of my funk.
I spend the rest of the day working toward my dream. I’ll keep pushing on, and maybe Mom and Charli will be right. Maybe it’ll work out in the end. For the few hours that I’m in my happy space with my friends, life doesn’t feel so strange.
9
MARK
“What the hell is that smell,” I shout, screwing up my face in disgust as I push the front door closed behind me. Mrs. Henderson doesn’t cook for us, so one of my brothers must be responsible for the rank smell of rotting fish. They better not have cooked for me because there is no way I’m eating something that smells this bad.
River appears from the kitchen grim-faced. “You better go clean out your closet,” he mutters.
“My closet?”
He nods his head to the stairs. “Cora left us a fragrant gift each. I don’t think the smell will ever leave this house.”
“What kind of fragrant gift?” I ask slowly.
“What the fuck, Mark? Can’t you smell it? A fucking fish.”