Which made this little conversation all the more upsetting…
“You do realize why you’re not getting the sponsorship, yeah?” Jess casually asked as she sipped from her frothing pint of dark ale.
She and I were sitting across from each other at a small, private bar-top table in my favourite pub, The Grinning Twig. It was one of the few watering holes that held my authority in such reverence that I could sneak through the back and sit in a private room with a lips-sealed, mum’s the word bartender.
Jess continued, setting her glass down and wiping the froth from her lips with the back of her hand. “I mean, even you aren’t that dull in the head, Lex. Surely, you’ve figured it out by now.”
“Go ahead, then,” I growled in slight protest; I set my own glass down against the bar with a clatter that rang a little too loudly. My private bartender glanced up from wiping out the mug in his hands, but when it was clear that I didn’t give a rat’s arse about him, he soon resumed his work.
One look at Jess’s face, and my mind quickly changed. “Wait, no. You’re doing that sodding smirk of yours. Don’t do the smirk.”
“What smirk?” She asked innocently, her eyes flashing wild with mischievousness. “Couldn’t possibly know what you?
??re talking about…”
“You’re doing it right now,” I repeated, my voice gravelly with mounting frustration. “I know that smirk. That’s the smirk you give that rambunctious, shit-assed pup of yours when he’s misbehaving.”
Of course, I wasn’t referring to a dog. Jess didn’t own a dog. What she did own was a taste for men barely old enough to move out of their mummy’s house… this month, he was a sniveling, spineless punk wannabe.
Kept on a leash like any good dog, Timothy was a scrawny little fuck… a wet-behind-the-ears kid just tall enough to pull off a leather jacket. Even that took a little convincing.
Ignoring my criticism of her fuck-buddy choices, Jess’s smirk widened, and she reclined against the bar stool, crossing her arms.
“You know what I’m going to say.”
“Let’s pretend that I don’t,” I insisted.
I didn’t like being toyed with, and she knew that. The two people I needed to confide in at times like this were my best friend, and my publicist.
Life put both in the same fucking woman.
What a lucky sod that made me.
Jess watched me for a moment, choosing her words and judging my reactions before finally cutting loose. “Lex, the Patrovo Corporation invests a lot of money into proper brand representation. The athletes they slap on the boxes of cereal, or put in their stupid shoe commercials, they need those athletes to protect their interests.”
“I’m well aware,” I gruffly reminded her.
Jess raised an eyebrow. “I understand that. But what you’ve got to realize is that Brett Barker plays it safe as shit. His choice is going to be careful, calculated, and definitely not you.”
“I’m safe,” I protested, lifting my arms in protest before clasping the fingers behind my head. “Safe as they come.”
“Safe doesn’t get their photos slapped across a six-page major spread,” she grumbled, reaching into her purse to whip out a creased tabloid. She shoved it towards me, and I lazily leaned back forwards and rifled through the pages.
Sure, I was on the cover again. No big deal.
“I don’t see what you’re–”
Then I stopped, glancing at the photos. Seemed like the paparazzi fucks had stalked me to a hotel balcony, where I’d been photographed with my arms around two lovely little ladies.
I remembered them. Not their names, of course, but I recalled the three nights of glorious, hardcore lovemaking we’d had together… and how jealous the gods must have been in their various pantheons.
Of course, that didn’t matter now.
Not when I was staring at various blurry pictures, showing under no arguable terms that I was kissing one with another on her knees in front of me at cock level. In another candid photo, they were kissing for my entertainment… and in yet another, they were both at cock level in front of me, with my proud face held high and each palm resting on their heads...
Yeah, I’d almost forgotten how good those few days had been. Cor blimey, were they voracious in the hotel bed... and in the shower… and on the balcony, as the paparazzi apparently noticed.
“Yeah. Safe is the last word that comes to mind when I put ‘Lightning Lex Lambert’ and ‘corporate sponsorships’ in the same sentence,” Jess elaborated. “I’m afraid your chances with Mr. Barker were tenuous before… but now they’re shot to hell.”
“Brett Barker can ride a knob straight to hell,” I grumbled angrily, downing the rest of my ale.
“Yeah, well, he’s your meal ticket,” Jess shrugged. “You can’t exactly antagonize the Head of Public Relations for the entire Patrovo Corporation and then expect to wind up his year’s pick for the cereal boxes.”
I gave a stiff nod to the bartender, who poured me another ale and rushed it to my side. “Cheers, mate,” I offered him, and he stifled a small smile with utmost professionalism.
“You’re my publicist, Jess,” I told her after a quick, refreshing sip. “How do I get my big, grinning mug on a commercial?”
Jess sighed. “Do you want me to answer as your friend, or as your publicist?”
“Both, obviously.”
“Well, as your publicist, you need to clean your fucking act up – and fast. No more of these stunts. The only reason you even have a ghost of a chance anymore is that the entire country bloody well loves you. You’re a national icon, regardless of the pair of lips around your cock at any given moment. If you really want this sponsorship deal with the Patrovo Corporation… something’s gotta give, and it’s gotta give now.”
I read her eyes thoughtfully, tempted to lash out about my various trophies, athletic stats, or how vital to pop culture I already was.
But I trusted Jess.
I valued her.
And as an old friend and a talented representative, I let her speak to me in ways that would earn scathing destruction under any other circumstances.
“So that’s Publicist Jess speaking,” I commented gruffly. “What about the other one?”
“As your friend?” Jess asked.
I nodded quietly.
Her eyes flashed wildly again, and that smirk slipped back across her lips. As I felt a heavy pit in my stomach, she leaned forward, whispering as if anyone could hear us in this private pub room.
“I think I have an idea…”
My skepticism somehow found a new height. “An idea, yeah?” I asked, crossing my arms. “Am I going to like this?”
“Well, that depends…” Jess mischievously remarked, taking another swig of her drink.
“How do a few weeks in America sound?”
“Why the bloody hell would I want to go to America?”
Jess slapped a hand down on the table. “Because in America, nobody knows your name.”
Riley
The canvas sang with streaks of color as I dashed my palette knife along the taut material. Beneath my deft strokes, a serene landscape was springing to life, filled with clouds, mountains, and trees… and for the foreground, a hilltop pasture.
This was what I lived for.
Painting came naturally to me. On my mother’s side of things, a thick streak of artistic creativity ran in the family. My grandmother had been a skilled seamstress and designer. My mother had been particularly skilled in sculpting.
That left me: Riley Ricketts, the painter.
Happiness was an empty canvas and a broad spectrum of vibrant paints, all ready for the skillful dance of my wrist. I favored a water-based style, coating the blank vessel of my artwork with a thin layer of clear-coat before adding in the surreal colors with a palette knife, a half-inch brush, or the edge of whatever expendables I had nearby.
I’d painted with sponges, crushed chocolate wrappers, Lego bricks, even steel wool. A consummate improviser, I worked with whatever was accessible and necessary to achieve the effect.
Although the gift came almost as naturally to me as breathing, I’d found myself in a bit of a bind these last few months.
The magic had gone away.
Whatever invisible muse had been guiding my work, it had scampered off into the night. My art still came as easily as ever, but it felt uninspired. It never looked the way I wanted it to.
Despite the protests of my few close friends, I let each failed piece languish in the spare closet. They called it the Closet of Doom. It had become a graveyard of forgotten canvases… a tomb for failed passions.
I glanced down at the canvas before me now, seated comfortably on the easel. As I wiped clean the palette knife in my hand and lifted a blue-tipped brush, ready to enhance the clouds above, my hand hesitated waveringly.
No, I thought to myself.
This won’t do.
As if I were a disappointed parent, I dipped the brush back into the cup of water and beat the Devil out of it against the metallic easel frame. Down went my pallet, set aside for later use, and the brush dropped into my easel-side container.
I stretched my limbs, intertwining my fingers outwardly above my head. The light was already turnin
g, casting my small studio in the throes of twilight. Soon, Reiko would be here, ready to cast off another dismal day running her boss’s sandwich shop. Maybe Connor would join us tonight, although I was growing less and less patient with his passive-aggressive advances.
It was obvious he wanted to date me, but I’d held the same sisterly affection for him that I had since junior high… for whatever reason, that apparently wasn’t enough anymore.
Worries for another time, I decided, bending to the side to stretch my back.
I heard the door squeal open, and the slight clatter as it slid back into place.
“You in the studio?”
“Yeah. You can come in.”
Reiko Sugiyama leaned against the doorway, already dressed in her street clothes. With a cute, round face and soft features, her casually fierce eyes reinforced everything that her sheer force of presence said: Don’t fuck with me.
Despite her lithe form, Reiko’s snarkiness and intimidation were the things of legend. I’d only ever witnessed it secondhand, but my other best friend since junior high was a sight to behold. There wasn’t a single bone in her body that lacked confidence, and she walked with her head held high and a strut that showed the world who was really the boss.
It was a shame that she was so lazy.
With just a pinch more ambition, she would have already left her job: babysitting a bunch of teenagers barely able to string along a decent club sandwich.
“Whatcha got there?” Reiko asked, nodding in the direction of the canvas. “No, no, let me guess… another one of your recent failures, am I right?”