Manic (Rook and Ronin 2)

Spence walks up to me and I try out a forced smile, so, so nervous about what's about to happen. "Hungry, Rook? Grab some chow and we'll get started in about twenty minutes. I've already eaten, so I'll meet you down in the art room, OK?"

And then the only friendly face leaves me there, his camera team scurrying to keep up with him. Now I'm alone with Ford and my "crew."

Ford smiles.

I go grab a plate and pile on some grapes, because the pastries are apple and I hate apple pastries. I think they expect me to go chat with them, but I take my stuff outside instead. The air is still very cool and that is definitely something I enjoy about Colorado. The summer nights are almost never hot. I cop a seat at one of the picnic tables and don't look over my shoulder when the doors open and my team appears. They stand around me, one guy holding a long stick with a microphone on it, the other two filming.

They don't say hi, and I guess that's normal, we're not supposed to interact with the crews. So I just ignore them and try to eat my grapes. The door opens again and I look back, hoping it's Antoine, but it's not. It's Ford.

He bellows out, "Good morning, Rook! Ready for today? I can't wait to get started!"

I bet he can't. I mean, he gets to gawk at my naked body all day, what's not to like?

"Oh, and by the way, no sneaking off to Ronin's apartment. That's a breach of contract. If we had cameras in there, then you could go about your business, but Ronin refused." He gives me a shrug that says, sorry, out of my control.

I ignore him.

"Oh, come on. You have to talk, that's in the contract too. You agreed to interact."

I get up, dump my plate into the trashcan near the door, then go back inside and make my way downstairs. The crew scurries along after me, but when I look back as I make the third floor, Ford is gone. I smile a real smile for the first time since Ronin left.

Spencer is whistling as he sets out all his art supplies and he's got his own camera crew, so now we're eight people in this place. Spence catches me sighing and squeezes my shoulder. "Want some tunes, Rook? I like to listen to music when I paint."

"Sure, put on whatever you normally listen to."

"Comin' up." He plugs his iPod into a speaker tower and messes with it for a few seconds. "This is what I call my Gettin' Ready for Sturgis playlist."

"Yeah? Who's on it?"

"Oh, everyone good, man. Deep Purple, some Zeppelin, some Priest, Sabbath, Seger, Skynyrd… you name it, I've got it."

I laugh. "I'm not really up on all the cool kids' music these days, but I know an old fart playlist when I hear it." His jubilant mood degrades into something somber, maybe even hurt—so I backpedal. "Uh, well, I like Freebird."

He shoots me with his finger. "There you go, Blackbird. Freebird suits you. I'll put the whole Pronounced… album on."

"Well, shit, that's like a whole day's worth of music right there."

He laughs. "You're a lot smarter than you let on, Rook. Ford over there better be careful with his baiting."

It takes all my self-control to ignore that creeper Ford. He deserves my undying indifference. "So Spence, how is it you're twenty-two and you still call it an album?"

Lynyrd Skynyrd blares through the tower and Spence turns it down to a conversational level. "Twenty-three, but I got a vinyl collection that would make your grandfather cry, Rook."

I sigh again. Thank God for Spencer. He's a good guy, he's easy-going, and he's happy. All three very good qualities when he's gonna have his paintbrush all over my body in like twenty minutes.

"OK, you ready then?"

I'm not really, but that's not the answer they're looking for. I try for words, I really do, but all I can manage is a gulp and a nod.

"Here," Spencer says, holding out a short white robe for me. "Just go get undressed and put this on, and twist your hair up or something, keep it out of the way."

I grab the robe and follow his pointing finger to a partition that has concept drawings tacked to it and is doing double duty as a makeshift dressing room for me. When I go behind it, I can still see everyone, and they can still see me, because this thing only goes up to my neck.

"Well, that's not quite privacy, is it?" I say to no one in particular. Which is good, but no one in particular is paying any attention to me, except for my camera crew who seem to think they get to follow me in here. I smack the microphone away. "Get the hell out. You'll see my goods soon enough, you ass**les."

They back off, still filming, microphone hovering above.

"Rook," Ford starts in, "I won't tolerate things like that. So please, just be amicable."

Amicable, my ass. But he's right, it's not their fault I made a bad decision. "Sorry," I say as I strip out of my shorts and tank, tie the robe around me, then twist up my hair in a makeshift bun. I have sixteen eyeballs waiting anxiously for me, so I put on a brave face and step out from behind my partition.

Spencer comes over and takes my hand. "OK, it's gonna be weird, I get it. But Rook, I swear, this is just a job for me. OK?"

I nod.

"Besides, today is the catsuit, so what I'm gonna do is spray you up in black, so even though you'll be naked, you won't feel naked. Once the paint goes on, Rook, it feels different. Trust me, OK?"

"I do, Spencer. I trust you."