There’s naught but a supermarket, bar, and gas station to serve the people of South Vacherie, Louisiana, where we call home, so I spin my wheels to North Vacherie and come to a stop in front of Viola’s Arts and Gifts shop. Scooping myself off my ride, I stroll in with a wide smile for its owner. “Hi Vi!”
“Good afternoon, Sage, honey,” she drawls in a southern accent The Ciphers never let any of us kids acquire, nor the adults keep. It might indicate where we live. Where we could be traced to. Scratch, now up in the northern states, had a strong one and it was Jett’s idea to teach everyone Standard American dialect, leaving our origins anonymous. Melody’s Southern accent isn’t altogether gone, her stubbornness forcing against change.
I purr, “Oh, these are good ones,” spying a new selection of medium-spread paint brushes displayed in a tin, once used for coffee, from its etched writing. Viola’s children are familiar to me from my many, many visits to her shop when I’ve found them playing here after school, on holidays and summer breaks, so I ask after them, “How are Bobby and Billy Mae?”
“Good. At home with their father. Billy Mae causes trouble wherever she can’t find it, but Bobby tends to keep his nose in a computer even when I wish he’d socialize more,” she drawls from behind the counter, twilight-blue pencil suspended by onyx fingers above a leather-bound ledger. I look closer to find a neat array of numbers swirled on graph paper and note that only the titles of each column ignore the narrow confines of its cornflower boxes. “He wants to be a coder,” she says, adding in a quieter voice, almost to herself, “So different from me.”
Happy to be browsing, I inspect blank canvases, dreamily touching the 20”x 30”, much larger than I could transport on my bicycle, so I’ve never gone this large before. “Is it inventory day?” I ask, motioning my naked nail-bitten caramel fingers toward her work.
“Once a week I log my sales in this way. The computer tallies it all automatically.” She continues with pride warming her russet eyes, “But I don’t care. I was trained by my grandmother, and her mother trained her. It feels clearer to me to see what’s coming in, what’s going out, if I write it by my own hand.”
I imagine a young Viola on a high stool to make up for her tiny size, perched beside a patient, loving grandmother who probably shared stories from her own youth as she taught the future businesswoman the value of numbers, how knowledge of them would empower her freedom in life.
As someone who loves the feel of a paintbrush’s firm wooden stem, I am viscerally awake to writing’s beautiful tangibility. Mine isn’t of words but rather of shapes and strokes in colors as varied as Viola provides me with. But even though our modes are as different as our purposes, I understand.
Over the pointy bottles of colors I already have at home, I run my smooth palm searching for something new, and stop in surprise. “Cerulean!” I breathe, lifting the effervescent blue I’ve been waiting for.
“Came in two days ago!” Viola beams. “I almost called you, more than once, but I love to see your face when you discover a new shade of paint I’ve hidden among the others, just for you.”
I flick at its sealed cap, not to open it but to imagine what it will be like when I do. “I’ve been longing for Cerulean.”
“Thank you, Sage.”
The sad tone in her voice turns my head. “For?”
“For not buying your art supplies online,” Viola sighs, modern technology weighing down her analog-loving shoulders.
I cross to place my hand on hers. “Never. I will always buy whatever art supplies I need from you.” Backtracking to the brushes I coveted, I lift one from its coffee tin display and admire it, dragging my forefinger over feathery bristles.
Our family by blood and otherwise, all Ciphers included, shop at the local stores, especially since there are so few. We are not rich, by any means, so I am forced to buy new paint one at a time, whenever I’ve saved enough of the spending money given me. I don’t mind. Waiting makes acquisition that much more delicious.
But the way she said it scratches into my awareness, and I look over to find Viola is frowning at her numbers, sketching slowly a doodle in the right corner of the page rather than applying more.
“How has business been, Vi?”
“Dismal,” she whispers, mind someplace else, somewhere darker.
A frown pierces my heart. “How dismal?”
“We need tourists.” She motions to shelves upon shelves of crystals, leather-bound notepads, pottery from locals beside the normal Louisiana souvenirs of keychains, shot glasses, spoons, t-shirts, caps. “I have trouble making rent much less a profit to live on.” She sighs. “I should’ve bought this property back when I had the chance, years back.” A forced smile clears a long exhale. “I’m staying afloat. Don’t you worry about ol’ Vi!”
Placing my new paint and brush in front of her, I ask, “Does anybody buy the art supplies besides me?”
“Ever since the schools lost funding for art classes, no. Not really. A few children, now and then. Budding artists, I hope. But enough to warrant new stock? I’m afraid not, honey. I’m not sure how long I can stay in town.”
I whisper, “Oh,” struck by the news. Since I was home-schooled, I have no idea what public education offers. “Why would they defund art classes? We need art to survive.”
Bells attached to the front door by yarn sing the arrival of a new customer, but I don’t look to see who it is, my focus on the subject combined with the trouble of tugging cash from my left front pocket of too-tight jeans.
Viola greets the newcomer, “Good afternoon!”
A throaty voice answers, “Afternoon Vi,” inspiring me to steal a sidelong glance toward the door.
Silhouetted by floods of light from a low-hanging sun is an approaching swagger so slow my spine straightens as I drop bills on the counter. My interested gaze slides up from black work-boots over jeans that fit in all the right places and a white T-shirt scratched with oil like he’s been under the belly of a car engine, muscles undulating with each step. Full lips tug to his right as eyes of amber drink me in, his hair a tousle of dark-chocolate that thick fingers forgot to comb. “And you are?”
I blink, aware of the unignorable fact that my nipples have peaked with interest, too, halter-top so snug and breasts so small I didn’t feel a bra was necessary.
The energy emanating from his walk.
His easy-going confident stare.
Those bedroom eyes.
Oh.
He asked me a question.
I swallow.
“I’m Sage.”
“Sage…?”
All that he is has taken me off guard, so I unwillingly, unknowingly, without hesitation, give my last name. “Martinez.”
“You visiting from somewhere?” The sheer guttural nature of his voice is awe-inspiring.
“No.”
Amber smoke narrows on me, lashes long. “Never seen you before. I’d remember.”
Viola saves me by drawling, “Sage is our local painter. Very talented, too.”
I can’t help but smile because Vi has never seen any of my paintings. Not a one. But her support makes my heart dance just the same. I have to get out of here. Something about this man has my skin covered in goosebumps. The way he looks at me, like he sees right through me. Like anything he asked of me, I’d say yes to or answer with complete honesty even if I didn’t want to. “Would you like to pose for me?”
What came over me?
What did I just say?!
I let that pour from my parted lips. Never, ever, in my whole life have I asked a stranger to pose for me. Much less one that made me feel this way.
His brows furrow. “Naked?”
Viola laughs, “Of course you’d go there, Bear.”
Bear?
His name is Bear?
What kind of a name is that?
A nickname?
Like Honey Badger for my dad? Is he in a motorcycle club, too? If he is, he must be from out town because there are no others in our territory.
Was it given to him at birth?
“You’d be naked,” I answer cooly as if I usually paint naked people when in truth I never have. But always wanted to. “Of course you have to be naked.” I clear my throat and shrug. “It’s art.”
“Art, huh?”
“Yes.” I force boredom in my expression, as if it means nothing at all to me to be alone with this man when he’s naked and I’m armed solely with a paint brush and my arousal. “People have posed nude for artists since the dawn of time. Look at David for Michelangelo.” I am embarrassed to admit, and wouldn’t aloud, that I don’t know if David had been a real man or just perfection from the imagination of a great painter and sculptor. “To name an obvious example.”
Bear scrutinizes me, dropping his glance as if I’m the one who’s not wearing anything. “And where would we do this?”
My spirits slump, but I keep my chin high. I couldn’t take him home to paint, no matter how exquisite he is and how much I want to. We don’t allow outsiders in our home, living outside of the law as The Ciphers do.
Now what?
I lie, “Unfortunately my space isn’t large enough to paint you,” disappointment lacing my veins. It’s more than large enough, but too full of people who wouldn’t approve, not on any given unpredictable day.
He drags a hand through his chocolate hair, legs spread in a superhero stance. “Too bad.”
“Mmm,” I hum, turning for change and slipping the coins into my pocket as I tell Vi, “Say hello to Bobby and Billy Mae for me.” To this Bear person I offer no smile. Is he here to buy something? He just stared at me through all of this.
As if reading my thoughts, he lifts a ceramic ladle holder to inspect, attention diverted as I pass him. Moments later the bells sing my impending exit.
“You could bring your paints and supplies to my place, Sage.”
I pause, golden hand gripping the slip of a silver handle, expression blasé even as excitement rushes into my blood. “Viola?”
“He’s safe,” she answers, knowing woman-to-woman what I mean. “Safer than pretty much any other man I’ve ever known.”
This turns my head. “Why?”
“He’s a policeman.”
Oh no no no no no!
Not a cop!
The Ciphers wouldn’t allow it.
I had a crush on a cop once.
They shot it down.
We do things cops would lock us up for.
For life.
Were I stronger, my fingers would break this handle, knuckles gone pale. “Not all cops are safe, Vi.”
“Don’t I know it.” She cocks an experienced eyebrow, “But this one is. Bear fought in court to protect Billy Mae’s friend whose step-father was doing horrible things to her. That’s just one story I could tell you about him. There are many.”
And I want to know them all. So he lives in town. Not surprising we’ve never met. Unfortunately I can’t agree to his offer, though I badly want to. My brothers would kill me, not to mention Dad. Honey Badger Martinez loathes the police with a passion. The Ciphers all know it. He lost his mind when I got the phone number of that handsome police officer Celia and Sofia Sol pushed me toward. Readying myself for disappointment, I run my tongue along my teeth. “Buy the canvas and it’s a deal.” Oops.
I point to the one I’ve always wanted.
He gives a low chuckle. “I have to buy my own canvas?”
“For asking, you now have to buy two. And if you think I’m being unfair, I bought the paints. This world is give-take. Not take-take.” I push hard and fast on the door, send the bells shouting. How’s that for giving Vi some business?
Outside, the warmth before sunset is nothing compared to that which is in my core. I slide onto my bike, very aware of the shape of my seat between my legs.
As I’m about to ride off, the man named Bear appears in front of me, bells warning trouble ahead. “Your number?”
Damn. And here I thought I had the perfect exit. Kinda would help if I knew where to go.
“Give me your address and I’ll meet you there tomorrow. Unless you work Saturdays?”
Amber eyes turned bronze by sunlight, shimmer at me. “Night shift. Start at six.”
“Noon then.”
Another smirk before Bear disappears inside, and time stands still until he returns with a new leather-bound notebook. “For you. My address is written on the first page. Noon tomorrow.”
“You bought this for me?”
“Yes. I’ll expect nothing in return. Because sometimes the world is give-give.”
Lightning ignites my veins as I take my gift and murmur, “Thank you,” unaware I have ham sandwiches as my dinner’s future.
I ride home.
Dreamy.
Blissful.
Italian food completely forgotten.
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