Reckless (23 page)

How was I going to concentrate on painting? Or my other classes?

“There goes Poor House,” Tiffany Kingston-Whitehouse giggled.
 

Great. That was all I needed.

Two hobots stood next to her on the pathway. All three of them held cups of designer coffee from Toasted Roast. I’d already cut daily coffee from my budget.

I ignored her and kept walking.

“She lowers thrift-store chic to a whole new low, don’t you guys think?” Tiffany asked her minions.

“Totally,” they chorused.

“She makes bargain-basement look bad,” one said.

I had a moment to think about how Tiffany’s yacht probably cost more than four years of college tuition for fifty kids. Whatever. Envying her wealth wouldn’t help me find a job. I didn’t have time for her childish insults anymore.

“Grow up, Tiffany,” I said, never looking back.

I made it to the painting studio shortly after.

People were already setting up at the easels. I found a space next to Romeo and Kamiko.

“Hey guys,” I said. I was so happy to see them. “What are we going to paint this quarter to top all the nude models in Life Drawing last term? A live sex show?” I joked, trying to force myself into a better mood.

“I wish,” Romeo said. He gestured toward the center of the room. A waist-high pedestal had a square of black cloth draped diagonally over it. A wooden bowl of fruit sat on top.

“A still life,” Kamiko said. “Fruit is way easier than people.”

“But not nearly as interesting,” I said.

“Wait and see. Dealing with mixing paint and working with brushes will offer a bunch of new challenges. You’ll be glad you’re just painting apples and grapes.”

“I agree with Sam,” Romeo said thoughtfully. “I preferred painting people. Especially fully-nude Christos. But there
is
a huge banana in the fruit bowl. It’s about the right size, wouldn’t you say, Sam?”

My cheeks glowed red. “Romeo!”

“Relax, Sam,” Romeo said dismissively. “We’ve
all
seen what’s in Christos’ fruit basket more than once. But we have no expertise in the fully erect department. For that, I turn to you for corroborative evidence. Can you describe his manana to us?” He arched an eyebrow while pretending to hold a microphone in front of me like he was a news reporter.

Kamiko gawked at both of us.

“No!” I blurted.

“No, you won’t describe it,” Romeo said, “or no, you haven’t peeled it?”
 

“Uhhhh…” Why did I feel guilty all of a sudden?

Kamiko snorted laughter. “Romeo, even
I
know you don’t
peel
them.”

“If they have a foreskin, you do,” Romeo said plainly.

“It’s not the same kind of peeling,” Kamiko corrected. “It’s more like pulling down the wrapper on a freezer pop.

I grimaced. “This conversation has officially become uber disgusting.”

Romeo frowned. “Wait a second, Kamiko, how do you know so much about mansicle wrappers?”

“I am pre-med, in case you forgot. I know what a foreskin is.”

“Yes, but you seem to have intimate knowledge of their function. First-hand experience, perhaps? Are you hiding a boyfriend, Kamiko? I mean, other than Finn the Human? Like, a real live boy, boyfriend?”

“No, Romeo,” Kamiko insisted.

“Whoa!” Romeo chided. “Down, girl! Strident denial is a sure sign you’re hiding something!”

“Do you think she’s secretly dating Brandsome?” I suggested coyly, happy to have the heat off of me.

Kamiko’s cheeks flushed red. “I don’t know what you guys are talking about!”

“Hmmm,” Romeo considered shrewdly. “This bears further investigation. I do believe the plot has thickened. Unless that’s just me thinking about Christos’ manana again.” He shifted his belt around and wiggled his pants while jiggling his hips. “Yes, my plot has definitely thickened.”

“Oh, gross,” Kamiko grimaced.

“Anyway,” Romeo dismissed her, “back on topic. Sam, is Christos’ peeled manana curved or straight? I need to know.” He held the imaginary microphone up to my face again.

“Romeo!” I pleaded, pushing his hand away.

“I hear the curved ones hit a lady’s G-spot the best. Although, I think when it comes to my B-spot, straight is my preference.”

“What’s a B-spot?” Kamiko asked, confused.

“It’s in your bu—”

“Okay, class,” the professor said, clapping loudly several times right behind Romeo’s head, “enough chatter. We have a lot to cover today. Shall we begin?” The professor was a middle-aged guy with unruly hair and a permanent frown which reminded me of pictures I’d seen of Ludwig van Beethoven.
 

Romeo’s lips curled into a sneer and he frowned at the professor’s back.

Me and Kamiko both choked down our respective giggle fits.
 

The professor wore a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and jeans. Despite his casual appearance, he seemed a bit too serious for my taste. “My name is Professor Cogdill,” he said. “I will be your Oil Painting professor this term. Today we’ll be painting a simple still life. I’ll do a brief demonstration before you begin your paintings. I will show you how to prepare your palette. I will show you how to block in the basic composition. I will show you how to contrast warm colors against cool. I will show you how to…”

I glanced over at Romeo, who was frowning at the professor like they were lifelong enemies.

“Professor Cogdildo needs someone to peel his manana immediately,” Romeo whispered while rolling his eyes. “Maybe then he wouldn’t be such a stick in the butt. Because I’m telling you, he’s
so
not my type. I’m going to be stuck squeezing my butt cheeks together all term long.”

I stifled another giggle while the professor droned on.

Despite the professor’s stiff demeanor, no pun intended, he was extremely knowledgable and logical in the way he explained everything. I was amazed that he was able to paint an awesome picture of the fruit bowl in about twenty minutes. I’d never seen someone paint so fast before. It was amazing to watch him work. Afterward, while he rinsed his brush in a can of Turpenoid, he said, “All right, everyone, please take your places and go to work.”

At my easel, I squeezed out paint like the professor had shown. He had used some burnt sienna paint to lay in sketchy lines on his canvas. I did the same, blocking in the basic shapes with a medium-sized brush.

“Remember, class,” the professor intoned, “your block-in can be loose. You will correct things as you go.”

I glanced over at Romeo, who was already laying in the shapes with his brush. He was focused on getting the shape of the banana
just
right, by Romeo standards.

“Um, Romeo?” I whispered. “Why does your banana look like it’s going to have a mushroom tip?”

“I’m just painting what I see, Sam,” he said, somewhat offended.

Kamiko leaned over to look at Romeo’s painting. She grimaced, then looked at the fruit bowl. “I don’t see a mushroom tip on that banana, Romeo,” she jabbed.

“I see dicks everywhere I look, darling,” Romeo said dismissively.
 

“You are such a Peen Queen, Romeo,” Kamiko smirked.

“I admit it,” Romeo said, hand held dramatically over his heart. “I am cock royalty. Although I like to think of myself more as the Princess of Penis.”

“Am I the only one throwing up in my mouth right now?” I grimaced.

Kamiko puffed out her cheeks and her eyes went wide. She held two fingers to her lips while she made fake gagging noises.

I was giggling as I returned my focus to mixing colors on my palette.
 

Between Romeo’s antics and the painting itself, I had a blast. By the end of class, I also had a pretty good oil painting of the fruit bowl, banana included, but no mushroom tip.

“Wow, Sam,” Kamiko said. “You did a great job with your lights and darks. Your lighting and shading is so realistic.”

I couldn’t believe it either. “Thanks, Kamiko!” I looked at Kamiko and Romeo’s work, and theirs were really good too. “Yours looks great, Kamiko.”

“Thanks,” she smiled. “I was worried working with the oil paint would screw me up.”

“Yours is awesome, Kamiko. Even Romeo’s looks great, now that his banana doesn’t look like a manana anymore. I think we all owe Professor Cogdill some thanks.”

“Because his last name is so phallic?” Romeo asked.
 

I had to laugh at that.

Maybe my life wasn’t about to blow up in my face. Maybe things were looking up.

CHRISTOS

When Russell Merriweather had called personally that morning to tell me to meet him at his law offices downtown, I knew it was not going to be good news.

I parked my Camaro in the downstairs garage and took the elevator up to the twentieth floor of the building. Russell had spared no expense when he’d leased the place.
 

“Hey, Rhonda. I’m here to see Russell,” I said to the receptionist. I’d met Rhonda the first time I’d come in six years back. I’d always been impressed with her professional attitude. Russell only hired the best. She was also hot, but she was all business and great at her job.

“Mr. Merriweather is expecting you, Christos. He will be with you in a minute. Can I get you anything to drink while you wait?”

“I’m good, thanks, Rhonda.” I strolled over to the picture window and gazed out at the stunning view of San Diego bay. An aircraft carrier was parked at the naval base, covered with F-18s. What I wouldn’t do to hop in one of those jets and Mach 2 the fuck out of here.

“There he is!” Russell beamed, smiling wide, striding into the waiting room a short time later. Even when he wasn’t in court, Russell wore immaculate, tailored suits that enhanced his already towering silhouette, making him basketball-tall. His exuberant personality added another three inches at least. “Christos Manos, in the flesh!”

I hadn’t seen him face-to-face in a couple months.

We clasped fists and slapped a man hug on each other.

“Did Rhonda offer you a beverage?” he asked.

I winked at Rhonda. “Twice.”

She returned a curt smile.

“Hold my calls, Rhonda. I’ve got Christos Manos up in here.” Russell chuckled heartily. “Come on, son, let’s talk in my office.”

The offices of six other attorneys and several paralegals opened off the long hallway that led to Russell’s office. He had done quite well for himself.

“Have a seat,” he said while motioning to a leather chair in front of his desk. The corner view in his office was more impressive than the one in the lobby. You could see up and down the coast of San Diego. The Pacific Ocean seemed to go on forever.

“Did you come here on that crotch-rocket of yours?” he asked, raising his eyebrows parentally.

“Nope. Garaged it, like you said. My Camaro’s downstairs.”

Russell nodded approvingly. “Good boy. There may be hope for you yet.” He smiled reluctantly, but I could tell it was genuine. He patted my shoulder firmly several times. “Very good.”

He closed his office door and lowered himself into the executive chair behind his desk. His jovial demeanor dimmed about a hundred watts as he laced his fingers together on the blotter in front of him.
 

“I’m not going to sugar-coat it, son. My private detectives have failed to turn up a single clue that can be of use. We can keep throwing money at them, but I highly doubt they’ll turn anything up at this point.”

I’d been doing my best not to think about any of this for the last several months. I trusted Russell, and knew he hired only the best. I’d seen the invoices. “Where does that put us?”

“I don’t know if you’re aware of this, Christos, but if the jury finds you guilty on all charges, you could face up to four years in the state penitentiary.”

“Prison,” I said.

“Yes.”

“What are the chances of clearing that extra charge, the one that means prison time?”

“You’re talking about the secondary charge? Serious Bodily Injury, correct?”

“Yeah, that. What’s the status on that?

“The State is claiming that the man you assaulted has endured all manner of ongoing health-related issues because of the incident. I have my team investigating the facts, and I intend to call the man’s personal physician to the stand during trial. I will also be calling a physician friend of mine as an expert witness. Then it will be up to me to prove in court that the man’s medical conditions either preceded the incident, or came about wholly separate from it. But it will ultimately be up to the jury to decide whether his injuries qualify as Serious Bodily Injury, or not, as per the judge’s instructions at trial.”

“In English?” I asked.

“From what I’ve seen, that crybaby Horst Grossman wants to blame you for everything from his hangnail to his hair-piece. My task will be to convince the jury that Horst Grossman, is in fact, a cry baby.”

I chuckled. “That sounds like good news. What about the rest of the charges? I mean, I actually hit the guy.”

“Yes, and for that, even if we knock it down to a misdemeanor, you could still face up to a year in jail.”

“Are we going to be able to say it was self-defense?”

“We can say it all we want, but we still have to convince the jury.”

“Can we do that?”

“At this point in time, that part of your case does not look nearly as good. We’re up against the issue of reasonableness. In your case, we’re going to have a very difficult time proving to the jury that you were in fear for your life when Horst Grossman lunged at you. The state will argue that you could’ve easily dodged out of the way without striking him.”

“I didn’t even have time to think about it. I just reacted.”

“Unfortunately, the Deputy D.A. is going to ask why you even walked up to the man in the first place.”

“Because I was trying to help that girl,” I said. I still hadn’t told him “that girl” was Samantha. I really wanted to keep her out of the case entirely. Because if I told her about
this
trial, that would lead to her inevitable questions about all my
other
trials. The trials where I’d been found guilty, and rightfully so. I’m sure Samantha would be ecstatic when she found out all about my criminal past.