Then Kiss Me (10 page)

My eyes met his as I asked
the
question and
yeah
.  My touch had had the effect I’d intended.  He
liked
it.  I could tell from how dark his eyes turned.  But he still had the playful look on his face.  He pulled the sleeve back even farther, toward his neck, to reveal a set of drumsticks.
  But somehow they were sexy.  I liked his tattoo artist.  Maybe I’d get to see more of this person’s work in the tattoo art show at the Art Center in the fall.  In the meantime, though, I had a flesh canvas I was able to appreciate.

I removed my finger which had been searing his skin for far too long.  And I realized Scott had hardly said a word, but the
slight
smile on his face was unmistakable.  My voice was low when I said, “That’s really
fuckin
’ cool.”

“Yeah, it is
, huh?
”
  Was he talking about the tattoo or the feeling between us?

I could barely breathe.

Jim was probably pissed that I’d not only ruined his game but had taken all the attention away from him.  He said, “All right, lovebirds, the food’s burning.  Can we get back to work, please?”

Scott and I made eye contact again.  We were both smiling.  But that look was heavy.  We were acknowledging the significance of what had happened there, even though there had been no words pass between us.

After the lunch rush, though, I started questioning if it had just been me, because we’d just kind of fallen back into
business as usual
.  But my high carried me through.  Even when Jim was being a dick, I was able to just blow him off.  Quitting time, though, everything felt normal.  I said goodbye and nothing special happened.

But I was
certain
that moment had been special.  I had to go with it.  I had to believe it, because I planned to act on it if I ever had the opportunity.

Chapter Six

LESS THAN A
week later, I got a call from Isabel.  It was rather unexpected, but I wasn’t complaining.  She said, “Casey, I just sold your painting.  Can you bring me more?”

Inside, I was squealing with joy, but I kept my voice as calm as possible.  “I can bring some by today.”  And in less than two hours, I was back with eleven paintings.  They were the weirdest of my framed paintings.  See, that’s the thing.  I had lots of stuff…tons of canvases in the boxes I’d brought
with me from Denver
, but it cost money to frame them.  Now, with the money Isabel was paying me, I’d be able to put the money back into my art—not just for framing, but more supplies, paint, brushes, other things I’d need.  It wasn’t much (I’m sure she wanted to see how my art would sell and, since I was unknown, she couldn’t charge crazy prices), but I wasn’t complaining.  It was the first painting I’d sold since college, so I was thrilled.

Again, Isabel took her time looking at my art, making me nervous, so I looked around again.  She’d apparently just reorganized the whole gallery, because there was lots of new stuff around, i
ncluding some
cool
copper metal
work.  Finally, though, she called me back and wanted to take two this time.  One was super weird…a cat’s head
super
imposed on a ballerina’s body
, and she was sipping coffee on a white metal chair
.  The other was a spider
-like
alien driving a tractor
in a wheat field
.  I don’t know why I painted some of these strange things, but I was glad she took them anyway.  She said, “You can
also
bri
ng me your more traditional art
.  I’m sure it will sell as well.” 
Duly noted.
  Sweet!

As she wrote me a check for my commission, she said, “By the way,
we have a show Friday night.  I have one twice a year where I don’t highlight any particular artist.  Anyway, since I’ll have these two paintings in the show, I’d like you to be here.”

I wanted to ask if she was serious, but I knew she was.  I was thrilled.  “Yes, of course.”  So I got the details and called Ed.  I wasn’t going to be able to work my shift
Friday
night.  Ed grumbled and said David and Scott had already asked for that night off so he didn’t know if he could give it to me.  I told him how important it was, that it was my first art gallery showing
ever
.  He grumbled some more, but an hour later he called and told me he had it covered.  However, I’d have to work the day shift on Friday.  I promised I was thrilled to do it.

The next day
at work, David told me that he and Scott were going to have a housewarming party at their new place Friday night and they wanted me to come.  First off, I wondered if
they
were really inviting me or if it was just David.  But, more than that, I wasn’t going to miss my first art showing.  So I told David about it and said I didn’t know how late it would run.  “Please come by after, Case.” 
Like I’d turn down a chance to see Scott?  No way in hel
l.  I promised to stop by when the show was over.

I bought a nice black cocktail dress to wear that night.  I hadn’t bought any new clothing for myself in a long time, so this dress was quite a treat.  I got a pair of new black heels to go with it as well, and the dress was short,
its hem stopping just
above my knees. 
Sexy, but not too sexy.
  It was fun.

I thought the showing was a success for me.  I met a few local artists (all of the ones with works showing that night, though, were at least twenty years my senior), and probably at least one-hundred people showed up.  A few people were from out of town (Colorado Springs, I guessed) but most
of them were from Winchester.

Lots of people commented positively about my paintings; ultimately, though, no one bought anything.  Maybe they were just being nice to my face.  I certainly wouldn’t want to tell an artist I didn’t like his work to his face.  That just wouldn’t be nice.  But that was okay.  Isabel wanted to keep them.  I felt relieved.  After all, this showing was almost like my big break.  Well, not exactly.  Until my work actually sold, I was still
a nobody
.  Well, I’d sold one painting, so I shouldn’t complain.  And these two paintings had a little more time, so I was just going to bask in the compliments I received and
not
look at all the
Sold
signs on other artists’ work in the gallery.  I reminded myself that the Denver gallery where I’d worked never even showed any of my stuff because I wasn’t known, but I wasn’t known because they wouldn’t show any of my work.  Isabel told me my paintings had gotten good reviews (apparently she’d heard nice things too), and it was only a matter of time before someone decided to buy them.  My ego was pumped, especially hearing news like this from tight-lipped Isabel.

I left the gallery around eleven that night, high from my success.  I would have blamed it on the champagne, but it had already burned out of my system.  I was sober and able to drive, so I headed over to the party.

I’d never been on this side of town, but David had given me good directions.
  I didn’t have any problems finding it, and it wasn’t too far from the gallery.  The music was loud but I rang the doorbell anyway.  No one answered the door, so I
wound up
just let
ting
myself in.
Their place was halfway full, mostly of people I didn’t know.  I looked around for a friendly face and didn’t find one, but someone did hand me a beer.  I finally ended up in the living room, and that
was
when David spied me. 
“Hey, Casey!
  We thought you’d never show up!”  A couple of other guys from work were there—
the night manager and another cook
—but no one else I knew, at least not there in the living room.  There was one guy with long black hair in the corner, and
I
couldn’t remember for sure, but I thought he was the bassist in Scott’s band.
  David crooked his finger at me until I walked over.  “We’re playing quarters.  Sit down.”  He stood up, partly stumbling (all the way trashed).  He whistled.  “Wow…don’t you look fantastic?”  I looked down.  Yeah, I guess I did still look pretty good.  I’d almost forgotten about the cocktail dress.

“Thanks.”  I sat down next to David but kept looking around.  I couldn’t see Scott anywhere and I wasn’t about to ask.  I went ahead and joined the game of quarters.  I relaxed as I realized Metallica was playing and, even though I hardly knew anyone, at least the
quarters
folks were people I knew, except for one girl sitting next to
the night manager
.  I’d never played this drinking game much, so I started getting buzzed pretty quickly, the more beer I had to drink.  And, of course, the more I drank, the worse I got at the game.  And the worse I got, the more I had to drink
…a never-ending cycle.  There was no way for me to avoid not getting drunk.

After getting
pretty
buzzed, I came to the conclusion that Scott wasn’t there, but I kept looking for him anyway.  David finally asked, “You looking for someone?”

Maybe the alcohol had loosened my lips or maybe I wanted to talk.  Even now, I’m not sure.  But I answered, “Yeah, but he’s not here.”

David arched his eyebrows. 
“My roommate, perhaps?”

I laughed, feeling giddy. 
“Perhaps.”

David cleared his throat and lowered his voice, bringing his lips close to my ear so I could hear
and no one else would be able to
.  “I think he’d been waiting for someone too and was finally convinced she wasn’t coming.  So I think he went to go play pool
with Jim
.”

I let his words sink in.  “Oh.”

“Sorry.”

I nodded.  I was a big girl.  I should have been happy knowing he’d maybe been waiting for me.  I said, “That’s okay.”  I was more disheartened than I would’ve thought I would be.  “Let’s get wasted then.”  I was too drunk to go looking for him at this point and, even if I’d been sober, I wouldn’t want to seem desperate. 
His
loss, not mine, right?

So I started drinking more every time I lost until I felt myself losing hold of reality, saw the edges of the world growing black. 
That
was sweet release.  It helped to take my mind off Scott.  That was also a good thing because, more and more, my mind was
always
on Scott.

I don’t remember passing out, but when I woke up, I was in a dark place.  I
let my eyes
adjust and after a while realized I was lying on David’s couch in the very same living room where I’d been doing quarters earlier.  A pillow was under my head; my shoes were off; and a light blanket covered me.  Good
ol
’ David had made sure I was taken care of.  He was turning out to be a good friend.

But I had to pee.  The urge was strong—I’m not surprised, as much as I’d been drinking.  So I stood up and my head started spinning.  I was still
really
drunk.  Jesus.  Why was I drink
ing
like a college kid
again?

I crossed the room slowly and walked to the room I thought might be the bathroom.  I opened the door slowly, listening for sleeping sounds, just in case I’d opened someone’s bedroom door.  That could’ve been embarrassing.  But I heard nothing, so I felt for the light switch.  It
was
the bathroom, and relief washed over me with that realization.  But then the urge hit harder
, so
I shut the door and used the facilities.  I didn’t bother putting my pantyhose back on. 
A
fter peeling the damned things off, I couldn’t brin
g myself to pick them up off the floor.  Every time I tried to bend over to put them back on, my head would throb and I’d feel faint.  So I just knelt over
once
and carried them with me.

I stumbled back to the couch and fell on it.  I wondered what time it was, but I wasn’t curious enough to seek out a clock to find out.  All I did know was that I was still too drunk to drive home and hurting way too much.  So I lay back down.  I couldn’t fall back to sleep for a long time because I felt so nauseous. 
Did it to yourself, Casey
, my subconscious nagged me.  Finally, though, at some point, I did drift off to sleep.  When I woke up again, the room was bright beyond imagination.  It hurt my eyes.  My head was pounding.  I put my hands on my temples, trying to ease the ache, my eyes still closed.  I lay there just breathing—it was all I could do.  I hadn’t had a hangover of this magnitude in a long time.

I heard voices.  They seemed distant at first, and I could barely hear them.  As I grew more accustomed to the pain, I could make out their words better.

“So what the hell were you guys doing?”

“You know, just hanging out.”

“You should’ve come home earlier.”