Page 13 of Sinful Lord

Every unexpected noise reminds me of my situation. It’s exhausting, and my nerves are slowly wearing thin.

But when I gather the courage to turn around, I don’t recognize the large man stumbling inside. He doesn’t even look around. Instead, his shaded eyes stay glued to the floor as he collapses into an occupied booth.

The raucous returns. It was all in my head.

Dana doesn’t seem bothered.

“Elsa’s not all bad,” I say, trying to distract myself from the heaviness pounding in my chest. “She’s been giving me advice on where to find a cheap studio to paint in. And she keeps insisting that she’ll introduce me to her artist friends.”

“And you still believe her?” Dana asks, skepticism lacing every word.

I shrug. “At least she’s trying to help me. No one else has done that. Not since I got here. She asks me about my passions and even tells me about hers. You know she used to be a dancer? She’s been showing me some moves. Last night she even brought me to that precious pole they have in the backroom and taught me how to work it.”

“Sounds like she’s grooming you,” Dana chuckles. “Think she might be trying to get you into that backroom? It would be smart. A pretty little thing like you would surely fetch a high price…”

“Oh, god, I hope not,” I nervously laugh, clutching my beating chest. “And if she is, I’m not interested.”

“That’s no work for an artist, right?” Dana grins.

“Right…” I sigh.

For a moment, we just stare past each other. Then someone orders another drink, and Dana gets back to work.

I do the same, but my mind stays put.

Even if Dana was only playing around, it still feels nice to have someone finally call me an artist again—it’s especially nice when it’s not coming from a well-meaning member of your own family, which is all I really got before.

I want to be a real artist. A daring, brave painter who makes art that challenges people. But that kind of art is hard to understand when you live in a harsh reality. And the killers and businessmen in my family exist permanently in a state of harshness.

It's not their fault. It’s just not in their worldview to consider the abstract. To see the beauty in it…

Suddenly, my beating heart starts to lightly flutter.

There is a killer who gets it, though. A mobster who understands me and my art.

Slowly, I allow myself to remember the encounter that changed my life.

Tytus Ryzdon doesn’t have such a harsh view on reality, and when he cornered me that night in the hallway and told me all the things I’ve ever wanted to hear about my art, he did more than just open up a path for me to escape.

He started an obsession. An addiction that I haven’t been able to kick.

I close my eyes and see his silver-blue eyes. They look like corrupted ice crystals perched atop a throne of ink and muscle.

Even through the stench of booze and desperation that surrounds me, I can still remember his arctic scent. It was somehow both bone-chillingly cold and warmer than any hug I’ve ever received.

My breaths shorten as I go through the motions of my dreary job. Tytus stays stuck in my mind, just as he has every night for the past year.

He saw the beauty in my art and he saw the trapped artist behind my eyes. The message he left on the back of my painting gave me a way out, a path to freedom.

I took it.

But now I’m more trapped than ever.

When the bar door bursts open again, I’m snapped out of my daydreams and plunged back into my loud reality.

My heart catches in my throat, just like it does every time.

But when I turn around to see who’s come for me, I realize that no one has. It’s just another drunk asshole who is quickly pulled back outside by the bouncers.