Page 29 of Diesel

His shoulders shook with silent laughter, and he reached over to squeeze my arm. The touch was brief but grounding, reminding me why I was here. Not for the painting. For him.

“Next step!” Miss Patty announced from the front. “We’re going to add pink to the middle section. Use your medium brush and blend it with the orange.”

Ollie switched brushes and got to work. His movements were confident, the pink melding with the orange in a gradient that actually looked intentional.

My baby was an artist.

I grabbed my medium brush and dipped it into the pink paint. When I tried to blend it with the orange, the colors turned muddy instead of gradual. Brown streaks appeared where there should’ve been a smooth transition.

The brush bent under the pressure I was applying. Then it snapped.

The bristles separated from the handle, falling onto my canvas and sticking to the wet paint. I stared at the broken pieces then at the mess on my canvas.

“Everything all right over there?” Miss Patty called out, her voice cutting through the room.

“Fine,” I said. “Just need a new brush.”

“There are extras in the cup, dear.” Her smile never faltered, but something in her eyes suggested she’d already written me off as a lost cause.

She wouldn’t be the first person.

At the back of the room, Tom was mid-sip from his own flask, which he buried inside his sweater the second he caught me looking. He gave me a chin lift. I gave him one back. Huh. Seemed I wasn’t the only one trying to survive Patty’s bullshit.

I grabbed another brush and tried again. This one lasted about two minutes before the handle cracked in my grip.

“Gorgeous work, Ollie!” Miss Patty walked past again, her hand going to the crystal. “You’re blending like a professional.”

“Thank you.”

“And, Gerald, naturally, your gradient is perfection itself.” She squeezed the crystal, her smile stretching wider. “Such an eye for detail.”

Gerald preened under the praise, adjusting his glasses and sitting up straighter.

When she reached my easel this time, her steps slowed. The floaty quality had disappeared, replaced by something more grounded and significantly less enthusiastic.

“Oh,” she said. “You’ve…broken some brushes.”

“Happens.” I was ready to bounce, hang outside until Ollie finished his painting.

“It really shouldn’t.” Her fingers wrapped around the crystal, gripping it so hard the leather cord dug into her neck. It was a coping mechanism. “Perhaps you’re applying too much pressure? Art requires a gentle touch.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Please do.”

She drifted away, and I reached into my cut while her back was turned. The flask was cool against my palm, tucked exactly where I’d stashed it before we’d left. One quick twist of the cap and I brought it to my lips, taking a pull of whiskey that burned down my throat in the best way.

“Much better,” I muttered, capping it and sliding it back into place.

Ollie glanced over, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He didn’t say anything, just went back to his painting with a small smile playing on his lips.

Miss Patty headed toward the front, her arms spread wide like she was about to conduct an orchestra. “Now we’re going to add the purple to the bottom of our sky. This is where the magic really happens, beautiful souls!”

Magic. Right. The only magic happening here was how she managed to make every compliment sound like an insult when directed at anyone who wasn’t Gerald.

Around me, brushes swished against canvas. The incense continued burning, making my eyes water. Or maybe that was the fumes from whatever chemicals were in the paint. Either way, the combination wasn’t doing my mood any favors.

My canvas looked worse with each passing minute. The orange, pink, and brown mess at the top was now joined by purple streaks that resembled nothing close to a sunset. More like a bruise. A really ugly bruise that had been left out in the sun too long.