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“Anything…so long as we have it.” He frowns and then beams at me once again. Honestly, he’s like a lightbulb I want to smash to extinguish permanently. “And if we don’t have anything you like, I’m sure we can get it in. I’m given a very generous budget.”
“What if I want to paint with blood?” I ask, a sinister grin on my face.
Danny’s smile falters. “I’m sorry—what?”
“You said there’s no rules, right? Any medium I want? What if I want to paint in blood?”
He pales, swallows nervously. “Ummm whose blood?”
I shrug. “Doesn’t bother me. Why? Are you offering?”
“Sugar, give the poor bloke a break,” Honeymonster chuckles with gentle reproach. “Ignore her, Danny.”
“Who says I’m joking?” I scowl at Honeymonster.
“I didn’t say any such thing. I asked you to give him a break. If you don’t want to paint, draw. Whatever. Just stop torturing the counsellor.”
“Whatever.”
I shoot Honeymonster a death glare. I was enjoying myself. Danny was practically pissing his pants. Why spoil my fun? I thought Honey was cool. Obviously not. I need to remember that. See if I can return the favour by cock blocking him or something at some point.
“It’s a good joke, Kayla,” Danny says, forcing out a laugh. There’s sweat on his temples and I want to lick it, before driving something sharp through the paper-thin skin. “You’re more than welcome to observe today, or join in. Whatever. Go with the flow. Do what makes you happy.”
I’ve rattled him, I can tell.
“Killing makes me happy.”
Poor guy looks about ready to pass out at my words. “Aside from that.”
“Aww, but you said art has no rules.”
“Ummm, killing isn’t really art.”
“It is to me. And I bet if you asked every other person in this room, they’d share my opinion. Careful Danny, wouldn’t want to find yourself outnumbered in a room full ofartistsnow, would you?”
“I’m going to go check on Silas!” he squeals before racing away.
I chuckle and turn back to my blank canvas. Swirling my brush in black paint, I start with a few clumsy brushstrokes. I glance over at Honeymonster and then try to copy his technique. It doesn’t look great, but I’m almost having fun, so I keep going, blacking out my entire canvas with wide, sloppy strokes.
When I’m done, I switch to a bright blood red and begin to layer it up on the canvas. I work solidly for almost an hour, waiting for Danny to call time on the session.
“Psst,” I call to Honeymonster, who’s working at the easel closest to mine. “How long does this class last?”
“It’s therapy, not class.”
“Answer the question,” I huff.
“Five hours.”
“FIVE HOURS?”
“Shush. Yes. It’s therapy. It takes time.”
I stare at my messy black and red canvas wondering how the hell I’m supposed to spend another four hours on it. My hand shoots into the air.
“Yes, Kayla?” Danny asks from the other side of the room.
“I went wrong. Can I start again?”
