“No, it’s fine. Take care of yourself, Aubrey. And I’m sorry. For everything.” His voice broke. “I love you, Aubrey. Always,” he whispered, and then I heard the soft click and the line went dead.

I dropped the phone on the ground and covered my face with my hands. I didn’t cry, but I couldn’t stop shaking. And I felt the loss of him all over again.

chapter

nine

maxx

“is your brother coming today?” Pete asked, and I had to stop myself from groaning out loud. Why did he ask me that every single Sunday, when the answer was always the same? Today was visiting day. My most dreaded day of the week. And the need to flee was there¸ prickling my insides.

I didn’t bother to answer him. I swallowed my annoyed hurt and continued to focus on the notebook in my lap. My hands were coated in oil pastels. Having the time and focus to immerse myself in my art was one of the most positive things to come out of this experience. It had never been a habit I spent a lot of time developing. I wasn’t the tortured artist who slaved over a picture to hang on my wall or something. The whole street art thing had happened purely by accident.

When I was young and fucked up, I had been hanging out with a bunch of dudes who thought tagging buildings downtown was a fun use of our time. They had handed me a can of spray paint and had left me to my vandalism. They had been busy writing dumb shit like Born in East LA and pathetic versions of gang signs. I painted a dead tree with fire for leaves. It wasn’t great by any stretch of the imagination, but it was a hell of a lot cooler than the stuff my so-called friends were spraying on the walls.

We had been chased away by a store owner who threatened to call the cops. The next week we had been walking by and I noticed all of the tagging had been erased—except for my tree. The store owner had never painted over it. In fact, it stayed there for years, until it had finally faded away.

I remember feeling a huge sense of pride in that. Even though, to most people, it would have been vandalism, that shop owner had seen something in my crude, amateurish drawing that he had liked. And that guy had made me feel, without ever saying a word to me, like maybe what I had created was worth something. To a fifteen-year-old boy who had recently lost his parents and was struggling with his sudden responsibility of caring for and worrying about a younger brother, that sort of confidence boost was a big deal.

But for some reason, I could never let myself get lost in painting on a canvas or drawing on a piece of paper. I had actually failed art class in high school. My teacher had called me uninspired and lacking focus.

It was the story of my fucking life.

But then enter Gash and the club, and that strange talent for graffiti took hold once again and it allowed me to express myself in a way I had never been able to before. And again, people took notice. Gash had loved the visibility it gave the club and the increase in revenue my little scavenger hunt produced. It had become the one bright spot in that whole ugly, sordid world.

A few gallery owners had even put the word out that they were looking for X. My secret identity. My alter ego. The man who had drawn the women on fire and the hands of God that were strewn about the city. Street art was edgy and dark and oh so hip. And these guys wanted a piece of that culturally relevant pie. I had even called one of them once, just to hear what he had to say.

The guy was with a local gallery. He had tracked me down through the club, and because I was a greedy bastard, I had jumped at the chance to make some serious scratch. He wanted me to bring a sampling of my art. I had thrown together a pathetic mess of crappy canvases that barely represented what I was capable of, high on my own ego and confident that my talent was unparalleled.

I remember taking a handful of pills before hopping into the taxi. I stumbled my way into the gallery, barely aware of what was going on. The guy, Tatum Randall, had been displeased when I had thrown my shitty work down on a table and slurred, “What’ll you give me for these?”

I had to give Mr. Randall some credit. He didn’t laugh at me or throw my sad ass out on the street. He picked up each canvas and looked at it. I was so fucked up I barely recognized the look of disappointment on his face. And more important, I really didn’t care.

“I’m sorry, X, I’m not interested in these,” Mr. Randall had said, putting the canvases back on the table.

I had scoffed and pointed to some of the paintings on the wall. “I could shit on a piece of paper and it would look a hell of a lot better than this stuff.” I remember having a hard time keeping my eyes open.

Mr. Randall had frowned at me. “Are you all right?”

I waved off his question. “So are you going to pay me or what?”

Mr. Randall had shaken his head. “I contacted you because when I saw your street art, I knew there was something special there. But this—” He indicated the pile of half-assed work I had produced. “This is not something I could promote. And clearly you aren’t prepared to take this seriously.”

I had tried to sit up straighter, but my bones were like liquid. I remember feeling as though I could sink into the chair. I was having a hard time focusing on Mr. Randall or the fact that I was flushing this perfectly wonderful opportunity straight down the toilet.

Mr. Randall had sighed. “I’ll call you a cab.”

And right before I left, using Mr. Randall as support because my legs had stopped functioning at some point, the middle-aged gallery owner had looked at me with mild disgust. “If you ever get yourself together, maybe we could have a conversation.” He had practically shoved me into the back of the cab.

“But I can’t invest in someone who won’t invest in themselves. Good luck, X, or whatever your name is.” And that had been the last I had heard from Mr. Tatum Randall.

I hadn’t thought much at the time about how monumental that rejection was. I was fixated on the drugs. And the club. And being the god of the dark and seedy. But now I cringed as I remembered what an ignorant fool I had been.

After that, my art had returned to being that thing I did to get noticed. It was firmly entrenched in the world of Compulsion.

But then Aubrey came along and I found that my art could mean something else.

It could be about something else.

Confining my art to paper had never been something I was particularly good at. It had always looked like shit. And I wasn’t really accustomed to creating anything without being stoned. I couldn’t remember the last time I had picked up a brush when things weren’t fuzzy.

At first it had been a major trigger. The counselors here were big into art therapy and so we were made to spend a lot of time drawing our feelings. I had hated it. It felt wrong.

And every time I had tried, I felt the shadows of withdrawal. I never flipped out. I never lost my head. But I couldn’t draw anything.

Until I thought of Aubrey. And then words alone weren’t enough to express how I was feeling.

I remembered the time I had taken gallons of paint and drew the broken mirror on the sidewalk out in front of her apartment building. I remembered how pathetic and desperate I had felt. I had needed her to see how much I loved her. How much I needed her. How essential she was to my very existence. I also remembered how fucking high I had been.

But now, being stone cold sober, drawing her released the stuff pent up inside of me. All of the anger and disappointment and longing that I couldn’t give voice to. I had been conditioned over my short lifetime to keep it all bottled up and tucked away. Feelings were messy and I didn’t have time for all of that.