“So what’s with the impromptu visit?” Landon asked, handing me the tool I had asked for. I started messing with the tiny engine, trying to fit my fingers in the tight space.

“I had some time to kill,” I said dismissively.

“Time to kill before what?” he asked, hopping up on a stool and watching me work.

I wiped some sweat off my forehead. “Isn’t this supposed to be your project?” I asked, avoiding his question.

“Yeah, well, you came in here and took over.” Landon snorted.

I handed him the wrench and we swapped places. Landon easily fit his smaller hands into the space to loosen the gasket.

I hated lying to him about what was going on with me.

So why are you? I asked myself. The answer to that question wasn’t making a whole lot of sense anymore.

“I’m gonna go grab a drink. You want anything?” I asked Landon, heading toward the kitchen.

“Nah, I’m good,” he answered, focused on his task.

I went inside and grabbed a soda and then headed into the living room. I sat down and propped my feet up on the coffee table, needing a minute to myself.

I had to leave soon and head home to get ready for tonight. My stomach clenched with dread at the thought.

“Get your feet off my fucking coffee table.”

My uncle David walked into the room, dropping his keys onto the same coffee table and glowering at me. Of course I didn’t listen. I would never give David the satisfaction of making me do anything.

David kicked my feet off the table with the heel of his boot, and I tried to control my temper, but it was always hard to do when it came to my uncle.

“What, no threats to kick my ass? No big and bad posturing?” David sneered down at me.

I slowly got to my feet and looked him in the eye. We were the same height, but I had a good twenty pounds on him. We had had enough physical altercations over the years that I knew I could take him. David was a dirty fighter, but I was better. I had to be. Knowing exactly where to punch was what had kept me alive over the years.

“What is your problem with me, David? I get you’re just an asshole, but you want to tell me what it is about me specifically that gets your panties in a bunch?” I said, low enough that my brother wouldn’t hear me out in the garage.

David snickered. “I don’t think enough about you one way or the other, kid, to get anything in a bunch.” He tried to walk past me, but I grabbed ahold of his arm and stopped him.

“Get your hand off me,” he growled.

“I don’t get it. You were my mother’s brother. Shouldn’t that mean something? Why the fuck do you hate me so much?” I finally voiced what I’d wondered for years.

David glared at me through narrowed eyes. He chuckled humorlessly. “I don’t hate you, Maxx. I feel fucking sorry for you.”

I reared back as if he had hit me. “Excuse me?”

“Because you’re exactly like me,” he sneered.

“I’m nothing like you!” I said through clenched teeth.

David leaned in close, his face contorted with anger and bitterness. “You’re exactly like me, Maxx. A waste of skin. Making the same stupid mistakes I did. Look around you, because this will be your life.”

He pulled his arm out of my grasp and slammed out the front door. Landon came in from the garage a minute later, and I was still standing in the middle of the living room, hardly able to believe that my jackass uncle had just given me the ultimate wake-up call.

“Was that David? Is he home?” my brother asked.

“Uh, yeah. But he went out front. I think that’s my cue to bounce,” I told him, my chest uncomfortably tight.

“Yeah, you’re probably right. I’m almost done with the scooter anyway,” Landon said, wiping his hands on a towel and tossing it onto the table.

“I’ll come by next week and see how it turned out, okay?” I said, picking up my keys to leave.

“Sure. Text me or something,” Landon said.

I looked around David’s house again before I left.

Look around you, because this will be your life.

I walked out to my car, but my uncle was nowhere in sight.

I pulled out my phone and tapped out a quick text to Marco.

I’m going to have a look at some other options.

I went back home and started going through the pile of canvases that sat in the corner of my bedroom. Shit, I sure had done a lot of painting in the last few weeks.

Going through them, I realized that these were the best pieces I had ever done. I pulled out two paintings that caught my eye. One was of Aubrey standing on a bed of snakes that was done in long, vivid strokes. The second was a self-portrait I had only finished two days ago.

I didn’t make a habit of putting myself in my art. I wasn’t sure what had possessed me to do it. But when I had sat down in front of the canvas, this is what had formed.

In the painting, I looked sickly and tired. Strung out on drugs and dying on the inside. Miserable and weak. The shadowed image of my skull was visible through my wasted skin.

Looking at this painting, I saw death. A glimpse of what might have been.

I had exposed myself completely in this picture. It was raw, it was gritty, it was harsh.

Without thinking twice I grabbed both paintings and headed back to my car.

“These are unreal!” A squat, bald man named Dandy Veers held up my self-portrait and stared at it in awe.

I had ended up leaving my apartment and driving into the next town, Blackham. From there, I had driven until I found an art gallery still open at this time on a Saturday evening.

If I had any common sense, I’d wait until Monday and make some calls. But the truth was, I was terrified that if I waited, I’d end up going to the club and find my way back to the Maxx in that painting.

I walked into a small gallery in the center of town. I carried my two paintings under my arm and asked if they’d be interested in purchasing my pieces.

The gallery owner had looked at me like I was a nut job. Which was understandable, given the impulsive nature of my visit.

But I had shown him my paintings, and then his entire demeanor had changed.

“And you’re the artist?” Mr. Veers asked, peering at me as though he didn’t believe it.

“That’s me,” I answered.

He stared at the self-portrait for a few moments, making indecipherable noises in the back of his throat before picking up the painting of Aubrey.

“This is incredible. The depth of the colors, the level of intimate detail . . . You actually have the aesthetic of that street artist X. His portraits share this . . . intensity.” I couldn’t help but grin.

“Uh, yeah. That’s me,” I told him.

“You’re X? And you’ve never shown your work in a gallery?” Mr. Veers asked incredulously.

“Yeah, things haven’t really worked out.”

The man looked at me in disbelief. “I can’t believe you actually walked into my gallery tonight. This is amazing ! I’m . . . I’m a huge fan!”

He took another moment to examine my work. “Are you interested in setting up a show here? I know several people who’d likely be interested in these pieces, and they’d pay a handsome price for them.”

“Really?” I asked, hardly able to believe my luck.

I hadn’t expected anything when I had walked in. The idea to take my art into the city had been a whim. Mistaking my silence for hesitation, Mr. Veers waved his hands rapidly as he spoke, attempting to convince me.

“Look, we can keep it small. You choose which pieces you want to display, and I’ll sell them for you. We can decide together what to sell your work for and I’ll add my commission fee on top of that. How does that sound?”

I made a show of thinking about it. I pointed to the more colorful Aubrey portrait. “How much do you think I could get for that?”