A Slip of the Hand

Chapter 18

"So, what's your 'thing'?" Wade asks me in his raspy voice.

"My 'thing'?" I repeat.

He awkwardly leans around Daniel toward me. "Yeah. What makes you tick?"

"Fuck if I know," I chuckle, amused, irritated, and intimidated by Wade's forward questioning all at once. "What's your 'thing'?" I fire back at him.

"I scream at large groups of people for a living," he replies.

"Cool," I nod, taken aback by Wade's apparent desire to impress. At least, it seems like he wants to make sure I know who he is without saying, Hi, I'm Wade Clarke from Railway Assassin.

"What about you, Daniel?" I ask, turning to him.

His chiseled face becomes thoughtful, more serious. "Problem solving. Debugging code, repairing shit—just making it work again. Super satisfying."

"Well shit," I sigh, walking over to sit at the bend of the bench. "You guys actually have answers."

"Do you really not know?" Daniel asks, following behind me. Wade takes a seat on my other side, across the "U" from Daniel.

I take another sip of my drink as I search inward. "I have something in mind, but it feels dumb because it's just this thing I do in my bedroom after work."

Wade's eyebrow arches toward the ceiling. "Go on."

Heat flares across my cheeks as I realize what I've said. But I continue, not letting more than a sheepish smile acknowledge how suggestive that sounds. "I love to paint. It's so satisfying and relaxing. I just put on music, and the world melts away."

"How is that dumb?" Daniel asks.

"Yeah, you're an artist!" Wade says. "That's not dumb."

"Because it's just something I do in the corner of my bedroom. I'm not an actual artist."

Wade rolls his eyes. "If Johnny wasn't in The Thorns and just played guitar in his bedroom—like, no one ever heard what he played—would you say he's not a musician?"

"Of course not!"

"Then why do you think you're not an artist? You create art. That's an artist," Wade says enthusiastically.

"Well, shit. I guess I'm an artist," I smile meekly. "That's kinda cool."

Daniel chuckles with a broad smile.

The waitress returns and asks if we'd like any drinks.

"Shots?" Wade suggests.

"I'll do a shot with you," Daniel agrees.

"Me, too!" I say, feeling almost giddy as I continue to accept the revelation that making art qualifies me as an artist.

"Alright, tequila and supplies for shots," Wade says. "Don Julio Añejo, if you have it."

"We have the 1942 if that's okay," she says, and Wade nods.

"What do you like to paint?" Daniel asks me.

"I love to paint colors," I respond. "Just layers and layers of varying transparency and textures. So abstract, I guess. I'm dying to try it on a larger scale, but like I said, I'm just in the corner of my bedroom."

"Why not get a studio?" Wade asks.

I stare at him for a long second, thinking the answer should be obvious, before I remember I'm in the VIP section of an elite Hollywood club, and Wade is in a globally known band. "Money," I tell him frankly. "I basically have just enough for bills and a bit of fun."