Bad Taste (Part I) // Colby Brock

5 - Rebecca

          I tossed and turned in my sleep. I thought I would never be able to sleep again; that those blue eyes would haunt me forever. It was just some guy, I didn't see why he had me so wrapped. A hot one, admittedly, but I couldn't understand why all I could see in my dreams was him. Or why they were so potent, as if I had stared at him for much longer than I really had. I dreaded what all of those other people saw during that time. I had no control over my face. What if I looked totally stupid? Finally, early in the morning, I gave up on sleep. It was useless, after all, if my dreams were going to continue. I'd feel more exhausted getting up later, than if I woke up now.

I took a moment to take in my surroundings as I laid in my bed. Everything was mostly dark, except for the black-yellow sky outside. Somewhere between my shower and finding an outfit, I decided I'd go to the studio early. With those blue eyes and Tara still on my mind, I mimicked her outfit from yesterday, but a little more my style. I wore plain black pants beneath a black and white plaid tube top and a pair of — sort of flat — ankle boots. I made my hair up the way I always did and nodded approvingly when I looked in the mirror.

The studio was dark when I arrived. It looked like a building from a movie; the walls made from red brick, faded by the constant sunlight; a beautiful graffiti design taking up the side of the building facing the street; a classic black and golden sign above the door — it read 'Woods' since, unfortunately, this place was owned by my parents. But my family weren't the ones who worked here, only paid everyone, including myself. That was why I was glad to be a Woods, if only just for the money that it brought.

I walked up to the front door and unlocked it, flicking lights on as I stepped in. The main hallway was just a set of stone stairs leading up into a — once I turned the lights on — beautifully lit-up room; fairy lights lined the corners of every wall and sat on the window sills, which were tall and looked over most other buildings around here. A few desks were sparsely set up around the room with old and new sketches alike, pencil crayons and markers scattered everywhere. I noticed watercolours on one desk, and acrylic or oil paint staining that very same desk. My eyes scanned over the sketches, which were good, for the most part, but nothing compared to what I'd seen my sister make not too long ago, not to mention my mother.

She had always been obsessed with perfecting sketches, even if they didn't end up looking good after all that work. But it was my mother, so most of the time they did end up looking good.

Jax's desk was, unlike the others, shoved into a corner with a mannequin sitting beside it, a half-made rag hanging off of its shoulders. I walked to that area and sat down in his chair. It felt weirdly warm, as if it hadn't been long since he'd sat here. The sketches on the desk — all refined, like my mother used to make them — matched the rag in some way. Colour, pattern, and then style. He was mixing and matching. Now that I looked harder, I could imagine the rag turning into the design, though I despised it. And that's when I noticed that a set of keys were also on the desk, right next to a phone. My eyes glued to the items, wondering why they were there. Anger flared up inside me.

Before I knew what was happening, I was storming to the other room, running down the spiral stairs, and bursting into the break room, which was more decorated than upstairs. I immediately spotted him — Jax —lying on the couch under a thin blanket. Music was playing through a radio in the kitchen area and steam rose from a mug on the coffee table. Jax heard me come in and leapt to his feet, expecting to be met with an intruder. Instead, he was met with me, his furious sort-of boss. His face twisted into confusion and regret as he stood there, unsure of what to do. I could think of a few things.

"What the fuck, Jax?! You know it's early morning, right? You aren't allowed to fucking live in your place of work. And certainly not here. Are you crazy? Do you want another black eye?" My voice was loud and accusing, ripping through the tension in the room.

Jax held his hands out to me, almost begging for me to stop yelling at him. I did, but only long enough to practically snarl in his direction. "Get out of this damn building before I kick you physically out. I can promise you that-"

"Wait, Rebecca."

"Rebecca?!" I shrieked. My hand grabbed the nearest object — a pencil — and I launched it at him. He dodged it by about an inch and held his hands up to me again. In surrender. "It's Miss Woods, you piece of shit."

"Miss Woods," he corrected. "Please! Let me explain."

I stopped, staring at him furiously.

"I'm not living here, I swear. It's just this night, because I wanted to get some extra work done." Holding his hands up still, he backed towards the coffee table and inclined his head to it. I glanced down, noticing some papers. "I've been working on it all night. It's this-"

"I don't care what it is," I growled as I stomped towards him. He recoiled automatically, but he didn't move. "Next time, ask for fucking permission. Otherwise, I'm going to have to talk to my mother and have you out of here in a second."

Jax said nothing, staring at me. I snatched up the work from the coffee table and looked down at it. It was good work, but I was still angry. I threw it down on the couch beside me and stormed out of the room. My boots were loud on every single metal step until I was on concrete again. Rippling with angry energy, which usually happened right before I jumped into bed with somebody, I realised I wouldn't be able to stop moving unless I had something to let out my frustrations on. But who would be around at this time of morning to satisfy me, to let me release all of my emotions?

No one. No one would be.

And that frustrated me more than anything Jax could ever accomplish.