Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55964 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 280(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55964 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 280(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
She laughed and stretched her legs. “We’ll have to find you something to do while you’re here then. Have you ever painted before?”
I shook my head. “I can’t even make a stick figure.”
“Upstairs, in the attic. There’s a little art studio. I got into painting for a while, so there’s everything you’d need in there. I say you go up one afternoon and play around. Make some marks on the page. Maybe watch a Bob Ross video and follow along.”
“I’ll think about it.”
She smiled, tilting her head. “Or not. I don’t care either way. I bet it’d be a good way to escape from Ren though.”
“I don’t need to escape,” I said, and felt myself flush.
“I think you do though. I think you really do.” She laughed and stood up. “Well, you got me in the mood to write, so I think I’ll go do that.”
“Mind if I stay out here?”
She shook her head. “Stay as long as you want.” She walked back inside, and I watched her go. As she stepped inside, I spotted Ren in the living room, leaning up against the wall. He said something to Mona, then his eyes flashed to mine, and he held my gaze until I looked away and the door closed with a soft click.
The breeze made the tall flowers bend. I felt exposed, sitting out there alone, with Ren back inside, but I didn’t want to go in and talk to him. I didn’t know what I wanted—one second, I had the crazy urge to let go of everything, to put my past and all my pain behind, and to let that man do whatever he wanted to me, and the next I hated him with a blind and stupid passion. I couldn’t tell which it was, and I knew it was all mixed up with what happened to me, my fear of the men that did it to me, my anger toward the world that caused it to happen.
I was shot and nearly killed by a car full of men just like Ren.
It was hard to rectify those two things.
Though maybe what Mona said was right, and Ren wasn’t like the typical mobster asshole. Maybe he truly was an honorable thief.
Or maybe I was an idiot, and I’d fall deep into something I couldn’t crawl back out of.
I stayed on the porch for a while and watched the tall grass sway.
5
Ren
Days passed and Amber spent most of her time upstairs in the attic.
At first, I didn’t know what the hell she was doing. I figured there was some crawlspace up there she wanted to hide inside of, maybe get some reading done, and whatever, it didn’t matter to me. So long as she was safe and keeping out of trouble, she could hide out anywhere she wanted.
But I’ll admit, I got curious. One afternoon, she came down for lunch, and I climbed up to take a look at what she was doing.
The light was surprisingly good. Scattered around on the half-finished floor, more or less roof joists covered in plywood, were paintbrushes and small paper plates covered in paint smudges. It wasn’t a beautiful space, but she had a whole damn art station up there, canvas and easel and everything. It was cramped and smelled like damp insultation, but it was warm and cozy and surprisingly comfortable.
I sat cross-legged and looked at her paintings. They weren’t amazing by any means, but I had to admit I was a little impressed. She had a few landscapes, some mountains, some trees growing by the side of a lake, and it looked surprisingly good. A little clumsy, but not bad at all. I was tempted to take one of the smaller ones, but the paint was still wet and I figured she’d notice that I had it.
I climbed down, feeling impressed, and nearly stomped on her head as I jumped off the ladder.
She stared at me and I stared at her. I knew I should’ve acted like I felt bad, but I didn’t care that she caught me. I wasn’t trying to be subtle.
“What were you doing up there?” she asked.
“Spying on you.”
She tensed up. “What the hell, Ren?”
“It’s my job, remember?”
“You don’t have to go up into my personal space.”
“That’s Mona’s personal space, actually.”
Wrong thing it say. She looked pissed. “This isn’t funny.”
“Your paintings are kind of good, you know that? Where’d you learn to paint?”
That disarmed her, a little bit at least. She glared at me and crossed her arms, but at least she wasn’t getting actively more pissed. “Bob Ross.”
“Who?”
She threw her hands up. “Bob Ross. The guy with the afro? Talks real calm, teaches you to paint? How do you not know who Bob Ross is?”
I grinned at her. “I know who Bob Ross is, I’m just messing with you.”