“How do I feel now?” Johnnie said as she started her truck and drove away. She sped through a late yellow and bypassed the freeway entrance that would take her to her loft. She considered going to Ian’s, but she didn’t want to trouble him so late. He was often awake at night, but she knew what he’d say. He’d just tell her that women were like the paint. Fucking impossible, relentless, gut clutching, and the most incredible high you could ever hope to obtain. And the motherfucker was right.
God, she could still taste her, feel her. Hear her cries. How would she ever move beyond that? Could she ever even hope to paint through that? No way. There was no getting through Elaine, over Elaine. She would just have to plow on.
The bottom called to her just as it did each time she felt low. The bottom, the gutter, the streets. She could see the haziness of that first night. The fucking orbs of streetlight evil, waiting to devour her. She sped into the parking lot of the seedy motel. The Anchor. The Anchor. Ha. Not a body of water in sight, not even in drops from a dry wicked sky, and they called it The Anchor. She killed her engine and crawled out, and walked into the cave-like office that smelled like cigarettes and mildewed carpet.
“I need a room.”
“How long?” He was balding and had on a stained collared shirt. He was sucking down wet Chinese noodles from a worn carton container.
“I don’t know.”
“Fifty. And twenty deposit for the towels.”
“You shitting me?” She shook her head and fished out the money. He took it without a word and handed her a key.
“Is this the shittiest room you have?” she asked.
He looked up. “It’s pretty shitty.”
“Perfect.”
She took the key and the towels and headed for her room. The door squeaked as she opened it, and a wall of stale scents hit her. She identified cigarettes and food and the slight stench of piss. Nothing dead and rotting so she relaxed. She got to work, tossing the towels on the table, tearing off the comforters, putting them on the carpet and heading to the Walgreens. She bought supplies. Beer, Advil, a sketchbook, pencils, soup, and plastic spoons. When she got back to the room, she bolted the door and cracked open a beer. She kicked off her shoes and absorbed the loud moans and fighting couples, pimps, prostitutes, television, and traffic. She took it all in and curled up and fell asleep, comfortable for the first time in weeks.
She awoke some hours later to bright light peeking in through the heavy, blackout curtains. She walked across the comforters and yanked them further closed. Her head was splitting so she downed some Advil with a handful of water from the sink. She checked her phone and found several missed calls, mainly from Gail. She ignored her voice mails and deleted them, and instead listened to the ones from her friend Jimmy the art dealer. He said Gail was blowing up his phone with craziness and threats so he’d stopped by the studio and taken the paintings to his place for safekeeping. He wished her well, knowing she was on one of her quests. He reminded her of the show and the crowd expected to be there. He told her to make sure to drag Jolene along with some of her own work.
She sank into a chair and stared at the phone. No more messages. No call from Elaine. Fuck. What did she expect?
She rose and stepped into her shoes. She locked the door behind her, and headed to Sean’s with the sketchbook in hand. She found the pub in the bright sun. It seemed to be cowering like a sun-shy animal. She pushed open the heavy red door and squinted in the darkness.
“Hey, Johnnie,” Sean said, waving from behind the bar. “A pint?”
“Please.” She made her way to her booth and slid in and opened her sketch pad. She began to draw before Sean had a chance to bring over her Guinness. She drew the tree she’d been drawing for months. But this time she made it more ornate, one side twisted and gnarled. The other side stretching, healthy, young. She drew another across from it. She shaded the sides with the twisted gnarled trees. Then she drew rays of sun in the center and a big beautiful tree in the center.
“That’s amazing,” Shawn said as he slid her a frosted glass. He sat across from her. “Ian’s been looking for you. Says he has someone he wants you to meet. Said she sounds gorgeous. And better yet, she likes his paintings and some of your abstracts as well.”
“I’m not interested,” Johnnie said, not looking up. “Not right now.”
Sean watched her draw. “You in the gutter again, Johnnie?”
She looked up. “Maybe.”
“Don’t stay too long this time. Life passes ya by ya know.”
“Maybe I want it to.”
“No, no, my friend, you definitely don’t.”
He rose and disappeared. Johnnie sat and drew for over an hour. She didn’t bother with her beer until it was warm and the sketch was complete. She finished her drink and left cash on the table. She left the pub to head to her studio. She knew she might run into Gail, but she honestly had nothing to say to her. If she did she would light into her, and with Gail’s temper it wouldn’t be pleasant. Gail liked to throw things, bang her head on things, come after her with angry claws, grasping for clothes, delicate skin, and hair. Johnnie always managed to escape, but today, she knew she’d stay and take it. Just absorb it, close her eyes and take the pain. She knew it wasn’t a healthy thought so she knew it was best to avoid it.
She found her studio locked and nearly empty. She grabbed a Naked Juice from the fridge, downed it, and then retrieved her large canvas. She took it outside and placed it in the back of her truck before returning inside for supplies. She placed those in her truck and then turned to look as someone pulled up in a loud car. Monica waved from the driver’s side.
She climbed out with a smile. All Johnnie could do was stand and stare. She was exhausted with no reason to be. Torn to bits inside but healthy looking outside. To the world, she was fine. Fit as a fiddle.
“Hi.” Monica walked up and kissed her cheek.
Johnnie flinched, unable not to. She was keyed up and intense.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” Monica held her shoulders.
Johnnie shook her head. “I can’t talk about it. Don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay,” Monica said gently. “Let’s get you inside.”
Monica took her hand and led her inside the studio. She left her on the couch and searched the fridge.
“Juice?” she asked
“No, nothing.”
Monica returned and sat next to her. She delicately stroked her face. Johnnie couldn’t help but close her eyes. The touch felt so good, so soft and wickedly tantalizing.
“You look okay, but you’re not,” Monica said. “You’ve been drinking, and your eyes are different. Like the lights been switched off behind them.
Johnnie clenched her hand, stopping her.
“Is it Gail?” Monica asked.
Johnnie looked away. “She won’t go away.”
“Have you told her to?”
Johnnie closed her eyes. “I’m too tired to care. Too beaten. I just want to lock myself away and paint.”
Monica inched closer and turned her chin with her fingertips. Johnnie looked into her dark eyes.
“Don’t you know how special you are?” She leaned in and kissed her. Her thick lips felt warm but nothing else. There was no passion, no intensity. Still, Johnnie kissed her back, not caring, trying. Trying for any sort of feeling.
Monica pressed against her and climbed atop her. She kissed Johnnie’s neck, licked her earlobe.
“Ah, Johnnie, do you know how long I’ve waited for this?” She straddled Johnnie’s thigh and rocked against her. She took Johnnie’s hands and placed them on her breasts.
“Pinch me,” she said, arching her back. “Pinch my nipples and make me hard.”
Johnnie felt the fullness of her breasts, saw the hungry look in her eyes, and felt the damp coming through her shorts against her leg. She closed her eyes and a flash of Elaine came, doing the same thing, riding her thigh, begging her to make her hard. Her green eyes flashed, and she called out just as she’d done when Johnnie had made her come for the first time.
Johnnie warmed, but then opened her eyes. It wasn’t Elaine; it was Monica, and it was all wrong. Johnnie pushed her aside and stood. She held her head in her hands.
“I can’t,” she said. “It’s not right.”
She headed for the door. Monica chased after her. When they exited, Johnnie turned to lock up with shaky hands.
“Johnnie, what is it? What’s wrong?”
Johnnie walked away and unlocked her truck. “It’s me, Monica, it’s me.”
She climbed in and drove away, leaving a confused Monica behind. She headed back toward the hotel and began to calm down. She shoved both Monica and Elaine from her mind and toyed with the radio. She refocused on her mission and felt better. Her stomach growled, despite her intense mood, and she pulled into In-N-Out for a burger and Coke to go. She would just have to keep it from Eddie who was still going vegan. Or at least it was what he was saying.
She bit into the greasy burger and nearly died. Zucchini and squash casserole from Eddie had had its moment. Meat was what she wanted. Her phone rang as she drove. Eddie was calling, as if he knew what she was sinking her teeth into. She let it go to voice mail. When she was at the bottom, she didn’t want to talk to anyone. Even Eddie. He knew, but Gail was probably even calling him, and he was worried. She’d have to text him.
He’d given her nothing but shit since she’d let Gail back. And Monica, obviously, was really concerned. She knew Gail’s games. It seemed everyone did. Now she could even count herself among them.
She pulled into The Anchor as she finished her burger, threw the trash away, and then retrieved her stuff. She carried it into the room in two trips and locked herself inside. She cracked open a beer and sipped. Then she set up her easel and canvas before throwing open the curtains and squinting into the sunlight. She squeezed paint from the tubes and grabbed her brushes, her squirt bottle, and wet down the canvas. Then she started to work, but Elaine reentered her mind. She downed the beer and met the buzz. Elaine was still there. Finally, after half an hour of trying, Johnnie made a decision. Since she couldn’t paint through her, or around her, she was going to have to use her and paint for her.