The large north-facing window located in his new guestroom couldn’t have been more perfect if it had been made for him. Carlos would use the blend of natural lighting and those wonderful daylight bulbs he’d put in all his light fixtures. By far, the best to paint by. Typically, he chose 5000 watt lights for his studios. The result was clean and bright, and gave him the desired effect for his paintings. He was able to bring a touch of warmth while using vibrant and true-to-life colors.
His guestroom didn’t contain any furniture conducive to overnight visitors. He’d made the room his studio. He needed his workspace to be where he lived, and outside of his brother and Finn, he didn’t think there was anyone he’d allow in his home. “Guestroom” was a moniker, not a reality.
His easels were set up, his chairs in place, and his paints were stored away awaiting their time to shine on the canvas. All the other bits and bobs—solvents, sketchbooks, boards, and his camera, what he considered the basics—were set in their places. His painting style was regarded as modern-day impressionism. Carlos disagreed.
His paintings may have the characteristics of impressionism, the small, thin brush strokes, his emphasis on creating the most accurate depictions of movement and lighting over time for whatever he’d chosen as his subject, but he wasn’t a plein air painter as so many impressionists were. They worked in the open air, in front of, or surrounded by their subjects. Carlos worked inside, preferably alone, with little noise. His subjects came from the world around him, but not IRL, instead through carefully curated photographs he took over a series of days to capture the changing sunlight and feel of the area. His anxiety about human interaction and being in the middle of noise and tumult wouldn’t allow more. Though he had his demons mainly under control, they could still rear their ugly head at any time.
Even as an artist, Carlos viewed himself as odd, different from the rest, outside the boundaries of human expression. A freak, but not the good kind. He wasn’t stupid. He knew what people saw when they looked at him. A giant of a man, they either assumed he was a boxer or wrestler and began sizing him up to see if they could “take him” in a fight. It seemed people wanted to shove something violent on him when violence was the foremost thing he avoided in his life. He’d had enough of that. Some viewed him as scary due to his size and scar, which only fed into his belief that he functioned best outside the strictures of society.
No one would’ve guessed he was an artist, not in a million years, and he had preferred to keep it that way. Or at least he used to. After years of laying low and allowing his manager to deal with the shows and the sale of his work, Carlos was considering stepping out of the shadows.
Whether it was safe or prudent for him to return, he’d find out soon enough.
He took a final look around at his new studio and couldn’t contain the rush of excitement he always felt when beginning a new work. Now he had to go out to find the elusive subject for this project—a person, place or thing that would grab his attention and draw him in.
He reached for his Nikon Z6 and headed for his front door. It didn’t matter that the remaining rooms of his new condo were primarily filled with boxes. The most crucial space had been created, and with his bed, a kitchen, and a bathroom he was set. Now, his desire to create bloomed again.
He took the front staircase downstairs. There was also a side entrance for the tenants if they didn’t want to go through the lounge area or when the restaurant and bar areas were closed and the front doors locked. He figured he’d stop by to see his brother before he took off for the day into the brilliant Californian sunshine. The light in LA was unique. As if there was a soft filter over the sun. Not so much smog as the lingering marine layer seemed to filter out the harshness near-constant sunshine held. Even in DTLA, the layer made its way between the buildings and suffused the urban feel with a warm glow.
When he reached the first level, he went over to Joey, who was working the bar in the lounge area. As he got closer, Carlos recognized two of the men sitting at the bar. Sam, Joey’s boyfriend and a cop, and Sam’s partner, Clay, whom Carlos had met at the wedding. Sam and Joey owned one of the condos on the second floor too.
Carlos had no idea what drew him to speak with Clay at the wedding, but whatever it was wasn’t going to happen again, so Carlos kept his head down and changed directions.
At the time, he’d known better than to approach him, but Clay’s eyes had drawn Carlos in. Bright azure blue encased by long black lashes had been staring at Miguel and Finn with longing while the grooms spoke their vows.
Carlos doubted anyone else had seen the look as Clay had thrown off the whole calm and indifference vibe. But, as an artist, Carlos caught the smallest details in the world around him, including how Clay felt watching his friends get married. Carlos didn’t know what he was thinking when he approached a stranger to talk about deep, buried feelings. Maybe it was the pain and emotional turmoil he’d seen in those azure depths. Maybe he identified with the feelings. Whatever the reason, it wouldn’t ever happen again. He didn’t want to probe emotions outside the ones he felt when he painted, and he sure as hell had no intention of pissing off a cop by being a nosy pain in the ass.
Saint would know where Miguel might be, so Carlos headed to the office. He received the usual lingering looks from patrons sitting in the lounge enjoying their power lunches or whatever people did midday. The scrutiny caused him to fold into himself even further, and he raised his hand to cover the scar on his neck, staring at the floor as he went.
I can do this. They don’t matter.
His hurried knock was met with a chorus of “come in.” He opened the office door and bolted inside away from prying eyes. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he turned to find Saint, Max, and his brother hovering over drawings covering one of the four desks in the room. All three looked at him with concern.
“Is something wrong?” Miguel asked as he walked around to the front of the table. “Did something happen?”
Carlos could feel his face heating up and hated that he had no control over his physical reactions, especially when people openly stared at him. “No, everything’s fine. I wanted to let you know I was leaving to take some pictures. Um, can I use the back door?”
Saint and Max moved to join Miguel and Carlos’s conversation. “Why do you want to use the back door?” Yeah, as he guessed, they’d think it was an odd request since it would require someone with access to the palm-scan security system to let him out.
“There are more people out front than I expected,” Carlos explained, feeling as lame as he knew he sounded. He should be strong, stand up straight and proud, even if he was head and shoulders above the rest of the population at seven-two. He knew he shouldn’t shy away from people, but old habits die hard, and his habits appeared to have nine lives.
“Did someone say something derogatory?” Saint asked, going straight into protection mode. Carlos noticed that about the people at The Gates. They looked out for each other. It was strange to have people he’d met only recently want to stand up for him.
“No, no, only a few stares. Nothing bad. I’ve been away from social gatherings for too long. I’ll get used to it again.” There was no way he wanted to make a big deal about insecurities he should’ve gotten a handle on years ago.
Carlos wasn’t a coward. He’d proven that the day he’d got his scar. But he’d been withdrawn from society for so long it would take time to regrow thick skin.
“Who was staring?” Miguel asked, looking ready to rush out and defend Carlos’s honor, or some shit like that.
“I’m still the older brother,” Carlos jabbed, to lighten the mood. He waved his hand the length of his body. “I’m not someone who needs protection.”
“So, where are you headed to take pictures?” Max asked, thankfully changing the subject. “The beach or the hills?”
“Neither. Walking the streets of DTLA.” He looked forward to exploring the urban landscape. He could take a stroll the same as everyone else.
“What could be beautiful enough to be the subject for your paintings in the center of DTLA?” Max asked. “If you need a ride anywhere, one of us can take you. Maybe you’d like to go over to Malibu, the Hollywood Hills, Santa Monica, or the San Fernando Valley. Maybe the Getty Center. We have botanical gardens.”
“Thanks for the offer. I may need to take you up on that in the future. Today I’d like to wander the streets,” Carlos said. “You’d be surprised at the beauty you can find around. Besides, I’m looking for real-life scenes, not delicate flowers. I’ve been thinking about starting a new series, more urban than garden. If anyone wants to come along, I could show you.”
It wasn’t because he needed someone to escort him, but the company would help keep his anxiety humming at low. Also, the sight of some strange man taking pictures of odd things like steps, graffiti, arches, walkways, and whatever else he found interesting usually caused a few questions. Maybe not so much in LA. He could be taken for a tourist. He liked the idea of blending in.
“I wish I could, bro, but I’m knees-deep in drywall on the third floor.”
“Yeah, same here,” Max stated. “But once we get ahead of the deliveries, we could go along in a couple of days.”
“Sorry, man. I would enjoy tagging along to see how you work, but I’ve got a mountain of paperwork to get through before my accountant arrives,” Saint said. “He threatened to raise his fee if I didn’t get my ass in gear.”
Carlos couldn’t help but be a bit disappointed, but he knew they had jobs. Before he could tell them he understood, someone knocked on the office door.
“Come in,” Saint called as he returned to the drawing on one of the desks with a side-glance at the pile of paper sitting on the other counter. One look at the frustration on Saint’s face told the story that paperwork was not his strong suit.
Carlos turned and saw Sam and Clay walk in. The world stopped for a fraction of a second when he came face to face with the man he’d been trying to avoid. Shit. Time to go.
“Okay, I’ll see you guys later,” he said as he walked to the door, his sightline set firmly on the floor
“Wait, Carlos. I have an idea,” Miguel called. Carlos looked up to see his brother turn to Sam and Clay. “Do either of you have plans for the next couple of hours?”
“I have an appointment with my doctor for my yearly,” Sam said with a definite lack of enthusiasm.
“I’m open. Whaddaya need?” Clay asked. Carlos didn’t miss that the man hadn’t looked his way.
“No, it’s okay. I’ll be fine. I don’t need a chaperone,” Carlos argued desperately for a way out of this impending car crash.
“Not a chaperone, but a guide,” Miguel said. “Something you might need to make sure you don’t turn down the wrong street.”
That got the handsome police officer’s attention. “Guide? Where?” He didn’t sound happy. Then again, why would he be, saddled as a babysitter for a seven-foot-tall man. As if.
“Around DTLA,” Saint answered. “He needs to take a few pictures.”
“Pictures,” Clay said with a definite lack of interest.
“I’m fine,” Carlos stated.
“Clay can help,” Sam said. “You’re new around here.”
“Tour guide?” Clay asked as if this whole situation was as distasteful to him as it was for Carlos.
“No, for Carlos’s work,” Miguel explained.
“What kinda work?” Clay asked. That was Carlos’s signal it was time to leave before the usual happened, and comments would fly. Carlos, an artist? Really? Come on, seriously?
While they debated why Clay would be interested in accompanying Carlos, he made for the open doorway. He’d exit the building out the front door since it was the closest. The last thing he needed was Clay by his side. Aside from the fact that the guy hadn’t taken kindly to Carlos’s observations at the wedding, no one would want to tag along while someone took photos.
He was in such a hurry to reach the front door he didn’t bother to check if anyone was staring. Passing the bar, he gave Joey a wave, and moments later Carlos was out on the sidewalk in the warm California sun. Taking a deep breath, he turned right and began walking fast. He needed to get far away from the building.
Carlos went a couple of blocks before he slowed and could shake off the stress of having endured that nightmare of a conversation in the office.
“Carlos, wait up, man,” Clay yelled from down the street as he jogged to catch up to where Carlos had stopped.
No, no, no. His first official day as a bona fide Californian was turning into a shit show. Amazed at how quickly his anticipation to get to work had soured, all he wanted to do was return to his condo and lose himself inside a painting.