Months earlier
°.°.°.°.°.°.°.°.°.°.°.°.
"Why does it look like a box of crayons threw up on it?"
Among a plethora of emotional impulses she held at the time, irritation was chief. And she so generously conveyed this to the woman with her curt reply. "It's abstract art, something you clearly can't tell when you see it."
"I'm just saying, darling," the woman commented, "it's a tasteless, inexpressive, ludicrous thing." She hummed the words she strung next. "A product of the untalented sold by the unprincipled to the utterly bewildered is what I'd classify your painting as."
She felt herself teeter on that delicately thin line between annoyance and rage. "Quit quoting Al Capp. And you should know in that trashy, entitled mind of yours that it's not a painting," she growled. "It is a mosaic."
"Darling, there's no difference." The woman drawled the "no". In response, the girl snarled in a manner that was more than animalistic.
The other woman simply huffed. Fluttering her hands dismissively, she stomped off, her coral necklace glistening in the noon sun.
"It's probably some bourgie old lady," she grouched underneath her already laboured breath.
"I like it," she heard a male voice notify her. "Aki Liang, are you not?"
Aki arched herself backwards and felt her mouth cleft open at the sight before her. The man who had called her was uniquely beautiful, his hair ruffled and untramelled, yet tender. His face was somewhat effeminate, but appealing nonetheless; his voice was sonorously deep and perfectly silky. His was the complexion of something dark with a slight, yet visible semblance of copper and his eyes were afire with inexplicable power.
"Ahem," he revived her, preventing her from foraying into lewd imaginations. "Did I say something to upset you?"
"No," she replied. "You're not exactly half of the type that get to me." She nearly chewed on her own tongue at her cheeky tone, but she was most certainly not going to be entranced by some beautiful man.
He chuckled. "I will allow that for now. Just don't bug me so much. You won't exactly like it."
"Who are you by the way?" She didn't so much as regard the man's warning. If anything, she was beginning to sound increasingly crass by the minute.
"I like that one." He ignored her, pointing to another painting of hers mounted upon an improvised easel. The painting in question featured two males in an intimate embrace against an ethereal background. "You're quite the surrealist."
She smirked. "I called that Castor and Pollux."
"The twin gods," he nodded. "I didn't think you'd have a flair for classical mythology."
"I don't," she responded. "I just paint the last thing I see or imagine."
He smiled. "That's interesting. I wish we could talk more, but I'll be late for a hearing."
Great, she heard herself whine. He's a damn lawyer.
"Name your price," he urged her, his right hand diving right into his pocket. "I'll pay right here."
Bingo, she thought. She'd just landed herself a rich guy. She adopted a meeker tone with great difficulty as she gave him the figures.
"Excellent," he mouthed, pulling from his pocket a chequebook and a pen. He scribbled the sum, his handwriting a thoroughly gracious cursive with a flourish that could shame caligraphic fonts. He had a porter lift the painting.
She watched him turn to leave. He had taken a few paces but paused in his tracks. "Meet me at the Lunaria tonight. I'll be waiting," he stated without turning back.
"Bro, you didn't tell me your name!" She hollered, earning her a startled glimpse.
"I thought only guys used that for guys," he grinned before politely chortling. "I'm Nyle Krueger. It's spelt with a Y and is pronounced like the river you know."
Then, she watched his form amble further away until he was out of sight.
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He felt liquid splash mercilessly over him as he sprawled on the floor. The temperature was algid and he bit his lip as he repressed a curse word. He faltered as he tried to pry himself up, his eyes opening to the piercing brilliance of daylight from the crevice in the wall of his cell.
"What the hell? What was that for?" He rubbed his face with his hands, consciously relegating his morning breath to the rear. His eyes, after another splash of fetid water, were compelled to remain open.
He heard the chinking of keys and the eventual jarring sound of sliding metal bars. "You're getting out."
"Look, you better not be kidding, man." He wasn't as frenzied as other inmates would upon news of a prospective early release. He'd since become despondent in the matter. But something about this particular announcement ignited a glimmer of hope within him.
"I'm not. Joey Montes, you have been pardoned by the Province of Rushmore." The jailer declared. "Now get yourself out here and get washed up. I'm getting a feeling some divinity is behind this. Otherwise, I can't seem to understand why the Governor herself would want to let such a heinous criminal off the hook."
Joey grimaced at the jailer's scathing words. True, he may have killed a guy, but that was unintended. How else was he supposed to react when he found his cocksucker of an ex being choked in sadomasochistic style by another man?
He quivered a bit as his foot impressed itself upon the ground outside his cell. He shuddered as a wall calendar displayed the current year in a conspicuous red, block-lettered font. That meant his jail term had extended for five torturous years. He was now twenty-three, and every single aspiration he had nursed concerning the pursuit of a political career was now vaporised into oblivion. But he didn't want to think about that right now.
His shower was hasty and he somehow appeared more disoriented than he did before entering the bathroom. The jailer had left him a pair of faded ripped jeans, a sleeveless sports jersey, an atrociously unfashionable pair of palms and a durag to go. When he'd vested himself in his clothes, the jailer conducted him out amidst screeching cheers from his fellows whom he was leaving behind.
The feel of freedom solidified in his memory when he was finally staring at the prison gates. "Rushmore Correctional Facility," he read, scowling at the word "correctional". That place was a masterfully structured nightmare, and he felt it should be named as such.
The sun above his head radiated so torridly he felt his skin burn lightly. Now that he'd finally seen the sun he'd been anticipating with such enthusiasm whilst imprisoned, he felt a teardrop escape his eyes and trickle down his face. He wasn't going to rupture into some wailing wimp on the open streets. He was a man and he'd act like one. Real men didn't only not cry; they were incapable of emotion.
And so, gathering himself and his resolve, he headed straight for the most accessible bar in the entire state: the Lunaria. Even if he didn't have a dime on him, he'd slug out or seduce his way into having a drink or two. He wasn't outlandishly gorgeous, but he wasn't some gargoyle either. He was almost unhesitating that his lean, rugged, sturdy musculature and his hole-shattering shaft would get him more than a drink that night.
He couldn't have known what would be coming right at him, or more importantly, who.
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First chapter's up. Happy reading, voting and commenting!