Page 43 of Crimson Desires
Jack raised his eyebrows. “Go out?”
I stammered. “Nothing crazy. Just like, maybe we could get some drinks at a bar or something?”
Jack nodded, the ghost of a smile returning to his lips. “Yeah. I’d love that.”
“Good.” I playfully punched Jack’s arm. “Also, if it’s any consolation, as far as music goes—I like Wicked Crimson way more than I ever liked Jack Maverick.”
Jack snorted. “I can’t tell if I should be grateful or offended.”
I laughed. Then, without thinking, I got up on my toes and pressed a quick kiss to Jack’s cheek. His light stubble tickled my lips. “Be both.”
***
I bobbed my head to Wicked Crimson’s mic check, loving the way Jack’s gravelly voice pulsed through my body.
As I watched him perform, an urge struck me. An urge that I hadn’t had in a long time.
I ripped off a piece of receipt paper and grabbed a pen from the cash box. My heart pounding in my chest, I began to draw.
The motions of art had always come easy to me.
Even though I hadn’t properly drawn in years, my hand moved fluidly and confidently. Glancing up at Jack, I began to outline his body on the receipt paper with broad, fast strokes. I carved out the powerful curve of his frame, the distinct trapezoidal shape of his shoulders, and the haphazard energy that surrounded him whenever he graced a stage.
The sketch was loose, wild, and artistic—all things that I saw in Jack that he apparently could not see in himself.
I loved ballpoint art for its ability to bring out the subtleties in a person. Unlike more refined types of art—photography, realism, oils, et cetera—ballpoint had the ability to emphasize minutia. Flaws couldn’t hide behind rendering and blending. The more stripped-down the drawing, the more each line stuck out.
As I drew, I focused on the aspects of Jack that popped out at me. The little imperfections that somehow worked together to make him so damn appealing. The crookedness of his smile. The shagginess of his hair. The fire in his eyes.
A finger tapped my shoulder, nearly giving me a heart attack.
“Holy shit,” I wheezed, clutching my chest as I turned around.
Behind me, Ava was looking intently at my receipt paper drawing. “Is that Jack?” Ava asked.
Feeling suddenly shy, I nodded. “Yeah. Sorry. I didn’t mean to get distracted.”
“It’s fine. I didn’t realize you were an artist, Aster,” Ava said. Her brow was furrowed. I desperately wanted to know what she was thinking.
“I was an artist. Not so much anymore,” I said.
“Then what’s that?”
My laugh was squeaky. “It’s just a sketch. It’s not special.”
Ava hummed, the gears in her head turning. On stage, Wicked Crimson finished its mic check. With a definitive nod, Ava spoke. “Aster, feel free to say no—but would you be willing to let me use this drawing for Wicked Crimson’s next merch line? I think it captures the band’s vibe perfectly. And I’d hate to see your talent wasted on a piece of receipt paper when it could be on a T-shirt. Or a tote bag.”
“Seriously?” My eyebrows rose.
“Absolutely. I don’t joke about this type of thing.” Ava cleared her throat. “You’ll be compensated fairly, of course. One upfront sum, and then a royalty rate.”
I could hardly believe what I was hearing. “That would be amazing,” I said. “Ava, thank you.”
Ava gently plucked the receipt paper drawing from the table. She inspected it, smiling. “No, Aster. Thank you.”
***
Being able to watch Wicked Crimson’s concert for the first time was mind-melting. Even though I was as far back from the stage as a person could get, I enjoyed the experience fully. It helped that two large LED screens had been set up so that I could watch a close-up camera feed of the performance.