Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
“Sorry, sir,” everybody mumbles, making for the door.
I follow the flow of people, head down, hating how my cheeks heat up and my soul threatens to crack when I walk past Dimitri. It’s been a problem since I started working here six months ago—wanting him and thinking of running my fingers through his hair, tracing the silver streaks.
Back to the baseboard I’m working on, I keep listening to the podcast. “Self-sufficiency is one of the most admirable things a person can strive for…”
That’s it. I don’t need a mom or dad. I don’t need friends. I don’t need anybody. That’s what happens when your father takes off before you are born and your mother leaves you behind. You learn to be alone.
It’s just me and my art—just one more day.
That’s how I live if you had to give it a catchphrase—one more day.
The office is large enough for the six hundred employees who work here. It’s not one building but three spread around a large courtyard. Half of the third, the smallest building, is currently being renovated.
I sit across the street, on the park bench, swiping the cracked screen on my phone. The news gives no more specifics about what happened to Mr. Konstantin. Putting my phone aside, I wait until the parking lot is almost empty, and then I walk over to the third building, around the side. Making sure nobody’s watching me, I squeeze around the barrier, replace it, and then sneak along the wall until I come to the side door.
All the doors in this place will usually trigger an alarm after hours, but not this building, not while they’re renovating. With all the workmen gone, I can go to the corner of the room, climb on a chair, lift the ceiling panel, and take down my art supplies.
I don’t have an easel, just a few tubs of cheap paint, an old clipboard for mixing, and some old, ratty brushes that I clean with water from a bottle. It’s better than nothing. Just fifteen minutes a day…
Putting on some music quietly, I start sketching. I don’t usually like to think when I’m working. I want to empty my mind, let my hands move, and forget about everything. My past. My future. My prospects. Even with my fingers stinging from the cleaning chemicals—I could wear three pairs of gloves and still feel them—I focus on my work.
After a few minutes, I realize I’m sketching Konstantin Sokolov, but I’ve made his features even more severe, the lines in his face deeper. As I sketch, I know this will be a more interpretive piece, with dark shadows, maybe even some blood red.
“The likeness is impressive.”
I drop my pencil and turn. Dimitri Sokolov leans against one of the unpainted walls, his icy eyes unreadable. His tone is difficult to place, too. Is he mad?
“I’m sorry, sir,” I say, moving to fold the large piece of paper I’m working on in two. He’s so tall he can see my table from this angle despite being several feet away.
“You don’t have to stop,” he says, staying at the wall. His chest bulges in the shirt like he will bust out of the buttons. His square, strong jawline gets tight. “I’m interested to see how you finish him.”
“It’s disrespectful,” I mutter, my breath catching. “I really am sorry.”
“Stop apologizing,” he growls.
“I am sorry,” I say, bending down to collect my supplies, pencil in hand like it’s… what? Some kind of weapon? “But I don’t think you need to speak to me in that tone, sir.”
Arguing with him is better than admitting to the confusing feelings he sends flurrying through me. It’s better than letting myself think about relying on somebody else.
He smirks. I think it’s the first time I’ve ever seen Dimitri Sokolov smile, not that I’ve spent much time around him. He always looks determined when pacing across the office, always rushing to or from a meeting.
“Fair enough,” he says. “So, do you work here, or are you a squatter?”
“I work here,” I reply. “I’m a cleaner.”
“You’re a painter who works as a cleaner,” he says.
That sends a tingle through me. I almost want to say thank you.
“I’m sorry about your dad,” I mutter.
Dimitri waves a hand, which seems like an odd response.
“And I’m sorry for being here.”
He waves another hand with another smirk. A weird and annoying shiver courses through me and settles in my core. “How long have you been using this space?”
I shrug. “A couple of months. I hide my work in the ceiling.”
“Why not do it at home?”
I grind my teeth together, folding my arms. His eyes flit down toward my chest? Pushing the thought away, I remind myself that, even if he did look at me—and I bet I was wrong anyway—it wouldn’t matter.
“I just prefer it here,” I say.