Devon Hartford - Painless

Wentworth stopped in his tracks. He turned around slowly, like an old gun fighter at high noon. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me, Wentworth. Fuck. You.”

Wentworth blinked. “You do know who I am, don’t you, boy?”

“I do, but not because you introduced yourself like a normal person,” I growled. “You came into my house like you owned the place and you’ve been acting like an entitled dick since you got here. I don’t need to take shit from you. And I don’t need your fucking money.”

Wentworth narrowed his eyes. “Do you think a bunch of curse words and petulant puffery is going to rile me, boy? I’ve watched the likes of you come and go countless times in my life. At the rate you’re going, in twenty years, no one will remember your name. They’ll remember your father’s and your grandfather’s, but not yours. All you had to show me today was nothing but boorish scribbles. You’re not a real artist, boy. At best, you’re a copyist. Your work is lifeless. It has no art to it. Take a page from your father’s or your grandfather’s career, and maybe you’ll make something of yourself.”

“Fuck off,” I scowled. “And get the fuck out of my house.”

“Your house?” Wentworth laughed. “I imagine that your grandfather was the one who paid for this house with his own efforts. Not you. Maybe one day, you’ll amount to something. But all I saw here today was garbage. I’ll forget about you the moment I step into my car.”

Wentworth walked out of my house with Frederick on his heels.

I’d never met a bigger prick in the art business in my entire life. Wentworth not only took the cake, he shoveled his cake down his throat like a glutinous troll. Why had I gotten into this business again?

“What the fuck was that?” I asked Brandon, who stood on the other end of the studio.

Isabella stood between us, now in her robe. She must’ve thrown it on the second I was busy with Wentworth. I couldn’t blame her for wanting to cover up in front of his hungry lizard’s stare. She hugged the robe tightly around herself and shivered, “That man a big jerk.”

Brandon looked torn, like he wanted to rush after Wentworth and lick the man’s asshole until Wentworth scratched him behind the ears. “My apologies, Christos. I’ve never met Wentworth in person. I had no idea what to expect. I should really go talk to him.” Brandon jogged out of the room.

A minute later, I heard car doors chunking shut and an engine starting. Brandon must’ve left the front door open. I heard a car drive off. To my surprise, Brandon walked somberly back into the studio looking defeated.

“I’m going to need a ride back to La Jolla,” he said.

“Huh?” I said.

“We drove here from my gallery in Wentworth’s car.”

I considered telling Brandon he could walk back after bringing that prick into my house. Lucky for him I was in no mood to paint after today’s episode of The Stanford Wentworth Show. I told Isabella she could leave early and asked if she could drive Brandon to La Jolla before she went back to L.A.

She said yes.

When they were gone, I stomped into the living room and grabbed a bottle of bourbon from the bar. It was a forty dollar bottle of Basil Hayden’s. It had a smooth caramel flavor I enjoyed. I wasn’t in the mood for anything too fancy. I’d gotten more than enough high end bullshit from Wentworth already.

I walked out to the deck behind the pool and tipped the bottle back while enjoying the view of the ocean from one of the loungers.

Yeah, I was done working for the day, if not for the month.

There was only one thing on my mind as I worked my way through my bottle of bourbon.

Wentworth was right.

Those paintings inside were nothing more than illustrations. They didn’t have any heart in them.

Wentworth had seen it instantly.

Fuck.

I sloshed more bourbon down my throat.

* * *

SAMANTHA

I walked across campus to the lecture hall for Sociology. I was in a good mood after talking to Sheri Denney about my financial aid options.

Marrying Christos?

Was that a real possibility?

I was afraid to think about it too much in case I jinxed myself.

Sociology with Professor Tutan-yawn-yawn was the perfect cure. The lecture turned into a sleepy blur. I may or may not have taken notes. After class, I stopped at the Toasted Roast to freshen up my Americano. I hadn’t slept enough in the past four days, and I was going to need caffeine if I wanted to get through History without snoring.

When I walked into the lecture hall and sat down, a familiar face greeted me.

Justin Tomlinson, the editor of The Wombat humor newspaper. He was as boy band cute as ever. “Hey, Samantha,” he grinned, “we missed you on Friday.”

“Oh no! I totally forgot about your meeting,” I smiled sheepishly. “I’m totally sorry, I was…ah, super busy with homework.” Justin didn’t need to know about my harrowing trip to the courthouse to save Christos.

“No worries,” he smiled. “Everyone liked your stuff. You should join us at the meeting this coming Friday so you can meet everybody.”

“You mean I’m not black balled for missing my first meeting?” I quipped.

“Naw, we’re pretty laid back. You should totally come by. Same time, same place.”

“4:20 pot time? Toasted Roast? Wait, aren’t toasted and roasted both euphemisms for getting stoned?”

“Pretty much,” he winked.

“Maybe I should draw a pot smoking wombat for you guys?”

He cracked a smile, “I’d like to see how you handle a pot smoking wombat.”

“Cookies and potato chips,” I said flatly.

He was confused. “What?”

“Don’t wombats get the munchies like everyone else when they’re high?” I smiled. “If I had to deal with a pot smoking wombat, I’d give him cookies and potato chips.”

“Totally,” he chuckled. “I have a feeling you’re going to fit right in. Do you think you can have some sketches of Potty the Pot Smoking Wombat by Friday?”

“His name is Potty?” I arched an eyebrow.

“It is now,” Justin smiled.

Wait, had I just inadvertently named their mascot? Maybe I had. “Can I do something combining toilets and pot smoking? Maybe have Potty on the john while he’s smoking a big fat spliff?”

“You can do anything you want. Run with it. There. Are. No. Rules,” he grinned.

Wow, I liked the sound of that. “Okay. I’ll have some drawings on Friday!”

“Awesome.”

I couldn’t wait to tell Christos. I had my first real live art assignment!

SAMANTHA

“You have to draw a what?” Christos asked. He was super drunk.

“A pot smoking wombat sitting on a toilet, for The Wombat newspaper,” I said.

We were in Christos’ studio, where my new drawing table was. I couldn’t wait to start sketching cartoon wombats. I thought Christos would be working when I got home from SDU, but the model was gone and he had been sitting in front of his easel with a bottle of booze in one fist.

Christos slowly swiveled his glassy eyes in my direction. “Do you want me to sneak into the zoo and steal one for reference?”

“What, a wombat?”

“Yeah. I could go all ninja and climb over the fence at night. I know a way in,” he nodded ultra seriously. Then he held his palm to the side of his mouth and whispered, “There’s a grade school on the north side of the San Diego Zoo and their playground goes right up to the back of it.”

I wrinkled my nose, “Does the zoo even have wombats?”

“Probably. We should totally take one and keep him as a pet. I’ll name him Womby the Wombat. Wouldn’t that be totally cute?”

“I guess?” As in, it sounded like a terrible idea.

“We can climb right over the fence,” Christos slurred. “Let’s you and me go right now. I’ll drive.”

“Ahh, you probably shouldn’t be driving or climbing ninja style or anything else tonight. Maybe you should lie down for awhile?”

“But the wombat will get away!”

I chuckled, “I’m sure Womby will be fine for tonight.”

Christos giggled fluidly and leaned his head against my arm, “You like the name Womby, don’t you?”

He reeked of alcohol.

“It’s perfect,” I smiled indulgently.

In a high voice, Christos baby talked, “We’ll make a wittle bed for Womby wight in da coner of da studio.”

“Why don’t we make a bed for Womby right now? You can test it out.”

“’Kay,” he slurred.

I led Christos into the living room and helped him onto the couch. I took his boots off and covered him in a blanket. After grabbing my sketchbook, I sat in the leather chair opposite him and turned on the reading light. I went to work on my sketches of Potty the Pot Smoking Wombat. It took about ten seconds to realize I didn’t know what a wombat looked like. Maybe Christos had been onto something with his wombat kidnapping master plan.

Or I could just look for a picture on the internet.

I dug out my laptop and returned to the living room. With dozens of wombat photos on the screen and my sketchbook at the ready, I dove into cartoon dreamland as I drew page after page of toilet sitting pot smoking profligate wombats.

Who knew wombats were almost as cute as koala bears? I’d been expecting some kind of bat monster, but it turned out wombats had the same big black noses as koalas, and their ears were these tiny little button things.

So cute!

* * *

“Are you sure this is okay, Sam?” Romeo asked nervously as we walked across campus toward the Student Center on Friday afternoon.