Painless (31 page)

“Is that how you paid for this house?” my dad asked.

Yeah, my dad was world renown for his social graces.

Spiridon smiled indulgently, “Yes. Everything you see in this house was paid for by the sale of my art.”

Go, Spiridon! Tell it! This was exactly the kind of thing my parents needed to see and hear. An actual mansion, way bigger than my parents’ house, bought and paid for by a real live art career.

“So why haven’t you sold the paintings in this room?” Dad asked.

“I love them too much to part with them,” Spiridon said thoughtfully. “Each one holds a special meaning for me. They’re touchstones that remind me of moments in my life I never want to forget. I could never sell them, at any price.”

“Oh,” Dad said. He had no idea what Spiridon was talking about. Spiridon may as well have been speaking a foreign language when it came to talking about feelings with my dad.

“They’re very nice,” my mom said curtly. “You’re a very gifted artist, Spiridon. I’m sure if our daughter could paint as well as you, she would sell paintings too.”

Because I was turned away from her, my mom’s words literally stabbed me right in my back. Fortunately my mom couldn’t see my face burning with sudden rage and embarrassment. Had she seen my anger, she would’ve told me to get a hold of myself and stop acting like a child. I gave Christos a pleading look.

“You haven’t seen any of Samantha’s recent paintings,” Christos said to my mom. “She’s come a long way since I met her. Her artistic growth has been unreal. Your daughter is epically talented.”

Take that, stupid Mom and Dad!

“She really is good,” Spiridon said, walking over to me to rest his hand on my shoulder. “With my grandson tutoring her, she gets better every day.” He flashed a smile at me, “Isn’t that right,
Samoula
?”

Now I was blushing as tears of joy threatened to pour down my face. I nodded. The Manos men were defending me against my evil parents! I wanted to jump for joy. I wanted to happy dance all over my parents’ faces while hungry sharks nipped at their toes. Yippee!

“You should see some of her paintings,” Christos said.

The next thing I knew, we were all in the studio.

“This entire room is a painting studio?” my mom marveled. “It’s as big as our house!”

My dad looked around, taking everything in. “I wouldn’t say it’s as big,” he said defensively. “Perhaps two-thirds the square footage. Maybe less if you include our garage.”

Yeah, whatever, Dad.
 

“And these are your paintings, Christos?” my mom asked.

“Yeah,” he said casually.

I could tell Christos was still somewhat buzzed from all the bourbon he’d been drinking before my parents arrived. But now he was happy drunk, not angry drunk.

“You sure like to paint naked women,” my mom scoffed judgmentally.

I couldn’t take my parents anywhere.

“It’s art, Mom,” I said. “You know, like Rembrandt and Botticelli and Bouguereau.”

“Who?” she frowned.

“William-Adolphe Bouguereau? The nineteenth century French realist?” I’d learned a thing or two about artists from hanging out at the Manos house all the time.

My mom shook her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“He’s really good. You should check out his work,” I sneered. “One of Bouguereau’s paintings is hanging in the San Diego Museum of Art in Balboa Park. It’s awesome.”

“Are any of your paintings hanging in the San Diego Museum of Art, Spiridon?” my dad asked snidely.

“Yes,” he smiled, “in the permanent collection. As are two of my son Nikolos’. I imagine one day soon, one or more of my grandson’s will join them,” Spiridon said, patting Christos on the back. “And who knows, if she keeps at it, maybe one of
Samoula’s
will end up there too.”

I think I heard a shame plane fly over my parents’ heads and start dropping suck it bombs all over them. Too bad the explosions weren’t fatal. But the confused looks on my parents’ faces made me rejoice.

Mom motioned at Christos’ paintings as if they were garbage. “I assume all these nude women are actual people?”

“Yeah,” Christos said.

Mom nodded, “Was that young woman who was here earlier one of the nude women you paint?” she asked acidly.

“Yeah,” Christos said.

“And what,” Mom continued, “she just takes her clothes off for you?”

Christos shrugged, “That’s usually the way it works.”

My mom huffed, as if Christos was forcing women like Isabella to strip for him while he watched with his pants around his ankles and did nasty things to himself. She said accusingly, “You know, you’re setting the women’s movement back thirty years.”

“They’re models, Mom,” I said. “They get paid. It’s a job.”

“To take their clothes off?” she scoffed.

“Yes!” I growled.

My mom shook her head. “That’s not art. That’s pornography. I hope you would never consider debasing yourself by deigning to strip for Christos. I should hope I’ve taught you better than that.”

I rolled my eyes. “Whatever, Mom.”

There was a pregnant pause as the room went silent. I’m sure my mom would accuse Christos of getting the pause pregnant after having paid it to model for him naked. Dirty pause. Everyone knew the pause had no shame. Pause was a whore who had sex for money. I rolled my eyes. My mom was such a prude.

“You should show your mom and dad some of your drawings, Samantha,” Spiridon encouraged.

Under any other circumstance, I would never have showed my art to my parents. Not after all those times in high school when they’d snarked about how bad my art was. But with Christos and Spiridon at my side showering me with supportive loving compliments, I felt like nothing too terribly bad could happen. I should’ve known better.

I walked over to my drawing table where my sketchbook sat. “This is where I work,” I said randomly as I picked up my sketchbook.

My mom put her hands on her hips. “It looks like you’re all moved in, aren’t you, Sam?”

Oh yeah, my parents and I hadn’t yet had the discussion about my new living arrangements. I couldn’t wait to discuss the topic further.

Maybe I would’ve talked to them about my move already if every conversation with them didn’t turn into a minefield. I swear, I couldn’t say a single wrong thing around my parents without triggering yet another one of their bullshit bombs. I needed more suck it bombs to defend myself. Too bad the shame plane was out of the area.

I clutched my sketchbook to my chest, suddenly reluctant to open it. I’m sure my parents were ready to lob insult bombs with abandon. Was there any point in showing them my art? Maybe I could change the subject.

“I haven’t seen your newest work,” Spiridon said. By newest, he meant the stuff I’d drawn in the last few days. Lately, he’d been asking to see my sketches on a daily basis. He always said nice things and offered me little pointers here and there.
 

Spiridon motioned with his hand, so I gave him my sketchbook, opened to the Wombat sketches I’d done recently. He blurted out laughter and Christos chuckled over his shoulder as they flipped through it.

“These are hilarious,
agápi mou
,” Christos said.
 

“Your daughter has a definite talent for cartooning,” Spiridon said before handing the sketchbook to my parents.

My mom took one look at my cartoons of Potty the Pot Smoking Wombat and grimaced as if someone had shown her crime scene photos of a beheading. She didn’t say a word. She just nodded absently as my dad turned the pages.

My dad, on the other hand, surprised me. “Not bad,” he said. “These drawings sort of remind me of Dennis the Menace, but not nearly as refined.”

I had to pause. That was actually sort of a compliment. My dad loved Dennis the Menace. It was one of his favorite comic strips and he still read it daily.

“But I don’t see how you can make any money with these,” Dad finished. “Hank Ketcham has the Dennis the Menace market all locked up.”

I think from now on, whenever I thought of the phrase, “thinking outside the box,” I’d picture my dad literally building a wooden crate around himself with hammer and nails, and as he was about to lower the lid on his own head forever, he’d say “Bye bye, everybody. If you need me, I’ll be inside my box. Where I live with all my thoughts. Which, by the way, are the only thoughts worth having.” I’d gladly nail the lid shut for him. I glanced around Christos’ studio for hammer and nails. Drat. I didn’t see any.

Christos’ phone rang, distracting everyone. He pulled it out of his pocket and examined it. “Excuse me,” he said to everyone, “I need to take this call.” He walked out of the studio.

“What could be so important he had to answer his phone while he’s entertaining guests?” Mom muttered sourly, as if we couldn’t hear what she was saying.

Because, yeah, this was totally entertaining. Maybe if your idea of fun was a weekend of water-boarding followed by hourly whippings.

Kill me now. Please.

===

CHRISTOS

I walked out the French doors of the studio to the back deck with my ringing phone in hand.

Russell Merriweather was calling.

Fantastic. I’d debated answering it in the studio and putting the phone on speaker so Samantha’s parents could listen in. Yeah, right. I’m sure they’d want to hear all about the recent civil charges Hunter Fucking Blakeley had slapped on my ass. After her parents heard all the gory details, maybe I could get them up to speed about my recent criminal trial. Samantha’s parents would totally love me after hearing about that shit.

When I was half way around the swimming pool and out of ear shot from the house, I answered. “What up, Russell?”

“Christos! How are you enjoying freedom, son?”

“Freedom rocks,” I joked.

“Yes it does. I’m somewhat inclined to it myself.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “The good news for you is, if you’re smart, you can enjoy as much freedom as your heart desires. All you have to do is stay out of trouble. You think you can do that?”

“I can give it a shot,” I chuckled.

“Don’t shoot anything,” he laughed, “just stay out of trouble. As in, no fighting. Feel me?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I sighed.

“I’m serious, son. No fights. As in, none. Zero. Nada.”

I shook my head and chuckled. “Man, you’re as subtle as brass knuckles.”

His voice turned humorous again. Russell was never long on lecturing. “I don’t want you crying to me on the phone at three in the morning, waking my ass up to tell me that you’re in the can again. I need my beauty rest,” he laughed.

Russell always put me in a good mood. Not only was he a badass attorney, he was the nicest guy. “You know, you’re pretty cool for an old dude,” I said sarcastically.

“Watch your mouth,” he said with good humor, “I can still whup your ass, young man.”

“What, you trying to get me in more fights?”

“I won’t press charges, so it’s okay. And I will kick your ass into next year if I find out you’ve so much as given someone a dirty look.”

“All right, all right,” I smiled. “No fighting. So what’s so pressing you had to call me so late in the day? Shouldn’t you be relaxing behind a bloody steak at the Yard House by now?” I gazed at ruby clouds glowing in front of the golden sun hovering above the Pacific Ocean. My grandad’s house had the best damn view.

“My dinner has been delayed because your pal Hunter Blakeley may have a valid claim against you, my boy. It turns out, he does in fact do a fair amount of modeling, and his broken nose has been costing him jobs.”

I shook my head. I should’ve known Hunter was a total pussy. “What, does the prick want? A bunch of plastic surgery or some shit?”

“That’s putting it lightly. He also wants lost wages and substantial pain and suffering. You should see the bills his attorney is sending me for the high class shrinks Hunter Blakeley has been visiting.”

“Shrinks?” I rolled my eyes. “Why, because he has PTSD after the vicious beating I gave him?”

“You took the words right out of my mouth.”

I sighed, “Do you have any good news?”

“I’m brimming over with good news,” Russell joked, “I’m the Santa Claus of good news.”

“Well?”

“I need the contact information of your friend Jake. I need to get his deposition and add it into the mix. Also, I’ve got people talking to the Hooters wait staff, see if they can corroborate your story that Hunter was in cahoots with three friends.”

“Of course he was.”

“Not according to his statement. He’s making it sound like his friends watched the incident from a block away while you roughed up poor Hunter.”

“Fuck. His buddies were ready to jump in until I put Hunter in his place. The guy is a total liar.”

“A liar he may be, but if I can’t prove he’s whistling Dixie on the stand, the jury is going to have a hard time believing your side of things. Remember, this isn’t a criminal trial, where the prosecution has to convince the jury beyond all reasonable doubt that you’re guilty. This is a civil trial. If Hunter’s attorney can convince the jury that it’s 51% likely that you’re at fault, instead of an even fifty-fifty, they will rule against you. That’s not much elbow room for us. Even if I present the greatest defense of all time, Hunter’s case need only be one percent more convincing than ours, and you’re gonna end up having to pay damages. And right now, Hunter’s attorney is asking for your left nut on top of all the other damages.”

“Maybe we can send him my left nut and call it even,” I grinned.

Russell chuckled, “Last time I checked, the nut market is in a recession, and you won’t get a quarter of what you’re hoping for.”

“Fine. I keep my nut and you win my case. Deal?”

“I’ll do my best. But I’d start looking into prosthetic testicles. I hear you can hardly tell the difference,” Russell laughed.

“Thanks, man. You’re all heart.”

“Don’t worry, son. I’ll take care of this. I’ve got plenty of people looking into things. We’ll track down Hunter’s friends and drag the truth out of them with pliers and tongs.”

“You do that.”

“I’ll have more good news the next time we talk,” Russell said. “Oh, and one other thing.”