Broken (6 page)

“No, I'm having wine. You are
only here to work, remember?”

“Oh, lighten up. God only knows
what you plan on doing to me. Let me relax a little bit.”

I smiled, and the nervousness
seemed to dissipate a little bit.

“Okay, but don't think you're getting
drunk here.”

“Oh, I wouldn't hear of it; you
would probably take advantage of me anyway.”

I laughed out loud as I walked to
the kitchen and grabbed another wine glass. I poured him a glass, and opened up
another bottle to top off my own. I was going to need it. “You certainly have
my number, don't you?”

He smiled that handsome smile of
his, and I actually enjoyed the sight of it, though it was probably only the
wine talking. I sat across from Jet and handed him his glass.

“Maybe we should say cheers to
something,” Jet said.

I smirked. “Like what? Cheers to
our health?”

“No, that's too lame, besides, we
are too young to worry about our health.”

“Oh, is that right?”

“Let's toast to a great working
relationship, and an amazing grade on your project.”

“I'm impressed, that sounds
fantastic.”

We held up our glasses and said,
“To the project,” while
clinking
the glasses, both
with smiles on our faces.

“So Jet, aside from your jock
status, what educational aspirations do you have at school?”

“I'm not going to lie to you. I
have none, I truly hope to ride this MMA career all the way to the top, and
never look back. I'm not interested in a regular job, I love what I do. I know
you don't think much of us jocks, but I couldn't imagine doing anything else. I
think that's probably how you feel about your art.”

I hadn't really thought of it
that way. Many men have made great careers out of sports, becoming rich and
famous. However, there were also many who never went anywhere, their dreams of
heading to the top dying quickly. In that regard, it was very much like the art
industry. There were many artists who made it to the big time, but there was
just as many who never went anywhere. Their names disappeared, and their art
ended up in garage sales. Jet didn't want that future, and neither did I. So
maybe we did have something in common, after all.

“Maybe we should get started,
then.”

He smiled and shrugged his
shoulders. “Sure, what do you need me to do?”

I got up and pointed to the wall.
“I would like you to stand against the wall, using it as a backdrop.”

“Should I take my clothes off?”

I laughed, “Easy there, cowboy. I
need your clothes on right now.
 
So let's
not get ahead of ourselves.”

“Poor sport.”

“Don't play too much into your
reputation there, Jet, you don't want to disappoint me.”

“You're right about that.”

“So shut up, and get over there,”
I said, pointing at the wall.

He got up off the couch,
laughing. “Whatever you say, beautiful,” he said and walked over to the wall. I
had cleared the area to make sure there was enough room. I had considered
having him sit or lay down but in order to show the changes I wanted, I needed
to be able to show him full length, so standing was the best way to do that. He
stood against the wall, his body tall and firm. He was actually the perfect
subject for the idea I had for the project, so my excitement was building as we
were getting started.

I set up my easel and got out my
pencils. I chose the appropriate HB size, and placed my sketch paper onto the
easel. I settled myself comfortably, and looked over at my subject, considering
how I was going to begin.

“I hope you have strong legs
because you're going to be standing there for a while.”

He shrugged. “I'll survive.”

“Don't
worry,
I will give you an intermission.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Now stay still. You can readjust
yourself, but very briefly, and you can't change your position.”

“Gotcha.”

I began by sketching a broad
outline of Jet, putting down on paper a base idea of his shape and stature. I
had done this a million times, and the process came very naturally to me at
that point. I used long strokes with the pencil. Once I had the base outline
in, I could then start to add details slowly, one area at a time. I always
started with the head when it came to drawing people. I liked to make a person
shine through, to see life come out immediately. You couldn't do that with a
torso or clothing, and I wanted to see the person represented right away. Then
I would have something to gaze at while I filled in the rest of him. He stood
there for a long time while I sketched out the basics. He was patient, and
never complained when I took my time, sometimes correcting a mistake or two.

When I got the main points down
that I wanted, I allowed him a break. He went to the bathroom and then he sat back
down on the couch, and took a gulp from his glass, and I refilled it for him.

“You're not trying to get me
drunk are you? Cause I can assure you I'm a sure thing.”

I giggled, “That I don't doubt.
So, were you okay with everything so far?”

“Yeah, it's pretty simple. Just
stand there and look pretty. I'm not sure where you're going though, with the
whole changing part of it.”

“Well, that I'm afraid is
something you will have to wait and see. But I promise you I have a plan, and
it's fairly brilliant.”

“That I don't doubt,” he said,
copying my prior statement. I smiled.

“Shall we finish? I don't want to
keep you past your bedtime.”

“Really funny.”

He downed the rest of his wine,
and headed back to the wall to stand once again. At this point, with the entire
base covered on the drawing, I could start to add minor details to various
areas. This was also a time to add shading. Put shadows where they were
supposed to go, and shade areas like under the eyes, or ripples in the
clothing. Once shading was compete, I finished up details, such as eyebrows,
the spark you add to eyes to make them appear alive, and the details in his
clothing that show the viewer the difference between looking at the jeans he
wore, as opposed to khakis. Next I added his hair, and provided the type of
details that made you think you could see every strand of hair on his head.

“What are you smiling at?”

I looked up, surprised, unaware
that I had been smiling at all. Maybe I was letting Jet get just a little too
close.

“I didn't realize I was smiling,
actually.”

“Well you were, and I have to
say, it was stunning. You're a beautiful girl, Natalie. So tell me, why were
you smiling?”

“Because I enjoy drawing, and
everything was coming together the way it should.”

“Great answer.”

“Thank you, but you're still not
getting in my pants.”

He laughed, “Fair enough.”

“Well, I'm all finished. Would
you like to come and have a look?”

“Cool. Yeah, I would.” He moved
from the wall, and met me on my side of the easel. He looked at the drawing of
himself and studied it. I was impressed by how observant he was, he didn't just
glance at it, he got up close and personal with himself, and studied the
details in the drawing.

“This is amazing, Natalie. If I
haven't said it before, you are quite good.
A true artist.”

I just smiled. I knew I was a
true talent, but it embarrassed me to hear it.

“Well, I will need you again next
month, and we will change things a bit.”

“Still no clues?”

 
“Nope, I'm afraid not.”

“Fair enough.”

“It's getting late though, Jet. I
should really be going to bed since I have an early class tomorrow.”

“Is that an invitation?”

I laughed, “No. And my roommate
should be home anytime, so it's a good time for you to leave as well.”

“Well, I hope I can see you again
outside of our little project.”

I rolled my eyes and said,
“Goodnight, Jet.”

He winked at me as I nudged him
towards the door. He opened the door and headed outside, slowly closing the
door behind him.

I sat back down in front of the
easel, and admired my handiwork. I thought carefully about the future of the
project. What Jet didn't know, was that I intended on changing him every time
he came, but not in the way he expected. I intended to have him remove a piece
of clothing every time we met; that would be my changing subject.

Chapter Eight

Jet

Today was the day of my fight,
and my nerves were raw. They always were on a fight night. It was amazing how
clear things became, however, when the bell rang. Every time I’ve been in a
fight, I’ve felt the same way. Fighters always get that fight-or-flight
instinct just before getting into the ring. It was such an intense feeling that
it almost felt natural to flee instead of staying for the fight. I knew a few
guys who let that feeling get the best of them, and they ended up backing out
of their fights at the last minute. I tried to let the fear in as much as I
could. I fed on it so that when the bell rang, I could turn it off, and do what
I came there to do. It was like WAR, and I intended on winning every time.

MMA as a sport had only been in
the school system for a few years, and I had taken full advantage of it. Screw
playing football; MMA was the future, and I would get further faster by taking
that sport and running with it.

My fight that day was a
conference battle with another school. I was in the 180-pounder weight class,
and I was pure muscle waiting to give someone a beating. I didn't like to brag,
but I was one of the best fighters in the nation, I was well rounded as a
fighter, I could come out as a striker and kill it, or take it to the ground,
and do just as well. Most fighters were one or the other, not too many were
both, but I was one of
them,
and because of that, most
guys were scared to fight me.

My coach and team were warming me
up before the fight. It was important to perform stretching and light pad work
before a fight. It got you warmed up, but didn't exhaust you for the fight. I
drank a bit of water, but not enough to cramp up.

It was time. The last fight had
ended, and they would be calling my name soon. My team and I got organized
behind the curtain that I would emerge from. I was moving fluidly on my feet,
my heart racing,
the
fight-or-flight response in
overdrive. My parents, as well as my sister, and a bunch of friends had
purchased front row tickets to the fight, so I knew I had a huge support system
out there, ready to cheer me on as I went to represent my school. I was always
surprised to see my mom cheering. She hated when I got hurt, so the idea of me
choosing to be a professional fighter had not gone over well with her at first.
She told me to consider law school instead. It would all be paid for, after
all. In the end, however, she accepted that this was what I wanted for my life,
and supported me anyway. I never expected her to attend the fights, but she was
always there, cheering at the beginning and trying to wipe the blood off my
face in the end.

She was a great woman.

I heard my opponent’s name
announced, The Great Destroyer, and he emerged from his own curtain, his music
of choice blaring in the background. His fans screamed for him so hard it was
almost hard to hear the music. Fans at fights were always losing control; it
was like they already smelled the blood before it was spilled. He stopped
before going in, talking to his team and then he entered the octagon, and
circled it as he waited for me.

It was my turn to head out. They
switched the music to my choice, which just so happens to be “No More Mr. Nice
Guy.” It makes me feel jacked, and ready to fight. They announced my name and I
headed out with my team in tow. The crowd went wild, and I could hear family
and friends shouting my name. Talk about an adrenaline rush, you don't get one
better than that. I stopped before the octagon, where my team applied Vaseline
to my eyebrows to avoid having sweat drip down into my eyes and blinding me
before the fight. My teammates patted me on the back and told me to go kill
things. They left me to go to my corner and I entered the octagon to join my
opponent.

We both positioned ourselves in
our respective corners, and waited for the bell to ring. When it did, we met in
the middle, and tapped fists as a sign of respect before we beat each other to
pulp. Once that was over with, The Destroyer charged at me, and threw a right
that snapped my head to the side from the impact. Blood spurted from my mouth,
and I tasted copper. I hated the taste of blood, which sucked, ‘
cause
I tasted it often. The Destroyer had power on his
side,
there was no doubt about that. I heard my corner
screaming for me to keep my hands up.
Obviously―how
could I be so stupid?
Don't ever get too comfortable in the ring,
Jet.
That's what my coach had always drilled into my head, and there I was,
letting that punch dictate the fight so far.