Chapter 3

The next day, I went to the art gallery.

Spotting me, the manager looked rather embarrassed.

“Mr. Webb, I’m afraid we can’t save the space for your solo exhibition.”

I pointed at the artwork, which had been taken off the wall and piled up in a corner.

“I’ve paid six months’ worth of rent. The exhibition starts tomorrow.

“You’re telling me you took down my paintings without so much as a heads-up?”

The manager wiped the sweat from his forehead and handed me a termination notice.

“Ms. Green offered three times the penalty fee to take over the venue.

“She wants to throw a birthday bash for Mr. Smith here.”

The clicking of high heels on the wooden floor drew closer.

Dressed in a custom Chanel, Tasha strutted, holding Jesse’s arm.

“What? A broke artist like you is questioning my decision?”

She approached me, scanning my creased, wrinkled shirt.

“Soren, you’re broke, homeless, and sleeping wherever you can, yet you still want to act all high and mighty?”

Beside her, Jesse sighed as if he cared.

“It’s okay, Tash. Soren put a lot of effort into setting up the exhibition.

“He spent three years working on those poor pieces. It’s almost sad.”

“Absolutely not!”

Tasha raised her voice.

“My Jesse deserves only the finest.

“As for his trash that nobody wants to see, displaying it would only embarrass us all.”

She pulled out a wad of cash and threw the bills down at my feet.

“You can work as a server at the party this weekend.

“Serve Jesse well, and I might be in a good enough mood to grant you a slot next month.”

I stared at the scattered money across the floor, not moving an inch.

Jesse went up and stomped on the landscape art piece I was most proud of.

His expensive leather shoe ground into the canvas, smearing black mud all over it.

“Oh, my gosh. I’m so sorry, Soren. I didn’t notice the trash on the floor.”

Putting his hand over his mouth, Jesse gasped.

Three months of solid, grueling work through the night were ruined right then and there.

Tasha shielded Jesse and shouted at me, “What’s with that long face?”

“Jesse already apologized. Why are you being petty?

“Why are you making a big deal out of a lame painting?

“You deserve to rot at the bottom for the rest of your life! Hurry up and sign this!”

Tasha slapped a voluntary venue-transfer consent form onto the table.

“If you refuse to sign this, I’ll see to it that every piece of artwork you have stored in that warehouse is hauled off to the junkyard tomorrow.”

Bending over, I scooped up the trampled artwork from the ground.

I brushed off the dirt clinging to the canvas.

Walking up to the desk, I picked up the pen and signed my name on the consent form.

Then, I straightened my back and turned to Tasha.

“Alright.

“I’ll show up on time this weekend.”

In another twenty-four hours, I would gain my freedom.

Tasha chuckled in delight.

Turning around, she gave Jesse a peck on the cheek and sneered, “See that? Keep a stray hungry long enough, it’ll fall back in line.

“He can be tough, but he still has to swallow his pride over a few worthless paintings.”

Loud heavy metal music blasted through the gallery.

Tacky party balloons and ribbons obscured the walls where masterpieces used to hang.

Wearing a cheap, ill-fitting vest, I navigated through the guests holding a drink tray.

For three straight hours, Jesse bossed me around.

He sent me across the street to get ice cubes, then two miles away to buy a specific brand of cigars.

Tasha sat on the central leather couch, looking every bit like royalty.

Jesse sliced into a huge five-tier cake.

The friend group popped champagne bottles and sprayed the liquid all over the place.

“Get over here, Soren!”

Tasha called out for me. The room froze for the drama to unfold.

She pointed at a glass filled to the brim with vodka sitting on the table.