“I told you I wasn’t ready,” she growls, rounding the back of the car.

She all but rips the passenger door off its hinges. I lean away as she shoves her backpack and easel into the backseat. Huffing, she takes a seat and slams the door shut, earning her a glare from yours truly.

She holds up a hand before reaching over to lower the volume. “Don’t even start with me, Waylon James. I’m positively homicidal today.”

I roll my eyes and shift the car into reverse. Pulling out, I cut her a glance. “Any particular reason?”

“Just this bullshit assignment. I hate realism. It doesn’t speak to me.”

I snort to myself. Artist types, am I right?

“Fuck off.” A beat, then, “Mason texted. Said your uncle should have my car ready today.”

The steering wheel creaks under my fingers. “Don’t call him that.”

She releases a deep sigh and turns to look out the window, leaving it at that.

We’re mostly quiet as we make the drive across town. She notices my still damp hair, and I tell her how I got out early. Too hot for roofing today.

“Shawn around?” she asks, looking around as I turn down the alley hugging the brick building I’ve come to call home these last two years.

The garage is empty and I shrug. “Guess not.”

The bar is dark when we enter from the back. Forgoing the overhead lights, I turn on the bar lights. There’s a vent blowing A/C into the open space, but it does little in the face of this sweltering heat. Tonight’s going to be hellish, and I make a mental note to grab the fans from the basement.

Ivy sets up her easel in the back corner, and I make my way to the cooler.

Moments later, music starts playing from the speakers. I vaguely recognize it as some band my cousin listens to, but I couldn’t tell you their name or the track title. They’re not shit though, even with all the screaming, so that’s something. I find the remote and crank it up, knowing Ivy will want to drown out everything but the music and her art.

Tossing the remote across the bar, I crack open a beer from the cooler, and swallow nearly half the can in one gulp.

One quickly turns to two, and two turns to three. It’s hotter than Satan’s taint outside, and it’s not like I have anywhere else to be for a while, so what’s stopping me?

At some point, I whip off my sweaty shirt, rolling it in a ball and tossing it next to the register. In just a pair of ripped black jeans that hang low on my hips, and my beat-up boots, I climb my way up onto the bar.