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thing.  At the very least, it looked like it was going to be very, very fun.  
     
    * * *
     
    By the time we were done, the wall was a shock of white.  
    The vast sprawl of nothing was a little daunting, actually, drowning my eyes.  It had taken three coats of primer and eight hours to lay it, mostly because I had to keep going back and smoothing out the drips.  
    After a while, Thrash had been called away, but I had kept at it.  The rolling had been calming.  I’d plugged in my headphones and lost track of time, sketching in a fresh sliver of a sketchpad while each coat on the wall dried.
    I’d always been like this, losing myself in loose ideas and the balance of shapes and lines.  .  It took me to a different plane of thinking.  
    In the chronically-controlled chaos of my former life, sketching had been the one way I felt relief, at peace with something that only made sense to me.  Painting had been my way of taking the reins, not only mapping it out but recreating the world into some sort of sense.
    By the end of it all, I was buzzing with possibilities for the mural.  These men worked and lived together, each for his own reasons, but together they had a sense of brotherhood.  
    I’d had time to see them interacting, peeking out for some air and watching them drink and talk, come and go.  
    It was obvious to anyone who was in a room with them for more than thirty minutes that they cared about one another.  They were men, so they showed it in their own weird way, but it was there.  They slapped one another on the shoulder, grinning from time to time with the ease of familiarity.  They sat close to each other without that old male preoccupation of who-was-in-whose-space.  These men were best friends.  Brothers.  
    I didn’t know them, I didn’t know anything about them, not even their names, but I knew within the first hour of being there that they were a family.  It was the sort of thing that went beyond blood, and it was rare.
    I felt honored to have had the opportunity to see it.  Now, if I could just figure out how to render it.
    After hours of watching men going in and out of the clubhouse bar, I was convinced: these men were more than just tacky skulls on a wall.  These men mattered.
    I packed up my things and quietly showed myself out of the conference room.  The primer needed at least twenty-four hours to dry, and it was past eleven at night.  I would check for thin patches tomorrow.
    Unfortunately for me, losing track of time had consequences.  The buses were done for the night and there was no way I could afford a cab.  That meant walking, and even I knew that that would be a very dangerous thing for me to do in Braddock.  
    I stood on the lit doorstep of the club, eyeing the dark night.  The garage was closed down for the night, small lights staggered along the side of the building keeping the closed doors just barely visible.  I had hoped the garage would still be open.  That Layla would have an answer.  But I wasn’t sure where she went after hours, and, silly as it was, now that I was outside the clubhouse, I was a little nervous to walk back in.
    It was easier to dare a few steps into the parking lot.
    The door squeaked behind me, suddenly loud in the night air.  A voice called out from behind me.  “Hey!”  It was Thrash.
    “Hi.”
    “You waiting for a cab?”  he asked.
    I was tempted to lie, but there was no point to it.  “Walking home.”  
    He snorted softly.  “Like shit you are.  You know what could happen to you here?  Come with me, I’ll take you home.”  
    I was tired enough that I just nodded.
    It was kind of ironic, actually.  I’d wanted to go home with him since I first met him.  We had fun painting together, proving that maybe he was an all-right guy under all that gorgeous.  I just wondered if he’d let his guard down, or if he’d blow me off again.  
    The truth was that, even hours later, part of me was still smarting from the