Fractured Fear (The Devils of New York #1)

Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

SPENCER

I all but limped out of the gym after my workout with Joey. Brutal as hell, but I know he loves me. Deep down in his tiny, cold heart…way down there.

Who am I kidding? I curse his name every day when I leave that place. Literally. My parting words are, “Fuck you, old man.”

To which he responds, “See ya next time, kid.”

I allow myself Sundays to sleep in and relax. It’s not because Joey told me to rest on Sundays. It’s not that at all. The studio and gallery aren’t open so I usually laze around my apartment and watch Netflix.

On my way home, I stop by my favorite smoothie shop Starry Night Smoothies for a protein pick-me-up. A key part of my daily ritual that brings me joy because food is happiness, especially if it involves chocolate and peanut butter. Even better if I don’t have to make it.

When I sit down at the table in the back, corner my phone vibrates with an incoming call.

“Hello?”

“Oh, sweetheart. It’s so good to hear your voice.” Mom expels a breath as if she’d been holding it while waiting for me to answer. It’s not like I made her wait long, but I guess she just misses me.

“Is everything okay? I thought we agreed I call you .” My eyes dart around the shop searching for anyone who might be paying too close attention to me. I can’t risk him finding me.

“I know, Spencer, but I missed you. I needed to hear your voice, and you never call me.” Mom and I weren’t especially close as I was growing up, but I’m sure she isn’t used to not having me around.

“You’re not supposed to call unless it’s an emergency. We talked about this. It has to be this way.” I reaffirm.

“But why? You won’t tell me why.” It’s the same argument every time.

I let out a sigh through my nose. “It’s best if you don’t know that either.”

“Just tell me where you are. Please. I can come be with you wherever you are,” she pleads.

“I can’t. It’ll only put you in danger.”

“Please, sweetheart. Maybe I can help.” Her begging is almost enough to make me cave. I don’t want to hurt her, but I have to keep her safe. The less she knows, the safer she will be.

“No, Mom. I’m sorry.”

“Fine,” she lets out a long sigh that crackles through the phone. “I have to go. I just wanted to check in. I’ll talk to you in a few weeks.” She hangs up before I have a chance to make it up to her or even say goodbye.

When I set my phone down on the table, I notice a new text. I already know who it’s from. Or at least, I suspect. The police have told me since the number is from a burner phone, it's untraceable. My hands shake a little as I open the message. I don’t want to read it, but I need to know.

Maybe I really am a masochist.

Unknown: You never should have left. The longer you’re gone, the worse it will be when you inevitably come home. Make no mistake, I’ll be seeing you soon.

Breathe in—one, two, three, four—breathe in the fear. Breathe in the panic.

Hold it—one, two, three, four—let myself feel what I feel.

Let it out—one, two, three, four—breathe out the pain. Breathe out the lies.

The technique I learned from a self-help book doesn’t always “help,” but it makes getting through the next twenty-four hours easier.

Focus on the truths, Spencer.

It’s not the worst text he’s sent. I don’t for sure know it’s him . It’s just a text. It could be anyone. He didn’t openly threaten me and gave no indication he knows where I am. I’m safe.

He can’t touch me. He’s not here.

I read over the text again and allow my blood to simmer. The fuck you will, dickhead. You won’t be seeing my face ever again. I don’t send my words. I won’t give him the satisfaction.

In my first year here, I changed my number five times. I don’t know how he keeps getting it, but I have given up trying. At least this way I can determine if he has found me by what he says. As of right now, I live under the assumption he doesn’t know. Yet . The premise could be a dangerous one, but my options are limited.

I set my phone down, finish my smoothie, and go over what needs to be done today. Focusing on the things I can control because I can’t control this fucking creep texting me.

I need to order more clay, take inventory, figure out what’s wrong with pottery wheel number three, contact my agent about my next show to see what she needs from me, check in with Iris at Abstract Dreams, my gallery, and see what has sold and what needs to sell.

Okay, maybe thinking about my to-do list was a bad idea.

Deciding I need to clear my head, I get up from my table, throw away my cup, and make my way outside.

Headphones in, Gold by Kiiara playing, I begin my run home. This time around, my mind still isn’t clear.

I miss Abuela.

Abuela spent her life living and breathing art. She studied and traveled all over the world to learn different painting styles and techniques from whoever would teach her. She said there was only so much she could learn in a classroom and the best way to learn was to go out there and try. After her travels, she settled in New York. Chelsea to be exact. She bought a space with the money she earned selling her paintings, opened a studio, and lived in the apartment upstairs.

Traveling around the world with a child wasn’t easy for Abuela, but she made sure Mom had everything she needed and was able to experience different cultures. Mom tells the story differently, she says Abuela is too flighty. Was too flighty. Mom describes her childhood as chaotic, but I think it sounds like a dream. Different countries, online school, art all day, different foods. Sign me up.

Once Mom was old enough, she cut off contact with Abuela and settled in Houston, where I grew up. Then Mom had me and as soon as I was old enough, she would send me off to wherever Abuela was at the time. I wanted to stay with her year-round, but Mom wouldn’t allow it.

My father was more of a ghost than a man. Never met him. Never saw him. I don’t think my life would have been better if he was present. He clearly didn’t want me, and all I got from him was my last name, but even that wasn’t given to me by his choice.

I can’t ever tell Mom where I am. If Abuela had left Mom the studio then she could have sold it and kept the money; I know she would be pissed if she knew she lost out on a large payday. Mom didn’t know where Abuela ended up before she died, and now I intend on keeping it that way.

When I get back, I pass Abstract Dreams and go through the glass door of Clay Creations, my studio. I take in the space that has seen me through these last three years. The entire front is made up of windows which let in as much natural light as possible, and white walls to help reflect the luminescence and make the space feel bigger. Unstained, floating wood shelves cover most of the walls, some filled with other artists’ finished work, some contain pieces that are still wet or aren’t quite done. Green pottery wheels are lined up in two rows on the right; three large canvas worktables and a wedging table on the left. It’s early and no one has arrived to work on their pots, so all the stools are stacked by the worktables. In the back is the kiln room, damp room, an overflowing storage closet also known as “the abyss,” and bathroom. I’m still in awe of how my vision has come together and that I get to be here every day.

Abuela’s studio used to be one big space, but I cut it in half and made one side the gallery. I also renovated the apartment upstairs at the same time. Abuela left me an overabundance of money from the sale of most of her final paintings. Her attorney said she knew I wouldn’t be able to part with her paintings after she passed so she did it for me which made me feel even more guilty. I didn’t see her in her last few years of life. We talked weekly, but I didn’t make the trip out here. I let him convince me to not visit.

Another thing he took from me.

“Hey, boss!” Hayes greets me. A little too chipper this early, but that’s Hayes. He’s a sweetheart to the core. He’s only eighteen-years-old, just graduated, and comes in early on Saturdays even though I always tell him he can sleep in. His birthday is at the end of the summer and I plan on having a little celebration for him with the other artists and Iris. I know he likes her and is too afraid to make a move. He’s still trying to get comfortable with his growing teenage body. I swear he shot up six inches over the last few months. He has that boy next door, blonde hair, blue eyes look going for him. I may have given up on relationships for myself, but dammit this boy deserves happiness.

“Morning, Hayes! What’re you doing here so early?” I try to smile and sound excited even though I’m dead tired and need more food after my second run.

“I wanted to get a head start on counting inventory and cleaning the studio. I swept last night but you know how it is. Nonstop clay dust.”

My shoulders instantly sag with overwhelming relief. I can check those off my list.

“You’re a godsend! Seriously. Where do you hide your angel wings?” I tease.

He blushes and tries to hide it with a snigger. Poor kid isn’t used to being appreciated. He’s never confirmed or specifically said, but I assume his parents aren’t supportive of him working here. Knowing what that’s like, I do my best to encourage him. I hope he’s happy here. I want Clay Creations to be a safe place for other people as well as myself.

“Nah. I hide my horns under my halo,” he jokes.

I chuckle and shake my head at him. Hayes doesn’t know how to take a compliment.

“I’m going to head upstairs for a bit. I have to spend half the day next door with Iris. Want me to bring down a cup of coffee when I come back?”

He lights up at my offer. “Yes, please. I’ll wipe down all the wheels for a cup.”

“You got it.” I smile back at him and head out of the studio. When I approach the stairs just a few feet away, I groan and contemplate crawling up to my apartment.

When I signed the papers Abuela’s lawyer gave me, I had mixed feelings about renovating the apartment, but renovations are just what I needed. A clean slate. It used to be just like downstairs, one big open space. I converted it into a three-bedroom, two-bathroom apartment. The front door opens to a large kitchen that I rarely use, and a spacious living area. The cozy, light gray sectional might be my favorite part about the room. The floor to ceiling windows give the room an inviting feel as well.

I wanted to keep things simple, but the designer convinced me that I deserved a nice space where I can relax. I caved to some of her ideas like the marble countertops, the over-the-top en suite, and the obnoxious walk-in closet to the master bedroom. I admit that the luxuries have made this place feel more like a place I can call “home.”

Once I’m through the front door, I strip my clothes on my way to the bathroom, not caring where they land. Tomorrow Spencer can deal with that shit. I let my hair down, walk straight into the shower, and turn it on not caring that the water will initially freeze my tits off. Just another way to wake myself up. Again.

After going through the motions for the rest of my routine, I get to the annoying part of picking out an outfit. I try not to care and just grab and go, but I can’t. Sometimes I still think I need to look a certain way, but I remind myself that he isn’t here.

He always said that my hips were too wide, my bra made my back look pudgy, my legs were too long, or my gut was too pronounced. At the time I told myself that he just didn’t want me to feel embarrassed, but now I see his comments for the ugliness that they were.

Fuck him and the pole up his ass.

I may workout but I love carbs; I have natural wide hips and an ass that isn’t leaving anytime soon.

Peering at my shelves, I snag three items without giving it a second thought. Dark green blouse, black pencil skirt, and black pumps. I shove my arms into the sleeves, shimmy the skirt up and over my ass, and ram my feet into the onyx torture devices.

There, that wasn’t so hard. I just had to get a little angry first.

Anger makes the fear go away, but only for a bit. It’s a band aid, not a cure, but I’ll take it right now.

I do a quick swipe of makeup to keep things simple and cover up the dark circles under my eyes. After I meet with Iris, I’m heading right back to the studio. No need to do a full face when it isn’t necessary.

Staring at my reflection, I note that I don’t look like I did when I arrived in New York. My hair was dull and lifeless. My skin was pale for its tone. Now my hair is rich and full, and my skin is a nice tawny gold.

But my eyes are still haunted. Will that ever fade?

Walking away from my reflection, I begin to leave but remember Hayes’ coffee and run back to my kitchen to make it. More like I do a weird clomping shuffle. It’s impossible to run in heels. I don’t care what anyone says.

It’s. Not. Fucking. Possible.

I warm up a frozen breakfast sandwich while I make one coffee for Hayes and one for myself. I hate cooking because of him , but I splurged on a fancy espresso machine just over a year ago. I figured it would save me money because I wouldn’t go to the coffee shop next door as much.

Yeah, that’s a lie. It was on sale and then I justified the purchase. Girl math. The purchase didn’t do its job anyways. I still go to The Mudhouse more than is socially acceptable.

Coffees in hand and breakfast sandwich scarfed down, I head out my door and back down to the studio.

Hayes is almost done counting inventory, so I discreetly set the to-go cup next to him. It’s called being considerate, everyone hates it when they have to start over counting.

I wave at a few artists who have come in while I was upstairs.

“Alma! How are you? How are the kids?” I love this woman. She’s a stay-at-home mom and now that all her kids finally go to school during the day, she likes to spend her free time here. In the summer, she only comes when she gets a babysitter.

“Giving me hell as usual,” she says with all the love a tired mother can muster. “Oh, and I put the kids in that day camp you had in here the other day. It’s a life saver!”

We laugh together as I remember the elementary and middle school-aged kids Alma is referring to. I like showing kids how fun art and clay can be, but this group had more than a few wild spirits.

I turn to Paul and give him a wave. Paul’s wife died right before I moved to New York. He retired when she got sick so he could be with her. He said they spent her last days doing all of her favorite things. A trip out to Ellis Island, watching the sunset at the Empire State Building. They were never able to have children, and I know he’s lonely, so I like to give him my time when I can.

“Hi Paul! How’s the teapot coming?” I ask with a genuine smile on my face.

“Good, but I’m struggling with the spout,” he answers without looking at me, staring at the piece on his wheel which I assume is the spout.

“Those are the worst. I’ll help you out after my meeting next door.” I pat his shoulder and head over to Abstract Dreams.

“Thanks, Spencer,” he says, still without looking at me.

I stop at the door that connects the studio and the gallery, it always gets stuck and I have to use my hip to push it open.

Add ‘fix the door’ to my to-do list.

When I walk in, Iris is already at the computer behind the half-circle front desk that sits right by the entrance. The sun shining on her through the windows that cover the entire front of Abstract Dreams. All that glass wasn’t cheap when I remodeled, but it was well worth it.

I added the gallery so smaller artists had a space to display their hard work. I have bigger exhibits here from time to time thanks to my curator. We don’t only showcase ceramics and pottery, we also have watercolor, oil, and other paintings on the walls. I love that the artists who find peace at Clay Creations have a place to show off their work.

I stroll past the pedestal display cases and make my way to Iris. She’s a gorgeous girl with chestnut hair and sun-kissed skin. Iris is a year older than Hayes and is working a few different jobs while she figures out what she wants to do with her life. I’m more than happy to be her introduction to the art world.

She always comes to work dressed to impress. I told her she doesn’t have to do it up so much, but she said she wants to see how it feels dressing up for work every day. I’m quite positive the get up is to impress a certain employee next door.

“Playing solitaire?” I tease.

“Ha. Ha. Good joke, grandma,” she responds quickly. I swear this girl is too witty for her own good sometimes.

“Hey! I’m only five years older than you.”

“Whatever you say, babe.” She smirks as she continues to stare at the screen and type away.

I sit down with my coffee and we get to work going over spreadsheets. Thank you, God for sending me this girl who knows how to make a spreadsheet her bitch. I’m hopeless with technology. I can do the basics like send a text, make a phone call, write an email.

Oh lord. Maybe I am a grandma.

After I’m done meeting with Iris, I take notice of a few patrons who have made their way into the gallery and strike up conversation about the pieces they're viewing.

Someone’s gotta pimp the art.

Once I’m all talked out, I change into studio clothes. An old, ratty T-shirt will do the job so that I can head back to Clay Creations and finish out my day there. I barely stop to eat lunch.

Paul is the last to leave, as usual, and I lock up behind him. I give myself a moment to look around.

Paul’s completed tea pot is out and drying on a shelf. His wife loved to drink chamomile tea, so now he makes tea pots he thinks she would have loved and sells them in small coffee shops here and there.

Hayes’ massive, three-foot vase that he’s been working on for the last month is covered with plastic bags and wet paper towels, waiting for further progress on Monday. He’s enjoying the challenge. He said his goal is to one day make a pot taller than himself. He’s six feet tall. I’ve never taken on that kind of endeavor, but I know he’ll succeed, he has natural talent.

Alma’s set of plates are glazed and waiting to be fired. She was commissioned to make them and came into the studio squealing with excitement. We ordered her cupcakes and a bouquet of roses—her favorite—to celebrate. It’s her first commission and she is determined to get them right so we’re all pitching in where we can. She’s killing it.

Then there’s a couple shelves that hold the pinch pots made by the day camp kids who took a field trip to the studio. It was complete chaos, but the smiles on the kids’ faces made the frantic energy in the studio worth it.

A shelf towards the back holds some of my works in progress that need to be done for my next show. My agent and I decided to push the date back because I’m feeling stuck and I can’t figure out why.

Iris said I need to “get out there” and find inspiration.

Where the fuck is “there?” If I knew, I’d go. I don’t like feeling stuck. I got away from him so I’d never feel that again.

When I’m done looking everything over, I grab my keys, sketchbook, and purse then leave the studio behind to catch some sleep.