Falling For The Biker - Chapter 60: Chapter 60

Sierra’s POV
Of all the things to happen, I didn’t expect him to want to see them. I thought of lying. Maybe that would make him stop. “I don’t have any,” I said as he got into the driver’s seat.
“You can draw another. I can be your model if you like,” he winked, starting the engine.
I knew he caught on what I wanted to do, but I wasn’t sure how he was going to react to seeing them. Only a few people have seen them after I left the village, and it has remained hidden since then.
“Would I find them in the house?” Arthur said, and I nodded, sinking into my seat.
We soon arrived back at the house. It was empty. It seemed they all had something interesting to do today. Arthur followed me upstairs, and he didn’t seem to mind that I dragged my feet.
I paused at my the top, playing with my fingers. Arthur stood with his hands in his pockets, watching me. He should get tired eventually. “You’re not tired?” I asked after thirty minutes of waiting.
He smiled. “You’re stalling not because it’s horrible, but because you are scared of what I would think. Have you thought of something?”
“What?” I asked.
“What if I do like it. People have various tastes in art,”
“And what if what I paint is not your taste?”
“You’ll never know until you show me. Think of it as a first step to knowing if your ex was right or not,”
It took me a moment, but I finally decided to show him. I headed back down the stairs. “I thought it was upstairs,” I heard him say behind me.
“It’s in the basement,” I said.
Once we got to the basement, I switched on the lights. My gaze landed on the briefcase only a few steps away from where I stood. I had brought it down here on the night of our arrival.
I walked over to it, staring at the blue suitcase that held the one thing I once felt was my best creations but now nothing. I had not set my eyes on them for years. It’s laughable considering I woke up to wanting to stare at them all day long before it all turned sour.
I placed it down on the floor, then unzipped it. My fingers held the sides, trying to prepare myself. Tears welled up in my eyes as I opened the case. The last of my paintings laid there, torn in half.
Their laughter rang in my ears, their mocking voices and words followed. It happened six years ago, just when Elvis was two. Vance’s birthday, he chose to celebrate with his friends at the house.
His friends got him gifts I could never think of ever getting myself. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I couldn’t. I didn’t have enough money. The only money I had saved was meant for my little art studio I wanted, but Vance took it.
The one thing I thought I could get him was one of my paintings. I spent weeks between taking care of an energetic two-year-old, juggling taking care of the house, and Vance hosting so many friends to get him the best painting.
I worked for two hours or less, which depended on my workload during the day and how exhausted I was after being done with done with cleaning by midnight. It was a 36 inches long. I needed to show him how much I loved him.
I was reluctant to show him after seeing what others got, but his friends pushed me to show them my gift and — I did.
“What the fuck is that?” one of them pointed in disgust
“Vance is this what your wife can offer? I thought she only dressed like a fool and maid, but I didn’t think she was really stupid.”
“Relax,” I thought the female in the room wanted to defend me, but she wasn’t. “Maybe it is from a major artist. Tell us, who is the artist?”
“I… I drew it,” I stammered, and they all laughed.
Vance threw his glass at my feet, yelling I left his sight. I did so, sobbing my eyes out in the room. Elvis, who had only started, said, “Pwetty,”
But Vance returned, telling me it was useless. “Did you seriously have to disgrace me in front of everyone?!” he yelled, not minding the two-year-old in our midst.
Elvis clung to my legs, frightened, but he didn’t stop. He berated me, called me foolish, a nobody and a disgrace. “But Elvis likes it,” I told him, expecting him to like it, but he instead grabbed and tore it in two.
“Why would he? He is a fucking two-year-old. Obviously he would think such a childish painting is good. Stop thinking just because your son likes it, it’s good. I told you, your drawings are trash and useless. I used up the money meant for your studio because of that. It seemed you didn’t get it. Get stupid fantasies off your head and do the only thing you are good for, caring for your son.”
My fingers shook as it went for the painting in the case. I picked up the folded canvas paper, two-year-old Elvis the image at the front. Slowly, opening it up, a part of it fell to the ground.
I didn’t pick it up as I stared at my son and I on the paper. Drawn by me. It was meant to be a family picture, but it didn’t meet the criteria for what could impress Vance and his friends.
I could still remember the day I packed everything up and threw them at the back of the closet. I didn’t want to see them anymore, not my new or old paintings, and I never touched a painting brush since then.
I placed that aside and picked up others. They looked just like I remembered them. Finally, I passed them to Arthur. He stared at them, my heart racing as I waited for what he had to say.
When he decided to speak, I must say, I didn’t expect anything good.