1. Under Pressure

CHAPTER 1

UNDER PRESSURE

MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE now, he's my budtender at the dispensary. It has its perks—like the free weed last night—but after his girlfriend kicked him out last week, he's couch-surfing. Well, less surfing since he landed on my couch. I'm too damn nice to kick him out.

It also helps the house feel less empty and cold.

"Spare key is where it always is, so just lock up when you go."

"Will do, man. I think I'm hittin' the pier today. See if I can find me a?—"

"Don't bring her back here. Please?" I yell back, headed down the steps.

"Nah, it's totally cool, bro. Hopefully, I'll be in the lovin' arms of a sexy, tan babe tonight." I listen to him slurp his coffee and force myself to flash him a smile when I glance back. He's standing on my porch in just his boxers and sunglasses. "Banging on your couch is super weird anyhow. They don't seem to dig it."

Fuck. Maybe it already is a frat house.

I don't have time to react to Trey's comment as I hear a familiar noise while I sling my bag into the Jeep. Ding. I stand there debating with myself if that was the chime assigned to texts or the emails I've been waiting on. Fumbling a little, I pull the phone out of my pocket without spilling the coffee or dropping the keys. Miracle.

New email notification

"Oh, shit!"

I'm scared to open it in case it's about the grant I applied for when I found out the teaching position I planned on starting had fallen through. This could be it. This could be my shot to do something real and fulfilling with my life instead of sacrificing my soul to the corporate machine. I hold my breath and open the email.

Dear Mr. Barton,

We have reviewed your qualifications and samples, which exceeded expectations for a grant like this. However, we regret to inform you…

"No…no…shit."

…that while your work is impressive, we have decided to go in a different direction at this time…

My shoulders slump, and I hold on to the roll bar to keep myself upright. I've read rejection letters from six universities, four grants, and ten art shows—all in less than three months. Rejection is a normal part of being an artist, but this is worse. This signaled the end of everything I'd worked hard to accomplish—the end of the life I'd desperately hoped for. Who knew six months was all it took to thoroughly dismantle my life and dreams?

Who was I kidding? It wasn't six months—it was six seconds. I've just spent six months trying to fix a life that's beyond repair. I stare up at the empty window and the pain intensifies when I recognize the corner of a canvas I haven't seen in months. A canvas I could sell quickly for a few more months with a roof over my head. But it won't.

Rereading the letter, skipping the polite request to try again next year, my stomach does a few Olympic-level flips. The number of bills on my dresser is the only reason I don't head back inside and hide in my bed for the rest of the week. I toss the phone into the Jeep and pull myself into the driver's seat. I can drown myself in a bottle tonight. Right now, I need to get paid.