The Geek and His Artist (3 page)

He’d first noticed his geek about two weeks after school started. The Bastard, having been fired—again—from his job at the plant, moved them to a new part of the state to be closer to another shitty job he was likely to lose soon. Simon didn’t much care anymore. It used to bother him how much they moved, that he never stayed in one school for more than a single school year, if that. But he’d learned how to make friends quickly and eventually gotten used to moving around, starting a new school, and finding a couple of guys to hang out with. He wasn’t sure if he could call them “friends” so much, but that was okay. It wasn’t a good idea for them to get too close anyway. Still, they were the closest thing to friends he had.

The ones he’d made at this school didn’t have his lunch period, so he’d found himself a spot with light and spent the hour with his sketchpad. And about three days after he’d set up at the table, he noticed the tall, gorgeous guy sitting at the table to his left. Dark brown hair just a little too long to be anything but messy, deep chocolate-colored eyes that Simon had to work hard to ignore, rounded cheeks, dimpled chin, and a round, cute nose. And amazing hands that looked strong and soft at the same time. Hands Simon had imagined on himself more times than he could count. Simon couldn’t have avoided picking up his pencil if his life depended on it.

So this time he really
didn’t
care that The Bastard had moved them again. He’d always looked forward to school—thus getting away from The Bastard—but now he had even more reason. Every day meant another hour to watch his geek out of the corner of his eye. Each new lunch period was a chance to see that six-and-a-half-foot beauty.

Simon sighed and rubbed his face, trying not to let thoughts of The Bastard intrude. He did his best not to give that man any more mental energy than possible, but even when Simon managed to stay out of his way, some days it was very difficult to do. Like tonight, missing a chunk of the sound in the movie because his hearing aid died on him had sent his mood south, forcing him to think about The Bastard, bringing the memories of how he got the hearing aid in the first place back with a vengeance.

Four years ago, when The Bastard had gone on another bender after losing his fifth job in a year, he’d come home roaring drunk. Again.

“Rachel! Where’s my dinner?” his father shouted as the door slammed with a bang.

Simon winced and backed up toward the wall, doing his best to turn invisible. He shot a glance toward the kitchen, where his mother was cutting and peeling potatoes. The radio was playing and Simon knew she couldn’t hear. She liked to turn it up when his father wasn’t home to pretend things were normal, and she’d dance around the kitchen while she made dinner.

“
Rachel!
” The Bastard bellowed. “Where the
fuck
is my dinner!”

Simon shrank back even farther, wishing for probably the millionth time that he could disappear. Despite being fourteen, in eighth grade, and already nearing six feet tall, that wish hadn’t changed since he was five—right around the first time he’d seen his father hit his mother and understood what happened.

It never worked, Simon
knew
that, but that knowledge didn’t seem to keep him from trying. So he wedged himself between the dresser and bookshelf in the dining area flanked by the living room and the kitchen and hoped The Bastard would pass him by.

Instead, he rounded on Simon.
“Where’s your mother!”

Simon wanted to ask if the man was stupid. Couldn’t he hear the music? But Simon knew the answer. The Bastard knew perfectly well where his mother was. He was doing it to force Simon to say, to prove they’d do what he wanted them to do. Simon opened his mouth to answer, but the words stuck in his throat, so he closed it again.

“Well? Don’t be any more of an idiot than you already are. Answer me, you little shit!” He raised a hand and Simon flinched, making The Bastard grin. “Yeah, you’ll get it if you don’t spit it out, stupid.”

Simon took a breath, trying to speak again, his gaze fixed on the large hand hovering near his head, but still nothing came out. His eyes darted to the kitchen and back, and his father sneered.

“You really are dumb.” He laughed, and a second later, the big hand landed hard on the side of Simon’s head, anyway. Simon’s ear rang and he shook his head, trying to clear the sound.

He watched The Bastard move into the kitchen, still chuckling to himself, and Simon slipped along behind. He hated seeing his mother hurt—and he knew, without a doubt, that The Bastard would hurt her—but he couldn’t stop from watching, hoping this time he’d have the courage to do something, this time he’d stop it somehow. The Bastard approached Simon’s mom and grabbed a fistful of hair, yanking back hard. “You lazy bitch! Late with dinner again!”

Simon glanced at the clock above the stove, sighing quietly. It was barely past four and they didn’t usually eat until after five. But that never mattered to The Bastard, who took any excuse to treat his wife horribly.

His mother let out a cry, which she quickly stifled, slamming her mouth closed.

“What were you up to instead of cooking my meal? Fucking the neighbor?” He snorted. “Naw, no one would wanna fuck your scrawny ass. Bet you were eyein’ him, though, weren’t you?” He lifted his hand, and Simon’s stomach churned when his mom’s eyes widened. But the bit that tasted more bitter was the fact that her face was resigned, more than anything. She knew what was coming.

That look touched something inside Simon. That she
knew
it would happen and there was nothing she could do about it flipped some kind of switch deep down. Simon tried to tamp down on the urge building inside his fourteen-year-old body, but before he could manage it, he’d launched himself across the kitchen and grabbed on to The Bastard’s raised arm.

The Bastard turned, dropping Simon’s mom, and the wild look and red face was all the warning Simon got. Everything got fuzzy, chaotic, and Simon couldn’t have said exactly what happened from there. He felt a fist connect with the side of his head, felt another in his stomach, and he flew across the room. His left ear hit something sharp, his leg twisted under him, and when the pain hit, he lost consciousness.

He had awakened two days later in the hospital. His leg was in a cast, his stomach, face, and ear hurt like hell, and his head felt like it was stuffed with cotton. He’d faded in and out for another day, and then the doctor came in to talk to him. He’d broken his leg and taken significant damage to his left eardrum from a sharp puncture—the membrane protecting it had been all but destroyed. They wanted to do surgery, but hadn’t yet been able to get the approval from his father. The doctor went on to tell him that without the surgery, he would lose about half the hearing in his left ear and would likely even continue to lose it as he got older. It was rare for damage that severe to happen, but it did, and Simon was lucky he still had some of his hearing.

Simon didn’t feel so lucky. Because his hearing wasn’t the only thing he’d lost.

Social services came while he was in there to talk to him about temporarily placing him with another family member because his father was in jail. Simon didn’t understand why that might be—they’d been through this many times over the years and never arrested him before—but it didn’t matter anyway, as Simon had no other family. His grandparents were all dead, and both of his parents had been only children.

It wasn’t until they’d told him his mother was dead that it sank in, and he was sure, in that moment, his father had killed her. But because The Bastard had no prior record of any law breaking, he’d made bail, and they sent Simon home with him.

No one was willing to give Simon the details, but Simon found out enough through the news and—coupled with what he
did
remember—put the pieces together fairly well himself. His mother, tired of taking his father’s abuse, had picked up the kitchen knife she’d been using to cut potatoes for dinner. Unfortunately, The Bastard wasn’t quite drunk enough and managed to turn it back on her. He’d successfully proved self-defense and that Simon had gotten hurt trying to intervene to save him.

Leaving Simon alone with him.

But even if The Bastard couldn’t hold on to a job, he wasn’t completely stupid. From then on he’d been extra careful where he left marks, so they were never where a teacher or other school official could see them, and any hope Simon had of being more closely monitored by Children, Youth and Families had been dashed. Not that he’d been excited about them. His father made sure he understood just how bad group and foster homes were, that he’d not only get the kind of punishment he got from The Bastard, but that foster parents sexually abused their wards too. It was enough to keep Simon quiet. For all The Bastard was, he’d never touched Simon sexually.

So, after one failed attempt at running away—and the subsequent punishment—Simon learned to just keep his mouth shut and try to stay out of The Bastard’s way.

All of which changed when Simon got bigger than him. The Bastard no longer threw punches directly, instead throwing things or using other weapons from out-of-fist range, and reminding Simon how stupid he was and how no one wanted him. The most common weapon was the steel-toed boots The Bastard kept near him or the wooden mop handle. But those and the words were enough.

As long as he could draw, Simon could handle it. And this was the last year he had to put up with it. He’d be graduating in June and turning eighteen two weeks later. He still hadn’t figured out where he was going to go, but he had a little bit of time yet. At worst, assuming The Bastard didn’t kick him out on his eighteenth birthday, he could stay until he could hopefully live on campus at college. If he could scrape up enough financial aid.

His art teacher, Mr. Steel, was helping with that, looking for art scholarships and fellowships for him. Mr. Steel had already submitted some of his art for other prizes and had been on him to submit his applications for admission and financial aid. Simon hadn’t had to be pushed—he wanted out of The Bastard’s place too much. All he was waiting for was The Bastard to file the tax forms so he could steal them to submit his financial aid. He’d been assured he’d qualify since The Bastard was still on unemployment.

He shook his head at himself, pushing away the thoughts of the asshole in the room next door. He didn’t want to think about that. He wanted instead to think about seeing his geek. It’d been a pleasant surprise to look over and see him standing at the end of the row in the theater. Then again at the bookstore.

Simon hadn’t realized until the look his geek had given him from the bus earlier that his geek had even known he existed. But after the expression on the bus, then in the theater, and finally at the bookstore, Simon had to conclude his geek had been aware of him.

How long had he known? Did he know Simon had been sitting near him all semester?
God, I hope not!
That would be more than a little humiliating.

But… his geek
had
seemed almost as shocked as he’d been surprised. So maybe it wasn’t that much of a stretch.

Not that it mattered. He hadn’t managed to say so much as hi yet, and he doubted he’d suddenly find the courage to, even if his geek smiled at him.

“It was just one smile, for fuck’s sake,” he grumbled.

But he couldn’t deny how good it’d been, how much more beautiful it’d seemed when it was aimed at
him
.

Beautiful enough to make his snug jeans more than a little uncomfortable. He shimmied out of them—and the rest of his clothes—slid under his covers, and turned off his lamp. By the streetlight coming in through the window, he fished the lotion out of the drawer in the bedside table and settled in. He had some new fantasies going through his head that he wanted to get lost in.

S
IMON
HATED
school vacations. If he gambled, he’d have bet money he was one of a very,
very
few students who didn’t look forward to the Christmas holidays. But first off, there was no Christmas in his house, at least not since his mother was alive. She used to make sure the tree got put up and there were a few gifts under it for him. He had no idea how she managed it, because he was pretty sure The Bastard hadn’t given her any money, though it was possible she got it the same way Simon did now: by simply taking it from The Bastard’s wallet.

The Bastard never seemed to know how much he had anyway, always assuming he’d spent it at the bar. He would still take the lack of money out on Simon. But he never seemed to get blamed, for whatever that was worth.

The last few years, however, The Bastard hadn’t even bothered to pretend there was a Christmas. Simon had tried, the first year after his mother died, to put the tree up. The Bastard had immediately torn the thing apart and smashed all the ornaments. Simon had rescued a few he’d made in school when he’d cleaned the mess up and hidden them in his wardrobe. He’d never tried again to decorate.

This year had been no different. He’d left his few things in his wardrobe, kept to himself in his room, and tried not to spend the day missing his mom.

It wasn’t just the lack of holiday that made Simon dread the break. He hated being forced to spend time with his asshole of a father, hated being stuck in the house. Yet again The Bastard was out of work, so most of his time was spent at home, making it difficult for Simon to sneak out. He did his best to spend the time in his room, but that didn’t always work either. He was responsible for cooking for The Bastard—and himself, if he was allowed to eat—and cleaning the house, which meant that he couldn’t hide in his room all day.

He spent as much time there as he could, though, which caused its own problems. While it was an escape, before long it started to feel a little too much like a prison also. He wanted
out
of the room, but until he was sure The Bastard wouldn’t call for him, he didn’t dare try to leave.