Nighthawks (Children of Nostradamus Book 1) by Jeremy Flagg Read Free Book Online

man,” said the voice. “Okay, I’m calling everybody. We’ll meet you over there.”
    “We’re going to party,” said Conthan, happy Sculptee understood how big a deal the show was going to be.
     
    ***
     
    “ Jesus fucking Christ, he did it,” a man said, thrusting his glass into the air.
    “Salut,” they all said in unison.
    “You asses act like it was never going to happen,” Conthan said with a grin.
    A girl ruffled his hair. “You draw enough pictures of pretty women and somebody’s bound to notice.”
    “Trish, you’ve hurt his feelings.” Sculptee said as Conthan pouted. “His work isn’t about pretty women, it’s about transcending the physical and embodying the beautiful held in each of our tattered and frayed souls.”
    The room paused.
    “I call bullshit,” said another.
    Sculptee held his glass in the air. “In all seriousness, it couldn’t have happened to a better man. You’ve been with us since the start. We wish you the best.”
    “Don’t forget us in your fucking memoir,” said another.
    Conthan thrust his glass into the air, clanking with his fellow artists. They all slammed their booze. He sat down on a couch made from a repurposed bench seat of an old car and stared at the small fire in the middle of their gathering. The six of them had been his family since college. When they were close to graduating, they decided they couldn’t stomach the idea of corporate jobs. Instead of working in small coffee shops and living the artist cliché, they pooled their money to buy a large warehouse in a rough side of town.
    The three-story high corrugated metal walls were supported with massive metal girders leading to a metal roof. The decor was a mix of industrial and abandonment, something they had unanimously agreed was perfect. The group of artists had taken over a small corner of the football-sized structure. They had built makeshift walls out of plywood, offering a little bit of seclusion from each other.
    Conthan had to admit that much of his success was because of the people in the room. They frequently gathered on their mismatched furniture and drank while discussing the finer parts of art and the less than savory aspects of society. During his first critique, Sculptee, a self-proclaimed master of plaster, told him point blank his female nudes were passé. Trish, an installation artist, and her boyfriend Rocks, who Conthan wasn’t quite sure how to describe—something about taking apart cars and putting them back together in less traditional forms—had agreed. Yiyi, a street artist and fashion trending guru, had suggested he start looking for something edgier and less done to death. Ultimately it was Patches, a man obsessed with the descent of mankind and its ability to destroy the world around it, who suggested he revisit the drawings in his high school sketchbook.
    “Who was the Child you were drawing? There was something dope about the way you captured the normalcy of her…” He thought for a moment, searching for the word to describe Sarah’s growths. “You showed how awesome she is by avoiding the obvious controversy in your subject.”
    Gretchen was the last acquisition to their ragtag group of artists. Her father owned an extremely lucrative chain of hotels, and as a graduation gift, he bestowed an empty building to her. Instead of following in his footsteps, she decided to create a place artists could present their ideas to the world. As none of them had expected, she was very good at what she did.
    Rock startled Conthan as he poured another shot. “If you’re not wasted before the night, I didn’t do my job, man.”
    Conthan held up the shot. “For art.”
    “Fuck art!” yelled Sculptee. “For the money!”
    “Salut!” they all yelled, raising their glasses.
    Yiyi plopped down on the couch next to Conthan. She blew the neon pink hair out of her eyes and took a swig straight from the bottle of vodka. “Glad one of us can pay the bills,” she said,