Firefly

Chapter 4

17 Darr Street

Downtown Channing

Sam Needle’s studio loft had a gritty paint smell that wafted about its interior. Its gray walls and brick pillars reminded Bay of a warehouse as opposed to a place to rest one’s artistic head. The open-plan, five-thousand-square-foot room included a bathroom area concealed by a tri-fold divider made of what looked like faux sheets of mint-colored fiberglass.

“They’re stunning, Sam.” Bay stared at his best friend’s new collection of oil-painted insects on canvas, knowing it had taken Sam over four months to produce. There were fifteen paintings in the loft: mostly fireflies, three butterflies, a Monarch caterpillar, and two ladybugs.

Sam Needle beamed at the set of frameless artworks, proud. “The series is called Fireflies. There’s a total of forty pieces. The others are already down at Stanton Gallery. You are coming to the show, right?”

“Wouldn’t think of missing it,” Bay answered, staring at a beautiful painting of three fireflies in the foreground of an Erie, Pennsylvania, evening along the lake. If he didn’t know any better, Bay would have guessed the background was a spitting image of his own backyard because it looked exactly like his two gardens and shoreline.

“You’d best not,” Sam said, glowing. “I’ve worked my ass off on this series every day and night and need your support. My agent, Basely, said this could land me in New York City.”

According to Sam, Rita Basely had the reputation for being an artist herself and knew how to take the average Joe like Sam Needle and turn him into a New York City art star and success. Basely gave Sam’s work less than four months to create him as a superstar. She also predicted Sam would be internationally known within the next year, all because of Fireflies.

Sam Needle deserved the success story. Bay met him at a party during their sophomore year at Pranton University twenty years ago. They had gotten drunk together and flirted.

Sam had told Bay, “I usually sleep with hot guys like you, but I’d rather paint you.”

Bay had agreed. Two nights later, he’d sat bare-chested on a barrel, swinging his legs to the left and right as Sam painted him in colorful oils. It was the first of many paintings, of course, throughout the years of their relationship. Such pieces were titled Bay Sulking, Young Man Smiling, Friend #7, and many others. Bay knew he had had always been one of Sam’s joys to paint, an inspiration in the artist’s world.

Not once had they slept together. Bay always thought Sam had a strong crush on him, or had helplessly been in love with him. Of course, they got drunk together numerous times in the last twenty years, and they ended up in the same bed. But they had never undressed each other, kissed, or made love. Rather, they had always been the best of friends, even now. Platonic. Always. The way things were probably meant to be between them, no doubt.

Of course, Sam was nice to look at. No longer young and cute, rather handsome now at thirty-eight: brown wavy hair and cinnamon-colored eyes, standing at five-eleven with no fat on his body. He had tiny wrinkles around the corners of his mouth that made him look distinguished and smart. His shoulders were broad, and his torso tapered down to a narrow waist at his center. Sam took care of his body, minus his smoking and social drinking. Anyone in their right mind would have been lucky to date and bed the man, excluding Bay, of course, since he only thought of Sam as a friend.

“The show’s in a few weeks, right?” Bay asked, admiring one of the canvases with a large firefly next to what looked like a wrought-iron railing.

“August twentieth. A Sunday evening. Mark it on your calendar.”

“I’ll be there,” Bay promised. He hugged his friend and congratulated him on his current art show and successes.