The Artist [The Porter Kenworth Story]

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A/N I'm deleting this account and merging this story with another, please look out for it again.

The Artist

~Chapter One~

Portland, OR

September 22



The rain was falling on the hood of the car as I drove into the cold evening.

Taking a sip of my coffee I got into the right lane, the windshield wipers moving side to side desperately trying to get rid of the rain.

Making right then left into the parking lot I pulled on my jacket from the passengers seat.

The rain making a loud 'Thud' on my windshield.

Grabbing my hat I leaped out of the car and headed towards the building.

My hands buried into the pockets of my jacket as I looked up at the building.

"Art Show" painted in bold letters was plastered on the front of it, indicting I was at the right place. The once familiar place, I used to go to.

The rain hit my hat hard and began to make a slight puddle in it, a pool of water slid down from it and into my face.

As I approached the entrance I stopped to pull a pack of cigarettes out.

As I lit one I walked over to the shade of the entrance of the building where it wasn't raining.

After I was done smoking I put out my cigarette and walked inside. It was warm and bright, many people were scattered throughout the large building, some I knew, others I'll meet, few I'll ignore.

I started towards the bar passing a couple of interesting pieces of art 'I'll come back to that' I thought to myself.

While walking pass the many people knew I gave them a quick nod or perhaps a hug, depending on who they were.

Knowingly I walked up to the

bartender with a smirk.

"Why, hello there Ira. How are you today?" I said, my smirk growing bigger and a bit cocky as she shot me a glare of annoyance.

Ira was my age being 23 and she was tall and lean. Her skin was a olive tone and she had long dark brown hair with deep brown eyes.

Ira is a very creative and sarcastic person, though she hides behind her whole tough act. Ira has had quite a dramatic life. Her parents were killed when she was 4 and she was living on the streets around the time she turned 13. But she still pulled through it and put a smile on her face no matter how crappy her life was. That's one of the reasons I admire her so much.

"Oh shut it, Porter! Lemme guess, Old Fashion as always?" she asked while a smirk crept on her heart shaped lips.

"Ah, Ira. You know me to well..." I said. Jokingly.

She rolled her eyes and I chuckled.

As she made my drink I scanned the room. When I found nothing in particular I turned back around to face Ira with my drink in hand, a flirtatious little smile set on her lips as her eyes tried showing confidence but failed.

I grinned at her and took my drink, taking a sip of it I waited for what she had to say.

"So I hear Tim Kasher's playing soon... We should go...?" she phrased it as an question rather than a statement.

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