Becoming His Muse, Complete Set (2 page)

So what if he’s famous. So what if he’s
fucking
hot.

Once the crowd flows out of the auditorium to mill in the lobby, I am set upon by freshman and upperclassmen of various ilk. Ruby turns out to be right. Admitting that she lied and I am not, in fact, a virgin just seems to elicit more invitations. I give out an alternate Facebook name and, grabbing a complimentary glass of wine, I move toward the food table where I can turn my back to the crowd of literary revelers.

I pick at cubes of cheese, celery sticks, cherry tomatoes, and baby Gherkins. I love these sweet bumpy pickles. They remind me of my parents’ cocktail parties, which I hated apart from the hors d’eouvres spread they always provided. I stare at the bowl of pickles and wonder if I could paint them. No. Their impact is in texture and taste, not looks. As I study the bowl of pickles, long smooth fingers reach across my line of vision to select a carrot.

I see faint shadows of nicotine on those reaching fingers. I hear a rustle of tweed. I smell cigarette smoke. Logan O’Shane stands beside me, a frown contorting his lips, which are the only soft part of a hard-edged jaw dusted with a layer of beard growth ambivalent to shaving.

“Why didn’t you applaud?”

His intense green eyes bore into mine. I am caught off guard by his question, not to mention his gaze and proximity. I pull my eyes away and focus on the pickles as I feel my back prickle with perspiration. I did not expect this. I don’t know how to respond, so I just shrug and say,

“I didn’t think you’d notice.”

“Of course, I did. I’m a writer.” He keeps staring at me, those green eyes narrowing and intensifying.

I try to gather my wits. “Who cares about the sound of one hand not clapping when hundreds of others are?”

“Two hands,” he corrects. “And
I
care.” He takes an aggressive bite of his carrot stick.

I try to move a little further away from him; I feel a charge standing so close, and it’s making it hard for me to think clearly. But he bridges the distance by reaching for a stick of celery.

“Was it really that bad?” he says, his tone a little softer.

I’m baffled that he cares what I think. Almost a hundred other people in the room applauded him. Why doesn’t he talk to them?

His eyes have lost some of their intensity and his broad shoulders have relaxed. He’s waiting for me to say something. It seems he really does care what I think.

“I suppose I found it entertaining and insightful to some degree,” I admit.

“To some degree?” he repeats.

I sigh, and risk being truthful. “I came with a friend. She’s a Lit major. I’m not really into reading and writing.”

“You shouldn’t say that out loud. It makes you sound stupid.”

I raise my eyebrows. Really? He’s calling me stupid?

I glance around, noticing that many of those people are staring at us, at
him
, but no one bothers to step in and interrupt us. I wish they would.

“Unlike most of this crowd, I’m not a sycophant.”

He laughs, a short, barky expression of amusement. “Don’t you know we writers depend on sycophants? Particularly the virginal ones.”

I frown as I stab a pimento olive with a toothpick.

“Was it the virgin comment?” he says. “You know it was that girl sitting next to you who started it.”

“Yes, well. My friend Ruby was mistaken.”

“About you being a painter or a virgin?”

My shoulders stiffen defensively.

“Apparently, to you, those two things can’t coexist.”

“So you were offended by all that talk about fucking? Listen,” he says, leaning towards me and half whispering. “It’s all an act. You know I was playing the role of a writer up there. Hell, you might be the only other person in the room, besides me, who knows that for a fact. I saw it in your eyes.”

I’m perplexed.

“Why act? Why not just be yourself?” I’m whispering now, too, as if we’re sharing a dark secret, and, as we stand so close together, I feel the risk of intimacy between us. A wash of heat flows across my skin.

“If you asked yourself that same question, you might come up with the same answer.”

I try to sort out his cryptic response but come up with nothing. He’s standing over me, looking down. My eyes line up with his lips and I can’t look away. My mouth goes dry all of a sudden, and then in a flash my saliva glands release and my mouth is watering. I swallow, willing my inner heat to dial down.

When I turn my gaze back to his eyes, I see a glimmer of rawness, as he admits, barely audibly, “It’s easier to act.”

He steps back from me now, looks down at his jacket, picks off a bit of lint, and then looks around, but the room doesn’t seem to hold much interest, so he turns back to me. I’m still trying to make sense of his answer, and my uncomfortably powerful physical response to his proximity.

“Aren’t you dying to get out of here?” he says conspiratorially.

“Yes!”

I’d much rather be in the studio mixing paints. He looks momentarily surprised by my sudden enthusiasm before a cocky satisfied smile pulls at his lips, and then it dawns on me what he really means.

“Oh, you mean…like, together?” I laugh nervously.

He narrows his eyes at me, smile gone.

I clear the cracker crumbs from my throat, and say. “Um, well…You’ve got all those books to sign. You can’t go anywhere yet.”

He takes a slug of his wine. Did I bruise his massive ego?

“I thought you might save me from myself,” he mumbles.

We experience an awkward pause. Then he reaches into the bowl of Gherkins, selects one, holds it up.

“When I think of pickles I imagine long, fat dills. You know. Phallic. Penile. Masculine. These on the other hand…” He holds up the Gherkin close to his mouth as he studies it. His green eyes seem to caress its nubby surface. “These ones are feminine. About the size and shape of a swollen clitoris.”

He winks at me as he slides the Gherkin over his tongue, sucks, and swallows.

For a moment, I’m speechless. I’m not sure if anyone can save this guy from himself. But I refuse to be intimidated.

“Are you able to sexualize all vegetables or just pickled cucumbers?” I say as I troll a carrot through a bowl of dip.

“Why stop at vegetables?” He picks up a cherry tomato and pops it into his cheek. He tries holding my gaze but I can’t help rolling my eyes.

“Oh, please, I beg you to.”

“I like the sound of that. I’d probably do just about anything you
begged
for.”

I cough on the carrot.

He gives me a sideways glance. “
Are
you a virgin?”

I stare him down. “Are you?”

Laughing into his wine glass, he makes bubbles.

I smirk and add, “Because in my experience the people who talk the most about fucking are usually the ones doing it the least.” I set my empty glass on the table.

He strokes his chin, rasping at the stubble gathered there. “Theoretically, you may be right. In my case, far from fact.”

I arch an eyebrow. Is that supposed to impress me? His hot looks and writer fame might seduce all manner of fan girls, but right now I’m fantasizing about tossing wine in his face. If only I hadn’t drunk it all.

Behind Logan, I notice an older academic-y looking woman veering towards us. I think he’s about to be pulled away to start the book signing. I feel my insides melting with relief, but then he leans toward me and I catch the faintest scent of soap or cologne and suddenly I want to close my eyes, breathe deep, and let other parts of myself melt until I’m a swooning mess. He whispers,

“The point is, we are virgins to each other, that’s all that matters.”

He gives me one last searing look before turning to the woman who is now a mere three steps away from us. He seems to know it’s time to go, as if he has an internal clock for these kinds of events. He’s been doing it long enough, he probably does.

After he’s led away, I take a several deep breaths and try to shake off his intimidating presence, though my body still hums from it. His looks, his smell, even his intelligence are all maddeningly attractive, but his arrogance, his aggressiveness, his ‘act’ all repel me. I feel twisted in knots that I can’t immediately untangle.

I look around for Ruby. She’s by the book table talking to Jonathan, her ex, who also occasionally models for me. He must have just arrived. They both glance my way at the same time. I head towards them. Ruby smiles, her eyes wide.

“You are
so
lucky!” says Ruby. “Logan O’Shane spent, like, five whole minutes talking to you.”

I shrug. “Five minutes I can’t get back.”

“You’re kidding, right? Do you know how many people want to talk to him and he just walked past them? Sure, he claims he’s hungry and heads for the snack table, but that’s where
you
were. He was totally focused on you during the reading.”

“He’s definitely grooving on you,” adds Jonathan.

Jonathan’s so sweet and handsome, with wavy blond hair and soft brown eyes. I’m still not clear on why Ruby broke up with him, or rather, ‘decided to take a break’. They’re still friendly and hang out together a lot. If he’d been available earlier in the evening, for the reading, he probably would have been in my seat. But this way, I’ve banked a couple of modeling hours with Ruby, and I know my work here is almost done.

“Can we go now?” I say.

Ruby gives Jonathan a ‘see what I have to put up with' roll of the eyes and shoves a book into my chest. One of three books I now realize she was holding.

“Ouch.”

“Sorry, Busty LaRue. I bought us each a book and we are going to stand in that line and get them signed.” She points to a thirty-foot long snake of people.

“
Then
we can go?”

“Yes. For beers.” She winks as she hands Jonathan his book. “But the beers are optional. I’m taking pity on you.”

She leads us toward the line, where I wait patiently, inching my way forward behind people desperate to connect with the illustrious Logan O’Shane. For some reason I feel nervous as I watch him smiling and interacting with readers in line. I can’t deny I’m attracted to him, and I hate myself for it. It’s just his confidence, I tell myself. He repels me, too, because, he’s so full of himself and I’m not. Of course, he’s a
real
artist and I’m not. Not yet anyway.

Jonathan is pretty quiet when his turn comes and I see Logan giving him the once over, maybe trying to assess if he’s a writer and then deciding he’s probably too good looking (despite the proof in his own mirror). Jonathan’s looks are pretty jock and innocent even though he’s rather poetic at heart. That’s what Ruby told me. And then I remember that she said Jonathan started to feel like a brother to her and that sex got weird after that thought lodged in her brain. That’s why they were ‘taking a break’.

Ruby is tongue-tied by the time she sets her book in front of Logan.

“Who should I make this out to, Sweetheart?” He gives her one of his searing green stares but it’s really for show, part of his act, to send her over the edge, I think. He notices me standing behind her and I wonder if he’s showing off for me. I catch myself. Of course not. He’s showing off for everybody.

My poor, literate and usually articulate friend finally stutters out, “R-rr-r-ruby.”

“Good choice of name,” says Logan, his pen flourishing across the inside page. “It matches the beautiful blush in your cheeks.” I see Ruby’s knees wobble.

Then it’s my turn. I drop my book in front of him. He looks up at me and smiles. This smile is slightly crooked, teasing, and fairly successfully sexy.

“My friend bought me the book,” I say. The book he has yet to open and sign.

He glances after Ruby. “So are you and she… you know,
together
?” With each hand, he curls his thumb and forefinger into a circle and then bangs them against each other. It takes me a minute to get what he’s implying. Is that what he has to tell himself because I didn’t let him drag me off for a quick romp?

“What is
wrong
with you?”

He shrugs and says, “I’m surprised you ask. I didn’t think you wanted to know.”

Obviously, I don’t want to know what
more
is wrong with him. I’ve observed enough on my own.

He uncaps his pen and opens the book now. Thank goodness, I’m starting to feel very self-conscious with all the other people sighing impatiently behind me.

I start to say, “Make it out to Ava…” but a wine glass crashes to the floor and my name is lost in the smashing and the fuss that ensues. I lean in closer to repeat myself but he says, quietly,

“Don’t tell me.”

Those piercing green eyes burn into mine again. I’m close enough to smell the smoke on his breath. I pick up that other scent, too, the musky cologne and a personal body smell that is the furthest thing from repulsive that I’ve ever come across in my life. My breath catches on the inhale.

He whispers, “I don’t want to know your name, but I do want to know everything else about you.”

I blink and stand up straight as he writes something in my book.

Handing the book back to me, our fingers brush each other. I feel an electric warmth rising off his skin.

“What are you doing now?” he says cheerfully. He’s all sweet charm and professional warmth. Another side of his ‘act’, I guess.

Aware that I’ve taken up more than my share of time getting my book signed, my automatic response, by default, is honest.

“Going for beers with my friends.”

“Where?” he says, glancing at the remaining crowd. I can feel the line behind me energetically willing me to move on.

“Michaelangelo’s.”

Under his breath, he says, “I’ll find you there later.”

He dismisses me with a wave of one hand while the other reaches around me to take the next person’s book. I’m practically shoved out of the way by the acne-faced freshman next in line.

In a slight daze, I head toward the exit where Jonathan and Ruby are waiting for me.

I didn’t have a chance to reply to Logan, to say to him, “No, you won’t.” As in, No you won’t find me there later. For one thing, Michaelangelo’s is only the third most popular pub on campus, in part because it’s so hard to find and, as a visiting speaker, Logan O’Shane would never find it on his own in the dark. For another thing, the beer part of my evening is optional, and I’ve just decided to duck out.