Becoming His Muse, Complete Set (34 page)

When I text Logan the bad news about DnC’s loft he says he’ll ask Dr. T if he can borrow the Aston again. I don’t want to risk going back to the inn where Ronnie works, so it looks like our only other option is to head out toward the motels along the highway. The thought of that makes me feel cheap. Plus it means waiting until Sunday.

When we do finally find ourselves alone, after Logan picks me up in front of the Steady Drip and we check in to an indiscriminate hotel not far from the train station, I’m ready to relive the playful intimacy we had in New York. But Logan seems more distant. I wonder if he had a difficult time with his mother, but he says no. He’s just been working intensely on his novel.

“And I’m still waiting to hear from Lowell about those chapters. He’s taking his sweet time reading them.”

“He’ll be in touch soon, don’t worry.”

“I need this novel to be well received. I’ve already spent the publisher’s advance, and this teaching position isn’t that lucrative. Plus I’ve had some unforeseen expenses to deal with in New York.”

“Did the sublet fall through?”

“Yes. That and other things.” He seems preoccupied. I remember how last term he implied that there were things he needed to get away from there.

“Is there anything you want to tell me about?”

He shoots me a quick questioning glance. “Why do you say that?”

I shrug. “I was only wondering if you’d feel better talking.”

“I’m fine. I’m sorry. I’m worrying needlessly. It’s all just a matter of time, of being patient.” He starts biting his nails. I pull his fingers out of his mouth.

“I wish I hadn’t quit smoking,” he says, scowling.

He’s grumpy. I want to cheer him up. I kiss the tips of his fingers, thinking about how I told myself I had to be patient just the other day. Sometimes only time, rather than words or actions, solves particular problems or provides specific opportunities.

“There are plenty of other things you can do with your mouth,” I whisper, as I lean over to kiss him.

He responds.

We both close our eyes to shut out the tacky motel decor and for the next two hours we lose ourselves in each other’s bodies. We manage to push our worries away, and though we’re both left satisfied, and wanting more, the sweet magic of New York eludes us.

While I’m a little sad that we can’t recover our New York nuances, I understand the creative stress Logan is feeling because I’m feeling it too. I’m back to competing for studio time and I end up with many early morning slots. At least a couple of Jenny’s guy friends from the theater department are willing to sit for me. They’re used to getting up early for workouts, and I’m grateful they’re willing to give up a few to model for me. Sometimes, they’re flirty during the sessions, and they invite me to share the beers I offer as payment. I have to remind them I don’t mix work with pleasure. They are good-naturedly disappointed and don’t give me too hard a time about it.

Day by day my paintings are coming together, and I’m also coaching Ronnie to get caught up with his sculptures. But the more tired and stressed I feel, the more I crave to release that stress with Logan.

We share a second Sunday at the run down motel. The sex is great but the emotional connection isn’t because Logan is still concerned that he hasn’t heard from Lowell.

The following week, I’m finding it difficult to wait another whole seven days to see him again, so I stop by his office on the way back from my art history class.

Through his partially open door I see him pacing back and forth in the small space in front of his desk. I watch him for a moment.

My reaction when I see Logan is the same as it always is: my body goes all warm, wet and tingly, and totally ready for sex.

“Hey.” I smile at him, trying to keep cool.

He looks up at me. “Oh. Hi.”

A delayed smile reaches his lips. I don’t think he’s having the same reaction to seeing me today. His expression turns all serious again and he retreats behind his desk.

“Maybe I came at a bad time…” I start to say.

“No, no. Shut the door. Sit down.” He keeps staring at his computer screen, completely preoccupied.

I turn to shut the door. I lock it, too, hopeful that his mood might change. I sit in his grandfather’s leather chair with my knees slightly parted. I undo an extra button on my blouse.

“I finally heard back from Lowell,” he says.

That’s a relief. Maybe now he won’t be so distant and preoccupied, though he still seems to be at the moment.

“So what did he say? Does he like the chapters?”

Logan rakes his fingers through his hair looking perplexed as he stares at the message on the screen. “That’s just it. He does. He says it’s an ‘artistic leap’.”

For some reason Logan looks anything but happy.

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

“He says it’s the most
romantic
thing I’ve ever written.”

I feel a little flutter of excitement in my belly. Whatever he’s writing now has been influenced by me. I mull over the words ‘artistic leap’ and ‘romantic’. They sound like good words to me.

“That’s great news,” I say, leaning forward and trying to draw his attention to my cleavage.

He doesn’t notice. Just frowns and rubs his chin. I frown, too, and lean back in the chair.

“Actually, it’s not great news,” he says.

“Why not?”

He stands up and starts pacing again. “I don’t
do
romantic. I do edgy, sexy, rough,
masculine
.” He’s getting himself quite worked up over this.

“The book of yours I read,
Wake of Living
, had a romantic scene in it,” I say.

He twists toward me. “Which one?”

“When Isabella comes home from her trip and Thomas is waiting for her. That scene made me cry.”

He pauses, thinks. “It was just a coming home scene. Nothing special.”

“But it was. That was the scene where you know that despite everything they’d each been through they still loved each other more than anything or
anyone
else. They’d been through hell and back and realized they still had each other to come home to, and that what they had between them was true love.”

Logan stops pacing and leans against the edge of his desk. “All right, so maybe it was a powerful scene. But you call that romantic?”

I shrug. “Whatever opens the heart is romantic to me.”

“And you think that’s what Lowell means?”

“I have no idea what he means. I haven’t read the chapters. But you said yourself you felt the writing was strong and a little bit different from what you’ve done before. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

He looks down at me sitting in his worn leather chair. He stares at me for an uncomfortably long time. I shift around and my blouse slides over to one side revealing the mound of my left breast. I feel silly now for coming in with the hopes of some stolen kisses. I should gather my stuff to go, let Logan get back to work. Clearly, he’s still preoccupied.

He crosses his arms now. His green eyes narrow as he says, “I don’t want to change, Ava. I don’t want my writing to change.”

I draw my knees closer together and busy my fingers by buttoning up my blouse. For the first time I feel that my presence is not a pleasure to him, not arousing at all. That hurts. Maybe I’ve failed as a muse. His work has gone in a direction he doesn’t like. Maybe he’s going to ‘fire’ me. I feel a tightening in my chest, a deep ache at the thought of being rejected.

I force myself to look at him. His eyes are dark and moody. His body looks tense, wound up, and in need of release. Yet he is closed to me.

I find my courage and say, “You told me once that we all need to trust what emerges from deep within us, even if we don’t like it at first, even if it feels repulsive or unwanted. You said there’s more essential truth in those ugly, dark places than in the bright, clear, pretty ones.”

He doesn’t respond right away. He just stares at me and then at his computer screen. When he looks back at me he says,

“I was fine before I met you. My writing was fine. I came here to write a novel. I didn’t ask for
chang
e. I don’t want it.”

“You asked for a muse…”

He’s shaking his head. “This was a mistake. I never should have let this happen.”

By ‘this’ he must mean us. My throat tightens around a sob I won’t let out. He’s going to end it. Right when I’m feeling so sure of us.

“You don’t have to do this,” I say, feeling trembly all over.

“I have no choice.”

On the verge of tears, I stand up to go. “I’m sorry you didn’t get what you wanted from me,” I say. “Blame me if you want. But no one can live without change. Your writing can’t stay the same forever. It’s supposed to evolve. I thought that’s what you wanted.”

I resist the urge to throw myself at him, to cry into his shoulder, say no, don’t give me up, keep me close. I came here wanting him to hold me, to hold him. Now he wants to let me go.

He sees me move toward the door. “Where are you going?”

“You want me to leave don’t you?”

He jumps up from his desk. “No.”

He slides one arm around my waist and tugs me to him. Despite the roughness, I savor the touch, imprint it to memory. His grip is tight, tense. His other hand slides up my back, my neck, until his fingers tangle in my hair.

“I don’t want to
change
, Ava,” he says again, this time through clenched teeth. “I think
you’ve
changed me.” He pulls my hair back, forcing me to look up at him. “I don’t like that,” he adds.

“Then don’t change, Logan. No one’s forced this on you. Go back to how you were before if that’s what you want.”

“It’s too late, don’t you see?
I have no choice
.”

Is that what he means then? No choice but to change?

He pulls my hair tighter. He bends my arm behind me.

“Let me go, Logan.” But he doesn’t loosen his grip.

“It’s you, Ava. I’ve changed because of
you
…”

“I’ve changed, too,” I say, adding tenderly, “It scares me, too…” Because I feel the fear under his anger, the feeling of the foundation shifting beneath him, because I feel all that, too. That everything is different and can’t go back to how it was before.

“I’m not
scared
,” Logan sneers. “You don’t know how I feel.” His tone is defensive, frustrated, confused.

“Let me go,” I say. “You’re holding me too tight.”

“I can’t let you go.” But then suddenly he does. I lose my balance temporarily, fall against the arm of the leather chair. I perch there, rubbing my shoulder and readjusting my hair.

He strides over to his office door, reaches for the lock. He turns to me when he realizes it’s already secure. “You came with expectations?”

“That was before…but obviously…”

As quickly as he’d crossed to the door he’s back in front of me, towering over me as I lean, weak-kneed, against his chair.

“Hot and horny, are you?”

His tone sounds condescending, and there’s a strange glint in his eye.

“Don’t be like that.”

His fingers go to his belt, start working the buckle. “Why not? It’s true, isn’t it?”

“There are nicer ways to say what you mean, Logan.”

“Meaner ones, too, Ava. Are you afraid of words? Are you more afraid of words or actions?”

He slides his belt out of its loops and slides the leather against the palm of his hands.

“You’re just angry about Lowell’s reaction and you want to take it out on me.”

“Stop telling me how I feel.”

He stretches the belt between his hands and stares at the span of leather.

“When I was little, whenever my dad took off his belt I’d shudder with fear of the blows about to come down.”

I stiffen. A thread of fear winds up my spine. At the same time, I picture Logan as a little boy and my heart breaks a little. I’m confused, and don’t know where he’s coming from. I keep my eye on the belt.

“You promised you wouldn’t hurt me.”

I don’t believe he really would, but he’s acting strangely, is clearly upset, and seems to believe it’s my fault that he’s changed.

“Pain is part of life, Ava.”

This is not the Logan I know. He has changed. Maybe too much.

“I have to go.” I stand up again.

He doesn’t move to let me pass. I start to take a step sideways. He blocks me.

“You’re mine, Ava, and you’re not going anywhere.”

Fierce with determination, I glare at him. He may be older, a professor, a man stronger than I am, but he’s dealing with a woman willing to fight for her freedom, for her life if she has too.

“Open the door Logan.”

His green eyes are full of a heat I’ve never seen before. There’s anger there, yes, and the fear he won’t admit hiding beneath it, but there’s something else, too. Something new. He smiles as he shakes his head.

“Stay, Ava. You’re my muse. We’ve come too far to turn back now.”

I don’t know what he means. I hold my hands up to his chest to push him away. He holds my hands lightly against his chest. Not tightly, not to keep me still. He just holds my hands with his. His palms are warm and soft covering the backs of my hands.

“I have changed, Ava. And my writing has changed. I see it now. I know there’s no going back. Now I want to take you with me.”

I keep my eye on the door. “Take me with you?”

“To the edge,” he says. “Will you let me?”

I start to shake my head. With a finger and a thumb he holds my chin in place. Gently, not forcefully. He looks deep into my eyes, as if searching for something. The fear and anger disappears and I see the man I know well, the one I trust.

“You’re right, Ava. I am scared. I’ve been scared to change and scared to grow. My ‘act’ always worked for me. Until I met you. You’re making me into something new, I started to feel it in New York, but what’s old doesn’t want to let go just yet. Please, just trust me,” he whispers. “Let me take you to your edge.”

His green eyes hold mine and for a brief moment they radiate a profound tenderness before they swirl over with a dangerous, wicked passion.

He pushes into me until my thighs are pinned against the chair. His erection presses against my pubic bone. I feel a swoon of arousal but I hold my ground.