Wicked Muse

by Lexi Whitlow

  I nod. “Okay.”

  This is Liza starting to growl. It won’t be long before the claws come out, unless I do something to head it off.

  “How about we have dinner one night this week? I’ve got plans tonight, but I’m wide open the rest of the week.”

  She brightens. She didn’t expect this. “Okay,” she says. “Tomorrow?”

  “Perfect. I’ll swing by your office around six. You pick the place.”

  “Perfect.” She smiles, finally gratified.

  I watch her walk off toward her first class. I’m dreading what’s going to go down tomorrow night, but it’s got to happen. I need to nip this in the bud before it grows into a toxic swamp.

  Typography class goes as expected, except that Chloe surprises me—again. Given all the drama she has going on, I didn’t anticipate much from her today. In fact, I already made up my mind to overlook it entirely if she had nothing to show. I’m taken aback when I arrive, only to find her hanging her sketches, and more than she was required to do at that. I’m not surprised when I see how diverse her ideas are, that she’s come at the assignment from different, unexpected angles. She’s not afraid to take chances. I’m a little surprised she took her best ideas to the next step on her own.

  Her work shows that she thinks well. She’s broad and curious. Her instincts are spot on.

  I wish the rest of my juniors were as uninhibited, but perhaps in time we can get them there.

  We spend two hours in class talking about the work on the wall, dissecting it, analyzing it. Critically disassembling ideas and potential executions, working with the goal of reassembling only the pieces that fit together and harmonize to evoke the emotional feeling we hope to achieve with the finished product.

  At this early stage, it’s not about medium. Right now, we’re just looking at space on the page, at finding the edges and determining how soft or sharp we need them, maybe discussing some color so we know if the solution should be deep purple with passion, or arctic blue with ice cold precision.

  I end the class as usual, with instructions for our next meeting.

  “For next time, select your three strongest designs based on today’s critique, tighten them up, and comp them in marker.” And because I need to demonstrate to the entire class and not just Chloe that there’s no benefit in skipping ahead or attempting to show off, I add, “Chloe, since you already did that step before you got benefit of critique—indicating that perhaps you have a little more time on your hands than the rest of your classmates—I’d like for you to do all yours again, improving them, add one more for a total of four. I want to see twenty sketches on your logo project.”

  I see her brow furrow, but she says nothing. Instead she just glares at me.

  Yes, Chloe. I’m going to be harder on you than I am on them. I have far higher expectations of you.

  She’s waiting for me by my car after class, just as we planned, but she’s wearing a sour expression that she doesn’t hesitate to give vent to.

  “This how it’s going to be?” she asks. “You’re nice to me one minute, saying you want to help, and the next you punish me, calling me out in class, piling on extra work? Does that give your ego a charge or something?”

  I punch the unlock button on my keychain, shaking her off.

  “Get in the car.”

  She climbs in and then huffs at me, crossing her arms.

  “Let me explain this to you the simplest way I know how,” I begin, firing up the engine, heading out of the lot. “You’re better than your peers. A lot better. They see that. And if they aren’t already, they’re going to start to resent it. You make the work look too easy. It isn’t easy for them. Piling up extra shit on you accomplishes two things. The first is it challenges you, which you need. The other thing it does is make you sympathetic in their eyes. You don’t want them to hate you. Trust me on this. I know what I’m talking about.”

  She makes no response. In a moment, her posture relaxes a little. I hope that means she’s thinking about what I’ve said.

  Three minutes later, Chloe offers the following. “The work isn’t easy for me,” she says. “It’s just easier than everything else in the world.”

  I know that feeling. I know it too well.

  The drive to my place is quick, thanks to light traffic. As we pull up in front of the house I see Chloe’s eyes fall to the broken-down wreck across the street, a forlorn expression darkening her otherwise lovely features. The first round of salvagers have already been through it, pulling copper wire and pipes, hacking out the mantles and molding; beginning the process of taking the place down to small pieces. I know it won’t be long before the bulldozers show up.

  “Look ahead,” I advise her quietly as we linger a moment in the car. “Come with me and check out your future.”

  Chloe follows me up the walkway, lingering behind me, taking in the surroundings as I press my key into the lock, opening the heavy oak front door.

  I swing the door open, standing back. “After you,” I say, showing her in.

  Once inside she continues to take in the interior of the house with a certain amount of wide-eyed awe. The place is nice enough in a cozy, understated way. I like the hardwoods and craftsman details the place offers. I wish whoever did the kitchen renovations had been a little truer to the period vernacular, but you can’t have everything.

  “You want anything to drink?” I ask her, dropping my keys and bag on the table by the stairs.

  She declines.

  Chloe walks toward my kitchen. She studies the room, then studies my main living area, furnished sparsely with a few favorite pieces I brought from New York. Her expression is impassive. I can’t tell what she thinks. I think she looks fantastic standing in my house. I think I could get used to it.

  “Show me the apartment?” Chloe asks, turning back.

  “This way.”

  I lead her through the rear of the house. She trails me out the back door, down the rear steps and across the yard. The carriage house, built in red brick with limestones facings and casings, is at the far end of the lot. We go up a narrow wooden stair to a wider decked landing overlooking the lawn and the alley on the other side of a high brick wall surrounding the property.

  I slip the key in the deadbolt, swinging the door wide.

  Before we even step inside, I catch a whiff of Pine Sol and lemon scented furniture polish. The room we enter glows. It’s all exposed hardwoods; freshly finished, wide board flooring and luminous bead-board walls. It’s furnished with a maroon leather couch and a couple of chairs set atop a worn Persian carpet in fading earth-tones. The far end of the room opens onto a small kitchen. It’s similarly equipped as the much larger one downstairs in my place, with frosted glass cabinet doors and a gas cook top on a black marble-top center bar separating the two rooms.

  Chloe turns in the room, her eyes wide. They settle on one of the chairs situated perpendicular to the big leather sofa.

  “Is that a Stickley?” she asks me. She can’t conceal the wonder in her tone.

  I nod. “Yeah. It’s a little rough around the edges, well-worn, but the real thing.”

  She lets out a little whisper of approval.

  The ceilings in the apartment are low with exposed beams between the plaster finish. The place is remarkably bright, taking advantage of big windows, generously distributed against three walls.

  Chloe tentatively peaks into the bedroom, then the small bath which was recently re-done with a custom black granite shower and glass door, granite sinks and toilet. The floors are black and white stone to match.

  In a moment Chloe returns to me in the main room. Her expression is pained.

  “This is really, really nice,” she says. “But there is no way you can rent this for four hundred a month, and I can’t afford anything close to what it’s—”

  “Oh yes you can, and you will,” I interrupt her sharply. “My place, my terms.”

  Still, she protests.

  “Listen. You ne
ed a place to live, and I have this place. And to be honest, I don’t want just anybody living in my back yard, spying on me. So—you’re taking this.”

  I do need to lay out some particulars.

  “But, since we’re going to be living in such close proximity, I would like to go over a few things we both need to be clear on.”

  I see her expression tighten. Jesus, this girl is always looking for problems.

  I lean back, resting on the edge of the couch, crossing my arms. How to say this?

  “I’m going to expect a high degree of discretion,” I tell her. Her eyes narrow. “Occasionally I may have an overnight guest. Knowledge of anything like that needs to stay here, not get discussed with anyone at school, at your job—”

  “I never would.” She rolls her eyes at me again, impatient with the subject.

  “And the same goes for me. I don’t care who you—”

  “You don’t need to worry about it. That won’t be an issue.”

  “You don’t date?” I ask her. “At all?”

  She shakes her head. “No time for that shit. That’s just another layer of trouble and drama I don’t need in my life.”

  I can’t help but grin at her. “Chloe, you’re what? Twenty-one years-old? And you have no interest in even casually seeing—”

  “No,” she shuts me down. “And I couldn’t care less about your random hook-ups or whatever you’re worried about me seeing. Not my business.”

  This is utterly fascinating information.

  “What? Some guy your freshman year crushed your heart and you’ve sworn off relationships altogether? Or is this a position taken on principle alone, because you really have no interest?”

  I really want to know the answer.

  She glares at me, becoming more animated than I anticipated. “Hayes, I’ve got a lot of experience with relationships. Jealously. Infidelity. Constant bickering. Finally divorce. I have a lifetime of role models for what dating leads to. My mother was a big fan of the concept. She’s had more boyfriends than she’s had bad colds. I do not have time for that shit. It leads nowhere good.”

  Wow.

  “You’ve never had a boyfriend?”

  “Never wanted one,” she assures me. “Can we change the subject? I don’t see how my sex life has any bearing whatsoever on whether I rent this place or not. In fact, since you seem so interested in that subject, I think maybe I should rethink this whole thing.”

  She shakes her head, glowering, then she moves toward the door.

  Without even thinking I reach out, grabbing her arm to stop her. She swings around, and I swear for an instant, the look in her eye tells me she’s about to punch me in the face. Instead, she yanks her arm from my hand and takes a step back, her expression a complicated mix of outrage and… attraction?

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—” I can’t find the words. “That was inappropriate, and it won’t happen again.”

  “You’re right about that,” she spits.

  Good lord this girl runs hot and cold. There are so many things I want to say to her, but she’s impenetrable.

  “Sometimes… Sometimes I mess up,” I admit awkwardly, trying to salvage this. “You need to remember… despite all the ‘college professor’ posturing and stalking around like I know what I’m doing, I’m only twenty-four years-old, which means I’m clueless on social cues, and… and… especially with women. Especially women who impress me as much as you do.”

  That was hard to get out. I feel myself relax a little, dropping my defenses, literally and figuratively. My arms fall to my side, and my hands dip into my jeans pockets.

  Chloe’s expression shifts gradually to question. “You’re impressed with me?” she asks. She almost laughs. “I’m a fucking train wreck.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re a bright, remarkably gifted girl who’s endured more bad breaks than a lot of people see in a lifetime. You’re still standing.” I take a tentative step toward her. “You know, until I met you, I thought I was the most resilient, most guarded, person I’d ever come across. You… you’ve got me beat on that account, hands down.”

  The two of us together would make one impenetrable fortress.

  “You’re not a train wreck,” I insist.

  She regards me with caution. I wish I knew what’s going through her lovely little head. She reveals nothing before asking me to return her to school.

  I’m pretty sure Chloe Harvey is going to crush my defenses, having me on my knees before this is all said and done. Some part of me, some long buried, remote piece of my being—perhaps the twenty-four-year-old part that I work so hard to keep quiet, make sit up straight and behave—is quietly hoping she succeeds.

  Chapter 7

  Chloe

  He’s impressed with me? I don’t even know what to make of that statement. And then his hands-shoved-in-jeans, staring at his shoes confession that he’s just a clueless kid, just like the rest of us? It’s got to be an act, or a game he’s playing. I could almost convince myself of that, if the performance didn’t remind me so much of the fifteen-year-old kid I knew back in New York.

  Is it possible that everything else is an act? Is it possible he goes through his days—every day of his life—role-playing some part that fits his resume?

  Hayes navigates the car through pedestrian traffic on campus, then into the faculty lot behind the Harvey Building. We’ve made the drive back in relative silence; better that than awkward chit-chat. As soon as we walked out the front door of his house I saw the mask go on, his eyes darken, and just the smallest measure of cautious tension draw his face. Even his body language is altered.

  “Your things are still in the car,” he says as we pull into a parking space. “I’ll give you a ride home after class, and if you want we can go to your storage unit and pick up anything you need, until you get moved in.”

  “You don’t need to do that,” I tell him. “I’ll get some help moving this weekend. I can make do ‘til then.”

  Hayes stares straight ahead, his fists gripping the steering wheel, knuckles white with tension. Finally, he takes a breath. “Why do you have such a hard time allowing someone to be nice to you?”

  I don’t know how to answer his question. I only know his observation is correct. He accepts my non-response as an admission.

  “And, I’m cooking dinner for you because I know you’ve been eating out of a jar of peanut butter for days.”

  He’s right about that too.

  “I’ll meet you after class,” he says. “I expect to be dazzled during class. Don’t disappoint me.”

  We part ways just inside the building, as I’ve got to retrieve my sketches from my studio before class, and he’s going straight upstairs. That, and I need to call Scott and let him know I found a place to live, before he books a rescue mission.

  Scott picks up on the first ring. We talk as I gather my things and head to class.

  “I’ve got a nice place,” I tell him, without going into the detail of whose place it is. “I’m staying there tonight and moving the rest of my stuff in this weekend, so I’m no longer homeless.”

  “Good. Do you need any more money right now? ‘Cause we’re happy to help you. Danny and I talked it over and we’re going to start sending you something every month. You worked two unpaid summer internships with us, and you earned it while you—”

  “Please don’t do that,” I beg him, interrupting. “The money you sent is enough. The place I got is affordable, and with work I’ll have everything covered.”

  “Then put it in the bank and save it,” he says. “We’re sending it. No discussion. That said, we do want you back here next summer. This time we’ll pay you salary while you’re here. You can still stay with us, like you always have. We miss you, kiddo. I think we need to keep a closer eye on you.”

  “You tell Danny I send my love,” I say, turning the corner toward my classroom. I nearly run straight into Liza Johnson, who’s coming around the same corner from the opposite d
irection. I dodge to miss her, while she keeps on moving as if I’m an apparition. “And tell him I said thanks for everything. You guys are family.”

  “You too sweetie. I’m sure glad Hayes is there, keeping an eye on you.”

  He’s doing that, all right.

  “I’ve got to go. I have class,” I say. “I’ll call you soon.”

  Design class goes as expected. It’s tedious going through everyone else’s sketches, then a jolt of adrenaline when my turn comes. It’s the same for everyone. Critiques, whether early or project final, are like rolling a ball of lightening around the room. Everyone gets struck, briefly. Before your turn, you’re waiting to get struck, and after, you’re recovering from having been struck. In the middle of getting struck you’re either a rock star in front of an adoring audience, or the most useless turd, lying stinking in the grass. There’s no middle ground.

  My critique goes fine; not dazzling, but smoothly. I didn’t take the time to jump ahead and do extra work, mostly because I’m not enthusiastic about creating a corporate identity package and style guide for a chemical mining and manufacturing company—our assignment this go-around.

  Hayes surveys my work, engages the class for their impressions of my efforts, then starts taking everything I’ve done apart. You need to develop bullet-proof skin to get through this program, much less go on professionally.

  After class, I gather my things waiting for Hayes, certain it’s going to be a lengthy wait. Three girls and one guy glom onto him, asking him questions, trying to one-up each other, capturing his attention with their carefully rehearsed course of inquiry. Just as I’m about to kick dust and go wait by the car, Hayes excuses himself, approaching me with a sheepish expression and his voice low.

  “Unexpected change of plan,” he says. “You know that little coffee shop down a couple blocks on Harrison?”