Unconventional

by Isabel Love

  “It isn’t always easy, but I’ve learned to follow my muse wherever he takes me. I’ll sometimes go weeks without any inspiration, but when it hits, I have to drop everything—cancel lunch dates, forget meals, forgo sleep—so I can make up for lost time.” That’s what Reid had the hardest time dealing with—being ignored when my muse stole all of my attention—but if I don’t create, I don’t get paid.

  “So you work from home?” Mrs. Nelson asks me.

  “Yes, I have a studio in my house.”

  “Must be nice to be able to work from home,” Tabby comments.

  “It works well for me.”

  “I need a drink. Quinn, do you want to come with me?” Charlie asks.

  He doesn’t have to ask me twice, and we head back to the bar for another shot and drink.

  “Sorry about the inquisition back there,” he apologizes.

  “Hey, it’s no sweat off my back. I can see why it’s so rough being the only one in your family who didn’t go into law. It’s like they don’t even know how to talk about anything else.”

  “Right? All the shoptalk drives me crazy. I can’t wait to get out of here.”

  “So what’s on the agenda after this?”

  “We can go back to my place, where I’ll take my frustrations out on your pretty pussy.”

  “Check please.”

  He chuckles.

  We take our shots and linger by the bar, neither one of us wanting to go back to the table to finish our dinner. Charlie is standing very close to me, which is how I feel him stiffen. My eyes fly up to his face to see what’s wrong, and I notice him looking over my shoulder. I set my drink down, peer behind me, and see a slender brunette approaching us. She’s hauntingly beautiful with big, brown doe eyes and glossy chestnut hair on a face that stares at Charlie with guilt and fear.

  I look back to Charlie and see him clench his jaw so hard, I’m afraid he may chip a tooth. This is obviously someone he does not want to see.

  I wonder who she is.

  Rule #1: Don’t think, just feel.

  FUCK, THIS DINNER JUST keeps getting better. First, there’s the awkward conversation with my family—it’s like they do it on purpose to make sure I can’t contribute to the conversation. Would it kill them to talk about anything other than work? Then, my mom interrogates Quinn, making her feel like a weirdo for being an artist.

  And now this—the only woman I’ve ever loved is walking my way.

  Anna.

  It’s been eight years since I last saw her, 10 years since she broke my heart.

  I don’t want to notice how beautiful she is. I don’t want to acknowledge that she’s grown up as I have, but she still looks like the same girl I fell in love with. Her big brown eyes scan my face, taking me in. I don’t want to remember how I used to get lost in those eyes. I don’t want to see the hurt reflected in them as she looks at me. I don’t want to notice how pale she is and worry that she isn’t taking care of herself. I don’t want to feel the pain in my chest as I think about what she did to me, to us.

  As she approaches, I can’t control my body’s reaction. All my muscles stiffen, my jaw clenching painfully. I know Quinn notices my reaction to Anna and she’s looking back and forth between us, waiting for me to tell her who is approaching us, but I’ve lost the ability to talk.

  Anna steps right in front of me, her arms wrapped protectively around her waist, as if I’m the one that hurt her. I don’t want to notice the birthmark she has on her shoulder, the one she thought was ugly, the one I used to kiss every time I saw it.

  “Hi Charlie.” Her voice is barely above a whisper.

  “Anna.” My voice is steel.

  She flinches at my animosity. Tough shit. I want her to just say what she has to say and leave. Looking at her hurts too much.

  “How are you?” she asks quietly, taking in my face, my neck, my body. She sees Quinn then glances at our hands, maybe checking for rings.

  “I’m fine.” I bite out the words, firing them at her like a weapon. “What do you want?”

  She waivers, looking around and noticing the attention we’ve gathered with this short exchange. She was never one to put on a show, but she soldiers on, turning back to face me.

  “It’s been a long time, Charlie. I just…I need you to know how sorry I am.” She looks right at me, her gaze begging me for forgiveness. Her eyes shine with unshed tears and she bites her upper lip to stop herself from crying. It’s the same thing she used to do when she was upset, and I don’t want to remember these things about her. 10 years may have passed, but what she did to me will always be unforgivable.

  I chuckle and it’s a dark, ugly sound. Quinn steps closer to me, putting her hand on my back, trying to comfort me. I take a deep breath in an effort to calm down. “Time doesn’t change what you did, Anna.”

  She flinches again, and a tear drops down her cheek, leaving a wet trail on her pretty face. There was a time in my life when I would have done anything to prevent Anna from crying. I loved her so much, seeing her upset caused me physical pain. Now, though, the sight of her tears does nothing to me. My heart is a piece of stone.

  She looks to Quinn and I know I’m being rude by not introducing her, but fuck manners. It’s all I can do to stand here, in front of Anna, and not lose my shit.

  “I know, Charlie. I wish I could go back in time. I would do so many things differently.” She sounds sincere, and maybe she is, but that doesn’t change the fact that she lied to me. She took a choice away from me, shattered my heart, and changed my outlook on relationships for the rest of my life.

  “Yeah, me too. I wish I never would have fallen for a selfish liar like you.” My words are knives and I fling them at her. I can see them land, too, as she gasps with pain and more tears start to fall. She wipes them away quickly, struggling not to fall apart. Footsteps approach and I see a familiar face. It’s her older brother’s best friend, Weston maybe? I can’t remember his name. He stares at Anna, concern etched in his expression.

  “Anna, you okay?” he asks her, standing close by her side.

  She squares her shoulders and raises her head, gaze still fixed on me. “I’m okay, Wesley.”

  Wesley (I was close) sees the tears falling and knows it’s a lie. He narrows his eyes at me, like I’m the one in the wrong here, because I made her cry.

  Anna’s desperation for forgiveness is a palpable thing, but I don’t have forgiveness in my heart. I’m not sure I ever will where she’s concerned.

  “Careful with this one,” I tell Wesley, wanting to lash out at Anna some more. “She’s a liar.”

  He steps protectively in front of her, fists clenched at his sides. “That’s enough,” he growls. “I know you two have history and I know it ended badly, but you have no idea what she’s gone through since then.”

  “And you have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about. If you did, you wouldn’t be looking at me like that,” I fire back, my voice rising above the rest of the chatter. The surrounding tables quiet and heads turn in our direction, trying to hear what’s going on. I need to get out of here. My collar all of the sudden feels like it’s choking me.

  Quinn takes my hand and squeezes it. “Hey, I think we need to get back to dinner.” That’s the exact opposite of what I want to do after a run-in with the most painful part of my past, but I don’t resist when she leads me back to the table. I need to get this dinner over with. Then I plan to get drunk. This is why I avoid relationships—the only thing love ever gave me was a broken heart.

  “Told you he would propose,” Dom elbows me on the way out. It was all I could do to stay at the table until after dinner, when Ben did indeed propose to Tabby. The crowd sucked it up just as eagerly as they did the scene between Anna and me at the bar. The minute I could get away without risking my mom’s fury, Quinn and I said our goodbyes, and I was surprised to see Dom and Samantha right behind us.

  “You called it. I just hope Tabby is happy,” I say.

  “Did you s
ee her face? She’s glowing,” Quinn points out.

  “She did look happy,” I admit. We turn in our tickets to the valet attendant and wait for them to bring our cars up.

  “Hey, you okay?” Dom asks.

  Fucking hell. “I’m fine,” I grunt, hoping he isn’t going to bring up Anna.

  He raises his hands in a don’t shoot manner. “Sorry, I just know how messed up you were after you two broke it off. It had to be hard to see her.”

  “It was unexpected. I should have figured she might be there, though. Her parents were members at Green Briars when we were younger, too.” Back then, Anna and I were so happy that our parents were members of the same country club because sometimes we could sneak off and fuck in the bathrooms.

  “It’s a shame she never went to medical school like she planned.”

  There are a lot of things about Anna that I would call a shame; her change in career plans is not one of them.

  “Yeah, it’s a real pity,” I retort wryly.

  “Well, at least you followed your dreams.” Dom smiles at me, meeting my eyes. “You’ve wanted to be a photographer since you got your very first camera. I’m proud of you, Charlie.”

  He’s proud of me. Not once in all my life have my parents uttered those words. There’s a strange burning sensation in the back of my throat and my eyes feel hot as I nod, unable to speak around the lump in my throat.

  I’m saved by the valet, who hands Dom his keys. He hugs me, slapping my shoulder, and we say our goodbyes. Then it’s just me and Quinn. She’s been quiet this whole time, not asking for any answers. I’m grateful, as I don’t want to give them.

  “So, you have two options,” she tells me.

  “Only two?” I try to bring some levity to my voice, but the last couple of hours have me feeling raw. “And what might they be?”

  “Option one: I can take you to a bar, get you drunk, and take advantage of you.”

  “I like the sound of that one, Red. What’s option two?”

  “You can come back to my place, get drunk, and paint with me.”

  “Paint with you?” I raise my eyebrows. I am not talented with a paintbrush.

  “Painting is fun. Plus, you’ll get drunk no matter which option you choose.”

  “Hmmm. Decisions, decisions.” I rub my fingers together, watching her. “Will you still take advantage of me at your house?”

  “Definitely.”

  “I’ll take option two please.” I surprise myself with my choice, but I need a distraction right now. Being in public around people does not sound very appealing, and the idea of watching Quinn paint has my curiosity piqued.

  “Excellent.”

  20 minutes later, Quinn has stripped me down to my underwear so I don’t mess up my clothes, poured us each a drink, and led me to her art studio. I’ve never been in here before and I’m impressed with how tidy it is—I imagined it to be a mess. She has several easels, three of them with pieces in different states of completion. Waist-high carts sit next to each one so she can keep the items she needs for each piece handy, and one wall has a massive shelving system with supplies. There is even a sink and short countertop for cleanup. The room has huge windows, and I can imagine she gets a lot of natural light in here during the day.

  We’re in here to paint, but my fingers itch to get out my camera and take pictures of everything. Quinn puts a blank canvas on one of the easels, gives me a palette, and pours a healthy heap of different colors on it.

  “Are you ready for the rules?” She quirks her eyebrow at me.

  “Rules? You should have told me there were rules before. I’m not much for following rules, Red.”

  “You’ll like these, I promise.”

  “Okay, tell me the rules.” I take a healthy swig of my drink before she collects it, puts it on the counter, and hands me a paintbrush.

  “Rule number one: don’t think, just feel.”

  I sigh. Well that kind of defeats the idea of distraction. I don’t want to feel.

  “Rule number two: there are no mistakes.”

  I laugh at this. “I’m pretty sure you’re wrong about that one.”

  “I’m not wrong. Those are the rules of my studio,” she huffs. I take Quinn in as she sets herself up. She doesn’t have a canvas on her easel like I do; instead she has a gigantic pad of paper and a charcoal set on her cart. She’s wearing a paint-splattered t-shirt that falls to mid-thigh and leggings—also paint splattered—in combination with her makeup and fancy hairdo. Anyone else might look ridiculous, but she manages to look carefree and sexy.

  “Is there a rule number three?” I ask her.

  “Nope, that’s it. Okay hotstuff, I need music when I create, so what’s your pleasure tonight?”

  “Heavy metal.” I need something angry.

  “Perfect. I have just the thing.” She links her phone up to a stereo system I didn’t notice before and the sounds of Metallica blare through little speakers placed all over the room. Wow.

  “Okay, no more talking. Become one with your brush. Dip it in some paint and smear it on the paper. I don’t care what it looks like,” she orders me.

  The heavy beat vibrates in my chest and I stare at the blank canvas in front of me. I’m not much for drawing people or landscapes. I look over to Quinn and see she has turned her easel so she’s facing me and I can’t see what she’s drawing. She’s busy, picking up different pieces of charcoal, bobbing her head to the beat. She isn’t watching what I’m doing at all. Don’t think.

  I take a deep breath, smear my paintbrush in some red paint, and splatter the wet paint onto the canvas. Red drops land with plopping sounds and it looks like blood. I do it again, and again, and again. Some of the drops begin to drip, and it makes me want to connect them on the bottom of the canvas. I drag the brush through the lower half, and it feels good to see the angry slash my brush makes. I drag it back and forth. Minutes pass and I find myself singing to the music and sweating.

  I look back over my shoulder to find Quinn watching me, smiling.

  My canvas looks like a murder scene. It screams rage. Horror. Anger.

  But surprisingly, I feel better. It’s like I ejected all my feelings out of me and they landed on the canvas.

  Huh. Maybe there’s something to this painting thing. It’s quite cathartic.

  Now that I’m done with my piece, I can’t help but want to see what Quinn has drawn.

  IT’S NOT EVERY DAY I have a living, breathing muse right in front of me. I started with his eyes; those are always the hardest to draw. I tried to capture the intensity of his gaze as he worked on his piece. He was in pain.

  Then I got distracted by his hands, the way they gripped the paintbrush. They’re strong masculine hands, hands that know how to pluck and pinch and stroke my body in all the right ways.

  Now I’m working on his torso. He has sculpted his body with just the perfect amount of muscle—not too bulky, but not too lean either. I blend the charcoal to try to capture the contour of his muscles when he leans forward to paint.

  I love watching him get lost in his piece. He hasn’t drawn a picture; rather, he’s captured feelings of anger and pain in an abstract way. I’m sure he’ll think it’s garbage, but it’s amazing.

  I’m dying to know what happened with him and that girl, Anna. I know better than to ask him, though; he’ll tell me if he wants me to know. Just like I don’t want to talk about Reid, I can respect if he doesn’t want to talk about his past.

  He puts his brush down and looks over at me, raising an eyebrow. There’s a light sheen of sweat on his body from his efforts.

  “Not too shabby, hotshot,” I compliment.

  He looks a bit embarrassed. “I’m not quite sure what it is, but it did make me feel better. Is art therapeutic for you?”

  “Of course, that’s why I started painting. It was an escape from real life. Now, I crave it.”

  “Can I see what you made?” he asks me.

  “Come on over.” I collect the t
wo previous pieces and lay all three next to each other. Charcoal is so much fun to work with.

  Charlie makes his way over to my easel and his eyes widen in surprise.

  “I had no idea you drew people so well. This is amazing,” he says sincerely.

  “You make a good muse.” I bump his shoulder.

  “Obviously.”

  We chuckle. “Don’t worry, you can have these. I’m not going to sell them or anything.”

  “What am I going to do with drawings of myself? You can do whatever you want with them, Red. It’s your talent.”

  “Okay. What do you want to do with your piece?” I ask him.

  “Burn it?” He laughs. “It’s hideous.”

  “No way. Can I try to sell it at my next showing? I’ll give you the money,” I offer.

  “No one is going to want that thing. I am not an artist,” he protests.

  “I beg to differ, but if no one wants it then it won’t sell, no harm done.” I shrug.

  “Fine,” he concedes, if a bit grumpily.

  “I think you forgot about our other mission tonight,” I point out. His glass is still half full of the drink I poured him earlier.

  “Is this the part where I get to take advantage of you?” He quirks an eyebrow up, smiling at me with his devilish grin.

  “I was referring to the getting drunk part, but I won’t complain if you want to take advantage of me.” I smile coyly back at him.

  “Can I fuck you here, in this room?” he asks me, his gaze traveling down my form. I’m a total mess. I’m wearing paint-splattered clothes and charcoal must be everywhere. I blend and shade with my fingers, so I always find smudges all over my body after I work with it.

  “I’m a mess, Charlie. Let me at least clean up.”

  “You’re perfect.” His eyes blaze with hunger and my protest dies a sudden death at the way he’s looking at me. He takes my charcoal-smeared fingers and places them on his sweaty chest. “Besides, don’t you remember how much I like being your canvas?”