I haven’t had a muse in so long I feel lost at the thought of actually having someone inspire my creativity. The last time I truly felt connected to someone in that way was when I was in college. A long fucking time ago.
Picking up the painting, I set it on the floor against the wall and grab a new, empty canvas, placing it on the easel. A new, blank page to tarnish with the color splatters I’ve become known for. Only, the last time someone saw any work of mine was almost ten years ago. My father made sure my art was exhibited in the gallery, and they sold like hotcakes. Each time he had an event, they would sell out, and that’s how he knew I had talent.
But with talent comes fame, and that was the last thing I wanted. I always preferred being in the dark. Hiding away from the bullshit the media would spew, I learned early on it wasn’t worth it. So, instead of taking it on the chin like celebrities usually do, I pulled back and hid.
I wanted to be different. I focused on writing reviews and put my paintbrushes away. When people started asking for my work, my father had to tell them I’d retired my career. There were rage and confusion, but after a year, they diminished and forgot about me.
I pick up the palette after squirting enough paint to start something fresh and grab my brush. Dipping it into the shimmery color, I create a circular shape on the white material. My hand continues its movement, round and around until the black is glaring at me.
When I finally come to a stop, I take a step back and tip my head to the side. Quickly, I dip the bristles into another color before continuing on the pattern of the black. The shades swirl together, creating a distinct shade that I haven’t made before. It reminds me of a dusky sky. The tones taking over as they blend and meld, and when I finally look at it again, there’s a familiar image coming to play. Black and purple, circular, like the wide eye of someone who’s captured my attention.
Setting the palette down, I sit on the stool and consider what to do next. A background, perhaps more shading on the round, eye-looking image. Or do I leave it as it is? Perfect in its simplicity.
A knock at the door bounces into the room, causing me to groan at the thought of seeing Nea again. Even though I have to admit I’d like to look at her pretty face, when I’m working, I hate being disturbed.
But she doesn’t know you’re working. The thought flits through my mind, and I have to remind myself she’s not Shay. And I certainly can’t blame her for what someone else has done.
Rising, I make my way to the door and pull it open to find a wide-eyed beauty looking up at me. I notice she’s wearing flat shoes, only because she’s even shorter than she was the day she walked in for the interview. She only comes up to my chest, and that was in heels. She’d be so easy to lift into my arms, press against the wall. What the fuck?
“What?” I ask, shaking my head to clear my wayward thoughts.
“I was going to grab some lunch,” she says. “Would you like anything?”
“No.” The word comes out colder than I anticipated, and I notice her wince. I should try to be nicer, but having someone in my space is new to me. Perhaps in a week or so, I’ll get used to her. But right now, her fucking perfume has intoxicated me, and I can’t stop thinking about tasting it on her smooth, creamy skin.
“Okay.”
“I told you not to wear that godforsaken perfume again,” I grit through clenched teeth just as she walks away from me. Her body goes rigid. She stops, and I notice her small hands fisting at her sides before she glares at me from over her shoulder.
“I forgot. I woke up in a good mood because I was excited to come to my first day at a new job. But since you’ve decided to talk to me like I’m nothing more than shit under your shoes, perhaps I should find something else.”
I don’t say anything as she marches angrily down the hallway to the office. Moments later, she passes me with her purse and laptop bag. She doesn’t say anything, not even a fucking goodbye.
The door slams seconds later, and then silence meets me. It slaps me in the face as a reminder of the last time I was left alone. When my wife walked out and never returned. All that did come from her were regretful memories.
Shit.
Rushing to the door, I snag the handle and tug it open with a whoosh. Nea is already halfway down the drive, and I have to run after her to catch her. The moment I reach her, I grab her arm, spinning her on her heels. Under the leafy drive, I take her in. The gentle sunlight streams through the canopy overhead, making her eyes shimmer like gemstones, and the memory of the painting hits me square in the chest.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. I never apologize. I’ve never needed to because everyone who knows me knows I’m an asshole. I make no apologies for it because it’s who I am, and I’m not going to change anytime soon. What’s the saying? "You can’t teach an old dog new tricks”?
“Sorry for?” she asks, tipping her head to the side and folding her arms across her chest, which immediately catches my attention. The soft, luscious mounds of her tits tease me from the neckline of her blouse.
Clearing my throat, I lift my gaze to hers. “For being an asshole. You’ll have to get used
