Becoming His Muse Part One

  BECOMING HIS MUSE

  #1

  (3-part series)

  KC MARTIN

  Copyright © 2014 by KC MARTIN

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Chapter One

  Logan O’Shane is famous. I, Ava Nichols, am not.

  He stands at the podium, the heel of one hand resting on the top corner, the other hand drifting between his mouth, the page, and the ashtray sitting on a small table beside him. Logan O’Shane is so famous they let him smoke in this college auditorium.

  The audience, mostly students and some faculty, watches the dance of his cigarette and its trail of smoke while listening to the drawl of his words and carefully punctuated silences. I find myself waiting for the fleeting moments when his searing green eyes lift to singe us all with a look that adds profundity to his prose. Three times now he has met my gaze, each time raising the temperature of my skin. I sit in the third row, left of center, my book-heavy bag on my lap.

  I can’t deny that he’s gorgeous, with a powerful gaze and a voice that mesmerizes an audience, but here’s what I really think:

  Logan O’Shane is full of shit.

  Maybe it’s because he’s so cocky, arrogant, and unquestionably full of himself. Or maybe it’s the charcoal grey Fedora he wears like a pretentious prop. Earlier, he tipped it as he sauntered across the stage to loud, welcoming applause, which stopped as soon as his forced smile disappeared and he flipped open his book to grace us with the honor of this reading.

  Apart from the hat, he wears a collarless, white shirt under a slightly threadbare tweed jacket that fits, but just barely, over his broad shoulders. Expensive slacks fit snugly over long legs, which are crossed at the ankle as he leans on the podium reading passages from his novel.

  When he looks up, I’m pierced again by those intense green eyes of his, eyes set in a face that’s movie star handsome but with a rougher edge, a hardness, and some kind of unrestrained primal energy bristling under his practiced persona.

  I try to focus on the writing, his reading of his writing… I hear words strung together to make meaning, to provoke responses, to shock and entertain. Once in a while there is a stab at the ineffable truths of living. But in the end they’re just words. Words he has woven into an admirable career, a wild reputation, a spin of creative illusion that some are convinced is the mark of genius. But I’m not convinced he’s genuine. Only his eyes are real, and that realness shines for a split second as he lifts his gaze to seek some truth from the audience, or maybe someone who also seeks the truth.

  My friend Ruby, who dragged me to this reading, is as rapt as everyone else in this auditorium. Ruby is a Literature major and Logan O’Shane is apparently writing literature. Right in our midst. Tonight just might go down as an historic reading. At any rate, someone at the back is recording it, just in case. Still, I am not impressed. It could be because I’m a painter and not a writer. I like to see the material I choose to represent, the play of light and shadow and color. Words are manipulative, and seem removed from direct experience somehow; they are arrows pointing to life but they are not life itself. I suppose paintings aren’t life either, but they’re right there in front of you, able to be viscerally experienced, without the need for the deciphering of language. Don’t they say a picture is worth a thousand words?

  I sigh and wait patiently for the reading to wrap up. I’m accompanying Ruby in a barter for time. I attend a couple of readings with her; she models a few hours in the studio for me. Live models are expensive for artists, and I’ve learned to creatively negotiate with friends. The less modest ones anyway.

  During a particularly expletive passage, Mr. O’Shane takes off his hat and rakes his fingers through his thick, dark hair. He raises one eyebrow as the characters on the page shift from fighting to lovemaking. I steal a glance at my fellow listeners. The women’s mouths are slightly parted. The men’s brows are slightly furrowed, as if mentally taking notes from a master.

  I look back at Logan O’Shane, who has forgotten his cigarette at the edge of the podium. Ash extends precariously from the cylindrical tip. The hat, too, seems forgotten, and for a moment he seems more real, more genuine, in his effort to enliven the drama beneath the silence of words on a page. For a moment, I’m rapt.

  His dark hair falls across his forehead. He pushes it away as he scans his page and continues reading.

  “Her lips take over my breath, my voice. Caught up in her I feel myself an instrument of her will, as I will myself to be gone, so that I might give myself up to the totality of her taste. With the last of my strength I resist. I roll her over. Take her as I must. Force her to accept my resolute separateness. She cannot resist.”

  There is a general exhale as he turns the page to describe the next chapter in his sad, dark love affair, which is only part of a larger story that involves war, parachutes, espionage and family betrayal. At least that’s what I’ve picked up so far. I don’t try too hard to string it all together to make sense. That’s not why I’m here.

  He replaces his hat, taps off his cigarette, takes another drag, and flicks a glance at the audience. The moves seem so rehearsed, so intentionally choreographed. Does anyone else notice? Seems not.

  Even so, I can’t deny that he’s intriguing, and uncomfortably attractive. Each time his eyes meet mine, I cross my legs a little tighter, roll out my shoulders to allow my under arms a little more air, and take a slow deep breath to temper my heartbeat. This is part of his charm and success, no doubt. Though Ruby said his books are as popular with men as with women. His writing is hard and clear; he’s been touted this century’s Hemingway. No wonder he’s so full of himself.

  “We drove west past sunset and didn’t stop until it was full dark and we had to pull over to sleep. But we didn’t sleep. We fought naked. Took turns winning until we were spent and then we slept as the sky turned steely grey. The sun woke us and we drove again. In two days we’ll hit the Pacific, I said. She smiled. It would be her first time seeing the ocean. I liked that. The thought of being there, making it happen. You think a life is full of first times but it doesn’t take long before they run out and you long for that flutter of the unknown. Some spend the rest of their lives searching for it.”

  The illustrious Logan O’Shane finishes reading his passage and the room bursts into applause. I don’t bother to readjust my bag to free my hands. Maybe it’s rude of me, but I am not overcome by the adulation around me, and there’s plenty. He doesn’t need mine. As I watch him tip his hat with false modesty, what I’m overcome by is his arrogance. His gaze roves over the audience, soaking up the love, until he gets to me. I notice the tiniest downturn to his satisfied smile as his fiery stare homes in on my inert hands.

  Into the microphone he breathes a final ‘thank you’ and then closes his book, folds up his papers, waits for the clapping to die off.

  I lean toward Ruby. “Can we go now?”

  She shakes her head. “It’s Q & A time. And then I’ve got to buy a book and get it signed.”

  I roll my eyes. I hope Logan O’Shane didn’t see that, because his gaze just swept past our row again. He stubs out his cigarette and points in our general direction. Damn, is he going to kick me out for not being adequately adoring? But I hear movement behind us. I turn and watch a heavy-set girl with pretty blond hair stand up and take the microphone some tech guy hands to her.

  “Thank you,” she says breathily. “Great reading.”

  Logan gives her a tight smile. Waits. She clea
rs her throat.

  “I just want to ask, um… Where do you get your ideas?” As soon as she blurts out the question, she hands away the microphone, as if it’s a hot potato, and drops back down to her seat. Logan leans against the podium and seems to be trying very hard not to roll his eyes.

  He takes his time answering this throwaway question. Even I know it’s the one most often asked of writers and I’m only a lowly Visual Arts major. He reaches inside his jacket, pulls out a pack of smokes, lights one up, and takes a long drag. I watch the ember brighten and fade while I, and a hundred others, wait for his historic answer.

  “I had a fucked up childhood.” He shrugs. “I’ve had an even more fucked up adulthood. One, by the way, that has included a lot of fucking.”

  Everyone in the audience laughs nervously, especially the guys. But regardless of how progressive our little college is reputed to be, colleges, by nature, are institutions and tend to be more conservative than the real world, which is why the laughter is nervy.

  “So if you want something to write about, if you want ideas, go out into the world… and get fucked. I highly recommend it. There is no art without fucking.”

  His green eyes burn into mine for a split second as he takes another long drag. It could have been smoke in his eye, but I think he might have winked at me. Ruby looks at me and then back at Logan. Her hand shoots up.

  “Yes?” Logan drawls, pointing at her.

  “My friend here’s a virgin, and she’s studying painting, but are you saying she’ll never be a real artist?”

  What the f—?

  “Ruby!” I sock her in the thigh as everyone in the auditorium turns to look at her, and me.

  Logan’s green eyes are dancing. He sticks the tip of his tongue out toward his finger to retrieve a bit of loose tobacco. He’s smirking. I hear light snickers all around us.

  “That’s right,” he says. “She’ll never be a real artist.”

  That’s it. This man is officially an asshole.

  He gives me one last searing look before pointing at the next questioner on the other side of the room. I can’t even defend myself. Can’t even announce to everyone that Ruby is a liar.

  I pinch her elbow this time. “Why did you do that? You completely embarrassed me. I am so not a virgin.”

  She grins mischievously. “For two months I have been listening to you complain about not having a date. Just watch, half this audience will be swarming you during the wine and cheese. I’ve done you a favor.”

  Crossing my arms, I tell Ruby, “Complaining is a part of the creative process.” But as I glance around, sure enough, I have the attention of a half dozen guys in my near vicinity. That, however, doesn’t stop me from sulking for the next twenty minutes.

  As the Q & A wraps up, Logan gestures in my general direction as he addresses one of the last questions. “Like the situation with the virgin,” he says, and I sink lower in my seat and start plotting my revenge on Ruby. Until what he’s saying catches my attention.

  “If you keep yourself apart from the world, keep yourself ‘virginal’ so to speak, you might minimize hurt and maximize comfort but you won’t ever truly feel. You’ve got to be willing to take risks and be hurt. There is no art without pain and suffering. No life worth recounting either. So don’t be afraid is what I’m really saying. You’re at college now so get your degrees, but then go out into the world and… ”

  He pauses, and a few students, mostly guys, anticipate his next words and say it along with him: “…get fucked!”

  “You got it.”

  Logan winks and the room bursts into applause. I roll my eyes at this last effort to work in an expletive, but I have to admit the other things he said rang true. He knows something about the creative process, I give him that. But he still comes across as an arrogant prick.

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

  Chapter Two

  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 your
self 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.