Becoming His Muse Part One Read online

  For a moment, I’m speechless. I’m not sure if anyone can save this guy from himself. But I refuse to be intimidated.

  “Are you able to sexualize all vegetables or just pickled cucumbers?” I say as I troll a carrot through a bowl of dip.

  “Why stop at vegetables?” He picks up a cherry tomato and pops it into his cheek. He tries holding my gaze but I can’t help rolling my eyes.

  “Oh, please, I beg you to.”

  “I like the sound of that. I’d probably do just about anything you begged for.”

  I cough on the carrot.

  He gives me a sideways glance. “Are you a virgin?”

  I stare him down. “Are you?”

  Laughing into his wine glass, he makes bubbles.

  I smirk and add, “Because in my experience the people who talk the most about fucking are usually the ones doing it the least.” I set my empty glass on the table.

  He strokes his chin, rasping at the stubble gathered there. “Theoretically, you may be right. In my case, far from fact.”

  I arch an eyebrow. Is that supposed to impress me? His hot looks and writer fame might seduce all manner of fan girls, but right now I’m fantasizing about tossing wine in his face. If only I hadn’t drunk it all.

  Behind Logan, I notice an older academic-y looking woman veering towards us. I think he’s about to be pulled away to start the book signing. I feel my insides melting with relief, but then he leans toward me and I catch the faintest scent of soap or cologne and suddenly I want to close my eyes, breathe deep, and let other parts of myself melt until I’m a swooning mess. He whispers,

  “The point is, we are virgins to each other, that’s all that matters.”

  He gives me one last searing look before turning to the woman who is now a mere three steps away from us. He seems to know it’s time to go, as if he has an internal clock for these kinds of events. He’s been doing it long enough, he probably does.

  After he’s led away, I take a several deep breaths and try to shake off his intimidating presence, though my body still hums from it. His looks, his smell, even his intelligence are all maddeningly attractive, but his arrogance, his aggressiveness, his ‘act’ all repel me. I feel twisted in knots that I can’t immediately untangle.

  I look around for Ruby. She’s by the book table talking to Jonathan, her ex, who also occasionally models for me. He must have just arrived. They both glance my way at the same time. I head towards them. Ruby smiles, her eyes wide.

  “You are so lucky!” says Ruby. “Logan O’Shane spent, like, five whole minutes talking to you.”

  I shrug. “Five minutes I can’t get back.”

  “You’re kidding, right? Do you know how many people want to talk to him and he just walked past them? Sure, he claims he’s hungry and heads for the snack table, but that’s where you were. He was totally focused on you during the reading.”

  “He’s definitely grooving on you,” adds Jonathan.

  Jonathan’s so sweet and handsome, with wavy blond hair and soft brown eyes. I’m still not clear on why Ruby broke up with him, or rather, ‘decided to take a break’. They’re still friendly and hang out together a lot. If he’d been available earlier in the evening, for the reading, he probably would have been in my seat. But this way, I’ve banked a couple of modeling hours with Ruby, and I know my work here is almost done.

  “Can we go now?” I say.

  Ruby gives Jonathan a ‘see what I have to put up with' roll of the eyes and shoves a book into my chest. One of three books I now realize she was holding.

  “Ouch.”

  “Sorry, Busty LaRue. I bought us each a book and we are going to stand in that line and get them signed.” She points to a thirty-foot long snake of people.

  “Then we can go?”

  “Yes. For beers.” She winks as she hands Jonathan his book. “But the beers are optional. I’m taking pity on you.”

  She leads us toward the line, where I wait patiently, inching my way forward behind people desperate to connect with the illustrious Logan O’Shane. For some reason I feel nervous as I watch him smiling and interacting with readers in line. I can’t deny I’m attracted to him, and I hate myself for it. It’s just his confidence, I tell myself. He repels me, too, because, he’s so full of himself and I’m not. Of course, he’s a real artist and I’m not. Not yet anyway.

  Jonathan is pretty quiet when his turn comes and I see Logan giving him the once over, maybe trying to assess if he’s a writer and then deciding he’s probably too good looking (despite the proof in his own mirror). Jonathan’s looks are pretty jock and innocent even though he’s rather poetic at heart. That’s what Ruby told me. And then I remember that she said Jonathan started to feel like a brother to her and that sex got weird after that thought lodged in her brain. That’s why they were ‘taking a break’.

  Ruby is tongue-tied by the time she sets her book in front of Logan.

  “Who should I make this out to, Sweetheart?” He gives her one of his searing green stares but it’s really for show, part of his act, to send her over the edge, I think. He notices me standing behind her and I wonder if he’s showing off for me. I catch myself. Of course not. He’s showing off for everybody.

  My poor, literate and usually articulate friend finally stutters out, “R-rr-r-ruby.”

  “Good choice of name,” says Logan, his pen flourishing across the inside page. “It matches the beautiful blush in your cheeks.” I see Ruby’s knees wobble.

  Then it’s my turn. I drop my book in front of him. He looks up at me and smiles. This smile is slightly crooked, teasing, and fairly successfully sexy.

  “My friend bought me the book,” I say. The book he has yet to open and sign.

  He glances after Ruby. “So are you and she… you know, together?” With each hand, he curls his thumb and forefinger into a circle and then bangs them against each other. It takes me a minute to get what he’s implying. Is that what he has to tell himself because I didn’t let him drag me off for a quick romp?

  “What is wrong with you?”

  He shrugs and says, “I’m surprised you ask. I didn’t think you wanted to know.”

  Obviously, I don’t want to know what more is wrong with him. I’ve observed enough on my own.

  He uncaps his pen and opens the book now. Thank goodness, I’m starting to feel very self-conscious with all the other people sighing impatiently behind me.

  I start to say, “Make it out to Ava…” but a wine glass crashes to the floor and my name is lost in the smashing and the fuss that ensues. I lean in closer to repeat myself but he says, quietly,

  “Don’t tell me.”

  Those piercing green eyes burn into mine again. I’m close enough to smell the smoke on his breath. I pick up that other scent, too, the musky cologne and a personal body smell that is the furthest thing from repulsive that I’ve ever come across in my life. My breath catches on the inhale.

  He whispers, “I don’t want to know your name, but I do want to know everything else about you.”

  I blink and stand up straight as he writes something in my book.

  Handing the book back to me, our fingers brush each other. I feel an electric warmth rising off his skin.

  “What are you doing now?” he says cheerfully. He’s all sweet charm and professional warmth. Another side of his ‘act’, I guess.

  Aware that I’ve taken up more than my share of time getting my book signed, my automatic response, by default, is honest.

  “Going for beers with my friends.”

  “Where?” he says, glancing at the remaining crowd. I can feel the line behind me energetically willing me to move on.

  “Michaelangelo’s.”

  Under his breath, he says, “I’ll find you there later.”

  He dismisses me with a wave of one hand while the other reaches around me to take the next person’s book. I’m practically shoved out of the way by the acne-faced freshman next in line.

  In a slight daze, I h
ead toward the exit where Jonathan and Ruby are waiting for me.

  I didn’t have a chance to reply to Logan, to say to him, “No, you won’t.” As in, No you won’t find me there later. For one thing, Michaelangelo’s is only the third most popular pub on campus, in part because it’s so hard to find and, as a visiting speaker, Logan O’Shane would never find it on his own in the dark. For another thing, the beer part of my evening is optional, and I’ve just decided to duck out.

  “He talked to you again,” says Ruby, her mouth gaping. “You held up that line for like, another whole five minutes. What did he say this time?”

  Jonathan watches me closely.

  “I don’t know, not much.”

  I can’t remember the exact words anymore. His touch and smell have crowded out the details. I feel pulled into a lulling murky depth, one that takes me over sometimes while painting, when hours passed like minutes until I surface in front of a painting that I hardly remember creating. I force myself to snap out of it. It’s one thing to trance out in front of the easel. No man has ever induced that effect in me.

  “Well?” says Ruby.

  “He asked what I was doing later.”

  “Really? Did you tell him?” says Jonathan.

  “I told him what you two were doing—beers at Mick’s—but I’m going to head home now.”

  Ruby grabs my arm. Her grip is tight. I can feel her nails. “If there is any chance, any chance, that he would actually come out for beers with us, you are not allowed to go anywhere.”

  “Beers: optional. You said it. I’m tired and I have to get up early to get private studio time.”

  “Ava! You can’t do this to me. If he comes and you’re not there he’ll just leave. You have to stay. Just in case.” Her eyes plead with me.

  “I don’t know…”

  “Two more hours! I’ll sit naked in that cold studio for two extra hours. Please?”

  I laugh. “Fine. Sticking around for beer isn’t such a terrible hardship. If I come for an hour, I’ll hold you to one extra hour of modeling. Deal?”

  She glances at the signing table. “What if he’s not done in an hour?”

  I look over my shoulder just as Logan flicks his gaze toward our little group. Geez, I do not want to give him the wrong impression. Assessing the remaining worshippers in the line up, I turn to Ruby.

  “If he doesn’t find us in an hour, it means he’s hooked up with one of his other groupies. You’ll have to take your chances, Ruby.”

  As we pick up our coats from the coat check, Jonathan asks,

  “What does your inscription say, Ava?”

  “I don’t know.” I haven’t bothered to look yet.

  “Mine says, To Jonathan, a god among mortals.” He shrugs. “Makes me wonder if he’s gay.”

  Jonathan does have the physique of a Greek god. Logan may have just been observing a fact. More likely Jonathan is bringing up the gay card for Ruby’s benefit, to dampen her devotion to Logan. Not that it works.

  “No way he’s gay,” says Ruby. “Listen to mine: To Ruby, whose glow is more precious than gemstone.”

  “He could be bisexual,” Jonathan counters. Ruby is freaked out by bisexuality and he knows it. I smirk, guessing he’s angling to get back with her.

  After I pull on my coat, I flip open my book. Logan’s writing is loose yet legible. His penmanship is unique, though it’s obvious he was once taught proper cursive. I focus on the combination of letters, to make out their meaning. At first, all writing is an image to me, a piece of art. Circles and lines, curls and swoops.

  “What’s it say?” says Ruby, peering around my shoulder. She’s about 6 inches shorter than I am. I don’t bother reading it out loud.

  To the girl who sees through shit. Wrong with me #1: I want to see you naked.

  “Definitely not gay,” says Ruby in a singsong voice as she leads us out into the still young night.

  Chapter Three

  I breathe in the brisk scent of fall rising on the heels of a retreating Indian Summer. I try—and fail—not to think about Logan O’Shane’s eyes, or his cryptic communications with me, including the sentence scrawled onto a page of the book I carry under my arm. I want to see you naked.

  Why does that sentence feel like a secret carving a trail up my inner thigh? Or a tune set to unravel me from the inside out? And when I say inside, I mean the deepest, most private core of my being, where all secrets flow to and from.

  He said it was wrong. He labeled it number 1. I wonder what number 2 would be? Do I want to find out? I’m not sure. I have a feeling I’d have to deal with number one first. A shiver runs up my spine and it’s not from the cold.

  As we walk to Mick’s, Ruby is full of questions about the enigmatic Logan O’Shane.

  “How old do you think he is?”

  “Ancient,” says Jonathan.

  “Could he be as old as forty?” Ruby muses.

  Jonathan sighs. “All you have to do is Google him. He’s thirty-three. Probably looks older because of all that smoking. And fucking.”

  “You googled him?” said Ruby.

  Jonathan shrugs. “Know thy enemy.”

  “What is it that you have against him? I mean, come on. He’s famous. For his talent. Honestly, that’s just amazing, and totally deserved.”

  Jonathan shook his head. “Like always, you want to look through your Ruby-colored glasses.”

  “Ugh! I hate it when you say that. You’re just jealous.”

  I cover up a smirk. I can’t believe it took Ruby that long to reach that conclusion.

  “Nuh-uh,” says Jonathan, contradicting what every cell in his body is surely exuding. “You just believe he’s something that he’s not, that no one can be, because you’ve idolized him to such a degree he’s no longer human, no longer real. You don’t like reality, Ruby, you never have.”

  “Not this again!” And they are at it, another one of their bickering arguments. I slow down to let them get a few steps ahead of me so they can hash it out themselves. It’s clear to me Jonathan’s just hurt that Ruby doesn’t want to face the reality that he still loves her. Plus he’s mad that she won’t shut up about Logan.

  Thirty-three, huh?

  I didn’t think he looked all that old. Though he does look grown up, and experienced at life, unlike most of the male students on campus. Even Jonathan. Logan doesn’t have the Greek god looks of Jonathan’s type, but he’s got the tall, dark and handsome thing down pat. His sexy, rakish good looks hint at mystery, a little danger, and a deep well of wounds. He did say he had a pretty fucked up childhood, but now I wonder if he made that up to add to his persona, his mystique, his ‘act’. After all, he makes stuff up for a living. But there was a look in his eyes, something haunted, hurt. He probably didn’t have a great childhood, or why else would he grow up believing it was easier to act than be himself?

  So, thirty-three. Twelve years older than I am, or eleven depending on his birthday. Too old?… For what?

  Nothing, absolutely nothing. I give myself an imaginary slap on the wrist. Ruby is right, I’ve been too long without a bedmate. I should have accepted one of the propositions fired my way tonight. That’s the simple reason why I keep thinking about Logan O’Shane’s eyes, and the way he used them to pin down the object of his gaze. I rather liked being that object for a few minutes…

  No matter how cool and detached I try to be, I have to admit he has unhinged me. Which makes me mad at myself. I am not an object and I don’t want to be one to any man. Particularly an arrogant author. Yet I can’t shake his aura of creative and sexual confidence. I’m still trying to wrap my head around that, though it’s my body I keep imagining wrapping around his…

  I fight that feeling. I can’t go there. For so many reasons.

  After tonight, he’ll be gone, back to New York or wherever he’s from. And despite Ruby’s certainty that he’ll follow us to Mick’s, I’m unconvinced that I’ve left such a lasting impression. Besides, he has his pick of dozens o
f young things ready to throw themselves at him, or the idea of him, because I think it’s really an idea of his tortured writer’s soul and his hard-won fame they’re attracted to. Well, that and his sex appeal. Can’t deny that. I cross my arms tightly over my chest as I walk. My book bag, slung crossways over my back, bumps against my hip.

  Damn, why didn’t I just go home with that good-looking senior who thought I was a virgin? Or at least was willing to pretend I was for one night. Or Stephan, who’d I had a class with last year? I’m beginning to believe that the past two celibate months are at the root of my present obsessive musings about Logan O’Shane, Sexy Arrogant Possibly Genius Writer. I sigh with frustration and readjust my book bag over my other shoulder.

  I try to focus on his flaws. The smoking is gross, of course, yet it gives him a sexy edge. He’s paler than he ought to be at the end of summer, but technically he has an indoor job. I think back to the reading. I couldn’t help but notice the way he moved his hands; the way he ran them through his hair, across a page, or fiddled with his pen or cigarette, showed a man who liked the feel of things. I like that. I like hands. They’re hard to draw but I’m always up for the challenge. That moment when he pulled a fleck of tobacco from his tongue, I knew I wanted to draw his hands…And then there was the way his eyes flashed around the room and seemed to ignite little fires here and there. His mouth, when it quirked up in a condescending smile, provoked irritation, but also a desire to bite those lips into submission. Very kissable lips…

  Turns out I’m not very good at the focus-on-his-flaws thing.

  So what do I do if he does show up tonight? What if he actually finds the elusive Michealangelo’s? What if he sits beside me and stares at me again, those green eyes boring into mine, challenging me, making jokes about being a virgin? I’m not a virgin, not by a long shot, yet somehow, in five minutes, he’d made me feel like one. Like a virgin ready to be claimed.

  Ugh! What am I doing?

  I take a deep breath, rein in my wild imagination, and reframe the moment: I’m just going for beers with my two best friends, who are still bickering I notice, and then I’m going to go home and get up early so I can meet Jenny at the studio at 6:30 am. I yawn just thinking about the early get-up.