Midnight Muse

“Slate?” It comes out sounding accusatory, even though I don’t intend it to. My friend startles from where he’s zoned in on his work, the clay between his hands crumpling as he jumps.

He frowns down at his piece and I wince. I didn’t mean to frighten him and now his work is ruined. Slate doesn’t seem all that bothered by it after a few long seconds when he smashes it back into a clump of clay and turns to grin at me.

“Quinn, hey! Are you taking ceramics this semester?”

I respond as I step into the room. The sleeves of his shirt are pulled high to his elbows, the gray substance speckling those toned arms all the way up. He has on an apron so the material doesn’t get on his clothes, but from the way that his large thighs frame the pottery wheel, the fabric isn’t doing much to stop the clay from splattering the inside of his jeans. “Ah, no. I just heard your music playing and thought I’d come check it out. I’m sorry for wrecking your piece.”

He shrugs, offering me an easy grin. “No worries, was just messing around, really.” He gestures to the pottery wheel beside him and I take a seat. “You ready for tonight?”

Ugh, the homecoming football game. We’re not going to the actual event but the pre-games are supposed to be wild. Plus, Rory volunteered us to get to Peep’s early and help out with decorations.

I don’t even know why Peep wants to decorate—or host a college party at all, really—because everything is likely going to be trashed come the morning.

Quite possibly, myself included.

I avoid looking at him when I answer, staring at a few flecks of clay left abandoned. They’re dry and I have the urge to pick at them, but I keep to myself. “Yeah, should be fun.”

“Sounds like you really mean that, too,” Slate chuckles, and I find myself smiling with him, elbowing him softly. “What’s on your mind?”

I sigh, long and forlorn. I’m not really sure I want to talk about my frequent feelings of imposter syndrome with him. We’ve only known each other for a few weeks now, and none of our conversations have encroached on something so intimate. I don’t even know anything about his personal life, either.

“Just tired, I suppose,” I say, watching as he begins working the clay again. The substance oozes between his fingers but he kneads it into submission easily. If I had more energy, I’d be staring much harder at those large hands and how they move and my pussy would be begging for those fingers to work me into submission.

Slate’s frown returns and it doesn’t look right on his face. He’s the kind of guy who’s always smiling and joking around, cheeky through and through. This doesn’t suit him.

“Is it Knox again? I’ll barge right into his room and tell him to shut the music off if it is,” he says and he sounds like he genuinely would if I asked.

That means a lot to me.

“Don’t worry about it too much, Slate,” I answer with a soft smile. Maybe he can see through me in the time of our short friendship. I change the subject, not wanting to wallow in my sour feelings and have them carried with me throughout the night. There’s no way Rory or even Pipa will let me escape this party, no matter how hard I consider trying. “What are—were you making?”

Slate’s beaming smile rivals the bright sun outside. His brown eyes glitter like goldstone and it warms me how thoughtful he is. “I was making my mom a set of teacups for her birthday,” he answers happily.

I want to cringe again because that sounds like quite a nice gift I’ve managed to ruin, but he’s giving me a look that tells me that I shouldn’t be worrying about it at all. “That’s nice,” I comment sincerely. “Have you been into ceramics long?”

“Since I first tried it in high school,” he explains proudly, sticking his thumbs down the middle of the wet lump of clay, parting it easily. Slate continues shaping, curving his fingers outward to form a bowl shape. “I took pottery because I thought it’d be a blowoff class and at least I could get a little dirty. I fell in love with it my first time on the wheel.” He says it like he’s reminiscing about the first love of his life and that yearning feeling is back in my chest again, striking fast and hard. I wish that I could feel the same way about my own art. “Have you ever thrown before?”

“Yeah, when I was in the third grade, I made a mug,” I grumble. It was hard and my piece turned out badly. Unfortunately, my mom still keeps it on her desk, using it as a pencil holder. It never fails to embarrass me when I’m home to see it. My eyes widen when Slate stops his pottery wheel abruptly to cut at the block of clay sitting beside him. He slaps it on the empty slate in front of me and I stare at it like it’s going to mold itself into a pair of fangs and bite me. “What are you doing?”

Slate’s smirk spells trouble. “We’re upgrading you to an ashtray or a vase today, yeah? Come on, go grab an apron and I’ll show you how the professionals do it, Quinnie.”

He gives me a stern look when I’m about to protest and I snap my mouth shut, staring wearily at the lump in front of me. I have always wanted to try my hand at pottery and I don’t have anything else to do until the game starts, so might as well redeem my third-grade self.

Standing, Slate gives me an encouraging thumbs-up as I head over to where the aprons are draped over a rack on the wall.

Why the hell not?

It turns out, spending a few hours in the ceramics room with Slate was exactly what I needed to turn my day around.

He had been the best distraction, naturally funny and a great teacher, too. Somehow, he talked me into making an ashtray, which is something that I don’t need, but was easy enough to make with his direction.

It was nice feeling the slimy material bend under my will, to really get in there and squeeze the life out of it until my frustration had eked out of me enough to finally mold it into the circular shape Slate was showing me. He didn’t comment or tease, just let me do what I needed to do while he worked with his own piece until I was settled and ready to create something that I wouldn’t mash to bits.

He said he’d let me know when it was time for glazing, and we could set something up after class hours so we can paint our pieces before they go into the kiln.

I feel like there’s residual clay clinging to my skin and under my nails that I’ll have to wash off in the shower before I get ready for the party with Rory, but I kind of can’t wait to try it again. The giddy feeling has me excited for the rest of the night.

“Thank you, for that,” I say as Slate and I reach my apartment door. Ever the gentleman, he’d even offered me a ride back home and a trip through the drive-through of my choice, but Rory mentioned something about ordering pizzas with Peep before the end of the game, so I had to politely decline.