Midnight Muse

Slate is the perfect distraction, with his buoyant attitude. He’s a good guy, one of the best I’ve ever met, and I’m thankful to have found it in myself to accept his apology when he extended it. I doubt Ace and Knox will ever grow up enough to admit their wrongs and apologize, though I do find myself avoiding Ace’s gaze as often as he tries to catch mine, but I can be civil when they are.

I peek at Knox from the corner of my eye, back to studying him. He’s pulled out his own sketchbook, his sandwich abandoned next to him, still wrapped tightly in its parchment. His head is bent close to the paper, black hair falling across his brow from the tilt of his chin.

There’s an arrogance even to his drawing form. No, not arrogance, but a confidence that I’m entirely envious of. He seems to know exactly what he’s sketching, utterly enthralled with whatever is being etched onto the page. He’s quick about it, as if the image in his mind will disappear at any moment if he doesn’t get it down on the paper.

I feel weird for staring, but there’s something about him that’s drawing me in, now more so than ever. No one else seems to have noticed yet, so I take a bite of my sandwich as I watch. His tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth in concentration and I ignore the way my heart thrums at the sight.

Finally, my gaze moves to his hands, squinting when I notice the scarring around some of his fingers, winding over the backs of his palms. It’s on his other hand too, the one propping his sketchbook up for a better angle. Across the top of his hand is a long patch of skin stretched so tightly I can see the muscles and bone structure as he works. I follow it upwards where it creeps under the long sleeves of his shirt. It’s still pink and irritated, and the bite of sandwich in my mouth turns sour.

Whatever happened to him, it must not have been good.

The conversations of our friends pull me back to reality before I blurt out something I shouldn’t, like questioning Knox on how he got those scars.

“Quinn, back me up here,” Slate exclaims, nudging me with his elbow.

“Ow,” I bite, because the fucker is sharp. He needs to pull his strength, too, because he probably punctured my lung. “What?”

“Ace said that painting is messier than sculpting, can you believe that? Asshole doesn’t even know what I go through to make such masterpieces,” Slate huffs dramatically. When I stare blankly, he continues with a scoff. “Yes, I know. Someone as glorious as me is multi-talented. I both sculpt and model. I’m really easy on the eyes and even better with my hands.”

I nearly choke on my lunch, swatting at Slate as he tries to sneak a grape from the bag I’m opening simultaneously.

Making that ashtray with him was messy as hell, but so much fun.

Swallowing, I answer, “Ew, Slate, I’m trying to eat!”

“Picturing me back in class, huh?” He responds cockily, wagging his eyebrows.

I shake my head in response. He wishes. “As if. You could only be so lucky to be in my thoughts. And I agree with you, sculpting is way messier than painting.”

Movement beside me draws my attention a little too easily. Knox is sitting back now, admiring his piece as he reaches for his sandwich. There’s a slight curve tugging at his lips that makes my mouth dry and all too aware of my own heartbeat. I wish I could see what he’s drawn, but form the angle of the pad, there’s no way I’m seeing shit unless I ask.

Which I refuse to do.

“I told you!”

Ace says around a chip, with a smugness so thick, “Not the way I use it.”

“You fucking dog,” Slate howls with laughter. I bite back the amusement trying to thread my lips into a smile because Ace’s joke wasn’t funny. Instead, I stuff a bite of food into my mouth.

Slate’s chortling is so loud that it draws the attention not only of Knox, but half of the students in the courtyard as well. He doesn’t seem to care though, doesn’t give the slightest fuck about what anyone thinks about him, and I envy that. “That was a good one, Acey.”

Rory’s cheeks are rosy and my brows furrow when she avoids my questioning gaze. She seems much more interested in peeling the skin off of a ripe, purple grape.

Ace and Slate continue with their banter in a way that is brotherly and warm. A few times they try and goad Knox in as well, but he seems pretty content with watching and the sketchbook in his hands. I wonder if he ever joins in with them, lets loose enough to crack a joke every once in a while. I can’t imagine him acting so guy-like, but I suppose anything other than glaring and brooding would surprise me. I can’t seem to be able to separate him from the moody, irritating, monotonous neighbor I met him as.

“So, you’re picking me up tonight, right?” Slate asks with a lazy grin, stuffing another bite of sandwich into his mouth. It’s stacked so full of meats, cheeses, and veggies that it’s exploding from the bread, but Slate seems to have no trouble fitting it inside that big mouth of his.

“Slate, you’re the one that offered to call the Uber, shouldn’t you be the one picking us up?” I ask, pulling out my buzzing phone. Shit. I was supposed to call my parents between classes and debrief them on homecoming weekend. I might’ve accidentally let the beans spill about Sam showing up when I drunkenly sent them a picture of Rory and I forming a heart with our hands around our siblings who stood in the background. They were about two seconds away from kissing, but as far as my parents know, they were just talking really closely.

I send my mom to voicemail before shooting her a quick text, letting her know that I’ll call after my last class of the day.

Slate answers with a prissy tease. “Only if I’m ready first, which is unlikely, because I like to be fashionably late.”

No one mentions that he’s wearing jorts.

“You don’t need to be fashionable; we’re getting drunk and painting pottery. It’ll probably get messy.” His smirk widens and I shoot him a glare, tossing a grape at him. It hits his chest but he catches it on the recoil, popping it into his mouth. “Don’t. I know how it sounded.”

Slate’s only response is a wink.