Midnight Muse

I don’t like the thought of that at all.

But my father doesn’t care. He’s already taking the first and final sip of his coffee and grimacing at the taste. He looks around the diner as if he might just buy this place next. I swallow harshly, suddenly regretting bringing him here.

“If the deal goes through, you might be seeing a lot more of your old man around this summer.” It’s said like a threat. He stands, staring down at me. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”

I glare, glued to my seat. I throw every ounce of hatred at the man who fathered me because there’s nothing that I can do about it. If he’s talking about buying the building that means that the plans are already in the works.

I’m truly and utterly fucked.

Travis Foster throws a twenty-dollar bill down on the table. “This should cover that. You can keep the change too, son, spend the rest on some paint, or something.”

Fuck, do I want to bare my teeth at him right now.

My stare doesn’t leave his back until he’s settled into his sleek, black sports car. My breathing is heavy, fingers clenched so tightly that I know they’ll be aching when I uncurl them.

As I sit alone in the booth, I still can’t help but wonder why I lied about going on a date.

The wind against my body and the rumble of my motorcycle beneath me makes my night slightly better.

I try to let the meeting with my father roll off of my shoulders with the current pressing against my body, but it isn’t happening.

Usually, I enjoy the ride. The way taking the curves a little too fast makes my heart stutter in my chest, the smooth asphalt beneath my wheels wiping my worries away, but there’s something about tonight that has me feeling like I’d rather just put on some music, wallow in my bed, and work on my drawings for my upcoming exhibition.

I’ll show that fucker.

I almost pass the apartment building while I’m distracted with my thoughts. Slate’s big, beat-up Bronco is a red flag waving at me from its perpetual spot in front of the building. Literally, the crimson rust bucket is an eyesore and I’m surprised we haven’t gotten any complaints from the landlord about it bringing down the value of the building.

Especially since he’d been looking to sell it, apparently.

I jerk to a stop and back up my motorcycle, parking it in front of Slate’s car. He always parks closest to the corner so that no one can block him in. I didn’t know if it had been a jab from when I trapped Quinn and Rory’s moving truck in on their first day here, but I laughed nonetheless.

There are a handful of people wandering in and out of the building, typical for a weekend. Giggling groups of girls and guys carrying racks of beers on their shoulders, hooting and hollering, eye-fucking the girls in their short skirts as they wait for the elevator. There are parties throughout the building every weekend, and I pray that for once, Slate has decided to wander down a few floors to find a fuck instead of hosting another party.

My prayers are not answered.

Shoving through the stairwell out onto the fourth floor, the music hits me like a truck. It’s bass-heavy, blaring down the hall like a goddamn rave. I groan, pushing my way through the people loitering in the hall, ignoring the more than interested looks I receive from a few girls staring me down like a pack of hungry hyenas.

Fuck, I really don’t want to deal with this right now.

It’s late enough that the pregame should be finishing soon, but knowing Slate, this party is only just beginning.

I stayed at the diner after my father left, ordering something sweet because I couldn’t leave until my hands stopped trembling. It hadn’t helped much, waiting out the shakes, not even when my favorite waitress—Rhonda herself—brought me a fry on the house and added an extra cherry on top of my milkshake, then proceeded to sit with me to check in.

I adore Rhonda. Slate, Ace, and I used to frequent her diner often during our freshman year, when we had no transportation and were broke art students. Rhonda has always taken care of us, even now that the tradition seems to have dwindled as we’ve gotten older and are able to attend bars and have money for restaurants that don’t only serve smash burgers and shakes.

I’m pretty sure I’m the only one that still visits.

The apartment is packed to the brim with partygoers. I can smell the alcohol and sweat in the air and the stench makes my nose scrunch. I could use a fucking drink right now, I think, even though I try to refrain from alcohol altogether because it only makes my hands tremble and that’s the last thing I need right now.

At first glance, I don’t see either of my roommates, but suddenly, Slate is barreling through the crowd as if he has a sixth sense for knowing when I enter a room.

“Hey, man.” He grins widely, tossing an arm over my shoulder. The drink in his cup sloshes precariously close to the rim of his glass and I grimace at the thought of it spilling on me.

His eyes are blurry with the alcohol in his system and he’s swaying, leaning his body weight against me. Slate is not a light man, and I hope he hasn’t tripped and crushed anyone with his sheer size because it wouldn’t bode well for the person trapped underneath the behemoth.

“Hey, Slate.”

“Are you setting up tonight? There are these two chicks that want to get tatted up. Underboob.” Slate wiggles his eyebrows and grins like he just caught a glimpse of heaven. “Matching.”