Midnight Muse

“You ready?” I ask, softly.

Knox nods once, then again, firmly. “Yeah.”

He opens the car door for me again and helps me find my footing before he’s locking the vehicle behind me. There’s a bit of a breeze now that the sun has dipped down behind the large buildings and I shiver a little, more so when Knox places a warm hand at my lower back to usher me inside.

His skin doesn’t breach mine, touching only the sliver of silken fabric just above my ass. Knox’s palm is a heavy weight against me and the mindless motion he’s circling his thumb in has my knees unsteady as I walk, warmth stirring to life between my legs.

My breath catches in my throat so harshly I almost choke, stepping inside of the well-lit gallery. It’s empty of patrons, and will remain so until the exhibition begins. Some of the most beautiful charcoal drawings I’ve ever seen line the walls. Most of them are drawn on large canvases, bigger than my torso, and I can instantly tell how much work and passion has gone into the creation of them because they’re simply breathtaking.

“There he is,” a man greets us with a broad smile. I tear my gaze from the artwork on the walls as Knox gently nudges me forward. I blush, not realizing that I’d stopped in my tracks in the middle of the doorway. I don’t know where to look because it’s all so beautiful, but I politely drag my stare to the man headed our way despite wanting to stare at all of the artwork. “The man of the night! And who is this lovely lady?”

His voice is rich and deep, much like the color of his upswept eyes, glowing bright with excitement. He approaches Knox and I, patting him on the arm as if he knows that he doesn’t favor shaking hands or hugging. I watch, waiting to see if Knox flinches like he had in the car when I placed my hand on his shoulder, but he doesn’t. There is a tightness to his body and an edge to his jaw that tells me that he might have been anticipating the move.

Knox eases slightly when the man finally removes his hand.

“Silvio, this is Quinn. Quinn, this is Silvio. He owns Opulent.”

“Quinn,” Silvio greets me with a firm handshake and a knowing look in Knox’s direction. He rolls his eyes in response as Silvio turns back to me. “So nice to meet you.”

“You as well,” I answer politely. I don’t know why Silvio had given Knox that look, and I’m not sure I’m going to find out because he’s quickly whisking Knox away, talking of some loose ends that need finishing up before the doors open to the show in a half hour.

Knox quickly untangles himself from the silver haired man, making his way back to me.

“Are you going to be okay out here while I go with Silvio?” He asks me and it’s almost jarring, how polite he’s being tonight. When I wave him off with a nod, he continues, dark brows furrowed like the thought of leaving me alone with his art bothers him. It’s blasphemous, I wouldn’t dare do anything to ruin this for him. “I’ll only be gone for a few minutes. Feel free to look around if you like. I’ll bring you a drink on my way back.”

“Thank you, Knox,” I answer. His gaze lingers before he turns away, leaving me and his exhibition alone.

Assessing the gallery, I’m unsure of where to begin. The only sound throughout the space is the clacking of my heels on the floor. I refrain from pulling out my phone and texting Rory and spilling the entirety of what I’m up to tonight. I’m so nervous I hardly even know what to do with myself. I feel awkward, like an imposter as I decide to view the one nearest to the entrance, keeping a few paces away from the large drawing lit brightly on the wall.

The artwork before me is so dark I can barely make out the forms. The entire canvas is black with deep sweeps of heavy charcoal. The lighter areas of the work have been reigned in with an eraser. I stare at it for a minute, two, allowing the picture to speak to me.

It feels lonely, despairing, almost. The one next to it is an angry stroke of work, lines thick where Knox had clearly pressed harder into the rough canvas as he drew. A puddle of something spilling across a floor in waves. Two eyes ripple in the reflection of the liquid, their pupils malignant and cruel.

It sends shivers crawling up my spine.

Each piece is more beautiful than the last. I find myself both enthralled and rushed, wanting to spend as long as I can in front of each picture while I have the space to myself, rushed because I want to see the entirety of the work before everyone arrives.

The charcoals become lighter, happier, as I follow the path that I’m walking around the room. In the middle of the gallery, well-lit and clearly the centerpiece of the collection, is a canvas so large I’m not entirely sure it could fit through the front door of the building.

It’s titled ‘Not an Accident’ as the plaque to the side of the canvas reads. It towers over me on the wall and I feel so small, glued to my spot, my throat thick and eyes prickling with tears as I admire the piece, absorbing it’s utter, raw beauty.

It’s of a pair of hands, fingers intertwined, pressing into each other in a desperate way, as if seconds from clawing through the skin. One is perfect, smooth, clean skin, while the other is marred, so familiar that it makes my chest ache.

It’s is puckered and patterned, tortured by something great, something that is carried by both memory and sight. They’re Knox’s hands. I would be able to recognize them anywhere, and the unmarked skin of the other must have been what they looked like before the accident changed them forever.

A tear escapes the corner of my eye, but I don’t move to wipe it away.

His artwork is a harrowingly beautiful sight.

Footsteps nearly silent against the freshly washed floors capture my attention, but I’m unable to tear my gaze away from the masterpiece before me.

Knox strides up to my side, staring at the artwork with me.

It is a long time before either of us dare speak, but when we do, it’s Knox that breaks the silence first.

“Are you ready for the event to start?”

I nod, wiping the lone tear I’ve allowed to escape. I don’t think Knox notices.