Midnight Muse

Knox squeezes my shoulders gently and I’m reminded of the conversation that we never finished, of the one I don’t want to finish, the one that I can’t finish. I shouldn’t have brought up my insecurities at all, but he’d been so brave in telling me his, and at the time it seemed like a good idea, until I chickened out.

I think I just accidentally reminded him of it, too.

He doesn’t bring it up right now, which I’m thankful for. “What’s wrong?” Knox asks, rubbing a soothing hand up and down my back. It feels good, like I could just melt right into his side and hide away for a while. “It looks like you have a solid start.”

I crinkle my nose, examining the paper. It looks more abstract than anything, and I wonder for a moment if Knox is just being nice about it. I know him better than that, though, and he would never tease me about the craft so dear to both of our hearts.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I groan. “I’ve started over three times.” All I want to do is throw my head in my hands but I don’t want to get charcoal all over my face unless Knox is the one putting it there.

Maybe having sex will help get my creativity flowing?

Knox is silent for a moment, examining my work. I can see the cogs turning in his mind, how he might help me figure out what to draw for my project. Of course, I could easily draw any animal mixed with myself, but I really want this one to have meaning behind it.

“Why don’t you take a breather and we can all grab something to eat?” Knox suggests. “A break might do you some good, and Slate and I were going to head over to Rhonda’s.”

A hot waffle and a large milkshake sounds absolutely superb right now.

I stare at the paper in front of me. I really should stay and put in a few more hours of work, but at the same time I can’t stand to stare at it any longer.

A week. I still have a week.

“Yeah, I could use a snack,” I agree, picking up my pencil case from the floor and tossing my sticks into it. “Give me a few minutes to pack up.” Standing from my drawing horse, I eye the mess of black on my hands and the clay flecked across Slate’s exposed arms. “You should too, Slate. You’re covered in clay.”

He only grins and I—once again—regret saying anything to him. “The ladies like it dirty, Quinnie. But you already know a little something about that, don’t you?”

I try to force the warmth from my cheeks when I think of just how thorough Knox had been the last time I modeled for him. How up close and personal he’d gotten with that stick of charcoal, how up close and personal he let me get with some edible paints I found online.

Sometimes, I love being an artist.

“Fuck off, Slate,” Knox gripes, flipping my large sketchpad shut. He helps me pack my things while Slate snickers, and his eyes are hot when I rub my hands together, trying to dispel some of the dust from them. He slings my backpack over his shoulder and my sketchpad under his arm while I dart off to wash my hands at the mop sink before Knox can get any more ideas.

CHAPTER 29

QUINN

Rhonda’s is…bustling for a Friday night.

Okay, so I’ve never had the pleasure of actually dropping into the restaurant before, but from the looks of the outside, neon lights busted or dead, a parking lot that is in desperate need of new asphalt, chipping graffiti tags on the side of the building, it’s not one that I’ve ever really considered stopping at.

But, according to Knox and Slate, they have the best breakfast in town.

There are four other tables filled with rowdy college students just like ourselves, except we’re not that loud.

They must be grabbing dinner before darting off to the row of clubs lining the next block over because it’s still early enough that Rhonda’s kitchen is open, and no one wants to be the first ones at the bars—that just screams lame.

I slide into the booth, my jeans gliding over the pleather seat as Knox follows me in. He presses our thighs together once he settles, handing me one of the menus stacked in the middle of the table.

I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to this nice, touchy Knox, but I love it.

Slate takes up the other side of the booth, peering around the diner. I can hear the group of jocks in the corner as they joke about some of their classes that they have no intention of trying in. They seem to think that they’ll be able to pass just by the graces of their athleticism, and I pray that they’re wrong.

Two older men sit at the bar, chatting quietly. They’re drinking milkshakes and sharing an order of fries and it makes my heart melt when their heads tip back laughing when the song on the jukebox switches from something the jocks must have put on to a classic.

The soothing melody along with the feeling of Knox’s thigh against mine is settling, driving away some of the frustration I’d felt back at school where I’d been working on my drawing project. There’s still that anxious feeling in the pit of my stomach, and I’m not sure how much food I’ll be able to get down with the boulder of nerves taking up the space, but I’m willing to try.

The lights in the diner are low and I have to squint to see the menu. Rhonda’s reminds me of the kind of place the locals love, and I suppose that everyone who walks in these doors already knows what they want anyway, so they don’t need to be able to read the small print on the overstuffed pamphlet.

A disco ball spins in the center of the ceiling, casting colorful blocks of light across the words. I try to use it to my advantage, tilting the menu into the streaks for a better view.