Ethan

I didn’t sleep at all the night of the exhibition. Not even a little. I was wide awake, in my studio, working like a maniac until the wee hours of the morning.

I sketched until my hand was cramping into a misshapen claw, and then I sketched some more.

Supplies were strewn everywhere, and if I bothered to look in a mirror, I probably looked like hammered shit, but I didn’t care. Inspiration was more important than vanity.

I’d shower and sleep when I reached a good stopping point.

Problem was, I didn’t want to stop.

It usually took me a week to sketch this much detail.

My muse had arrived like a bolt of lightning, and that wasn’t something to be ignored, ever.

My phone vibrated on the work table, and I glanced down at it.

Jared: When’s your flight get in? Early enough to hang out?

Shit.

I took visual inventory of the studio and the canvas in front of me with a long-suffering sigh. I was due back in L.A. tomorrow. We had one weekend off all month and this was it.

Unlike the arctic blast hitting New York, the temps in L.A. were perfect for the beach, maybe with a bonfire at night. We’d all been looking forward to the down time before the last wave of shows for the year—well, aside from the one on New Year’s Eve.

None of us had specific plans, which was kind of the point. Just hanging out; winging it without some management dork harping about keeping to a schedule.

If I stayed in New York for the weekend, they’d understand.

I didn’t get as much time to paint as I would have liked, and this was a prime opportunity.

The fact that I hadn’t stopped thinking about Emily since the moment we met was irrelevant. It’s not like I was planning on seeing her again.

Hell, I didn’t even ask for her number.

An omission I was kicking myself over five seconds after I shut that door.

I cleaned the charcoal dust from my fingers—sort of—and picked up my phone.

Me: Not sure. Been working on a new piece all night, sketching like a mad man. Feeling really inspired. Might hang here for the weekend and come back Monday.

Jared: A new piece? That’s awesome, bro. Do what you need to do. Hit me up later when you take a break. I want to hear about the show.

Jared was great like that. He never balked when I felt the urge to paint or disappear with Kade for days on end, writing new songs. Whatever I needed, he backed me up.

Best fucking friend I ever had in my life.

Me: Will do. Sorry you’re stuck dealing with the two stooges on your own all weekend.

With Kade off the market thanks to his new wife Aubrey—whom we all adored—Kane and Lennox were basking in the extra female attention they’d picked up. And they were being fucking obnoxious about it. Especially Lenn. It was like he’d flashed back to those first few tours when we were the epitome of ‘young, dumb, and full of cum.’

Though, in Lenn’s case, he’d never really made it completely out of that stage, unlike the rest of us.

Poor Jared.

Jared: Nah, I like watching them fail. Lenn got the shit slapped out of him last night. It was glorious.

Me: I miss all the good stuff.

Jared: Trust me, there’ll be other chances.

Me: Oh yeah.

Jared: Later.

Me: Later.

I set my phone down on the work table and drained a bottle of water from the mini-fridge and went right back to work.

By the time I looked up again, the sun had long ago set, and my stomach was giving me hell for forgetting to eat all day.

Oops.

Still, pulling myself away from the canvas was like trudging through waist-high mud. Every step was a struggle because I couldn’t stop thinking of the next pencil stroke, imagining the slashes of color and contrasting darkness.

Damn, I’d never been this entranced in my life.

And it had everything to do with the subject of the piece.

Emily.

* * *

I ordered in and jumped in the shower while I waited. It was a Friday night, so I had plenty of time to kill. I probably could have painted a while longer, but I knew I’d get stuck there again if I did and the food would end up uneaten on the kitchen counter, assuming I could pry myself out of the studio long enough to buzz the delivery in.

That’d definitely piss off the security guys, who had to bring up all deliveries themselves.

Nope, didn’t want that.

So, I took a long steamy shower, standing under the spray and letting the heat work the tension out of my muscles.

Why couldn’t I stop thinking about her? Why had this image of her stuck with me to the point of obsession? What was it about her that had called to me?

Whatever it was, I wanted to know more.

I still had over an hour to wait for my food when I finished my shower and dressed in old sweats and a torn TotC concert tee circa 2010. If I didn’t busy myself, I’d be back at that canvas, so I picked up the phone and called Jared.

For the most part, he wouldn’t talk on the phone—for a couple of reasons—but I was the exception.

He picked up on the third ring. “Hey, E.”

“Hey, bro. You busy?”

“Nope.”

He wouldn’t tell me, even if he was, because that wasn’t how he worked. If I called, he answered. Always.

“So, the art show was spectacular. I ducked in for a peek before it started. Seriously, I was blown away. The gallery did an exceptional job.”

“How was the turnout?” he asked, and I could hear a door closing in the background. He liked his privacy when he was on the phone, which I totally understood.

“Sold out. And from the articles online, I don’t think a single ticket was wasted. That place was packed.”

“I knew it would be. They always are.”

“There’s something else…” Clear green eyes flashed in my mind, along with that first deadly glare she’d leveled my way. “The woman who handled the show, I met her. Told her who I was.”

Silence.

“Jared? You there?”

“Give me a sec,” he muttered quickly, tripping over his words.

I’d thrown him for a loop. “While you’re getting your shit together, you should know I kissed her, too. Oh, and I’ve been working on a painting of her for the last,” I checked the time, “twenty-one hours, give or take.”

“Shit.”

One syllable, applicable on so many levels.

“She won’t talk?”

I knew that would be his first question because protecting me and my secret was always his instinct. “Nope. I’m positive she won’t.”

“Good. Now, why’d you tell her?”

I thought about that for a second. “I’m honestly not sure. Maybe because she tried to throw me out of my own art show.”

“So you did it to prove you belonged there?”

“No. The curator knew I belonged. I did it because…fuck…I don’t know. Because she talked about my work like it was part of her, somehow, like she was willing to bodily throw me out for showing up in jeans and a hoodie and disrespecting it. It was all kinds of hot, but more than that, I saw her standing there like a momma bear protecting her young, and I wanted to tell her how much that meant to me.” I chuckled and ran a hand through my dripping hair. “If you could have seen her reaction, you’d understand.”

He was quiet for a beat. “You told her because you knew meeting you would mean something to her. You wanted to make her happy because her protectiveness of your artwork made you happy.”

“Except all it did was freak her out. I found her outside after I dropped that bomb on her, and she was so mortified.”

“Smooth move,” he taunted jokingly. “You talk to her about it?”

“Yeah. And the more we talked, the more I liked her. She’s got this quality I can’t put my finger on, but I like it. I’m drawn to it. Which I made clear when I kissed her.”

“And now you’re painting her?”

“Still sketching, but yeah. I can’t seem to stop.”

“You’re not sketching her naked are you?”

I shook my head as I reached in the fridge for a beer. “No, asshole. Not in the literal sense anyway. But she’s naked in other ways, and I think that’s what’s drawing me in. If you could have seen her outside that gallery…”

“Raw emotion is your thing, dude. It’s where you live. Your lyrics, your paintings, both raw and real. It’s what makes you a great artist.”

“That’s exactly it. What I saw from her was raw emotion. I knew you’d help me figure it out. That’s why I keep seeing her in my head.”

“You gonna go back to the gallery and see her?”

“I don’t know if I should. I told her I’d check in next week so she could tell me about the show, but I never intended to go back. Besides, I have to be back in L.A. by Monday night at the latest.”

“So, go Monday morning.”

I flopped down on the couch and laid back, considering the idea.

“You know you want to see her. Go. Maybe it’ll inspire another piece.”

“Yeah, maybe. Just seems reckless to get invested even marginally with someone here.”

“I’m not saying propose, moron. Buy her a cup of coffee or something. Talk to her. Thank her for a great job on the show. No big commitment.” He paused for a minute and shifted into a more serious tone. “You don’t get like this about people, so figure out what’s so special about her. I know you, E. You’ll drive yourself crazy wondering if you don’t.”

Of course, he was right.

It was one cup of coffee, just to indulge my curiosity.

No big deal.

Famous last words…