Brant
Well, fuck.
I rub my eyes and place my hands on my hips. With a defeated sigh I take in the sight before me. It’s like a scene from a bad made-for-tv drama. The kind you watch late at night when you’re too lazy to extend a hand to the remote and change channels.
All of my stuff is strewn across the lawn in front of the tidy white one story house. A crazed girl stands screaming in front of said house with mascara streaming down her face. I angle my head at her and wonder for a second if she knows how crazy she looks in this moment. A crowd has gathered behind us. Some have their phones out while others are openly laughing and shouting taunts.
She disappears back into the house in a huff, her blonde hair flying behind her. I shift my weight onto my other foot and try to decide what to do next. With a sigh I bend down and pick up one of the torn canvases closest to me when the screeching banshee comes charging at me, a knife in her hand and rage in her eyes.
“Woah,” I hold my hands up in front of me. I’m not sure if the move is to try and pacify her or if I’m getting ready to restrain her. “Woah, just a second baby. Let’s talk about this.”
“TALK?!” I cover my one ear and flinch at her high pitched scream. “You fucked my SISTER!”
OK. Hold up. Let me explain before you and your girl posse reach for your pitchforks and come at me with the power of a thousand feminists. Not that I have anything against feminists. I happen to love feminists. All that simmering rage lying dormant just under the surface makes for great fucking. The militant ones are my favorite. They’re crazy. And you know what they say about crazy women. Yup. Crazy sex. Anyway, I digress. Before you hike me up on a stake and fillet my man bits, give me a minute.
My name is Coyer Brant Alexander-Marshall III. I know, right? Coyer. What a ridiculous name. I come from a long line of well-respected businessmen and politicians. My family made the Forbes list of 25 richest clans in America ever since anyone can remember. My family’s current rank sits at twenty-one. Clearly my parents were expecting someone else when they stuck me with this ridiculous name. What does Coyer even mean? There ain’t nothing coy about me. I suppose it could be worse though, sitting at number twenty-three on that list is the Butt family. Seriously, I’m not making that up. Google it.
I can already smell the scent of disapproval on you. I know it well. I’ve been smelling it on my parents and teachers ever since the fifth grade when I got caught with my hand in the cookie jar under the bleachers. Said cookie jar just happened to be in the panties of a seventh grade girl whose name escapes me at the moment. I love women. I’ve always loved women. The way they smell, their shape, their softness, the soft little tuts of disapproval mixed with that glint in their eye when they’re saying they’re not into it but really they just want you to fight a little a harder, the soft moans and nails down your back when you’ve pieced together the puzzle of their body and hit just the right spot.
Women are art come to life. And that’s my passion. Art. It’s the only thing I love doing more than seducing a beautiful woman and making her come undone in my hands. There’s nothing like being in the zone as you brush paint onto canvas and create something extraordinary. When you forget about everything else and lose yourself in making something beautiful. Lay out your entire being on that canvas and hopefully, if you’ve done it right, touch someone else with it. It’s like creating a connection with a stranger you will probably never meet but somehow you both know that somewhere out there is another person that shares your feelings. That makes you feel less… alone.
My parents don’t get it. They would much rather have me stuck in some stuffy suit and attending equally stuffy parties in the hopes that I will one day take over the family fortunes. I have no interest in any of it. And after much rebellion and schemes to make them understand that I was never going to be what they wanted, they finally agreed that they would graciously allow me to explore my ‘artistic fancies’ as they call it. It came with conditions though. One being that I had to have a formal education in my chosen field, the second that it had to be an Ivy League school. No son of a Marshall would be allowed anything less. And I’m sure they only agreed to it because they think that I’ll fall on my face or give up when it gets too hard and run back, tail between my legs, begging for a seat at the boardroom table. People think I do that too. Give up when shit gets hard. The third and final condition was that I would make my own way. While my parents would pay for my classes and books, I had to come up with money for everything else.
Thing is, art has been the one constant in my life. I’ve been drawing since I can remember. On any surface I could find. Paper, wood, walls, drawers… anything I could find. And I don’t give up when shit gets hard. I just lose interest. And why bother working for something you don’t really want? It makes no sense. I want this more than anything. And I am going to prove them wrong.
So that’s what brought me to this point standing in front of a knife wielding crazy person at Brown University.
I know. So cliche. The delinquent son of a successful family, who loves women and has an artistic side. That’s ok, though. I don’t really care what you think of me. In order to be a successful artist I have to chase my muse and ensure there’s a constant supply of inspiration. That means not denying myself anything. Like Chantel over here and her sorority sister Cherise. That’s right, I fucked her sorority sister not her actual sister. Although, yes, I have done that before too.
Women love me too, you see. They love my tattoos and my cocky smile and my dimples. And my dick. There’s an entire University forum dedicated to it. Women are all about girl power and sisterhood and ho’s before bro’s until they have a chance to get spread out over Brant’s canvas. Most girls know what’s up. That I’m a one and done kind of dude, but some women confuse their clits with their hearts and I’m left dealing with the fall out.
Case in point. Chantal over here is my roommate. Well, used to be until her ‘sister’ crept into my bed two nights ago and sucked me off like a champ. I’m only a mere mortal, ladies. What’s a guy supposed to do when woken up by a blow job that would make Jenna Jameson blush? Besides, I told Chantal from the get-go it would only happen one time and then we would go back to being nothing more than two people sharing the rent and taking turns to wash the dishes.
“How COULD you?!” The screeching continues. “I let you do FILTHY things to me and you HUMILIATE me like this?!” I can’t help the smirk on my face. It was pretty filthy though. She launches herself and the knife at me. I’m fighting for my life when one of the bystanders decides they’d rather not be witness to homicide and drags her off me and into the house. All the while she’s screaming my name and cursing my ancestors.
I stand up and start picking my stuff up. The crowd dissipates now that the show is over but I catch a few sympathetic glances from the guys and some appreciative ones from the girls. I grab my phone out of my pocket and dial my best friend. I hold my phone away from my ear when I’m met with raucous laughter on the other side.
“Dude, again?!” he says and I wait for his new fit of laughter to die down before I reply.
“Fuck you, man. You don’t even know why I’m calling.”
“Oh yes I do. You’re calling me to ask if you can crash on my couch for a few days until you find a new place because some girl lost her mind and kicked you out. Again. Someone posted a live feed of the entire sordid scene on facebook and it’s been shared liked six-hundred times. Everyone knows why you’re calling me.”
I give an irritated huff and stuff my things into the back of my truck. Fuck.
“So, can I?”
“’Course man, got you some pillows on the couch already.”
I throw my phone on the seat next to me and start up my truck. This cannot happen to me again. I have my master’s thesis to finish and my final student exhibition to prepare for. This is my chance to scoop up a legit gallery exhibition and prove to my parents that I’m not entirely useless. From now on, my dick stays in my pants.