Beneath The Skin(48)

My heart breaks, thinking of the way I could unintentionally break his. I wouldn’t mean to, either. Really, my pushing him away is an act of protection. I’m protecting him from my miserable, horrible self.

My finger pushes hard against the canvas, blending the tiny shadow under the bricks at the tower’s summit.

And if he was smart, he’d know to keep away. I don’t want more unhappy people in the world. There’s enough of them. Maybe the world needs more Brants. More sex demons. More pleasure for the sake of pleasure.

Maybe I should have finished him off and given him the chemical permission his brain needs to move on to the next woman.

I apply a few strokes to make grass at the foot of the tower.

Then I stand back from the desk and stare at the canvas, thinking about Renée Brigand and what sort of drawing she would have done. She doesn’t draw, I remind myself. She makes “experiences”. Ugh. The pretention is so thick, I can already imagine what sort of crap she’s going to have shown at the gallery. The amount of eye-rolling I might do is temptation enough to consider actually going.

Maybe I should find Brant and take him with me. We could make fun of the art together.

I kick myself for even thinking that. Keep away from him.

But just that thought alone pulls me into a powerful whirlwind of his crystalline blue eyes. I watch him watch me, falling into his gaze like a big, bright pool.

I hear his voice and see him smile. “You alright, babe?” he’d ask.

No. Everything sucks. I suck. I’m a big ball of black oil and you’re the crisp spritz of water from a lawn sprinkler, Brant. I’m the heat that reaches into the chest of a man stranded in the desert, dropped to his knees and staring at millions of dunes ahead of him …

And you’re the oasis.

I won’t be able to control myself if I’m near him again. I’m already losing all my resolve and he’s not even in this room with me.

Just his memory is.

His face.

His strong arms and soft chuckle.

His know-it-all smirk and messy hair.

His bright, curious eyes.

I stare at the tower I’ve built on a hill. I stare at it and wonder whether anyone will know the fire that’s within it, burning it down from the inside out.





BRANT



The glass doors and windows of the School of Theatre reveal a crowd of excited students awaiting the start of the show. The lobby is lit, its bright light glowing across the darkened courtyard outside.

“Why’s the show so damn late?” Dmitri complains.

I shake my head, giving him a hearty pat on the back. “It’s not even eight yet. Calm your balls. We’re supportin’ our favorite roomie Eric.”

“Is that what we’re doing?”

I punch Dmitri in the shoulder, which he hates. Clayton and I used to do that all the time to each other. The habit has not quite grown on Dmitri. In fact, I’m probably bruising his jerking arm.

The moment we enter, I spot Chloe right away standing on the other side of the lobby with some others, including Dessie. I don’t see Clayton with her. Maybe he’s in the bathroom and I can catch him there instead of dealing with Chloe and her rolling eyes.

“I need to take a leak before the show,” I tell Dmitri.

He smirks. “Hey, maybe she’ll behave. I think she got out what she wanted to say at lunch the other day. We can sit with them, okay?”

“Clayton’s gotta be here somewhere.”

He sighs, then gives me a nod. “Good luck, man.”

I cut through the crowd, squeezing between people on my way across the lobby to the bathrooms. Halfway there, it occurs to me that Clayton might even be running lights for the show. He and Eric have gotten pretty friendly over the last year, especially with how chummy Dessie and Eric have gotten. Eric’s like, her gay BFF now, which I guess would be cool if it didn’t feel like Clayton and I have become strangers overnight.

I’m sorta jealous of Dessie.

Imagine that. Me, jealous of a girl getting more attention from a guy than me.

The bathroom proves fruitless. The rest of the lobby is just full of Theatre people I don’t know. I don’t see Clayton anywhere. I expected that I’d sorta never get to hang with him. Every time I try, our plans get delayed or put off or are riddled with distracting texts, just like the dinner he and I had at our usual place earlier this week. Dessie has a crisis thing, he kept saying. It’s always all about her.

I wonder if that’ll be me someday. Oh, Nell has a thing. Sorry, bud.

The thought wrings my stomach up like a rag. I see the sad look in Nell’s eyes and relive the sickening spin I felt just before leaving her loft. That, coupled with having my camera stolen—the camera that had the beautiful candid photo I took of Nell in the car on the way to the restaurant—has left me feeling so unsettled.