HOT MESSY SEX ON CANVAS AND NOTEPADS, COVERED IN GRAPHITE
13
EIGHT YEARS AGO
Nuri : Do you want to hang out tonight?
Nuri : I’m at the bar, but my shift ends in forty minutes. We can order some pizza and watch the new season of Grey’s Anatomy?
Prudence : I can’t tonight, I’m meeting with Jason Perkwood. He should be here soon.
Nuri : Jason Perkwood? Why are you meeting him? Is it like a date or something?
Prudence : No, I was looking for a male model to work on my sketching, he offered.
Nuri : Why a male model?
Prudence : I can never get the chest and abs muscles right, it’s a nightmare.
Nuri : Wait, you’re going to be alone with a shirtless Jason Perkwood and only sketch him?
Nuri : What’s wrong with you?
Prudence : I never said we would be alone…
Nuri : Come on, I know you feel more focused when you’re working alone or in small groups.
Nuri : I’m guessing you’ll meet in your room or his? Will you have hot messy sex on canvas and notepads, covered in graphite?
Prudence : I hate you.
Nuri : You love me.
Nuri : Be safe and remember that you can always change your mind! I’ll have my phone with me if you need a save.
Prudence : I love you.
PRUDENCE
He’s late, not answering my texts, and leaving me on read. Why would he stand me up? It’s December and he’s been nice and talking to me since I’ve been allowed to join their 4th year anatomy class 6 weeks ago. He was even the one who offered to pose for me when I mentioned I was struggling in class this morning.
He should have been here fifteen minutes ago.
And I feel like a damn idiot, walking around in circles in my room.
At least my new roommate Sonja has left for the holidays and is not here to witness my pathetic ass being stood up. She’s been here for two weeks and I’m not even sure she’ll be back after the break. Good riddance… She didn’t even go to class once. She spent that whole time talking about boys, and only boys. I’m pretty sure she has her eyes set on my Brother’s best friend—who hasn’t? I’m almost certain he fucked about half of campus. He is quite easy on the eyes, but I don’t understand the general obsession (okay, I get it, but I’m just mad at him since I heard him talk a guy out of dating me). What’s annoying me the most is that when girls learn about his connection to my brother, they become quite the vultures around me. And it’s so obvious that I can’t help but feel a little sad for them.
And scared for me.
The point is, Sonja is one of those vultures, and I’m glad she’s not here to witness this embarrassing situation.
Oh god, I’ve been stood up.
And it’s not the first time since I started college.
I was supposed to go on a date about two months ago and the guy never showed up. He went as far as to block my number and the few times I thought I saw him around campus, he changed his trajectory so our paths wouldn’t cross. Same thing happened in late November with another guy. And the guy Nate told not to date me.
What’s wrong with me? Is there a game between them? Is there something on my face that only other people can see? If there is, I’d like to know, at least so I don’t embarrass myself even more.
I let myself fall on my bed with a heavy sigh and catch my reflection on the mirror hanging on the door.
“Mirror, mirror, who’s the dumbest of them all?” I ask, forcing the most ridiculously sad smile in history and staring at myself. And I try to see it. To really look at my face. I never thought there was something wrong with me before, but maybe I haven’t tried hard enough to see myself the way other people might see me. Never really cared, until now. My nose is not perfectly straight and it feels like it’s slightly turned to the side. One of my eyes looks a little higher and wider than the other one. My left canine is a little longer and sharper than the right. “All this time I thought I was ordinary, when I apparently am an ugly troll. What a nice revelation to have…” I whisper to myself.
I fall backward until my back meets the comforter.
I’ve been stood up. Again. And this time, it hurts a little bit more, because I was actually excited at the prospect of drawing for a couple of hours and improving my technique. It doesn’t just hurt my self-confidence, but also my work, in a way. I wasn’t even expecting him to flirt with me or ask me out or anything. Just to draw him. Because, let’s face it, I was ecstatic when he offered; I’ve seen him shirtless a couple of times at parties on campus and he’s hot. A little too bulky, but has well defined muscles. A work of art and a really good subject to work on my sketching skills.
And now, I’m left alone, with no one to draw, and too embarrassed to text Nuri. She won’t judge, or pity, or make fun of me, I know that. But my ego is a little too bruised and the wound too raw.
I’ll tell her. Tomorrow. Or maybe I shouldn’t, because she might go berserk on his ass.
Not that he wouldn’t deserve it.
I sit up abruptly at the knock on my door and hate myself a little for the sudden surge of hope rising in me. I stare at it—or at my reflection in the mirror against it—and hate myself a little more when I notice the puffy eyes, a clear sign of my pathetic disappointment. I didn’t even notice that I might have been crying.
Someone knocks again, a little louder, and I jump to my feet. Have I been staring for long? It only takes a couple of steps before I reach the door and pull it open just enough to peer outside.
Hm… Wait, what?
“Nate?” I ask, frowning in confusion. “What—what are you doing here?”
I pull open the door a little bit more and look around the hallway. Girls are standing outside their rooms, talking to each other, their eyes fixed on him.
Vultures .
“Are you going to let me in?” He asks back with an annoyed grunt, casting quick glances around to the adoring female population staring at him.
“Hum… Are you here to see Sonja? Because she left early this morning for the winter break and…”
“Prudence, can you please let me in? I’ll explain, but not in this damn hallway while everyone is staring at us.”
He looks uncomfortable. I would have thought he’d be happy being the center of attention, surrounded by a whole hallway of women he probably hasn’t seduced yet.
I step aside to let him in and close the door after him, catching another glimpse of my reflection on that stupid mirror—definitely going to take it off the door, I can’t stand to look at my face anymore.
He stands in the middle of the room, hands in his pocket, taking in the space around him, and I feel suddenly vulnerable. A lot of my drawings are hung haphazardly on the wall above my desk and my bed, and my side, even though it’s clean, is filled with my creative clutter and opened artbooks.
“As I told you, Sonja is not here and—”
“Where should I stand?”
“Excuse me?” I frown.
He turns abruptly to stare at me with his impossibly blue eyes, his hands reaching the hem of his shirt, and before I know it, he’s standing shirtless in front of me, his tee-shirt a ball in his fist.
And I’m gaping. Like a schoolgirl.
“So you can draw. Where do you want me to stand?”
“I’m sorry but—wait, what? What are you doing?” I ask, shaking my head in disbelief.
He rolls his eyes with an annoyed sigh. “I’m stepping in. Weren’t you supposed to meet with Jerkwood? So you could practice drawing? Or was it like an excuse to—”
“No, no, I was, but—”
“He’s not coming,” he interrupts. “Don’t ask me how I know, and just accept the replacement.”
But how does he know?
Has Jason told people about that gullible first year he stood up? About how she believed him and he probably had a blast making fun of all of that?
Is Nate here out of pity for his best friend’s little sister?
How. Fucking. Amazing.
“Come on, let’s get to work,” Nate says, clapping his hands once before locking them together in front of him. “Where do I stand? Do you need me to do something or… I don’t know, just stand here? Sit somewhere? Prudence, you’re gonna have to lead me through this, I have no idea what I’m doing here and you’re just—frozen… Prudence?”
“I—I don’t,” I stutter, finally taking him in. He’s shirtless. In my room. If someone comes in, they are going to assume that… “It’s alright, Nate. You really don’t have to do this.” I sigh, turning around to go back to the door. If he leaves now, maybe the vultures won’t come after me.
His hand wraps around my wrist before I can reach the handle and I freeze again, turning my face just enough to stare at it.
“Really, I don’t mind,” he says softly. “Let me help. Get your art stuff and tell me what you need.”
I lift my head then, and our eyes meet. There’s no malice in those blue pools. But after all, maybe I suck at reading people, otherwise I would have figured that Jason was just playing me. But Nate wouldn’t. He’s Jack’s best friend. Has been his best friend for the last three years. Jack would kill him if he hurt me, I’m sure of it.
I exhale roughly, dropping my head and catching sight of his—surprisingly sculpted—chest and torso. His abs and arms and shoulders are less bulky and more refined than Jason’s. He’s leaner and taller. And I want to slap myself in the face, but he’s kind of hotter than Jason. Like they’re not even in the same league.
“Alright,” I say, stepping away from the door towards him and his hold on my wrist loosens. “Can you go stand by the desk? Next to the big floor lamp.”
He nods, his face solemn. “Sure.”
A beat passes before he drops my wrist and turns around to go stand where I told him to. I follow and stop in front of him to turn on the lamp, apologizing for blinding him briefly.
I need to adjust the brightness and angle of it to have nice lighting and play a little with the shadows. Forcing my gaze to remain professional, I study the shape of his defined abs, wide shoulders, strong biceps and forearms, covered by slightly tanned smooth skin.
Alright. Objectively, this body’s a work of art. Sculpted in hard marble and surrounded by what looks to be a velvet layer of skin. I lift my hands, but freeze as I hesitate.
Consent.
I should definitely ask for permission before I touch him. Miss Junes is adamant on that, saying that models have to be treated carefully and respectfully. If you need to feel something to try and better understand or represent on paper, you have to ask the model before. Too many artists forget that part—either intentionally or not—and make models uncomfortable. And no, it’s not only the female models that are disrespected daily all over the world.
“Hm… Uh, can I—”
I meet his gaze, my hand hovering over the outline of his abs. His throat bobs but he nods once, his arms still against his sides. “Okay,” he breathes.
I nod back, rubbing my hand together a couple of times to make sure my fingers aren’t too cold before sliding the tips of my fingers softly along each row of abs.
I guess my hands are a little cold as goosebumps spread all over his skin.
Three rows, my fingers dipping in the small line between each of them. God, so, so soft. How does his skin feel so soft? He’s a guy. Guys don’t have soft skin, right? Does he put moisturizer on everyday? God, I’m jealous now.
I lift my hands, feeling for his pecs, shoulders, then down his arms. I can see his chest rising and falling in an irregular pattern. Okay, maybe that’s enough… He’s clearly uncomfortable, and between my eyes and hands, I think I can recreate the look and feel of him.
I clear my throat, taking a step back. “Thank you,” I say, turning around and taking a couple of steps to sit on my bed where my notepad and graphite pencil are waiting. ‘Will you have hot messy sex on canvas and notepads, covered in graphite? ’
Oh, hell no. Not now, brain. Not going there. This is a professional setting. He’s helping me improve my art and he’s my brother’s best friend. He’s hot, yeah. Objectively. It’s a fact. But no, my crush for him died before it really took roots and I can’t think about him like that. I might just kill Nuri for mentioning an idea like this one, even though she meant Jason and I.
“You can move your arms and stretch your legs if you need to,” I say, picking up the notepad and pencil, “but to make sure the lighting is good I’m gonna need you to keep facing that direction… Well, facing me.”
“Alright,” he nods again, and his voice feels a little raw.
Oh my god, what the hell am I doing? I shouldn’t have accepted. He’s uncomfortable, and he’s about to spend two hours standing shirtless while I watch and study him. At least, even if we’re in the middle of December and it’s cold outside, the rooms are well heated and he shouldn’t get too cold. That would be the cherry on top. Imagine wasting two hours of your life to help out your best friend’s little sister out and ending up with a cold.
I clear my head with an annoyed sigh, start a chill lo-fi playlist, and finally start sketching. The whole world disappears and it’s only us. Nate under the warm light, my sketches of him slowly taking form, and me.
I sketch him a few times, asking him to move with each sketch to draw his lines under a different light. Sometimes, my gaze can’t help but linger, studying him and his reactions, his posture, his expressions. He looks different like this. Not his usual over-confident self. Almost vulnerable, shy, like he doesn’t know what to do with his own body.
I focus back on the paper, turning a new page and starting a new sketch. Of him. Not just his chest and muscles like I’ve done the last hour or so, but him as a whole. The way his arms are straight and tense at his sides. The way he sometimes fidget a little on his legs, like maybe he’s considering bolting out of here. The way his eyes are looking at me, but sometimes dart away as his jaw locks in a way that screams how uncomfortable he is. The way his old jeans hang low on his hips, showing the slightest bit of his underwear’s elastic band, and the thin but distinct happy trail leading down to it.
Overall, he kinda looks a little miserable. But in an adorable kind of way, like a child stuck at a family gathering but who can’t wait to be allowed to go back in his room to play videogames.
“Why are you smiling?”
I lift my head with wide eyes, and notice his gaze locked on me, shining with curiosity.
“What?”
One of his eyebrows arches up slightly and the corner of his lips stretches. “You were smiling at your paper. I was just wondering why.”
I look down at my sketch and hold a little gasp. “Uh… I—I don’t really know. I get a little lost drawing sometimes, I’m sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing?” He asks, stretching his neck distractedly.
“Oh, uh…” I scratch my nose awkwardly, thinking. He’s right, why do I apologize? “I don’t know.”
Both his eyebrows arch higher in surprise, and a full smile stretches his lips now. I frown, confused. “But anyway, I think I’m done,” I say, returning his smile shyly. “You’re free to move, you must be a little sore.”
“I’m fine,” he says, but he stretches his limbs, still smiling and staring at my face.
I stand up from my bed to stretch as well, my legs and back a little sore from sitting for two hours. He bends over to pick up his discarded shirt on the floor and takes a few steps to stop right in front of me and his smile drops the slightest bit. My frown deepens. What’s going on?
He lifts his shirt, holding it in his fist and stops the movement right in front of my face. “May I?”
May he? Is he asking my permission to put his tee-shirt back on?
“Uh… Yes, of course. We’re—”
My eyes widen when he starts rubbing his tee-shirt on my nose softly, eyes gleaming with amusement, the dimple in one of his cheeks on full display. First, I wish he smiled when I was drawing. I didn’t even know he had dimples. Second, what the hell is he doing? Third, how does he smell so good?
He pulls his shirt back and shows me the fabric, tainted with graphite. “You had a little something on your nose,” he says, smirking and flashing his damn dimple.
I look down at my hands, covered in it. Okay, so maybe I should have checked before scratching my nose. “Oh. Right. Sorry.”
“Stop apologizing,” he says, his smile dropping a little as he stares at my face intensely.
“You’re right, so—”
“I swear to god, Prudence.”
My hands shoot up to cover my mouth. Why am I constantly apologizing? Is that weird?
“You don’t have to apologize for a damn thing,” he adds, his tone a little softer and I give him a slow nod. “Alright, I gotta go.” But he’s not moving, his shirt’s still a ball in his hand. “Unless, you need more time to—”
“No, I’m good,” I cut him off quickly. “Thank you.”
He nods again. “Alright. If you need another model again, ask me . Forget about Jerkwood and the other asses like him.”
“Why do you call him Jerkwood?” I ask, confused.
“It suits him,” he shrugs and finally puts his tee-shirt back on. But it has a large gray stain on the bottom right at the front. “Don’t you think?”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “Well, it’s a little rude.”
“Right up his alley then.”
Well, he did stand me up. And if Nate heard of it, he might have bragged about it. So, Nate does have a point there.
“Anyway. Remember, you need a model? You call me. I’ll be here.” I nod and he nods back before his eyes dart away to my bed. “Can I see that?” He asks, giving a tilt of his head and I follow the direction of his gaze.
My notepad. Opened at the last drawing, where I captured all the uncomfort he was in.
“Sure,” I answer, but my hands start fumbling with the hem of my tee-shirt.
He turns it to the first page and starts flipping slowly. “You’re really talented. It’s really realistic.” He winces slightly before he reaches the last one and freezes, his eyes narrowing and… Wait, is that a blush coloring his cheeks? “Is… Is that what you saw when you were drawing?” He asks, his voice suddenly raspy.
“I know you told me not to apologize, but I’m sorry. You were obviously uncomfortable.”
“Uncomfortable,” he repeats slowly, lifting his azur eyes to mine.
“Yeah. You were fidgeting a little, and tense, and—”
He chuckles, interrupting me. “Uncomfortable. Yeah, I guess that’s one way to say it.”
I frown, confused, and anything I could have said is cut off by him ripping the drawing delicately out of the notepad.
“Can I keep that?”
“Uh… I guess? If you want to.”
“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”
Oh my god, where have my brain cells gone?
“Right. Sure, you can keep it.”
He folds it and slides it in his back pocket, our eyes meeting again.
“See you around, Prudence.”
And with that he’s gone. And I’m standing in front of the closed door—the damn mirror—wondering what weird universe I have set foot in.