Chapter 15
NOEL
By the time I leave the convention center the following evening my head is positively buzzing and I’m suffering, more than a little, from a case of imposter syndrome.
I’m thinking that maybe I’ve never felt more out of place in my life.
Which is saying a lot, because I kinda feel out of place wherever I go.
I’m not gonna pretend I’m a just a regular guy, and I know I stand out because of my appearance and demeanor.
That’s not my current problem. I dressed pretty normal, I think, just a regular shirt and jeans.
A lot of people were dressed in either that or business casual, so I wasn’t a stand out.
I didn’t put on any makeup or jewelry, either, and I tamed my hair and wore it tidy.
I was approachable, as indicative by the amount of business cards I have spilling out of my pockets. It’s none of the usual suspects.
It’s more that everyone was so…professional.
And technically I am a professional too.
I am working in this field. I’m making money and paying bills.
But compared to everyone I’ve met today I feel like a kid who wandered into the wrong conference.
And it felt like everyone was thinking the same thing about me, that I was way too young to be there, too inexperienced, and did I take a wrong turn?
Did I get the days wrong? Had I instead meant to be here for Otakon, the anime convention which actually takes place several weeks from now?
Nope, I’m a baby medical illustrator. Please look at my sad, shitty little portfolio and grimace politely.
Maybe it’s just my paranoia because it’s not like anyone actually said those things to me.
It felt like their faces were screaming it, though, when I was shaking hands with them and introducing myself.
Explaining my schooling when prompted, which I know is not all that impressive compared to the artists, all board certified, with their Master’s from places like Augusta or Rochester or Johns Hopkins.
It’s not like I was the only person there without a postgrad degree; I met plenty of freelancers without them.
Just none were as young or new to the field as I am.
Their bodies of work were all extensive and now I’m feeling inadequate, like maybe I should be hustling more on the side, signing up for Fiverr or something and really getting into this shit.
Forget the character commissions that I’ve leaned on for so long as my most reliable income source. I’m simply not doing enough.
I bet none of them were fucking felons, though. God dammit, I’m really going to have to fix that.
And none of this is helped by the fact that I kinda sorta forgot my medication back home.
That’s the whole reason my head’s buzzing so bad.
Yeah, somehow I managed to forget those little helpful orange bottles of pills, which I thought would be okay for just a day or two, but around lunchtime the absence of it started making itself feel known.
Like a cattle prod to the fucking brain, zap-zap-zap, quick succession.
But, bearable. At least for the moment. At least it’s not so frequent that it’s taking me out completely, though I’m worried what the next day might bring.
It’s doing absolutely nothing to help my mood, though, which could be considered nothing short of foul.
And I think that’s probably the withdrawal’s fault, too.
Just as Luca promised he would, he’s waiting there with a cab when I come out. When I get in, he greets me with plenty of kisses that I’m not sure the driver really appreciates, but neither of us give a shit. Love wins, asshole.
“How was it?” Luca asks me. “Did you have fun?”
I hem and haw and waffle a bit before answering.
“Interesting, I guess. Handed out a bunch of cards and got a bunch in return. Saw a lot of amazing work. I guess I liked the educational panels the best, but some of it went over my head. Makes me wish I could’ve gone to graduate school.
” I hesitate. “You know, what Demi was saying, about my record…I guess it’s been kinda worrying me. ”
“You’re afraid you won’t get more work after your contract is done?”
“Maybe. Kinda.”
“I’m sure that offer’s still on the table,” he assures me. “Her helping you. I can ask her about it when we get back.”
“Will you?” I’m grateful.
“Absolutely.” He takes my hand and squeezes it. “I got up with Killian, by the way. He wants to go out tonight at nine. I said it’s up to you. But, you know…” He kisses the side of my face. “I was sort of looking forward to it. After last night.”
I savage my lower lip in thought. Do I really want to go out with Killian, of all people? I’ve been going back and forth about it since Luca dumped the possibility in my lap.
On one hand it might be a good way to get back into this whole aspect of our relationship, the dom-sub stuff that we’d been exploring before he left and sort of got ruined by the bullshit at Strapped, anyway.
Dipping a toe in the shallow end and all that, since Luca’s not all that keen to bring me back to a real sex club. A leather bar is a good stepping stone.
On the other hand, it’s kinda fucking weird.
Because it’s Killian, and him and Luca have history, however ancient, and I don’t particularly like the guy.
He annoyed the fuck out of me on our first meeting to the point where I thought I might really rip his face off.
The second time we hung out was better, but who knows if that was just because he was in the presence of other people? I’m not altogether sure I trust him.
That, and the whole fact that I forgot my meds and I’m exhausted and I’m not on top of my game.
I’m feeling fucking weird as hell, moody and downright hostile, and maybe it’s not really safe to go out tonight.
Although I suppose I could have a drink—maybe that would calm my itchy-fuzzy-zappy brain down and even me out. It’s a depressant, after all.
And I suppose I do trust Luca, though, or at least I’m getting to a place where I trust him again.
I don’t think Luca would bring me around someone who actually wanted to do damage to either of us.
He wouldn’t subject either of us to someone who wanted to break us up.
All his tireless work trying to make things right over the last several weeks would be for absolutely nothing if he did.
“We don’t have to go,” Luca says softly. “It’s totally fine.” His face looks a little worried as he leans closer to me, his lovely forest-green eyes searching mine and his brow knotted. I wonder what he’s scared of. A repeat incident?
“I want to go,” I say. “As long as you do.”
He smiles a little. “I do if you do.”
“Then I guess we’re going, huh?” I move an errant strand of white-blonde hair out of his eyes. “It’ll be okay, Luca. We won’t get into anything crazy. It’s just a leather bar, right? Not an actual dungeon.” I couldn’t get into trouble in a place like that.
“Alright.” His expression relaxes a bit. “And if you’re uncomfortable, you’ll tell me. Right?”
“Right,” I promise.
We get in the shower, where we paw at each other in a lazy, teasing sort of way, going nowhere with it. We simply delight in the fact that we can. And then I kick him out of the bathroom, where I sequester myself to take my sweet ass time getting ready.
I’m pulling out all the fucking stops tonight.
There’s a vast array of cosmetics scattered across the vanity, and I’m hoping to hell I don’t sweat it all off by the time we get there.
Black mesh crop top, harness, leather booty shorts and ripped tights, and I got a pair of Shaker-52s that just fit to complete the outfit.
I slather on the eyeliner and debate the black lipstick, then ultimately decide against it.
It’ll be entirely across my face before the night’s over, especially in this heat, and I’ve forgotten why I got so sick of winter at all because I actually really, truly hate being hot and sweaty.
Altogether, though, I’ve put together a pretty conservative look for where we’re going.
But that’s alright—I’m not there to impress anyone but Luca, and I’m certain I’ll accomplish that much.
I stare at myself in the mirror and preen because despite my many and myriad flaws, I can be fucking pretty when I want to be.
Tonight I don’t have to be a good artist or sane person or much of anything at all except aesthetically pleasing.
I don’t have to make myself much of anything or anyone at all.
That’s the best part about being back with Luca again: I don’t have to be anything or anyone but me.
For some reason, he actually likes me just how I am even though I’m fucking wretched.
He makes me feel like someone actually worthy of love and I don’t have to contort myself into someone unrecognizable to deserve it. I might just be enough.
Luca knocks. “You almost ready?” he calls through the door. “Killian’s going to be here in ten.”
I turn the knob and let him in and yes, it is gratifying when he has to scrape his jaw off the floor after he gets a good look at me.
I’m ogling him in turn: he’s wearing that skintight sleeveless shirt again, putting all the skulls and roses inked into his lean, tan arms on full display.
His shirt is cut low enough on the sides that I catch a glimpse of his serrated obliques and of course I have to touch them; he’s practically presenting them to me, after all.
“You’re so fucking hot,” I say appreciatively. “Let me do your eyeliner.”
He catches me around the waist. “Maybe we should stay in,” he murmurs into my neck, and just as I’m about to huff he backs off, looking me up and down once again. “You’re awfully tall all of a sudden.”
It’s true. The boots have put me just over six feet and now I’m looking almost directly into Luca’s eyes. I grin at him and grab his chin. “I could get used to this.”