Charlie
I’m gaining a collection of paintings and drawings of Hunter, and it’s getting a little embarrassing.
The newest one is still wet on my easel—Hunter half-turned in the dim studio light, jaw tight, eyes dark and startled as though he’d just seen something he wasn’t supposed to.
I painted him the way he looked standing in the doorway while I was still breathing hard from the pole, sweat cooling on my skin, fishnets clinging to my thighs.
I caught the exact moment his gaze dropped to my bare chest and then flicked back up, like he was trying not to look but couldn’t help it.
I stare at it now, brush still in my hand, cadmium red smudged across my fingers. It’s good. Too good. The kind of good that makes my stomach twist because I know exactly why I keep painting him.
I set the brush down and wipe my hands on an old rag, but I don’t cover the canvas.
Instead, I step closer, studying the way the light hits the sharp line of his collarbone, the tension in his shoulders.
He looked so solid standing there. Older.
Tired in a way that makes something in me want to reach out and smooth the edges.
That’s the dangerous part.
I keep telling myself I’m not interested. But the paintings don’t lie.
There’s more than a few in my sketch book I take with me everywhere and the three I’ve done with paints in my apartment.
I sink onto the edge of my bed and pull my knees up, staring at the newest canvas.
I rub my eyes, exhaustion pressing heavy behind them. I haven’t slept more than a few hours at a time since the nightmares came back, and painting Hunter isn’t helping. Every stroke feels like inviting him closer, even though I swore I wouldn’t.
Lucy would lose her mind if she saw this collection. She’d probably drag me to the studio for another pole session and lecture me the whole time about not collecting emotionally unavailable men like they’re damaged art supplies from Mrs. Lovelady’s shop.
She’d be right.
But right now, alone in my apartment with the smell of oil paint thick in the air, I can’t bring myself to put the brush down or turn the newest canvas to the wall.
Instead, I just sit there, heart beating a little too fast, wondering how long I can keep telling myself I’m not interested before the lie stops working.
The city keeps moving outside my windows, loud and messy and beautiful. And somewhere across town, Hunter is probably trying to forget the stupid thing I said, if he’s even thinking about it at all…while I’m over here painting him like he’s the only thing worth putting on canvas.
Fuck.
I really am collecting red flags.
After a few minutes of staring at my newest creation, I finally force myself to clean up.
The brushes go into the jar of murky turpentine, the palette knife scrapes across the edge of the easel, and I wipe the worst of the cadmium red off my fingers with an old rag that already looks like a crime scene.
I peel off my clothes, fishnets catching on my heel as I kick them toward the laundry pile, and drag myself into the shower.
The hot water beats down on my shoulders, washing away the dried sweat from the pole and the faint smell of oil paint.
For a few minutes, I just stand there, forehead pressed to the cool tile, letting the steam fill my lungs.
My body feels loose and used in the best way—the good kind of ache that comes from spinning upside down.
When I finally crawl into bed, the sheets are cool against my bare skin. Sofia immediately claims the spot on the pillow next to my head, purring like a broken motor. I stare at the ceiling, watching the familiar dance of headlights sweep across the cracks, and wait for the usual spiral.
It doesn’t come.
Maybe it’s the exhaustion finally winning. Maybe it’s the pole session that wrung every drop of tension out of my muscles. Or maybe, it’s the quiet memory of Hunter’s low voice on the sidewalk.
Whatever it is, sleep comes faster than it has in a couple weeks.
I drift off somewhere around 2 a.m., and for once, the nightmares stay away.
When I wake up again, my windows are full of soft morning light. My phone says it’s a little after seven. I actually slept—five solid hours without waking up crying or gasping. My body feels…better. The knot behind my ribs has loosened enough that I can breathe without it hurting.
Sofia stretches beside me, letting out a tiny squeak of a meow when I scratch behind her ears. I lie there for a minute longer, staring at the newest painting across the room. Hunter’s face stares back, half-shadowed, mouth slightly parted like he was about to say something he shouldn’t.
I don’t feel embarrassed this morning. Not the way I did last night.
I feel…hungry.
Not for him exactly, but for the version of me that painted that canvas without overthinking it. The version that let the music drag everything ugly out of my body on the pole and then admitted, out loud, what I wanted.
I sit up slowly, sheets pooling around my waist, and run a hand through my messy curls. The city is already loud outside. And I can’t wait to get dressed and be part of it.
Five hours of sleep isn’t a miracle, but it feels like one today.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and pad to the kitchen, Sofia trotting after me with her tail high. While the coffee drips, I glance back at the painting again.
Maybe I won’t hide the collection forever. It is the best stuff I’ve done. I bet it would be even better if I had my muse planted right in front of me while I painted him. But that would be letting him in.
Sofia gets my attention, and I make her breakfast as she zig-zags through my legs, meowing to let me know I’ve taken way too long to feed her.
After I place Sofia’s dish on the floor, I add creamer and sugar to my coffee and move over to my couch to enjoy the rare quiet in my head.
The first sip is perfect. Sofia attacks her food like she hasn’t eaten in days, tiny crunching sounds filling the apartment. I pull my knees up, resting the mug on one of them, and let my gaze drift across the room.
The thought slips out uninvited and lingers, soft and dangerous.
I don’t push it away like I usually would.
I just let it sit there for a second, turning it over in my mind like one of Mrs. Lovelady’s slightly damaged paint tubes.
It doesn’t feel like a threat this morning.
It feels… curious. Like testing a bruise to see if it still hurts.
Finishing my coffee, I rinse the mug out in the sink and set it on the drying rack. Then I move to my dresser, pulling open the drawer that holds my favorite clothes.
I don’t have work, or pole, or therapy…the whole city is mine, and it’s one of those perfect late-spring days where the air feels alive instead of oppressive.
I pick out my cropped black t-shirt—the one that stops just above my belly button—and a pair of ripped jeans that look painted on.
Fresh eyeliner, a little heavier than normal because why not.
A pair of small silver stud earrings catch the light when I turn my head. I look like trouble. The good kind.
I’ll go wherever the vibe takes me today. Central Park, maybe, to people-watch and sketch under the trees. Or the zoo to visit the snow leopards—they’re still my favorite. And when Lucy gets off work, we can grab dinner and hit the club. It all sounds perfect.
I love no-plan days. No pressure to be anywhere. Just me and the loud, messy, beautiful city that never once told me I was broken for being gay.
Sofia winds between my ankles one last time, purring like she approves of the whole outfit. I scratch under her chin, grab my sketchbook and a couple of charcoal sticks, and head for the door.
The late spring sun hits my face the second I step outside. The breeze feels nice on my bare stomach and arms, cool enough to raise goosebumps but warm enough to tell me it will be warmer later. I start walking, no particular direction in mind.
What’s that saying? The day is my oyster? I don’t like oysters… but yeah. Wide open with possibilities.
I’m three blocks from my building, humming under my breath, when I see them.
A small group on the corner—three older women in conservative dresses and one man in a cheap suit, holding signs and Bibles. They’re doing the thing. The prayer-over-strangers thing. As people walk past, they reach out, voices rising in that familiar cadence.
“Father, deliver this one from lust!”
“Jesus, cleanse her of vanity!”
Before I can pivot in another direction, the man spots me, and his eyes narrow immediately. My cropped shirt. The eyeliner. The way my jeans hug my hips. I can see the judgment click into place before he even opens his mouth.
“Young man!” he calls out, stepping toward me with his hand already raised like he’s about to lay it on my shoulder. “You are walking in sin! The Lord sees your painted eyes and your feminine ways. Repent! Let us pray the demon of perversion out of you right here!”
The words feel like I’m being dunked into cold water.
Deliver us from perversion.
The prayer room flashes behind my eyes. Those are the exact words those monsters used on me.
My chest tightens. My breath catches.
I try to shrug it off, force a smirk, keep walking like it’s nothing.
Just another sidewalk preacher in a city full of them.
But my legs feel heavy. The breeze on my bare stomach suddenly feels exposing instead of freeing.
My heart starts hammering too fast, too loud.
Black spots flicker at the edges of my vision.
Not here. Not now. Not in the middle of the fucking sidewalk on a beautiful day.
I try to breathe through it, but the chant is already echoing in my head. Deliver us… deliver us… deliver us from perversion…
My sketchbook slips in my sweaty grip. The world tilts.
Then a solid hand lands on my lower back.
“Hey. Breathe.”
Hunter’s voice. Low. Rough. Right beside my ear.
I didn’t even see him appear.