Hunter
Staring at the blank canvas, I want to claw it apart. Take a knife to it and slash it to shreds.
What is it about a blank canvas? It taunts me, an expanse of white.
Fuck, I need to get out of my head.
I take another drag of my joint, barely taking the edge off as my alpha nature gnaws at my insides. This final project was barely coming together, still nothing but fragments of ideas and vibes in my head that just weren’t translating onto paper or canvas.
In an attempt to actually produce something, I decided to lock myself up in my studio for a couple of hours and see if I couldn’t force inspiration, even if it was just a start.
I’ve been sitting here barefoot and shirtless in my favorite jeans, listening to my favorite 80’s soft rock, waiting for some sort of inspiration to hit me but instead all I feel is frustration.
Evans was back to avoiding me again.
Every time I thought I could smell his scent in the house I’d go and investigate only to find that he had already vanished two minutes before. There was no way that four men living in a three story house could avoid each other the way that he has been avoiding me this week.
I know it’s because I brought Percy home last weekend.
He’s still processing how he feels about that, I can scent it.
When I walk into a room, the desire spikes, and then it twists into confusion and sometimes disgust but those notes never linger.
I don’t understand why he feels that way, clearly his father‘s voice is still ingrained in his head. He’s not capable of thinking for himself.
Tossing my brush down, I scrub my face with my hand. Fuck! Why was I thinking about this? We were friends. That was it.
Tilting my head back and grunting I decide that this isn’t going to work.
I couldn’t sit and wait for inspiration to hit me.
Instead, I grab the piece of grey backed glass I’ve been using as a palette and red acrylic, dolloping it onto the pallet before smearing three fingers in it.
Wiping one long diagonal stripe down the canvas, I step back.
Now it isn’t blank. It’s less daunting.
Taking a deep breath, I do the same with the blue, this time dotting my fingers everywhere.
There’s something about feeling the paint against my skin, slick, with a slight tacky edge.
And the grain of the canvas beneath my fingertips.
This is what they mean when they say artists put themselves into their work.
It isn’t art if you don’t feel it in your soul. If it doesn’t frustrate you, make you angry and proud all at the same time then is it even worth anything?
My final project piece had lost direction but I was trying to harness my growing obsession with Evans. If I was painting him anyway, if I was trying to carve him out of clay, then why not make it count for something.
Was I going to have to explain it in an essay?
Yes.
I take another hit of my joint, holding it in my chest before exhaling lazily.
Was I prepared to do that yet?
No, which is why I was stuck.
I didn’t want this piece to be some trite project. I wanted it to mean something. I wanted people to look at it and feel like they’d been punched in the gut.
My mind and my fingers couldn’t agree on what that looked like. Did I want them to feel lust, longing and desire? Was the anger and frustration pouring out of me overriding it all?
How could I show the nuance of who he was when in front of me I was staring at a blank canvas?
With my music blasting, I zone out, and for the next two hours I just feel. I use my fingers, brushes, the mixing knives, anything and everything I can get my hands on goes into this canvas while I try and get out of my own head. Overthinking is the death of creativity.
And besides, I was Hunter Ashbourne. There were already people lining up to buy my pieces. All I’d have to do is spin some sort of tail about what the spatter on the canvas meant and I’m sure I could add another healthy contribution to my trust fund. That’s how capitalism worked.
It isn’t until my arms start to ache and I realise my back is stiff from crouching and bending for so long that I finally drop everything on the wheelie trolley. There’s paint everywhere. Under my nails, on my jeans, I could feel it smeared on my chest and my cheek because it cracks when I smile.
Stepping back I run my hands through my hair. Tilting my head to the right I want to snort. Even amidst the havoc I can see him in the paint. There’s the slope of his cheekbone and the bridge of his nose.
And his eyes.
Those eyes that look so afraid and so desperate for attention peek out at me amongst the anarchy of colour.
None of it makes sense, the strokes wild and chaotic.
The colors clash and aren’t flattering, almost hurting my eyes.
But it’s still him, I can still see it clearly because that’s all I see these days.
The alarm on my phone buzzes, and I stand there watching it vibrate on my desk for a few moments. Why did I set an alarm? What was this for?
Fuck! I was supposed to meet Callie and the others for coffee before heading to our next class.
Quickly grabbing my T-shirt, I pull it down over my head, wiping anything still wet on my hands onto my jeans.
It would have to do. Since I rinse my brushes as I paint, dipping them in a tub of water between colors, there’s minimal clean up.
There’s nothing worse than ruining your tools with sloppy care.
Dumping out the dirty water, I toss my palette in the sink and fill it with warm water. It can soak while I'm in class.
Snatching up my bag from the floor where I dumped it earlier, I shove feet into my sneakers, and dash out the door.
Practically running across campus, I call Callie.
“You’re lateee,” she sing-songs down the phone with a chuckle.
“I know, I know. I’ll be ten minutes. Promise.” I hear voices, orders being called down the line. They must already be at the coffee shop waiting for me.
“The model for the life drawing class bailed, so the tutor is scrambling to find a replacement. She sent an email out telling us to come a little later, so you’ve still got time to get your herbal tea fix.”
Thank goddess for small mercies, not sure I’d survive without something caffeinated or hot today. I usually tried to avoid caffeine in the afternoon, since my sleep pattern was always out of whack anyway. I just had a slightly higher chance of maybe sleeping at night if I avoided coffee after 3pm.
“Callie! Look!” Soren shouts in the background, I can barely make him out over the usual coffee shop noise.
“Ohh,” I don’t like the interest in her voice, something in the back of mind saying that whatever she’s planning is a bad idea. “Gotta go. I think we just found our model.”
Pushing open the door panting, I quickly scan around looking for my friends.
They’re tucked away on a table near the back of the coffee shop.
This is the furthest one from the campus, but it’s also the one with the nicest vibe.
It’s got old leather sofas, vintage looking books lining the walls and a mellow jazz soundtrack is always playing.
Callie’s standing by the counter when she spots me, waving me over.
“There he is! Here, I ordered you a hibiscus tea.” She pushes the hot mug towards me.
“Thanks.”
As we move towards the table, I pause when I notice Evans is sitting next to Soren and they look engrossed in conversation.
He’s amongst my weird art friends, laughing like he belongs there.
He’s wearing a tight white t-shirt and a pair of grey gym shorts.
They must have caught him post run. Evan says something and Soren laughs.
I recognise that laugh. It’s his flirty laugh.
I inhale, catching subtle hints of interest underneath the smell of freshly ground coffee as he places his hand on Evans knee.
Clenching my fist, I glance between them before acknowledging the others.
Arlo gives me a small wave, while Tiggy barely looks up from her drawing tablet.
“I was going to get you an iced coffee, but Evans said you’d want something hot and sweet.”
“Evans did?” That’s thoughtful of him. My inner alpha is soothed by the gesture, but only a little as Evans leans in to look at something Soren is showing him in his sketch book.
It shouldn’t be happy or soothed. It’s just tea. That he knows I like. When he knows coffee would mess me up.
It was probably just an accidental consideration.
“Yeah, it’s actually like kismet or something. We were in need of a model, and bam! In walks your hot, buff housemate.” Callie nudges me with her shoulder before taking her seat. “Perfect really.”
“What?”
Evans cannot take his clothes off and sit in a room for everyone to see.
Not because he doesn’t have a great body, he’s an athlete, of course he does. But because the Alpha Voice in the back of my head is already snarling in protest.
“He can’t be the model.” If he stripped off his clothes, and lets everybody ogle him while they work, how am I supposed to stay calm?
“Uhhh, he can.” Soren gives me a strange look, while Evans watches silently, avoiding my gaze. “He already said yes.”
Callie’s busy tapping away on her phone, as she hums in agreement. “Yeah, he’s agreed to sit for the class.”
Inhaling, I count to ten in my head. Get a grip Hunter, he isn’t yours.
It was just a life drawing class.
There wasn’t anything sexual in it.
Fucking hell, we were all professional artists. I needed to stop this spiral, cut it dead before it grew into a whirlpool threatening to suck me down.
I barely have time to drink my tea when the session tutor, Emma, messages to tell us that she’s ready for us to return to the hall.
As we enter the hall, I turn to Evans, stopping us just inside the doorway. He looks oddly relaxed, smiling and laughing. Has he posed for something like this before? He never mentioned it, and he’s the type to hang naked art of himself on the wall in the lounge, so surely I would have known?
“Is Sadie okay with this?”