For hours.
I don’t even know how many I’ve completed, just that this rush of creativity has stemmed from the Russian asshat I’m falling for. The same one who flips through this darn book whenever he gets a chance.
Like it’s his favorite thing to do outside of hockey.
I pull back for a second, glaring at the sketch, a tinge of jealousy inking its way into my blood.
Oh, hell. Am I really jealous of an inanimate object because I want to be Alexei’s favorite thing to do outside of hockey?
Doesn’t help that all my sketches seem to revolve around him in some way. As if he’s my muse.
Ugh.
Muse. I sound like some old person from one of those ancient books they make us read in literature class.
One thing I am learning about myself is that my best work seems to come out when I’m emotionally invested in some way. And as of lately I’ve been emotionally invested in Alexei Petrov.
Speaking of . . . I want to get to know him more, outside of sex.
And there just so happens to be an art exhibit on campus tonight, showcasing students’ work, including mine.
Maybe I should invite him.
Before I can overthink it, I grab my phone and shoot him a text.
Hey, there's an art show on campus tonight. Want to check it out with me?
My knee bounces as the minutes tick by with no response. Finally, three dots pop up.
Why the fuck would I want to do that?
I roll my eyes.
Come on, big guy. Live a little.
Another agonizing few minutes.
Fine, I’ll go to your stupid art thing.
I grin.
It's a date!
Immediately, I want to smack myself. Why did I use the word date? That implies a relationship . . . and I still have no idea whatour situationship is. Only that ‘I belong to him’ as he likes to keep reminding.
Too late now, especially when ‘read’ appears below the text.
When he doesn’t respond, I’m relieved and hurt. Didn’t know both feelings could happen at the same time.
A few hours later, I’m fidgeting with my shirt collar, tugging it straight for the tenth time as I walk across campus to Crestwood University’s Visual Arts Center.
My heartbeat is out of control the closer I get to the exhibit, and I’m sweating like a bison in heat, sure I’ll pass out any moment.
There goes not making this such a big deal.
I spot Alexei leaning against the wall outside the gallery. In a suit. His wavy dark brown hair is perfectly coiffed back from his face. He exudes sex and power and dominance.
And here I am in a pair of khakis and a cornflower blue polo. I groan and slow down.
