He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. “You know it’s the day before the con? I already got your ticket.”
Oh bugger everything, thecon.
For a moment I was worried I might vomit, here in a tiny yellow car in America, but instead I shut my eyes tight and breathed deep through my nose, trying to focus on the feel of my hands gripping the seat, the breeze from the window, the rumble of the engine traveling up my legs—
I’d actually let my brain shove the convention and the fact that I was meant to speak at it into a dark little corner of my mind and forget about it. But Finch was right. There were twenty days left before the workshop was over and I was expected to speak before a large crowd and answer questions and account for myself and my comic—
“Armand, are you okay?”
“Mm-hmm. Aye.” I groaned, opening my eyes and unclenching my hands.Breathe,pet. “Sorry. I’m a bit ... I’m fine.”
Finch gave a concerned little nod, no mockery, for once. “Okay, just let me know if you want me to pull over.”
“I’mfine, Titch.”
Now he rolled his eyes, but mercifully changed the subject. “Why did you want me to pick you up so early today? I mean, early foryou.”
“I’m meeting with the life model before class,” I said, choosing to interpret his teasing as a good sign. It was how he expressed affection for me, it seemed. We parked, and as usual Finch walked me to the arts building, as if he were still uncertain of my abilities to find it on my own. He didn’t seem offended, however, when I told him it would be best if he wasn’t present for my meeting with the model. In fact, he seemed to be in full agreement.
“Are you kidding? It’s not gonna be awkward enough when it’s me and a billion other people? No, let’s get up close and personal withyouin the room. Because, you know, you’re sogoodat defusing uncomfortable social situations.” He winked.
Yep. Definitely affection.
I glared at him half-heartedly. “I can’t fire you, can I?”
“You can talk to the university about replacing me.” He shrugged, then lowered his head and grinned up at me past his messy ginger fringe. “But you won’t, because I’m adorable and you think of me as your snarky younger brother. Besides, you’re British, so verbal abuse is a bit like Vitamin D for you,innit?”
I gave him a reluctant smile. “Aye. Now run along and do something useful.”
“Will do.” He waggled his eyebrows at me. “Want me to pick up a card for Martha Stewart?”
I never should have told him about Lucas. “No, he seems to be ... doing better.”
“Still, you should let him know you care.” He struck a pose. “Maybe write him an epic love soliloquy. I’ll declaim it for you. Oh, Lucas Barclay, would you bebae—”
“Titch.”
He chuckled impishly, turned on his heel, and scampered off—every inch an overly enthusiastic and dimwitted Pekinese. A ginger one.
I would spiral about the con later; today was more than game to offer up its own extravaganza of challenges. I took yet another deep breath and headed into the classroom.
Skyler was already there, reclining against the desk and staring up at the rows of seats and easels; his back was curved ever so slightly, highlighting the muscle of the shoulders. The thighs filling out the line of his trousers as they supported his weight, knee bent and sole pressed to the side of the desk—the very picture of an urban Olympian, carved by the hands of a sad, stupidly talented and wishing old man.
The thought gave me pause in the worst way—I was falling for the Pre-Raphaelite trapmyself.
I was thinking of Skyler as nothing more than an outlet for my own expression, his beauty and vitality reduced to a reflective surface for my skill and bloody artistry—whatever statement I might potentially make, using his body. He wasn’t an ethereal muse or creature of the night, a spirit of indomitable youth and effortless beauty ...
He was a boy.
I cleared my throat and Skyler looked over at me, and for a second I could see the apprehension before it was hurriedly covered. Before we’d even had time to exchange hellos, I set my bag down on the table and said very clearly, “There’s no need to carry on with this if you’re uncomfortable, mate. I’ll make sure there’ll be no consequences if you change your mind.”
The students who’d been groaning their way through panel design would be disappointed, but I could figure something out. I’d split them up and have them sketch each other perhaps, fully clothed obviously, but—
“I’m not nervous. Who’s nervous?” Skyler grinned at me, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans and leaning his head back, taking a deep breath through his teeth. “I’m good, really. I want to do this.”
I watched him for a few moments, trying not to empathize hard enough to hurt. I knew what he was looking for, and that he’d find it. There was so much freedom in surrendering yourself to another’s interpretation—to present yourself as the vehicle of a stranger’s passion and accept whatever utterance was the result. No need to define yourself when others were more than happy to do it for you.
“Right, then.” I opened the bag and drew forth the long, thick robe I’d stolen from a hotel somewhere, probably Manchester, and handed it over to Skyler. “You get undressed while I go play silly buggers with the thermostat, aye?”
