“What ya painting?”
I hate people seeing my work until it’s finished, but before I can cover the canvas, he’s crept around to stand next to me. His arm brushes mine, and I step off my stool, putting it between us.
He frowns at the canvas. “I hate all this new age art shit.”
I take a deep breath to stop the retort that forms on my lips. A man like Boxy might take any interaction as flirting, and I’m definitely not flirting with him.
“I’m going to turn in.”
I gather up my paintbrushes and take them to the outside sink on the other side of the courtyard.
“A few of us are going for a drink. You should come.”
Turning around, I see he’s followed me across the courtyard. He’s too close, and I hold the brushes up to my chest to form a barrier between us.
“No, thanks.” I want to tell him to fuck off, but he could be dangerous. My gaze flicks to the window, wondering if they can see us from out there.
“You too good for us or something?” He sneers.
Swallowing my fear, I shake out my brushes, and he jumps backward as water flicks onto his shirt.
“Just tired.”
I push past him to get to my paints, and he moves with me. I glance at the canvas. It’s half-finished, and I like the colors, but if I have to sacrifice it, I will.
I lunge for the door and reach it before Boxy. I quickly drag it open and tumble inside. Janelle looks up from the couch and frowns when she sees Boxy slink in behind me.
Getting up off the couch, she gives Boxy the evil eye. “You want help bringing your paints in?” She asks me, and I nod.
Once we’ve collected the paints, we head to the room we’re sharing.
“What did Boxy want?” she asks once we’ve shut the door behind us.
“He wanted me to go for a drink, and I said no.”
She shudders. “He doesn’t get the hint, does he?”
Boxy has tried it with every female here. I shrug. “Men like that never do.”
But I don’t want to think about Boxy.
I put the half-finished canvas on the floor and fold the easel to store under the bed. It’s the one luxury I brought with me.
While Janelle gets ready for bed, I pull up my email app on my phone. There’s a message from my brother, and I sit on the bed with my knees tucked up to read it.
All okay here. Not much to do. But I’ve found a little work.
Hope you’re holding up okay.
Tyler
I read the message several times, trying to figure out what he’s not telling me. I should be happy that he’s safe, but anxiety gnaws at my gut.
A little work could mean anything. I just hope like hell it’s legal work.
I think about the text I got today.
You owe me
