For someone who can notice such a tiny little puck flying toward his goal, he’s not that observant.
He is observant enough that he’s asked me once or twice if I’m going to give him his key back… and observant enough to point out when I avoid the question.
But he still asked me if I’m coming to his next game. When I don’t answer, he tells me he’s going to leave me another ticket at the front desk.
And then he sends me a picture of his breakfast. I spend entirely too long looking at it—not because of the food, but because his long, elegant fingers are holding the edge of his plate.
I shove my phone into my pocket and go to class, and I don’t respond for a few hours. When I finally do, it’s to show him the painting I’m doing for an art theory assignment.
That’s amazing.
I frown at his text. It’s really not. It’s… simple. The colors are bright, the shadows are where they should be… but…
I can do better.
And then I put my phone down again, because I want toshowhim better. I’ve been questioning what’s happening since the other night when I touched myself… since I got that text from him thanking me for his helmet. None of this makes sense. Not for me, not for the life I live.
Donovan islight. He’s a shape that was never meant to fit around me unless I cut him down to pieces… but somehow with a warm smile and his baffling ability to ignore the fact that I’m obviously up to no good… he’s wrapping around me like wet clay and forcing a new space made just for him.
I don’t know if I like it.
That doesn’t stop me from flipping through a few of the paintings I have up for sale and sending him a picture of one I’m actually proud of.
Red and black, a swirl. A figure draped in shadows and reaching out. I remember exactly whose blood I used to paint it—it’s not like I kill people very often. Just when the paint runs dry. Not enough to be noticed… but…
So you’re really talented then, huh?
I have no idea why the compliment makes my stomach clench, or what demon possesses me when I walk to my desk and snap a picture of the sketch I did of him—the one covered in blood and cum.
I stare at it for a long time before deleting it and texting him back.
It’s enough to pay the bills.
He types and deletes something… types and deletes something before finally responding.
As long as you’re comfortable, that’s what matters.
I tilt my head, frowning at the screen. What was he typing before that? Donovan is such a mystery.
I turn and take another picture—this time it’s of the enormous television mounted to my wall. I don’t watch things very often, but it came with the apartment.
I think I do okay.
I need to come to your place to watch movies. Holy shit.
The thought makes my stomach flip as my eyes dart to my studio, to the art I have drying, the pieces I have hanging up that I didn’t sell… to the mess of papers and sketches scattered everywhere. This place is me—unfiltered and real.
I don’t want him to see that.
I think I like your place better.
“California, right?” The woman at the booth gives me a sweet smile. I don’t really like hearing anyone else say that silly nickname, but I nod.
“That’s right.”
“You must be someone special.” She leans forward with a laminated pass in her hand as she says it, and I frown. I’d like to think that I’msomethingto Donovan, but I have no idea what that is.
My eyes fall to the pass as I take it.
