Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 116372 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 582(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116372 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 582(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
I enter the art studio, my mood buoyant and rising further when I see the easels set up. I didn’t think we were going to be using them for another week or two, so this is an awesome surprise. In the middle of the room is a beautiful, black velvet chaise lounge.
Professor Meyer greets me with a wide smile.
“Human subject?” I ask, then shake my head. “I’m sorry. I’m just excited. How are you today, Professor?”
“No need to apologize, Lavender. And yes, human subject. We have a volunteer whose schedule isn’t very flexible, and today worked, so here we are.” Her smile and expression are ridiculously gleeful.
I glance around, noting the absence of palates and paintbrushes. “Are we sketching?” I’m a little disappointed. I love working with paint. But any opportunity to work on a human subject is a great one.
“We are. Why don’t you get set up and choose a seat?”
I pick a spot near the front and set everything up, giddy with excitement. The fact that I get to end my week with something I love is awesome. Maybe the rest of the weekend will be just as good. Even economics homework won’t get me down.
The seats around me fill with students, all of whom seem as excited as I am. Once we’re set up, Professor Meyer takes her place in the center of the room. “I know this is unexpected, but we had a rare opportunity present itself and a model offered to come in this week. Today we’ll focus on sketching and shading. I urge you to pay close attention to detail. Your goal today is to capture the raw authenticity of the nude male form.”
A quiet murmur goes through the room. I glance to my right and make accidental eye contact with the girl beside me, who also happens to be one of Bethany’s friends. Her name is Elise. She’s never been particularly friendly to me, but she’s been even more sour since the cafeteria incident. She’s also an art major and doesn’t like that I’m not and still managed to get into the class.
She loves to offer harsh critique of everyone’s work, especially mine. Last week she called my use of pastels juvenile and uninspiring. I think my silence also pisses her off, because I’ve never actually spoken to her.
“Please come on in.” Professor Meyer’s attention shifts to the back of the room, and the class turns as a group.
My excitement drains as our male model enters the studio, wearing a white terry cloth robe. This can’t be happening, is my first thought, immediately followed by, of course this is happening.
And I am 100 percent certain it’s happening because of me. I don’t understand why Kodiak feels the need to remind me at every turn that I’m nothing to him and never will be.
I turn to face my easel, uninterested in watching everyone else fall under his spell. Kodiak is exactly like the place he’s named for—exceptional, rugged, cold, unique. As much as I hate him, it’s impossible to deny his stunning beauty, or to avoid being sucked in by it.
White terry cloth passes on my right. I don’t want to look up, but I realize I have to. For the next three hours, he’s going to be my primary focus. Even worse, I have to sketch him. Naked. In a room full of my peers.
I’m also aware that this entire thing is—or at least used to be—far outside his comfort zone. He used to get anxious before games when we were younger because it meant so many people would be watching him, and he was always afraid of failing. But he learned how to compartmentalize the anxiety, how to push it down and put it in a box so he could play without distraction.
Maybe he’s learned to like the feeling of being watched. Maybe he’s learned how to feed off it instead of letting it feed off him. Whatever the case, he’s about to drop that robe and expose himself to a room full of strangers.
God, does it ever make me angry. And that anger makes me furious, because I don’t want to feel anything about him, or for him. At all. I want to give zero fucks. It’s clear that’s where he is, so why can’t I be?
His hand goes to the tie at his waist and stays there for several long seconds. Why isn’t he disrobing? Maybe he’s having a panic attack. Maybe he isn’t as okay with this as he pretends to be. Maybe he needs me like I used to need him. The thought is fleeting, childish, and entirely too romantic. Kodiak doesn’t need anyone. I lift my eyes. His jaw tics as I meet his eyes, the palest green. His pupils are pinpricks. Acute anxiety.
But that’s what he was waiting for—my eyes on his. He pulls the tie, and I don’t look away. We’re locked in some kind of odd stare down. I don’t understand what he’s doing. What’s the point of baring himself to me in front of everyone? Is it another way to humiliate me?