"A chorus in your eyes
Another round of blues."
Round of blues by Shawn Colvin.

Chapter 8:

He's gone.

The asshole stole my sketchbook and fled.

I take the stairs, descending them zippier than ever. My chest feels tight with panic, and I keep wondering whether he has already seen my paintings or not. What does he think of me now? A miserable freak? Or maybe he isn't that invasive. Maybe he took it just to get under my skin. At least that's what I hope.

I bump into a firm, unyielding chest as I exit the building, and two arms hasten to wrap themselves around my waist, thankfully steadying me before I knock myself flat on my ass like a moron. “Woah Candice, why the rush?” the stiff chest jounces against my head as its possessor speaks, and I recognize the deep, seductive voice right away.

I look up and I'm met by a pair of coruscant, luminous gray eyes. The kind that robs you of your sanity and never lets it free again. I clear my throat,hoping that my face doesn't look as red as it feels. “Hey, Logan.” I attempt to smile, stepping out of his embrace.

He smiles, his eyes manifestly twinkling under the dazzling sun. “What a lovely coincidence. Were you headed somewhere?”

I straighten my shirt, pinching and tugging at its collar as I ponder whether I should tell him or not, but then decide on the former. I really need to find Dylan before I lose my mind. “I was searching for Dylan. Have you seen him?”

His eyebrows instantly shoot up, showing his surprise. “Dylan?”

“Yes.” the word sounds like a question more than an answer.

He chuckles, replenishing his normal expression again. “Of course.” He shakes his head before he beckons to a black Porsche a few meters aways from us. “I saw him in his car.”

“Thanks! See you later.” I quickly say, striding toward Dylan's car and leaving Logan with a dumbfounded expression on his face.

I advance toward Dylan's car, my hands already clenched in ire. I even consider giving his beautiful face an eternal scar. My heart beats faster the closer I get to his car, a fusion of agitation and wrath dashing through my blood, but all of that stops the moment I see him there, lounging inside his car and leaning back against the seat as he smokes a cigarette and flips the pages of my sketchbook. His face looks impassive, as if he were gazing at a meditation coloring book and not sketchbook charged with melancholic paintings tinctured in a singular color- blue.

It's funny how those paintings failed to actuate a mere emotion of his and how they consistently bust me into pieces every time I see them.

He abruptly looks up, as if sensing me standing there, and our eyes lock in a persistent eye-contact. “Get in the car.” his voice sounds very hushed with the car window separating us, but I hear him. He gestures to the passenger seat when I don't budge for a few seconds, and this time I move and get into the car, but not because he ordered me to. It's because I had to. He has something of mine that I need to restore.

Once I'm settled, I take a long breath, willing myself to cool down. “How dare you?” My voice comes out throaty and lethal, and I'm suddenly aching for water to assuage my dry throat.

“Why only in blue?” He muses as he stares at a blue painting of my mother, ignoring my bitter question altogether. In the painting, her face is contorted with hatred as she looks straight forward. Her naked body is curled into a ball, her legs and arms shielding her private parts. She looks afflicted. She looks lost. She looks lonely.

It was the first time she told me that she hated me.

I clear my throat, pushing the harsh memory to the back of my mind. “None of your business.” I growl in malice, tugging at the sketchbook, but he swiftly pulls it away.

“I want to show you something.” he announces before he abruptly puts the car into gear, pulling out of the parking area.

“Hey hey hey!” I squeak. “What the hell do you think yourself doing?”

“I'm taking you home with me.” He facilely states.

“What?” I yell.

He winces at my loud voice. “It's not what you think. I just want to show you something.”

“I don't want to see shit. Just give me my damn sketchbook and let me out.” I shout in frustration, stomping my feet.

He huffs. “Stop yelling. I already have a headache and your cold coffee didn't do me justice.”

My temper flares. “Don't you dare tell me what to do, you stealing asshole.”

“Why are you making a fuss over that sketchbook? Your drawing sucks anyway.” He says, eyes on the road.

My mouth drops open in shock. How dare he? “You're truly an asshole!” I exclaim.

“Call me an asshole one more time and you won't get your sketchbook back.”

That's it. Unable to conserve my temper anymore, I heft my satchel and aim at his head.

He quickly dodges, holding one hand up in surrender. “Are you nuts? You're going to kill us.” He exclaims, eyes still fixated on the road.

“I don't care.” I aim for his stomach this time but his hand quickly blocks my satchel before it makes contact.

“Damn, you're crazy.” He says, warding off a couple of more hits before he pulls into a garage of some some building a brief while later. He opens his door and gets out, my sketchbook still in his hand. I get out too, following him as he heads toward an elevator.

“Stop being a dick and give it back.” I half run after him, trying to keep up with his long strides. Why do I have to be 5’3?

“Dick is not much fancier than asshole, you know.” He points out, getting into the elevator.

“I'm not getting in with you.” I snarl, pulling my hands on my hips.

He shrugs. “It's up to you.” He starts to press on the button but stops when I involuntarily dart in.

“I hate you.” I hiss as the elevator moves, leaning back against the wall in defeat.

“It's okay. The feeling is mutual.” He shrugs again, a triumphant smile playing on his lips.

I refuse to register the feeling of avidness that throbs through my heart. I don't want to go up there and see where he lives and I absolutely don't care a whit about what he wants to show me. What could it be anyway?

Bah no I don't care.

We exit the elevator, and he walks toward a door and opens it. Behind it is what I never expected. The apartment is not big, admittedly it's the opposite. The place is cracking messy. Boxes of pizza are disheveled on the couch and empty bottles of beer decorate the table facing the couch. The rest of the place doesn't look professionally decorated. It's furnished with standard and inexpensive items. Attached to the living room is a small kitchen with a small dining table in it, and it looks just as chaotic.

“And you call the bar I work at a shithole.I wonder if your ego even fits in here. ” I mutter in disdain, spying a small hallway at the end of the living room.

“I don't need a big place to live alone.” he says in an indifferent voice, ignoring my sarcastic statement. He tosses his keys and phone on the counter and heads toward the hallway, leaving me standing there close to the front door. He stops halfway, turning to me. “Are you going to stand there all day long? Follow me. I don't have all day.” He spouts, disappearing into the hallway.

What does he mean by that? Does he think I'm going to sleep with him or something? I storm after him, ready to thwack his grand ego into its average size. I find him leaning against a door, his arms crossed, making his stout muscles stand out in the most hunky way. I quickly look away and pretend to be viewing my surroundings. I find two more doors. “What nonsense are you planning?” I mirror him, crossing my arms too. His eyes momentarily fall to where my breasts are pushed up with my arms, slightly widening, before he looks up at me, his lips twisting into a cocky smile.

“Why, Candy, are you afraid?” He faintly arches his eyebrows, the smile never leaving his face.

“Stop calling me that. My. Name. Is. Candice. And I'm not afraid.” I cross my arms.

He chuckles low in his throat, shifting away from the door. “Then prove it, Candy. Prove it and open the door.”

I squint at him. “Please don't tell me it's some kind of a Red Room Of Pain or something.”

He blinks at me for a moment, chortling once in amusement, and opens the door himself. “You're impossible.”

The moment the door is open, a strong smell of paint wafts straight to my nose. I draw near to it and I'm immediately struck by the exquisite scenery in front of me. Canvases and canvases cram the place. Hung up on the wall, and lined up on the floor. I only focus on the ones on the wall as they are the most conspicuous. They're paintings of everything an artist can come up with. People, objects and places. All in the right colors. I find myself moving, inspecting some of them up close. A painting of an old man fishing, only one side of his face is visible. It's obscured by multiple wrinkles. A painting of a hurt unicorn in white and brown, a tear running down its face. A painting of a child with torn clothes playing the piano with dirty fingers, a jovial expression on his young, innocent face. Suddenly, I feel so overwhelmed by the emotions that radiate from the paintings.

He was right. My drawing sucks. Big time. It makes me envy him even more. He has everything I've ever wanted, and I have yet to know him.

“Wow.” I breathe, having no words to express my mixed feelings.

“I know.” He says, approaching to stand beside me, our arms almost touching. “Very few people have seen this room. It feels weird to have a stranger staring at my work.” He confesses in a hushed voice, as if afraid to disturb the paintings.

“Why did you bring me here then?” I question, turning to face him.

“You let me see your secret. It's only fair that I showed you mine in return.”

“I did not let you see mine. You didn't even ask my permission to come here and see yours.” I scoff.

He only stares at me, ignoring what I said, before his eyes trail down my body, making me shuffle my feet in nervousness. “Why only in blue?” he repeats his question from earlier, his eyes poring into mine.

“It's my favorite color.” I lie, shrugging my shoulders.

He raises his eyebrow, clearly not believing me. “Have you taken classes in art?”

“No. I have to study and work. I don't have time for classes, let alone the money.” I shrug again.

He's silent for a moment. “I can help you improve your skills.” he handily offers.

“And what do you want in return?” I catechise, crossing my arms.

“Nothing. I'm volunteering.”

My lips press into a thin, firm line. “I don't need your charity.”

“It's called help. You can either accept it and improve your work or refuse it and keep your paintings in the same weak state.” he shrugs in nonchalance, stirring my temper into life.

“My paintings are not weak.” I grit out.

“No, they're not. They have a lot of emotions behind them and they can be reflected in a better way. Not everyone sees what lays beyond the appearance.” He explains, cocking his head to the side.

I frown, letting his words sink in. “Why do you want to help me? What's your catch?”

“What would I want from you?” He asks. I fume, giving him my best glare, which he ignores. “I appreciate artists as much as I do art, and I'd like to see what you're capable of doing. Think about it and tell me your decision when you're ready.”

I remain silent, deliberating his words. It's hard to understand him. He's mysterious and aggressive one second, and frisky and helpful the next. I stare at the portraits that fill the place for a while, before I sigh, turning to him. “Can I have my sketchbook back now?” I ask, holding out my hand.

He stares at my hand for a second, as if contemplating whether he should give it back or not, before he finally hands it in. A feeling of relief washes over my body the moment I possess it back, but it somehow feels light, as if it no longer bears its significance after seeing his brilliant art.

...............

He drives me back to campus, and I keep castigating him for making me miss a class over the course of the ride. He keeps calling me “Candy”, knowing that it annoys me. Truth is that it really doesn't. I secretly like it very much, even though I shouldn't.

“No thanks for the ride?” He mocks me when I slam the door of his car shut, storming off toward the coffee house. I really need a compensation for the coffee he stole from me.

“No one asked you to take me from the first place.” I say, throwing him a dirty glance.

He scoffs. “Would-” He starts to say something before he's interrupted by Claire's high-pitched voice.

“Hey Dylan!”

I inwardly groan, rolling my eyes. Exactly what I needed to make my day worse.

“Claire.” he says. I don't turn to acknowledge her in any way as I order my coffee.

“No hello to me, Candice?” she asks in an overly sweet voice.

I turn to face her, already thinking of a comeback, but I'm silenced when I see the blonde girl with her. She looks back at me, frowning in confusion, before she smiles. “Hey, Candice.”

Claire's eyebrows shoot up, eyes darting between us, before she settles her attention on me, her eyes sparkling in mischief. “Looks like you already know my friend, Hannah.”

*An awfully late update, I know! I'm so sorry. I'm currently mired deep in my midterm exams and I barely have time to sleep. One more week to go and I'll be updating more often.

I hope you liked today's chapter. Don't forget to vote and comment your opinions! X.

Love,
Raghda.