Hopelessly Devoted

30

And I believed him.

"It's not that. It's the painting in and of itself."

Blake. Blake is the painting.

"Is there something wrong with that painting in your eyes, Harry? If so, I can assure you that there is nothing wrong with it. You as the artist will always be your own biggest critic."

"I just have to think about selling it. The girl in the photo-" I didn't want to necessarily sell my favorite painting of Blake. I liked keeping it in my gallery and array of paintings back in my apartment. I was planning on moving the mass amount of paintings and blank canvases back to my mother's house in Nevada next time I saw her.

"Yes, the gorgeous and breathtaking blonde. She appears to be your muse recently. Every prompt I give you, somehow seems to be taken in the direction of a girl."

Is Blake my muse? Is that what she has become?

A breathtaking muse.

"I'm sorry about that, I can paint something else." I promise him. I'm sure he is tired of seeing the same girl in different formats. Abstract, landscape, portrait.

"Nonsense. An artist should paint what is on his heart, never what is on his mind. The mind complicates the things the heart feels. Paint what you feel, Harry. You will be more connected with your pieces that way."

"Thank you, sir. For everything. I'll truly consider your offer and I will get back to you."

"She must be special Mr. Styles. She seems like a beautiful girl. Talk to her about it, think about it for yourself. This could be your future after all."

The memory ends in my mind when I hear the lounge door open and shut quickly. I refrain from groaning with an eye roll as I see Jason walk into the room. I was the only person other than him in here and I could just feel the happy atmosphere dying quickly.

"Hello." His scruff voice says from the entrance. He's dressed in all black like usual. I'm wearing a black shirt with red shorts. My hair is a mess but controlled at the moment and ready to be tied up in a small ponytail.

"Meurs dans un trou." I responded, knowing he can't speak any French. My stubble smirk hides the fact that the temperature of my blood is so close to metaphorically boiling.

"You know I can't speak baguette, Harold."

I almost laughed. Baguette? Seriously?

"Personal problems." I shrug, like any normal response I have to his asinine comments.

"Whatever. Let's talk business." He as well shrugs off my comment with a comeback reply, moving his eyes around the room taking in the lounge. I'm sure he's been here before considering he works alongside the owner of this place.

He takes notice of the couch across the room and with long strides he goes to sit in the now infected chair.

'Well I assumed we weren't going to catch up with a cup of tea." I cross my arms over my chest and lean against the lockers as I stare coldly at him from across the room. His small chuckle comes tumbling from his disgusting mouth that speaks so many vulgar words.

"The bullshit attitude isn't going to cut it with me, son." He says loudly. I know him well enough to be able to tell that my attitude about his presence is making him angry.

Let him be angry.

He makes me angry all the damn time and doesn't ever give two shits. So like I said. Let the mother fucker be so angry it causes an aneurysm.