Deals With The Devil's Spawn

Draw Me Like One of Your French Girls

I'd spent the entire day panicking, his calming presence, that always without fail immediately seemed to calm me, hadn't been there. He'd spent the entire day busy with his classes, coach and team. And like the pitiful sap that I'd become, I'd missed the hell out of him.

I had no idea when I'd become so dependent of having him around, so accustomed to it. But...I had.

"Porter," his soft voice filtered through mt thoughts, and my heart fluttered in my chest. That was my voice, yes, it was presumptuous to even think that, but I'd quickly come to realize I was the only one he ever spoke to in that voice.

It did things to my heart. It was soft, and peaceful, almost sounding like a plea and prayer in one. It always made me feel so goddamn special when he spoke to me in that voice, and looking up at him now, the stupid trademark blush that came with that voice found itself on my face.

"Do you think that? Do you think I'm with you for the wrong reasons?" He asked, softly, his thumbs brushing lightly over the tops of my hands.

Pulling my bottom lip between my teeth, I let out small sigh. Trying to hide the truth from him, I stared at his chest instead of meeting his eyes when I finally answered, "No, of course not, it's just..."

"Just?" He proded when I trailed off, words seeming to escape me.

I had no idea how to explain to him that yes, I worried every day that he was with me for the wrong reasons. Not the reasons that they thought, but reasons. Reasons like he was going through a mental breakdown. Going crazy. Wasn't realizing what the hell he was getting himself into. Sure, he had no clue now, but he would.

He would realize just what the hell he was getting himself into soon enough, and he would do the smart thing and leave me.

"Pinocchio?"

I sighed, heavily, and finally met his blue eyes. "We don't make sense. Sure, when it was fake it was fine, because they didn't know that. They had no idea that it was fake, but we did. We knew it was fake so it...it didn't have to make sense. But, we don't make any sense."

He smiled, softly, lifting a hand to my face, he brushed his thumb on my cheek. "Porter, it doesn't have to make sense. Feelings never make sense, they're messy, and complicated and so goddamn confusing, but we figure it out together. We work through it together."

I smiled, shyly, my eyes flickering to his chest for a minute, before meeting his again. "Together" I repeated, slowly, testing the word.

I liked it. I liked it a lot. Somehow with him by my side, I felt like I could do anything. Say anything. Be anything.

He nodded, a smile playing on his lips, his thumbs brushing the back of my hands. "So...will you go then? For me?"

I sighed, tiredly, squeezing his fingers lightly. "Brayden," sigh, "I just...it's not a good idea. If you really want to see my paintings, I'll show them to you myself, okay? How's that? Give you a private tour? That sounds better, right?"

He gave me a small smile, nodding, understandably. "And you're sure you don't want to go?"

I nodded, quickly, "Yes."

"Okay, fine, but I'm going to take you up on that private tour," he replied, jumping up onto his feet, and reaching down he pulled me up by my arms, making me squeak in surprise. "Let's go."

"Wait, right now?"

He grabbed my arm, pulling me gently along, "Yes, right now."

"But, but, but," I squeaked out, digging my heels into the floor, trying desperately to slow him down.

Turning around, he rolled his eyes, playfully, and ducking down, wrapped his arms around my knees; hoisting me over his shoulders, cutting off the rest of my protests. He made his way out of the kitchen and through the living room, towards the garage.

As we got closer, I began to panic. My heart beating wildly in my chest as the realization of what was about to happen, what I'd stupidly made happen, hit me.

Brayden was about to see all of my paintings.

All of my paintings of him.

Oh sweet baby Jesus.

"Okay, but before you see them, you should know that-" I knew the minute he saw them, his entire body going still beneath me.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck a big duck.

He slowly lowered me to the ground, never even turning to glance my way as he set me down next to him, his entire attention on the many paintings littered around the garage.

Oh god.

He was going to leave me, wasn't he?

God, he was never going to talk to me ever again. I was a goddamn stalker, why would he ever want anything to do with a stalker?

"Wow." I heard him whisper under his breath, moving to one of the paintings in the middle of the room. It was a painting of him at his game.

I'd captured that image in my head right after they'd won their game on Friday. He'd pulled his helmet off, his skates gliding along the ice to the middle of the rink, where he'd let his head fall back, a sigh leaving his lips, his eyes closed.

He'd looked so beautiful. The high of the win, the adrenaline of the game, outweighing the exhaustion I knew would soon settle in his bones.

I loved watching him play. Loved how his face lit up when he was on that ice, his body vibrating with excited energy. But most of all I loved the way he celebrated his wins; by breathing it all in, the smile on his face contagious.

So I'd painted that image on a canvas to keep it forever with me. Wanting desperately to capture the happiness he'd felt that night, and keep him that way forever. He deserved all the happiness in the world.

"Porter, these are..."

Weird.

Creepy.

"Amazing," he breathed, making my head snap in his direction.

"What?" I choked out, fidgeting nervously, and fighting the urge to go to him and place a palm on his forehead to make sure he wasn't running a fever.

"God, you are so goddamn talented," he finally turned to me, absolute pride in his eyes, making my heart flutter in my chest.

Taking two long strides, he was in front of me, cupping my face in his hands, and crowding my space. "You are incredible."

Letting out a nervous laugh, I shook my head, closing my fingers around his wrists. "You don't think they're creepy?"

He grinned. "Why would I think it's creepy that you drew inspiration from me? Baby, I'm more than happy to be your inspiration."

I swallowed past the lump in my throat, blinking back my tears. Giving him a playful grin, I wiggled my eyebrows. "You are very inspiring."

"You're damn straight I am," he sniffed, smugly, "Plus, I've always wanted to day this, 'Draw me like one of your French girls, Ms. Mathews.'"

Rolling my eyes, I snorted, and leaning up, I pressed my lips to his, and wrapped my arms around his neck, a sigh of relief leaving my lips.

"Just so you know, I'm taking half of these and hanging them all over my house," he mumbled against my lips with a smile. "The one of my game is going above my bed."

I couldn't help but laugh, wrapping my arms around him, tighter, trying to keep him as close to me as possible.

God, I really was screwed.