D A M I E N
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Two Years Later
The sound of a piano filtered through the speakers, filling the room. Dropping the paintbrush I was holding into a glass jar of paint-colored water, I stood up from the stool, taking a step back and looking at the nearly finished canvas in front of me.
The past few weeks had been spent in the studio, where I practically locked myself up until I finished compositions for the reopening of my family's gallery, an asset of my mother's that Nicolas and I agreed to never sell. I knew one day I'd want to turn the place into something grander than it already was. Something different from what I remembered it as, as a kid. I loved that familiar faces came and went now and then, but all I ever saw when I visited was a building with lost potential. It reflected the life of my mother.
I'd finally taken on the project earlier in the year when I stepped down from overlooking the affairs that went on at Musée de l'Érotisme, letting my best friend and my fiancée take full control. The reason being, I just really needed to catch my fucking breath.
I also wanted to focus on something that wasn't strictly work-related for a change. Yes, Musée de Dupont would still bring in the money, probably even more once it was reopened after the holidays and branded with my name, but it was never about how much I'd make out of it for me. It was about resurrecting my mother's dream and living it out to the fullest, in the only way I knew how.
I studied my work, narrowing in on any imperfections I could find. One spot in the corner needed more thin strokes of brown. There needed to be a few more shadows between her legs. Something didn't feel right about the placement of her hand. Or the way that one strand of hair fell. I sighed, reaching for the pack of cigarettes that sat in the tray underneath the easel. I'd gone through half a pack today, and although Vera didn't mind when I smoked, I didn't like the times when I had to depend on it.
Hitting the carton against my palm, I took one out, placing it between my lips and grabbing a lighter from my pocket. Lighting the end, hearing the quiet sizzle of tobacco and paper, I inhaled a puff, feeling the relieving sting fill my lungs. I closed my eyes, savoring it for a second or two before blowing the smoke out, along with an exhale I had been holding for who knows how long.
I looked down at the painting again. I just wanted everything to be perfect.
Hearing a door close, I reached for my phone and lowered the volume of the music. Keys clanked against glass, the sound of groans following. Vera. Not the ones I particularly liked, though. She sounded annoyed.
The wood floors creaked at the beginning of the hallway, and I knew she was coming to see me. Walking in front of the easel to block her from wanting to see the piece that sat on the other side, I took another puff, waiting for her to walk through the door.
As she usually does when she's in a mood, she flew the door open, and unlike the many times she marched into the studio with an attitude to give, this time she remained silent. And completely drenched from what I assumed was a result of the current weather. Drops of water dripped from her hair, little strands pressed against her face, and her clothes were a shade darker. I knew it was supposed to rain all week, I just hadn't realized how hard.
I tilted my head to the side, noticing for a split instant that she was wearing the very outfit she had worn on her first day at the museum over two years ago. I hadn't seen her all day until now. She wore her crimson red coat and a long-sleeved black dress with tights underneath. Even the rips in her stockings were the same. I paused.
The rips?
I looked at her knees, realizing there were little trickles of blood trailing down her leg. I stuck the cigarette into the corner of my mouth, stalking over to her and kneeling. "What the hell happened to you?" I questioned, my words coming out a little stifled.
She ignored both the fact that I was kneeling in front of her, and that her knees were bleeding, and instead, plucked the cigarette right from my mouth. I stood back up, towering over her again, and watched as she took long drags. She indulged every once in a while, and today seemed to be one of those days. I looked at her face, her makeup running, leaving little black streaks down her cheeks, the dark red lipstick she wore also smudged, and I could suddenly feel the heat in my groin.
The girl just challenged a storm, and here she was, turning me on. I cleared my throat, my eyebrows furrowing as I stared at her, her eyes closed.
She held onto the smoke, savoring just like I did, before blowing out a trail. "It's an absolute mess out there," she finally spoke, reopening them, her voice an eerie calm. "The streets are flooded, the museum's parking garage is starting to collect water as well, the delivery people couldn't drop off the new exhibition pieces today, and to put the cherry on top, I tripped on those fucking stairs again."
I bit the inside flesh of my cheek, flaring my nose, the tiniest laugh stuck in my throat. Those stairs were certainly a menace to walk up and down, but sometimes my baby hadn't a clue what watching your step meant. Such a lack of caution also tends to follow her into her life, and it still puts me on edge about how okay she can be with just diving into things. I loved to dive, but first, you had to know how to swim. Nonetheless, I let her be. I would never question the kind of woman she's becoming.
She took another puff, and then reached over to one of the tables, twisting out the sparked end, and letting it fall into the ashtray. Taking in a large breath, she stood in front of me again, tilting her head back, a tight-lipped smile sitting on her face now. "I enjoy my job, I do, it's just that some days, I would rather burn," she joked, although truth lingers in almost every quip we ever tell. "Today is one of those days."
Vera had been working her ass off ever since she graduated, thrown into the field, and taking over Delia's spot after she left. Anyone could see it in her face, how tired she was. Just like me, the girl gave up bits of her sanity to perfect her craft. We'd spent so many busy nights where the kettle would be non-stop hissing and our mugs were filled to the brim every other hour, mine with coffee, hers with tea.
But as much talent as she had to show, and as much as I loved seeing her take her place in this world, there was no way I'd let the woman I was going to marry next spring fizzle out on me.
"Take off your clothes," I ordered, walking away from her to the table with my phone on it, turning the music off. I looked around at the little mess I'd created, deciding that it'd have to wait until tomorrow. I glanced back at her, one of her eyebrows raised.
I let out a laugh. "Fine. I'll do it for you," I moved towards her again, shifting behind her, and peeling the red coat from her body, letting the wet material drop to the floor. "Lift your arms."
She did as she was told, lifting both of her arms in the air. I bent my knees, hooking my fingers under the hem of her dress before pulling it up her body, over her head. I dropped the dress onto the coat, focusing on her again. I stripped the tights from her body, careful not to aggravate the scrapes on her knees, tapping one ankle and then the other for her to step out. I threw that piece of clothing onto the pile as well, then stood up, scooting the soaked hill to the side with my foot. I'd have to start a load of laundry later.
She was left in only her bra and panties, the soaked lacey cloth sticking to her skin so closely, you could see everything underneath. I scanned over her back once, never getting tired of her and her body. I kept it moving, despite the new erection that strained in my jeans, unclasping her bra, and slipping down her panties. Throwing that to the side, I then swooped her up into my arms, a little gasp leaving her mouth. I walked us out of the studio and through the hallway.
"What are you doing?" she asked, hooking her arms around my neck. I side-eyed her, seeing her sink her teeth into her bottom lip. My lips curled up, and I shook my head, ignoring her as I moved us through the foyer and then up the staircase.
The door I knew she expected us to end up in front of, stood at the end of one of the second-floor hallways, but instead of stopping, I kept walking right past it, looking down at her to see her face contort with newfound confusion. I ignored her again, bringing us to the bedroom, making the short trek to the closet, and into the bathroom.
Tonight, we'd relax. Nothing more, nothing less.
"As much as I'd love to fuck you on this countertop right now, tonight, we're sleeping," I whispered, setting her down onto the marble surface and taking a towel from one of the racks, wrapping it around her so she wouldn't freeze while I set up a warm bath. She softly chuckled, pulling the towel around her body tighter.
Rounding the partition that broke up the room into sections, I knelt to the tub, turning the faucet on. I stuck my hand underneath, waiting for the water to heat up just enough to how she liked it. I then opened a side cabinet, pulling out an antiseptic lavender oil that would help with her little wounds, and let more than a few drops fall into the water.
Turning off the faucet as the tub filled halfway, I grabbed a washcloth off of another rack and walked back over to Vera, wetting the rag and gently patting away any dried blood on her legs before pulling the towel off of her and helping her off the counter. She then moved to the bath, stepping in one foot after the other, slowly sinking her body into the water and blowing out an exhale.
I took off my clothes, stepping in and lowering myself down behind her before pulling her in between my legs and against my chest. She relaxed into my hold, leaning her head back against my shoulder as I cupped water onto her body, the only other sound in the room being her soft breaths.
Almost an hour had passed, one where we took turns soaping up each other's bodies and washing each other's hair. The both of us now dry and her knees bandaged up, I took her hand and led us into the closet where I pulled on a pair of sweatpants, and grabbed one of my shirts for her. I turned around, her tired eyes looking at me and making my heart somehow feel like it's racing and slowing at the same time. She took the shirt from my hands and quickly put it on. Her fingers found mine again, and she pulled, walking us both out of the closet.
I stood behind her, waiting as she climbed into bed first, pulling the top silk sheet over her body, and then the duvet. She sunk into the bed, her eyes now closed, patting the empty spot next to her. I quietly smiled at the gesture she does every single night, no matter if she's half asleep. She told me she could only fall asleep if she knew I was beside her, and although she never told me the reason, I knew exactly why.
And so we fell into the routine, even if I could only lay with her for a few minutes before spending the rest of the night in the study or studio. I wanted her to feel safe in this house.
In our home.
I climbed in next to her, underneath the sheets, and snaked one of my arms under her body, pulling her into me. She nuzzled her head into my chest, molding herself to me like a perfect fit. I moved her hair from her face and neck, planting a gentle kiss on the top of her head, making sure not to stir her.
Several minutes had passed, her body now fully still against mine, and I knew she had fallen asleep. Gently shifting her off of me, I slipped out from the sheets and walked back into the closet. I'd sleep with her tonight, but only once I took care of her clothes that still sat in the studio.
I took one of the laundry bags down with me, walking past the foyer and to the end of the hallway. Pushing the door open, everything she wore earlier still sitting in a wet pile, I bent down, picking up each piece and putting it into the bag, except the coat. There were specific instructions for the outer garment, I'd been told. This one needed to be steamed.
Fixing the large jacket over my arm and stalking out of the room with the bag in my other hand, I stepped into the laundry room. Opening up the washer, I threw in the wet clothes and set it to spin, then moved over to one of the clothes racks and grabbed a hanger for her coat to air dry on.
Hanging it up, I took one last look at the first piece of clothing I'd ever seen on her and thought about how she never went a day without wearing something red. She told me it was her favorite color because it spoke the things she didn't have to. The color was both delicate and in your face. Something like a warm fire, or something else like blood. It was soft, and yet lethal. Everything she was.
The crimson shade she normally wore came in many different forms. Some days the coat, other days a shirt, on special occasions a dress, and on nights only the two of us knew about, a lingerie set. Even the lipstick she wore every day was red. And if she wasn't wearing anything at all, the garnet stone on her ring finger made up for it.
Finishing up in the laundry room, I walked back upstairs and to the bedroom. Making my way around the bend of the bed, I paused for a moment, watching her sleep. Other than the times we spent together, locked behind a rather illicit door, she'd always been the most peaceful when she was resting. When the world wasn't expecting anything from her, and she could just be.
My eyes itched at the sight of her, and after years of covering canvases with faces I had no claim to, there she laid, looking something like a pre-raphaelite painting, and giving me inspiration that would last for eons. I took in her body, now tangled up in the sheets and exposing pieces of her bare skin, and thought about how she would end up in everything I'd ever created, for the rest of my life.
I climbed back into bed, pulling her onto me as I did earlier, only this time, I closed my eyes and hoped that, although she was right beside me, I'd dream about her in my sleep.
When morning came, she'd be the first thought on my mind, and I could finally finish the tens of paintings of her that currently sat downstairs, tucked away in the studio. Ones that would soon become the focal point of the little gallery that sat at the edge of Paris.
She was the only way I knew how.
Every artist has a muse, and the girl in red was mine.
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Note: Well, that's all, folks.
Lol, just kidding. While I have finally updated the last pieces of Muse, this doesn't mean it's the end. After all, this is simply the first draft. I have a lot more I'd like to do with this book as far as editing and filling in plots goes and will be spending a good chunk of time turning this into more while I also begin the process of starting a new story. After all, a dream of mine is to publish one day. To physically have a piece of my work in front of me, and be able to touch the pages in which I wrote. It'd be a dream if Muse could set everything into motion.
Once again, although the two words will never be enough, thank you. For everything and more. My heart has never felt so full.
—love, kay