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Inspire_The_Muse

INSPIRE

 

CORA CARMACK

 

 

Inspire

Copyright © 2014 by Cora Carmack.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction.

ISBN 978-0-9883935-1-6

 

 


 

For Amy-

 

For letting me spoil every book I ever write so that I can talk through it with you.

 

I can still picture the exact moment I first told you that I was writing a book way back when. We were shopping, and I told you about those characters as we flipped through clothing racks, and you made me feel like it was more than just a far-flung dream. You made it feel inevitable. And for that, I will never be able to thank you enough.

 

As far as sisters go, you’re a keeper. :)

 

 


 

PART ONE

 

Kalli

 

“What nourishes me also destroys me”

 

Christopher Marlowe

 

 


Chapter One

 

 

Balloons.

There are balloons filling the entire hallway when I exit my English and Composition class. And rose petals. A trail of pink, delicate rose petals that draw my eye to …

Shit.

I cross the hall quickly, trampling petals as I go.

“Van, get up.”

My ex is on his knees, blocking the stairwell and all the people trying to leave. All the people who are now staring.

Of course they’re staring. I would be staring too, if it weren’t me. It’s like something out of a bad 80s romantic comedy (who am I kidding? There’s no such thing as a bad 80s romantic comedy. Even the bad ones are brilliant). But this … this is bad.

“Hear me out, Kalli.” Oh damn. I’ve heard that tone before. “I’m lost without you. I can’t think. I can’t sleep.” Can’t shave apparently, judging by the badger living on his face. I feel a little bad for that insensitive thought until he continues, “I can’t write without you, baby.” And that’s what it always comes down to. Not missing me. Missing what I give them. “I haven’t put down a single decent word since you broke up with me.”

This is the thing about dating artistic types. They’re fun and charismatic and passionate, but that passion easily tips over into obsession. Believe me, I’ve been with enough of them to be intimately familiar with that particular character flaw (along with their penchants for narcissism, mood swings, and a general disdain for a good haircut). If I didn’t need them as much as they needed me, I would gladly avoid the whole lot of them. And as someone who has spent a long time dealing with the artistic types, I am entirely qualified to say that their peculiarities get old really fast.

It’s hard enough when a relationship ends. But when a relationship with an artist goes bad, it goes spectacularly bad.

Exhibit A: Van Noffke.

Potentially brilliant literary mind.



Wildly creative.

Total momma’s boy.

And apparently not above humiliating himself.

I take hold of his elbow and pull him to his feet. I tug him away from the stairwell so that people can get by, but it appears that we’re more interesting than whatever classes these people have to get to, and almost all of them stick around for the show.

Gods, I swear.

“Van, we talked about this. I’m sorry that you’re having trouble moving on, but we aren’t getting back together. It just won’t work out.”

I know it’s wrong for me to be frustrated with him. He doesn’t know why we can’t spend any more time together, or that I’ve already stayed longer than I meant to. But I find myself angry all the same. I am continually baffled by humans’ complete and utter lack of survival instincts. You would think some voice in the back of their minds would fight to preserve their safety, their sanity, but if there is such a voice, it’s drowned out by the wild beating of their hearts as they chase after their desires. Success. Power. Love. Sex. It doesn’t matter what the desire is, they all blind just the same.

Van runs his hand through his tousled black hair and gives me a pleading look. I think he might actually cry, and I am so not good with tears.

“It could, Kalliope. It could if you gave me one more chance.”

Ugh. He’s the only person who insists on calling me by my full name. I’d dropped the ‘ope’ off Kalliope ages ago, after I got tired of the pronunciation being butchered by modern mouths. I got Kally-ope, Kay-lee-ope. Someone fumbled it so badly once they called me Cantaloupe. And after one too many times having to draw out my name as Kuh-lie-oh-pee, I just gave it up entirely.

Which is what I have to do with Van now. I need to cut him off completely. For his own good. Maybe one more nudge of inspiration will end this permanently.

I step in close, and Van’s eyes search mine greedily. I place my hand on his cheek, and he immediately seizes my waist and pulls me against his body. His breaths come faster, and for just a moment, I’m swept away by the pleasure that comes from being wanted this much.

That’s what my gift feels like, too. The inspiration. It’s this heady rush, like I’m breathing through every pore of my skin, pouring out the energy that poisons me if I keep it too long. For them though, it’s like a drug that activates all the dormant parts of their brain, opening them up to ideas and thoughts and visions that they could never have on their own. It’s like being high, but sacrificing none of the focus or reasoning skills. But like with most drugs … there are consequences. Addiction being one of them.

I want to step away because I’m not exactly immune to Van either. I have a connection to all of my artists. And when energy passes from me to them … well, let’s just say I enjoy it as much as they do. But it’s my responsibility to make certain that neither of us gets too attached, and if Van’s big gesture is any indication, he’s on the line. Even so, I hold on for a few more seconds. Touch will make this last push more effective. And then we can be done with it.

I concentrate, let down my carefully constructed mental shields, and allow the energy to spill out of me. Like the first breath of air after too long spent underwater, the release consumes me for a moment. Relief. Pleasure. I force my eyes open before the sensation can sweep me away and focus on the task in front of me.

“Van, it’s over, and for that I’m sorry. But we’re not getting back together. We can’t. I won’t. Maybe if you write about how you’re feeling, it will help you get past it … the writer’s block and me.” He tries to pull me closer, but I rip his hands from my waist and step back. It aches for a moment, stopping that exchange of energy, pulling it back into me. But it’s necessary. “Use this. You’ll be fine.”

Then I break for the stairs and try not to meet the eyes of any of the students watching. No doubt we were sending off some serious soap opera vibes.

This is what it is to be a muse. I walk the line between want and need, between power and submission. And I make the hard choices.

Always with the hard choices.

Thank the gods it’s my last class of the day, and I can just go home. Or better yet … the grocery store. Because ice cream makes everything better. Especially break-ups. And by my estimate, Van had the privilege of being, oh … my ten thousandth one of those.

 

 

There’s a small grocery store off the edge of campus. It’s a little ghetto and just has the basics, but it’s popular among the students for late night beer and food runs. I grab some chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, plus some cookies (because it’s not enough to just have the cookie dough in the ice cream). The Greeks might have been responsible for many of history’s greatest accomplishments, but they would be pissed if they knew they missed out on the perfection that is chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream. I grab some soda and some gummy bears, too. You know, the essentials of life. Or college life anyway.

Major perk to being immortal? My body renews itself daily, so I can eat whatever I want, and I’ll wake up tomorrow looking just as I did the day before. The way I’ve always looked. Same goes for cuts and bruises and hair dye and every possible change I could make to my physical appearance. Nothing holds. Nothing lasts beyond the start of a new day. Definitely a complication when you’re trying to live among humans without revealing just how very different you are from them. There’s no disguising who I am, no changing my appearance so people won’t notice my distinct tendency to stay the same age.

As I wait in the express checkout line next to a wall of magazines, my eyes catch on a guy a little older than me (or a little older than I appear anyway) with a girl who must be around five years old. He's dressed in a white button-up shirt and a loosened tie, with blond hair that looks like he’s run his hands through it one too many times. He's the complete opposite of the kind of guys I spend all my time with. He's put together and refined and mature with dark glasses across the bridge of a strong nose. The little girl’s white blonde curls are even more out of control than his, and he's looking down at her like she's his whole world.

She tries and fails to sneak a giant candy bar into their cart. He laughs, deep and throaty, and returns the chocolate back to where she found it.

My lips split in a smile, but a dull throb moves through my chest a moment later, eclipsing it. Thousands of years, and I've never known what this guy has. I've never known what it's like to love someone, to build a life, to grow older … because loving me is dangerous. I’m the drug.

It may be my purpose to inspire people, but I ruin just as many as I help.

That’s why I don’t get to have what he has. I get short, passion-filled flings. I get excitement and adrenaline and creation. I get a new life and a new home. I get temporary attachments. Again and again, that’s all I ever get.

Touching the lives of mortals, influencing them, inspiring them … that’s the closest I ever come to really living. For a little while anyway. Brushing up against that kind of talent and genius … it’s exhilarating. But the closer my artist and I become, the more involved, the less real it feels to me. They say such beautiful words, create such gorgeous art, and call me their muse without ever having any idea how right they really are. It's always the artist falling for me. And I shouldn’t be so naïve, not after the life I’ve lived, but just once I'd like to let myself do the same.

My eyes are drawn back to the father/daughter pair. He’s flipping through a sports magazine while the cashier ahead of us calls over a manager to help her with a problem on the register. The little girl looks up at him in awe, the way all little girls seem to do with their fathers. Then she picks up a magazine like him. When she holds it up high, I see that it has a dark-haired woman on the cover, barely covered by the skimpiest swimsuit I’ve ever seen (and I’ve been around a long time), her body posed in a way that is entirely not appropriate for a grocery store magazine rack. My jaw drops open just as she speaks.

“This one,” she says, her small mouth transforming the words into something adorable.

The guy is distracted reading an article, but looks up when she holds the magazine closer to him and says loudly, “I want THIS ONE!”

His face pales, and he snatches the magazine out of her hand, lightning fast. First, her lips form a circle, then the bottom one curls down. Her eyes squinch and her shoulders hunch, and only when her entire appearance has been transformed does she begin to cry.

“Gwennie, don’t.”

“But I want to read a magazine, too.”

“Not that one.”

She opens her small mouth, and the wail she unleashes reverberates around the checkout area. He scrambles to stuff the magazine behind a few issues of Good Housekeeping, but by the time he looks back, little Gwennie has already grabbed another from the same spot she found the first. But she’s still crying.

“I said no, Gwen.” He tries to steal it away again, but this time the little girl is faster. She backpedals, bumping into the older woman still waiting on the cashier and the manager to solve whatever is holding them up.

“It has a pretty girl on it,” she says, sniffling, tears threatening to return at any moment. She holds the magazine up to the older woman behind her in an attempt to gain some allies, no doubt, but the old woman splutters a shocked, nonsense response.

“We’ll get you a different magazine with a pretty girl,” the guy tries.

“But she’s pretty and she’s going swimming. I like swimming, and I never get to do it anymore.”

The magazine is indeed about swimming. Or rather … the best beaches to find sexy, single women. It’s also about fast, easy ways to get your girl hot (direct quote), a definitive list of the world’s best tequilas, and the manliest cars (whatever that means).

The guy kneels in front of his daughter and says, “Please …” But then he just sighs as she darts around him again, and this time she comes to me. But when she stands below me, the magazine falls forgotten by her side. This close, with her eyes impossibly wide, I can see the beautiful mix of blue and green in her irises.

“You’re pretty,” she tells me. “Are you on a magazine?”

“I’m not, no.” I smile at her, and the one she gives me in return is brilliant.

An ache breaks through my chest like the sun through clouds.

History says I have children. Orpheus. Linus. Mygdon. More. But the stories are wrong. They’ve been twisted and mistold over the years.

And the only thing worse than not really having a life is hearing lies about one that can never be true. Like I said … my body renews daily. It doesn’t ever change. Nothing about my existence ever changes. Not because of too much ice cream. Not hair dye. Certainly not something that would take nine months of changes.

I force the smile to stay on my face … because hey, at least that means I can wear the same clothes and shoes for as long as I want. Silver lining, right?

If only I could make myself believe that.

The little girl looks down at her magazine, considers the scantily-clad woman on the front again, and then switches her gaze back to me. With a very serious expression she says, “You should be on a magazine like this. Do you swim?”

The man pops up behind her. He tries to pluck the magazine away, but she pulls it tightly against her chest.

He says, “I’m so sorry.”

My eyes resist leaving the little girl, but when they do, I’m not sorry.

The guy is younger than I thought from his profile. Early twenties, I’d guess. And I knew he was broad and masculine, but now I’ve got an up close and personal look at the way that his shirt hints at the slopes and curves of a muscled chest beneath. He wears a tie loosened around his neck, and the few undone buttons reveal a triangle of sun-tanned skin. He’s not at all the kind of guy I’m normally attracted to. He’s clean-cut and serious, and yet I see something now that hints at more. The glasses say stoic and sophisticated, but the hair … those not-quite-tamed curls are just begging for a pair of hands to mess them up the rest of the way.

It almost makes me think this is what my artists would look like all grown up. Only they’ll still be working on “growing up” a decade from now, and he’s already there. He’s also outrageously, handsomely embarrassed. He rubs at the back of his neck with a chagrined smile, and I’m not sure that I’ve ever met a guy who can pull off uncomfortable and sexy at the same time.

You can’t look at a guy like this and not picture him as a husband … a dad. He might not be like the artists I usually date, but he’s the kind of guy I would want to settle down with.

If settling down were even a thing I could do.

When I go too long without answering, little Gwen says, “I don’t think she likes you.”

My lips pull into a smile, and I flick my gaze up to his face once more. And God, that’s not true. Not true at all. And maybe my thoughts are in my eyes because his gaze sharpens, turns hot and hard, and it makes me think of ripped fabric, sweat-slicked skin, and bruised lips.

The pull toward him is electric, irresistible, like a siren’s call, only it’s not sound that’s a danger to me … it’s everything else. He might look clean cut on the surface, but I’ve looked into the eyes of enough men to recognize the spark of wickedness hidden in those pale blue depths.

“I like him just fine,” I say, finally answering Gwen’s statement, and the crooked grin he gives me makes something swoop in my belly.

“Just fine? Is that all?” This time, I do notice his voice, and maybe it’s even more like a siren call than I thought. Low and musical, it slides against my skin, stirring the energy just behind my lungs that makes me what I am.

Only this man isn’t the type to need a muse. In fact, I think the opposite might be happening. Something about this guy speaks to me. Maybe it’s the soft blue of his eyes or the chiseled jaw or that loosened tie that I could use to pull him closer and closer …

Yeah. As improbable as it is, he’s the dangerous one here.

And for possibly the first time in my existence, I can feel my nerves threatening to overwhelm me. I should be able to think of a flirty reply. That’s what I do. I should be able to turn this guy’s head so fast he’ll have whiplash. Instead, I’m too bothered by his presence to even meet his eyes again.

I bend my knees until I’m level with the little girl. I tuck one blonde, disobedient curl behind her ear and touch a finger to her tiny, perfect nose.

Her cheeks pink, and I tell her, “I think you’re much prettier than the girl on that magazine.”

“Really?” Her eyes go wide, and she looks at me as if I hold all the answers. And I do have so many answers, so many insights about the world that are just fighting to break out of me. So many things I can never share. With anyone.

“I do,” I promise her. “But the thing is … there are more important things than being pretty. “

“Like what?”

“Like being good and nice and happy. That’s what will make people want to play with you and be around you.” I reach out toward the magazine, and she loosens her grip, letting me take it. “Pretty only matters in pictures.”

I rise and hand the magazine to her father. Unbidden, my mind starts spiraling out of control, picturing this little girl, this man who I can’t help but notice wears no ring, and me. I start picturing what it would be like to have that kind of life, something I never allow myself to do, and the look he gives me and the brush of his fingers over mine don’t help me shut it down.

I stick out my hand when I should be walking away. Running even.

“I’m Kalli.”

His hand is big and warm around mine. The earlier brush of his fingers is completely eclipsed by the strength and surety of his grip. And the inspiration swirls in me, like a storm gathering on the sea, clamoring for him. His eyes trail over my face and then down. His perusal is quick, and his eyes pull back to mine fast. He’s trying to be a gentleman, but that intensity is still there in his gaze, and I feel it burn through my veins. Desire engulfs me, and I can no longer differentiate between it and the unnatural energy that rests just behind my ribs.

“Wilder,” he says, his voice deeper, raspier. And all I want to do is touch him, to know what he’s thinking, to study just where the wholesome and good half of him gives way to the sin I see in his eyes.

I’m almost lost to it, almost ready to push inspiration into this complete stranger, because the buzz I feel around him is addictive. And the release, oh gods, it would be so good.

But I can’t. Absolutely can’t. I have to be careful even with my artists not to overload them, not to give them too much. And it’s so much easier to pass that point with someone who’s not already open to his or her creative side.

Too much and I could ruin him. Ruin this perfect life he has.

And I might do this kind of thing out of necessity, but I don’t have it in me to be that selfish. The other gods might think of mortals as less than them, but I’ve walked among them for millennium. They are not less to me. In fact, I’m more jealous of them than I’ll ever admit aloud.

I’m saved from the temptation when Gwen latches onto my wrist, pulling my hand away from his so that she can have a turn at shaking, too.

“I’m Gwen!” she says, not even really shaking my hand, so much as pulling it toward her, pulling me toward her.

“It’s so very nice to meet you, Gwen.”

This is too much.

Too hard.

I tuck that same stubborn curl behind her ear and say, “I have to go. You be good for your Dad.”

I pull my hand away and stumble back. Wilder protests, says “No,” followed by a series of other words that I don’t hear because I’m already on my way to the door, leaving my ice cream and cookies and everything else behind.

I’m not normal. I won’t ever be.

Dealing with artists does get old. And I hate that I’m living the same story on repeat. But better that than to rub salt in my millennium-old wounds by letting myself get close to the things I can’t have.

Wilder and Gwen are coming out of the store as I pull out of my parking spot. Rather than crossing into the parking lot, they stop on the sidewalk and stare as I pull closer to them, toward the exit.

Gwen’s little hand waves wildly at me, but it’s Wilder’s steady, piercing gaze that has me locking up behind the wheel. He lifts a hand, one side of his mouth ticking up in an almost smile that is somehow even more handsome than the grin he shot me earlier.

As I pull out onto the street, I resist the urge to glance in my rear view mirror.

Eternity has never felt quite as long as it feels right now.

 


Chapter Two

 

 

Swift and sure, my life course corrects back to normal.

History and poets have assigned many attributes to time.

It flies. It dies. It heals all wounds.

But for me, time is so much more. Sometimes she’s a torturer. Others a reward. She’s been a friend. A foe. A nuisance. A nobody. My relationship with her is an ever-changing cycle, but one thing is always certain.

Time is my surest constant.

The scenery changes. The costumes. The players.

But a second is a second is a second until the very end of it all.

Lesson #1 of Immortality:

Accept time for what it is. It can go no faster or slower. Only life can do that.

And my life goes back to its normal speed for nine days.

For nine days, I go to class. I go to the gym (mostly for something to do since losing weight and gaining muscle aren’t really possible with my specific … peculiarities). I choose another grocery store to stock up on college essentials (re: ice cream). And I spend my lunch hours sitting outside various artistically-focused buildings on campus, scoping out possible candidates for my next mutually beneficial relationship.

Maybe scoping is the wrong word. More like eliminating everyone I come across. I need a break. I need some time to just be me before I have to ingratiate myself to another person, before I have to lie about my past and mold myself into some guy’s vision of the perfect woman.

 

By day nine, I know I’m being too picky. I don’t get to take breaks. I don’t get to just be me. Not without paying the price.

But even so, I continue discounting every guy I see.

Too much chest hair (Dude, when it’s peeking out of a crew neck t-shirt, it’s time to suck it up and tame that beast).

Pointy eyebrows (Shallow, I know, but it made him look like a cheesy movie villain, and I just couldn’t look at him with a straight face).

Dickface (By this I mean that the guy was a jerk … not that his face actually looked like a dick. Although if I had anywhere near the power of the greater gods and could mete out penalties and blessings whenever I pleased, I’d think that would be a pretty creative and deserved punishment).

But still … in the back of my mind, day nine is on repeat, and I can feel the urgency clinging to me. Where the creative energy normally sits comfortably in my chest, I’ve gone long enough now since that last touch with Van that I’m starting to feel it in other places too. My belly. The back of my throat. The tips of my fingers. The top of my spine.

That last place especially. It sits there, coiling around my neck, creeping up into my head until I can feel the way it pushes at my mind, insists that I do something or it will.

I can’t explain what keeps me from choosing, except that I’m tired. So very tired. And for the first time ever, that outweighs my fear of the consequences. And I keep telling myself that I can go a little longer. I’m not cutting it too close. I know my limits.

Mortals used to think disease was caused by imbalances and overabundances in the body. They would bleed patients in an attempt to restore balance and fight off disease. Of course, as the world grew in knowledge, they realized how wrong they were, how barbaric and harmful the treatment really was. But that’s actually how it works for me. The longer I go, the more the energy builds up in me, and in its raw state it’s even more potent than when I push it into others. If I lock it up inside, if I don’t reset the balance …

Well, it starts with the headaches. Those are my first warning sign. Then the mood swings. Then I start losing track of time, getting caught up in flights of creative fancy. My thoughts tangle and twine, and I can lose hours, days even, wrapped up in my own mind.

What happens after that? I don’t know. I’ve never really let it get that far. But I’ve seen it. Roughly a thousand years ago, in the period history now calls the Dark Ages. It’s named such for the lack of historical records from the period, but for me the name fits in better ways. We were all still together then, my sisters and I. There were nine of us, all muses, each with our own purposes and specialties. By the end of that century, we would all go our separate ways, scattered across the globe, but it would only be eight of us.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been singing softly to myself when I draw myself back to the present, away from lives past, but a handful of people at nearby benches and trees are watching me, slightly dazed. I clamp my mouth shut, but they continue to stare.

As muses, we have as much of an aptitude for the arts as we do for inspiring them. But it’s an unspoken rule that we don’t seek to create anything ourselves. It’s hard enough to hide among humans and do what we do without being able to change our appearances. Any kind of notoriety threatens our ability to conceal ourselves and live in the world. There’s a reason I’m trolling a college campus rather than finding my next relationship in Hollywood or New York or Paris. I find my artists when they’re still finding themselves. It’s better for me that way, feels like I’m actually making a difference and helping them. There’s also no fame involved (not yet anyway), so I don’t risk getting photographed or noticed or otherwise exposed.

I need the world, need the people in it. Muses can’t survive without it. We can only expend our energy with mortals, otherwise we would have withdrawn with the rest of the gods. And they might have left us here, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t watching. Doesn’t mean they won’t intervene if one of us jeopardizes the rest.

They’ve done it before. And they won’t hesitate to cut us down to seven if they must.

I gather my belongings and decide to skip my next class in favor of checking out the offerings of the music library (the people, not the music). On my way, I catch sight of the flashing red and white lights of an ambulance by the on-campus apartments between here and the fine arts buildings. I’m heading that way anyway, so I cross that direction until I get to the group of students standing, blocking the sidewalk and waiting.

I nudge a bigger guy next to me as he texts rapidly on his cell.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

It’s the curvy redhead on my right that answers. “Suicide.”

“Attempted,” the Hispanic guy next to her corrects.

“I don’t know. I have a friend who lives in the building, and she said he hung himself.”

“Pills,” the guy with the phone finally answers. “I know the guy who found him. It was pills.”

At that moment, the front door opens, and they wheel out a stretcher. One paramedic is rolling it toward the ambulance. The other has one of those respirator things fitted over the guy’s mouth, and is squeezing it periodically. The crowd begins to shift and whisper, pushing forward in morbid curiosity as the stretcher arrives at the ambulance. They lift the patient up, high enough that I’ve got a clear view, and for all my thoughts about time being a constant, I swear it slows to a stop then.

Because I recognize the dark, shaggy hair. The shape of the face. Even with that oxygen thing over his nose and mouth, and his unusually pale skin, I know with a bone deep certainty that it’s Van.

My Van.

I’ve seen his face in the brightness of day, scruffy from not shaving, and clean and smooth. I’ve seen him in the low light of his room, sleeping and awake. I’ve seen him in the glow of his laptop as he sat up late at night tapping away at the keys while I tried to sleep.

I know him.

Maybe he didn’t know me, and maybe he was just a means to an end, and maybe I was that for him, too. But all the same …

I know him.

My breath catches in the back of my throat, halfway between my lungs and the open air, and for a moment I can’t get myself to push it out or pull it in. My vision begins to narrow, a lens zeroing in until everything else disappears but the boy being loaded into the ambulance.

This is my fault.

If I hadn’t influenced him one last time to get him to go away … If I’d never smiled back at him in that bar six months before that … If Van Noffke had never met me, he wouldn’t be on that stretcher.

I stumble back away from the crowd. I try to walk slowly, calmly. But I just can’t. I put one foot in front of the other, faster and faster, until I’m running. My heart seems to twist between every beat, and I’m just waiting … waiting for it to twist so hard it tears loose.

And somewhere along the way, the image of Van on that stretcher blurs with the wild energy I can feel pumping through my body, mingling with my blood, the energy grappling for release. And I’m no longer sure whether I’m running from what I saw or who I am.

Maybe those two things aren’t really that different.

Creation and Destruction.

These are the things I inspire.

 

 

Six days later, I stop going to class. I wake up in bed, and it just doesn’t even occur to me to go. There’s so much energy still trapped in me because I haven’t been able to bring myself to do anything about it, to expel it, not after seeing Van.

And I’m just so full, I can’t think beyond the way it feels. There’s a world inside my head, and it’s so easy, too easy, to vacate my real life for the one in my mind.

There’s a tempest there…

Churning

Raging

Flooding

It laps at me in waves, crashing high and then rolling away. It drags me a little farther away from myself every time, that irresistible tide.

And it’s suffocating and extraordinary and glorious. And I no longer want to push it out. I want to drown in it, in all the colors and ideas and feelings it opens up in me. The thoughts … they’re so big that they eclipse everything else. The past. The future. Emotions. They drown those out completely. For the first time in many, many years, I know what it feels like to not have memories shackled to my ankles, holding me back.

I pick up a pen and paper to write down how it feels to be this alive, to be this free. It’s beautiful. Brilliant. This must be how the other gods feel. I might not be human, but that doesn’t mean I’m free from the mortal coil. I’m just not chained to it by life and death. I’m chained by need. But not now, not anymore. I don’t need anything.

I write a single word first.

Need.

One word becomes two.

Want.

More words spill out of me then, springing to mind faster than I can write them.

hope hatred joy

 

fear awake freedom

 

laughter lies faith

beauty wild desire

 

purpose truth

 

change art

 

pain happy regret

 

passion grace

strength courage

 

shame

 

dream life wonder power

sorrow poison peace

 

mercy wisdom belief grief guilt

time

 

love

 

The words shift, become sentences. Those sentences tangle and twine into paragraphs, my ideas grow legs and they walk, run, sprint across the page, and I can’t stop. I write all morning, across every piece of paper I own until my desk, the drawers, my backpack are all empty. Then I write across the furniture and the floors and the walls. I write words I love and hate and feel so intensely that they bring tears to my eyes.

And the words … gods. They’re everything.

All that I am and want to be and hate to be … it’s all in them, and sometimes I sit and marvel at how a series of scribbles can mean so much, how words can hold so much meaning in the space between their measly letters.

INSPIRE.

I write the word across my living room floor in big, black letters. Then I stare at it, unsure whether I want to scratch it out or deface it or write over it.

It’s a curse, that word. A purpose I’m tired of serving.

So what if I just … quit?

I know what it will do to me. Is already doing to me. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I can look around at my scribed walls and know it’s not normal. I know that I’ve let this go entirely too long, and now the power I wield is stronger than I am. It flexes in me, fierce and hungry, and for a moment, I feel a spike of fear. Then it passes in a wave of euphoria, and I know now why people find me, what I can give them, addictive.

It makes me feel brilliant and aware and one with everything around me, and for the first time ever, I understand. Not just an idea or a person or a place. I understand everything. The world. The past. The present. My existence.

It’s vast and complicated and I can’t put it into words, but I just know. For the first time in my life, I actually feel like a goddess.

I come to a decision then.

I draw a D at the end of the word I scrawled on my living room floor.

INSPIRED.

Maybe this is my curse, but I don’t have to share it. I don’t have to push it on other people.

Mortals … they’re fragile. They can die or break or ruin. And I suppose I’m not immune to those last two either, but I’m stronger than they are. And I’ve been so very selfish for so very long.

Some already mad part of me rejoices at my decision. Greedy for it, for the way I feel right now. I give in to it.

And when I stumble out of my house, my fingers smudged with ink, it’s dark and I am so very alive.

 


Chapter Three

 

 

Since I had come to the States, I had lived in almost every major city in the country. They each have their quirks and specialties, but move around enough and they all start to feel the same.

Austin doesn’t feel that way. At least not yet.

It is this eclectic mix of modern culture and southern charm and creative freedom. And the best part?

I had nothing to do with it.

All the imagination and uniqueness is entirely a product of the people who live here. And they are my favorite part. The people are all so different. Hipsters and old money and artists and cowboys and geniuses of industry and technology and musicians and actors. Nowhere else but Austin could they (or would they) all fit together … interact like there are no differences between them.

Keep Austin Weird, as they say.

I weave through the crowds along Sixth Street downtown. It’s a mile or two south of campus, but now that I’m here, I don’t even remember the walk from my apartment. Which should worry me more, but it doesn’t. My mind and body are barely connected at the moment. Or maybe they’re more intertwined than ever … so in tune that I don’t even have to think about where I’m going or what I’m doing. Which frees up my mind for other things.

This section of downtown has been blocked off to traffic, and pedestrians teem through the streets, laughing and talking and singing. Neon signs glow in every other window, music drifts from doorways, and the smell from food trucks and restaurants wafts through the streets. I soak it all in, revel in it. I hear a catcall or two, but my focus is on the lights, the colors. When something catches my eye, I turn and follow.

An older man busks on the street corner, his guitar slung over his shoulders and his case open before him. The glint of the coins catches my eye, and then the music curls through my mind, lifting me up and onto a new plane. I stay with him for a while, sometimes dancing, sometimes singing along, until some new thing draws my attention.

Eventually, I find my way into a club, up a flight of stairs, and into the crush of bodies on a dance floor. This isn’t at all the kind of dance I used to inspire, used to enjoy, but there’s still something about it that makes me pause.

Sweat-slicked limbs.

Bodies pressed close.

Bass thrumming right through my skin.

There’s a strange kind of poetry in it. Raw and animalistic and desire in motion.

Once upon a time, I considered myself Greek, so I know a thing or two about hedonism. These days I don’t really claim any place as home. I belong nowhere, so nowhere belongs to me.

When I’m in the middle of the crowd, I stand still, picking out shapes and lines in the writhing bodies around me. It really is something to see—the way people interact. Whether they’re friends or lovers or strangers, everyone is connected on this dance floor. One body touches another that touches another without any insecurity, and I wish I weren’t the only one to see the beauty in it.

That gives me an idea, and I draw in a deep breath. What if they could see it? What if I could make them? Stretching out my arms, I push that breath out, expelling some of the energy swirling in my chest with it. My fingers graze and drag along anonymous skin.

For a second, the whole room shudders, contracts and expands like a heartbeat. The crowd seems closer, bodies tight against mine. Hands settle on my hips, and a warm body presses at my back. But I barely feel that through the rush of power leaving me.

Now that the floodgates are open, the swell of pleasure that comes with the energy release overwhelms me. I don’t focus, I can’t. Heat rushes up through my skin, and my head spins in a way that feels simultaneously alarming and brilliant. All I can do is ride the wave as it leaks out of me and spills across the room. Sound. Touch. Sight. Smell. It’s all somehow heightened and muted at the same time.

Long minutes later, the bliss begins to fade and my head starts to clear. Too late, the horror dawns and I try to throw up my walls, try to pull back the energy, but my wits are scattered, and I’m exhausted.

I don’t realize how much all that energy had eclipsed my own thoughts and emotions until it begins to disappear. Suddenly panicked, I whip around, scanning the room, and my stomach heaves in fear. On the surface, the only obvious difference I can see is that the once frenzied movements of the crowd have begun to ebb and flow in a way that’s almost in sync, almost choreographed.

But the people nearest me, they’re the real problem. A few just seem manic, their eyes dazzlingly bright, smiles wide, laughter pealing from between their lips. Two have begun to dance so intensely that the crowd has stepped away, forming a circle around them, watching. One woman is sobbing, and her friend next to her is staring on in a mix of wonder and horror and fascination. The guy behind me, the one who’d had his hands on my hips, now drags those same hands back and forth between his ears and his eyes, undecided as to which he wants to cover more.

It’s too much. It’s all too much. And all I can think of is Van on that stretcher. He’d been with me longer, but I influenced him slowly, artfully. There was nothing careful about tonight. I’d dropped my walls and the magic had flowed from me unharnessed, uncontrolled, a blunt force trauma of power. I have no idea what that could do to people. Especially people I’ve not carefully studied and vetted.

The guy behind me collapses to his knees, and no one around us notices. It’s someone farther out who pushes through the people to get to him. I reach out a hand, to help or soothe or something, but then pull it back fast.

I shouldn’t touch him again. I’m still giving off waves of power, less now, but even slight contact between our skin could push him over the edge.

I wrap my arms around my middle and do my best not to touch anyone as I shift my way through the crowd. A fight breaks out behind me, and I hear people screaming.

I squeeze my lips tightly together, clamped between my teeth, until it feels like I might cut right through the skin. I know I’m crying, have been crying, when I taste salt even through my closed lips. More screaming erupts upstairs as I stumble out the door and over the uneven slabs of concrete on the sidewalk. I barely catch my balance before I go sprawling out on the street.

A hand reaches out to steady me, but I jerk myself away.

“Don’t touch me. Nobody touch me.”

I limp away, shaky and sick and … oh gods what have I done?

I pass the same street musician, and he calls out for me to join him again, but I keep my head down, my thoughts focused on reconstructing the mental shields I’d all but demolished back there.

What have I done?

I think it again and again as I push myself farther and farther from that club, turning north, away from the crowds and the bars.

What have I done? What have I done?

I must say it out loud because a man with a grizzly beard leaning against a brick building answers, “You’ve been bad, pretty one. That’s what you’ve done.”

I jolt, edging sideways to put distance between us. There’s a high population of homeless people downtown, especially because there’s a shelter not too far from here. Many of them are lovely people that have the same kind of vibrancy as this city. But you can never be too careful, and this guy … something about him makes alarm bells ring at the back of my weary mind. He reaches out to touch me, and I try to jump away, but he’s quicker than I expect him to be.

His hand locks around my wrist and no matter how hard I tug, I can’t break his hold. He squeezes, and the pinch of pain makes me focus on him. His skin is weathered and tough, but clean. And up close, his beard isn’t as gnarled as I expected, just full and long. It’s not until I look into his eyes that I know for certain this is no homeless man.

Deep set and large, each of his eyes has two irises and two pupils, and I know if I were to search, I’d find more than those four eyes trained on me, more than four eyes on him.

“Reckless,” he says, his voice graveled and hard. “I don’t need to tell you what happens to the reckless ones, Kalliope.”

“How do you—”

“Don’t play dumb with me, girly. Your life might be all pretty things and pretty words, but you’re not naïve.”

Lead lines my stomach, and I want to run, but fear weights me to my spot.

“Son of Argus,” I say, and he arches a brow. “Watcher.”

There’s not many of us left in the world from the old days, but even so, the greater gods don’t trust us to live out here on our own. The Argus are said to have hundreds of eyes, and never are they all closed at once, not even in sleep. No one knows quite what they see and how much, but it’s enough that the gods trust them to keep the rest of us in line.

He nods, and my gaze catches on his strange eyes again. They’re a blue so light it borders on silver. Cold. Hard. “Right you are. And I don’t particularly like having to venture out among humans because some little goddess can’t control herself.”

Indignant, I say, “I can control—”

“Can you? Do you know what’s happening back in that club right now?” I shake my head hard, not sure I want to know, but he answers anyway. “Complete chaos. The cops are currently wondering if it was some kind of bad drug reaction.” He pauses, squints for a moment, then adds, “Someone just suggested bioterrorism.”

I wince, and my stomach pitches, nausea rising swiftly up my throat.

“I didn’t mean to. It was an accident.”

He takes hold of my other wrist, drawing both arms up between us until he towers over me. He seems larger, more intimidating than before, and I try not to appear afraid.

“No more accidents,” he says. “Risk exposing us again, and the gods might decide this world has enough art already.”

I open my mouth, to say what, I don’t know. But I never get that far.

Someone calls my name, softly at first, then louder.

“Kalli? Is that you? Kalli! Hey, man, let her go!”

The Argus holds on tight for another moment. His grip doesn’t hurt. Not really. But his gaze almost does. Like he’s looking into me, through me. I hear footsteps coming fast, and then my wrists are free, and the watcher moves too fast for a man who looks so old. He slips around the corner and out of sight just as another person skids to a halt beside me.

“Hey, Kalli right?”

I look up, and I’m so stunned that I forget to flinch away when a hand comes up to touch my cheek.

“You okay?”

I don’t know. Don’t know that at all. But I know this guy.

This time there’s no little girl, no grocery store, no magazines. Something leaps behind my ribs, but it’s not power. It’s something even harder to control.

Want.

“Hi Wilder.”

 


Chapter Four

 

His hand is warm against my cheek and he tilts my head up, peering into my eyes. He’s not wearing the glasses tonight, and a few days worth of stubble resides on his jaw, and he looks so different than the last time I saw him. No tie. No button down. Instead he wears a fitted tee, a black leather jacket, and dark jeans that hang off his body perfectly. Even so, I still get that same steady feel from him.

Though that could be because he has his other hand braced at my waist, keeping me upright. Either way, he makes me feel safer than I have any right to be after a run in with one of the Argus.

“Are you okay?”

I nod, pulling back from his hand at my cheek like I should have done the instant he touched me. I’m lightheaded though, and as soon as I’m free my knees quake, and I throw out a hand to steady myself.

“Easy there.” He loops an arm around my waist, and I can feel it burning through the fabric of my dress.

He leans close, peering at my eyes, and the smell of him surrounds me, warm and masculine with a hint of spice.

He asks, “How much have you had to drink?”

I tense. “None. I’m fine.”

He arches one perfect eyebrow and says, “Try again.”

“Really, I swear.”

His gaze dips down, and I think he’s looking at the rounded neck of my dress, and my heart flips over, sending off a ripple of anticipation in its wake. Then he says, “You’re barefoot,” and that anticipation turns to horror.

I step back, and sure enough, he’s right.

My feet are bare and dirty, and now that I concentrate, I can feel a few stinging cuts on the bottom.

“I—” I pause, completely at a loss for how to explain this without sounding like a complete lunatic. I lift up my hand, wondering if I’d left my house this way, or if perhaps I’d taken my shoes off at some point and had been carrying them. The last few days are kind of a muddled blur in my mind. I can remember some of how I felt and thought, but physical actions … not so much. I had been completely in my head, but now the energy that had consumed me is all gone.

Horror slicks my stomach. I’d poured it all out on that crowd. I can’t feel even an inkling of it now. A slideshow runs through my mind then of all my failures, all the artists I kept too long or let get too close. I see their faces, both as they once were, and then how I left them—broken, shells of their former selves. Van wasn’t the first of mine to do violence against himself or someone else. Some had done it in misguided attempts to win me back. Others let their loss turn to anger. Against me. Against the world. But mostly themselves.

That’s another reason why my body renews itself daily. Not just so I’ll stay young and pretty, but because there’s an unfortunate tendency for the affected to lash out, to try to destroy the beautiful thing that had once brought them success or motivation or joy.

I’m not saved from that kind of violence. No, the gods enjoy others’ pain too much to give me that kind of gift, but at least I don’t wear the marks of it forever on my skin.

For the most part, my entanglements are simple and short with just the right amount of give and take to leave the artist happy and on his or her way to a well-led life. But there are the exceptions. The ruined ones. The ones whose personalities pull too close to obsession; those who can’t deal with my absence. They’re rare. As are those who turn to violence. And I know it’s not healthy or fair, but I’ve come to accept that when the violence turns to me, it’s the world’s (perhaps the gods’) way of seeking balance.

Wilder’s sigh brings me back to the present and he asks, “Where’s your car?”

I swallow and look around, unwilling to tell him that I walked all the way from my place up by campus. Because that will make me look even crazier than I already do.

“What are you doing here?” I ask instead.

I get that same almost smile he gave me as I pulled out of the grocery store parking lot, and it hits me just as hard this time. His half smile is more charming than most peoples’ full out grins.

“You’re bossier than I remember.” When I try to pull away, he appeases me by saying, “I was out with some friends, and I saw you leaving a club. You looked …”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, and I’m glad for it. I don’t want to know what I looked like.

“You followed me?”

“I tried to. I lost track of you in the crowds for a bit. I was crossing the street to keep searching down Sixth when I looked up by chance and saw you with that homeless guy.”

“Oh.”

Oh. That’s all I’ve got to say right now. Even if I weren’t completely addled by the events of the night, I don’t think I would know what to say to this guy. He isn’t one of my potential partners. I’m not luring him in to satisfy the necessities of my curse.

But I want to lure him in all the same, and that makes me feel guilty and sick and excited all at the same time.

“Why?” I ask.

“Why what?”

“Why did you follow me?”

He turns his head, looking down the street, and for a moment I don’t think he’ll answer me. Then he laughs. “I’m still trying to figure that one out. Give me a few minutes. I’ll think of a reason that’s not at all creepy. I promise.”

Carefully, he eases back until his arm is no longer around me, and just his hand is left bracing me at my waist. I’m sure he doesn’t mean for it to be suggestive, but I’m still coiled tight from the club, from the way it feels to use my ability. The simple touch of his hand sliding across the thin fabric of my dress is enough to set my nerves on fire, and I shiver.

He immediately sheds his jacket and hands it to me. The leather is worn and smooth, and for a moment I just hold it against me. It smells like him, and the warmth and scent is so comforting after the night I’ve had that I feel tears prick at the back of my eyes before I manage to get a grip on myself.

“Put that on. November in Texas might not be that cold, but I can’t believe you left the house in just that dress. Or did you lose a coat too?”

I tilt my head to the side and survey him with a frown before tugging the jacket on. “And you called me bossy.

He smiles for half a second, but then his expression turns serious. “But really, what happened? Are you okay? Your face as you left that club … Are you … Did—”

“I’m fine. I swear. Just a weird night.”

He reaches forward and pulls both sides of the coat together, cocooning me inside. His hands slip up, and I bite my lip, wanting him to put just a little more pressure behind that light touch. He lifts the collar, so that my face is blocked from the wind, and his knuckles graze my cheek.

I can tell he’s not going to let it go. He’s going to keep digging, and I have no idea what I could possibly say. “Where’s Gwen?” I ask quickly, and it’s such a stupid question, but it’s the first thing that pops into my head. Like he would bring his daughter out for a night on the town. God, I don’t even know what time it is. Sometime before two when the bars start to close, that’s all I know. She’s probably at home with her mother. His girlfriend, maybe. My stomach turns, and his hands drop from the jacket, making the sensation worsen.

“She’s at home with my mother.” I feel an inkling of relief before he adds, “Our mother. She’s my little sister.” That almost smile drives me almost mad again. “I tried to tell you, but you bolted out of the store. Left your ice cream and cookies behind.”

Oh gods. Could I have made a bigger fool of myself? Why is he even standing here with me? He should think I’m crazy. All I’ve done is act it around him.

“Sorry, I had to go.”

“Yeah … you said. You seemed a little spooked.”

“I wasn’t spooked. I just remembered something I had to do.”

His expression tells me he doesn’t believe me, and I fight not to blush. I must fail because his hand goes back to my face, a thumb dragging over the exact spot where I can feel the heat rising on my skin. His eyes are big and dark as he scans my face, and when he leans in, his body comes incredibly close to mine. “Is it strange that I wanted to go after you? I think I might have, if Gwen hadn’t been with me.”

I swallow once. Then again. Because it’s not strange. He’s reacting to my ability, to the way I look. I don’t exclusively influence men, but they open up a lot easier to a pretty face than most girls do.

He continues, “Though I think Gwen would have been all too happy to chase you too. I don’t know how you did it, but she was a complete angel the rest of the day. Didn’t throw a single fit. I think I might have to call you Saint Kalli if you continue to work miracles like that.”

I shrug. “She’s sweet.”

He barks a laugh, dipping his chin toward his chest, and dropping his hand. “Sometimes. Yeah.” He takes a few steps back; it’s then that I notice what he’d been hiding beneath his jacket and the button down he’d worn the first time we met.

His skin is covered in ink, from his wrists, all the way up and under the sleeves of his fitted tee. I barely have time to take in the art or contemplate this new puzzle piece of this man before his eyes catch sight of my feet again. Then he’s all business. The line of his jaw is hard, stern, and that almost smile is long gone. He looks angry, either with me or with himself for forgetting.

“You didn’t tell me where your car is.”

“I, uh, didn’t bring it. It’s still back at my apartment.”

He frowns, and I hope he’ll just assume that I caught a cab.

“And you don’t know where your shoes are?”

I shrug and smile because I’m pretty positive I’m better off sticking to nonverbal communication at the moment. Just smile and look pretty, that usually works for most things.

He shakes his head and says, “I’ll take you home. But my car is a bit of a walk from here.”

“It’s fine. I’ll just catch a cab.”

He lifts an eyebrow and says, “Do you have money?”

I glance down, and sure enough, he’s right. I don’t have anything with me. No purse, no wallet, nothing. I’m not even sure how I got into that club without an ID. I must have charmed the bouncer, but I don’t really remember.

When I don’t answer he says, “Right. My car it is then.”

He surveys me again, then turns to the side a little and says, “Hop on.”

I blanch. “Hop on?”

“It’s about five or six blocks to my car. No way I’m letting you walk all that way barefoot. I’d carry you in my arms, but …” He trails off, and his eyes linger along the hem of my dress that falls loose around my thighs and would no doubt flash the world if he were to hold me against his chest.

He clears his throat, and when he looks back at me, his eyes are hooded and his gaze drops briefly to my mouth. He turns away quickly and says again, his voice clipped, “Hop on.” I step up behind him and lay my hands atop his shoulders. The muscles bunch and harden beneath my touch, and I know my assumption that day at the grocery store was correct. He might spend his days hiding beneath business clothes, but he has an incredible body beneath.

“How do I …”

“Jump,” he answers. “I’ll catch you.”

I take a deep breath, and rather than jumping straight away, I move close and lift one leg up to wrap around his hip. He reaches a hand back to grip my thigh, and it ends up half on the fabric of my dress, half on my bare skin. I feel him suck in a breath, and before I can think too much about it, I dig my fingers into his shoulders and jump, lifting my other leg.

He catches me as promised, but my dress has ridden up around my thighs so his other hand curls around bare flesh. I wrap one arm over his shoulder, and down onto his chest so I don’t choke him by wrapping it around his neck. I reach down with the other to pull at my dress and make sure all the necessary parts of me are covered. The fabric slides down a little, covering part of his hand, but he doesn’t bother adjusting his grip so he’s not beneath my dress.

I fold my other arm around him to hold on, and I swear I can feel his heart racing beneath my hand. My chest presses against his hard back, and he doesn’t move for several long moments.

“Wilder?”

He clears his throat and answers, his voice strained, “Just … trying to remember which direction my car is in.”

He starts walking then, and I’m all too aware of the heat that’s burning where our bodies press together. He pauses to shift me higher, gripping my legs a little harder, and the friction of my front against his back makes a moan form low in my throat. I pause long enough to be thankful that he gave me his jacket, otherwise he would feel the way my nipples have tightened into hard little buds because of his closeness. Somehow, putting on a bra didn’t occur to altered me.

“So,” I say, trying to distract myself. “Gwen is your little sister. That makes you how much older than her?”

“She’s five, and I’m twenty-three, so about eighteen.”

“Wow,” I say.

He laughs. “Yeah, we were all a little shocked when she happened.”

“Are you close?”

“Getting there. I wasn’t around much when she was born. I was already out of the house and on my own, but … well, things are different now. I’ve been trying to make an effort to be around more for the last year or so.”

My head hovers over his shoulder, close to his ear and I reply quietly, “I bet she’s glad to have you back. Your parents, too.”

He nods, some of his curls brushing my cheek, but quickly shifts the focus to me. “What about you? Any siblings?”

I hesitate, my usual lie on the tip of my tongue. Normally, I start out from the beginning saying no family. It keeps people from asking unwanted questions. But this time … I don’t know what’s different.

“Sisters. But we’re estranged. I haven’t seen or spoken to them in … well, a long time.”

“I’m sorry.” His voice is low and sincere, and it makes me want to lean my head against his shoulder.

I do just that when I reply, “It’s okay. I’m over it.” Have had a long time to get there.

The road we’re on begins to slope upward, and he grips me tighter. I do the same, feeling bad that he has to carry me all this way.

“Well, you know how old I am. What about you?”

I stifle a laugh. Wouldn’t that be something if I told him the truth? He’d drop me off at the hospital for a psych-consult rather than at my apartment.

“Twenty-one.” Perpetually.

I feel him shift, and I lift my head off his shoulder only to find him turned sideways toward me, our lips inches apart.

It takes him a moment to say what’s on his mind, and when he does, his voice is husky. “You sure? You look … young.”

I laugh, and my voice might be a little breathy too. “If you’re worried about me being underage. I promise … I’m not.”

He stops then by a dark SUV and says, “This is me.”

He lets go of one of my legs to fish for his keys, and I tighten my thighs around his waist. He pauses, ducking his head and bracing an arm against the vehicle. After a shuddering breath, he unlocks the car with the press of a button and pulls open the passenger side door. He turns and leans until my backside meets the leather seat. For a moment, I have to resist the urge to squeeze my arms and legs around him, to not let him go, but common sense wins out, and I let them fall slack.

Rather than stepping away completely, he turns to face me, his hips still cradled between my legs. He towers over me, and I can’t help but notice how gorgeous he is. Perfectly angled jaw, high cheekbones, and sinfully full lips. His nose is slightly off-center, but somehow that only makes him more fascinating to me. A gifted


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