Pretty, Dark and Dirty

As awkward as I felt, I was desperate for answers, and right now, Mason was the only person who could give them to me.

I found his studio unlocked and unoccupied. The layout was identical to his apartment across the hall, but with less furniture. Four easels had been positioned around what would’ve been the living room, all facing a futon that sat open in the center, layered with green and blue cloth. A plastic bin filled with more colorful shrouds stood off to the side. Nearly every surface lay strewn with brushes, palette knives, and tubes of paint.

I walked the perimeter of the room. On the table closest to the wall of windows, I found Mason’s sketchbook wedged beneath a set of canvas stretcher bars. Carefully, I freed the sketchpad and went to sit on the futon.

The first dozen or so pages contained sketches of random body parts: arms, hands, shoulders, calves. Some crossed out, others so faded they could’ve been made years ago.

I stopped flipping when I came across the model I’d seen him talking to in the hallway last night, splayed out on the futon, naked, with her hand between her legs.

“Whoa.” My fingers twitched against the paper. I turned the page and there she was again on her stomach, then on her side. Pages upon pages of her masturbating in various poses.

My breath stalled. I didn’t want to think about the circumstances surrounding these images. Apart from my suspicion that this woman had to be more than just a model to him, seeing the drawings only served to remind me how badly I missed being his muse.

Not that I’d ever posed for him like this. Not that I’d wanted to...

The door swung open and Mason stepped inside. He wore jeans and a green T-shirt that brought out the green in his eyes. His calm wavered for the briefest of moments when he saw me.

“Hey.” He smiled. “When did you get up?”

“A while ago.” My pulse kicked into overdrive. “Thanks for breakfast.”

“Did you see my note about the eggs? You should eat some protein with your muffins. I don’t want to send you off to college malnourished.”

“I’ll have two for lunch,” I said, more than a little touched by his concern for my health.

He set the plastic bag he’d been carrying onto the counter by the sink, then proceeded to unload the contents—chalk, in various colors by the look of it.

I tapped my finger nervously against the sketchbook in my lap, struggling to come up with a natural way to talk about last night’s phone call.

“Your mom called last night,” he said, beating me to the punch. He turned his back on the sink, the heels of his hands braced against the countertop. “She knows you’re here.”

I feigned surprise. “How?”

“Apparently she called your friends.” If Mason wanted to confront me about eavesdropping or spying on him, it was now or never.

A few seconds passed.

“Did she say anything else?” I asked when the silence became deafening.

“She’s not happy you lied about where you were going.”

I had to laugh. “How very pot-meet-kettle.”

“She just wants to know that you’re safe.”

“Well, I am. Aren’t I?” I flipped to a different page and struggled to keep my expression neutral while staring at a pencil rendition of a vagina with two fingers in it.

I felt Mason’s gaze like a hand gliding down my arm to the image in question. He cleared his throat. “You know, sketchbooks are kind of like journals. You shouldn’t go through them without the artist’s permission.”

“Sorry.” I closed the book. “I just wanted to see what you’ve been working on.”

He lifted the sketchbook from my lap. “Krista’s supposed to come by for a session this afternoon. I’ll let you stay and watch if she’s comfortable with it.”

“I’d like that,” I said, curiosity overriding my jealousy. “Is she your girlfriend?”

“Who, Krista?”

I nodded.