1
Luke
“Damn it.” I slapped my hand against the steering wheel. Why do red lights always last an eternity when you’re late? I could see the entrance to Fletcher Community College from where I was stopped. Usually, I got to campus early. It was a long haul to Fletcher from my hometown of Conway, Montana—about forty-five minutes. I tried to leave with time to spare, but today I got stuck with my brothers, Bill, Wyatt, and Cody, managing a few cows that got loose on the southwest corner of my family’s ranch. It should have been no big deal. Just herd ‘em back in. But one stubborn cow got itself stuck in the mud and it was like watching a scene outta The Three Stooges. First, Wyatt went bottom-up, his feet right out from under him and we all laughed. Then, Cody skidded into a full belly flop. And before you knew it, I was up to my neck in sludge too. Bill sat atop his horse, snickering like a prince surrounded by jokers. We needed rope and a series of heave hoes to get the job done. It was a fiasco. And it meant that before I could leave for class, I had to run home and shower.
I wouldn’t have had to be late if I had the balls to tell my family I was taking a drawing class. But the thing was, I wanted to explore my art without having it be the butt of my brother’s jokes. I secretly wanted my art to be more than a hobby. I had always loved to draw. They knew I drew, but we were ranchers, and on the ranch, my creativity made me soft. They wouldn’t understand that art was my passion and I didn’t want to have to explain that a real man could love to draw. So, I decided to take this class in Fletcher, which was far enough away from Conway that no one knew me, and if drawing panned out, then I would broach the subject with my family.
As soon as the light changed, I raced into the parking lot. I grabbed my supply bag, slammed my truck door, and hurried to the art studio. I crashed through the door, my boots three steps ahead of my brain. Since class had already started, the calamity of my entrance caused everyone to turn and look at me.
Feeling my cheeks heat, I said, “Sorry. So sorry,” making my way through the circle of easels to the one that was mine.
Once I got into position, I rifled through my bag looking for my pencils and charcoal. I couldn’t find anything. I must have left my pencil case in the truck or at my apartment. Not sure, but they definitely weren't in my bag. It was not the first day of class, but it sure felt like it. Suddenly, I realized I was surrounded by the silence of everyone still waiting on me, and I looked up. My professor stared directly at me and asked, “Is it alright with you if we begin?”
“Please, let’s get this party started,” I said with a grin. Nobody corners a Morgan brother. It’s not in our make-up to yield.
The sweetest sound I’d ever heard floated towards me from the podium where the bowls of fruit and vases of flowers had sat for the last month or so. It was a woman’s laugh. I had forgotten we switched from still life to a live model halfway through the semester. So, not only was I late, but I put out this woman who was bearing herself to us in service of art. I cringed at my cloddish behavior, took a deep breath, and turned to take in the woman that produced the sound.
All the air left my body. This woman was literally breathtaking. She was partially naked. Our professor explained that for the first few weeks she would be draped in a sheet, so short of a laurel wreath on her head, she appeared as the echo of a Greek goddess. She was curvy and buxom in a way that had my blood racing south. Everything about her was lush—full pink lips, huge ice-blue eyes, thick dark lashes, and long waves of deep blue curls that fell across her shoulders and the tops of her barely covered breasts. In our part of the world, you don’t see many women with non-traditional hair colors, so I wasn’t partial per se, but something about her blue locks felt inspired, like she should have been born that way. Her skin looked like satin and my fingers ached to touch it. An urge like I’d never felt before overtook my being. I felt driven to plow through the easels, knocking them to the floor, mount the podium, take this woman, and make her mine. If she was a cupcake, I would have licked my finger and touched her to stake my claim.
Anthony, the kid that worked at the easel next to mine, leaned over and tapped my shoulder.
“Are you okay, dude?” he whispered. “Is this the first time you’ve ever seen a woman?” He laughed under his breath. Then, he waved his hand at me and I realized he was offering me a pencil.
I took it, and looking back at my goddess I mumbled, “I’ve never seen one like that.”