Chasing Me (Quinn and James 2)

Chapter Four

JAMES

I left the diner and headed toward the Brush Institute. I'd lied about having a session, but I needed to get my head right and figured working on my project would help.

Fuck. Quinn's father had no respect for me, and I didn't blame him. I couldn't lie. As much as my parents were assholes, I was still the rich kid who'd blown through money and partied nonstop. While Quinn worked her way through college and actually helped people, I'd only helped by financing my friends with unlimited cocktails and holding the most famous parties in Key West.

Who would've thought trying to be a better man would be this so fucking hard?

I hated that Quinn was uncomfortable in front of her dad on my behalf. And working at a coffee shop was hard for me to take. But what the hell? Work was work. Money was money. I'd grit my teeth and deal with it because all steps led to Quinn.

I showed my ID, walked inside, and headed toward my room. The portrait class was basic shit, not helping me at all, but on the weekend the school was quiet, and students were able to come in to use the facilities to work on their projects. I was completing a series of charcoal sketches experimenting with how age changes the face. I'd been obsessed since seeing the picture in some trashy magazine on how a well-known celebrity had changed so much no one seemed to recognize her. Of course, the press went nuts and blamed it on plastic surgery, but studying the planes and lines of her face, I became fascinated by how time can soften and sharpen basic features, especially when combined with changes in lifestyle.

It was a good project to match up with drawing basics so Ava, aka Ms. Goodridge, wouldn't curl her lip and tell me in that frosty tone it was not acceptable for her class. God, I hated her. But I wanted her approval more.

Pathetic.

There wasn't anyone in my room today, so I took a bit of time to prep, setting up my easel and lining up my charcoal pens. I usually liked to work to music, but since school started and that option was taken away, I was getting better dealing with the silence. In a way, it was kind of nice. Forced me to focus and fight through the mental chatter always going on.

I began working, and after a bit, I got into the zone. Always reminded me of that baseball movie I enjoyed with Kevin Costner - For the Love of the Game. Clear the mechanism. He'd get in the zone and be able to pitch his game without distractions. When I got to that place, it was like being on my boat, surrounded by water and nothing on the horizon but possibilities. Clean. Pure. Like flying.

My fingers flew, curled, created. I didn't know how long I was at it before my skin began to prickle, and I knew I wasn't alone.

My head turned, and I locked gazes with Ms. Goodridge.

Trying not to startle and be cool, I took in her appearance with neutrality. She looked like a typical artist. She was tall, tall enough to easily be a model, with hip-length straight red hair. She always wore black; skinny black jeans, a black sweater, and black boots. Black, librarian type of glasses. Red lips and heavy makeup. Dramatic, powerful, and a bitch on wheels.

Her face held no expression as she clicked over and studied my work in silence. Sweat broke out on my brow, but I kept cool, refusing to speak before she did. Hell, it was my time anyway, and we weren't in class. She shouldn't even be here, let alone trying to judge me.

"You're still overcompensating," she finally said. The air thickened. "How many times must I tell you, Mr. Hunt? You must first adhere to structure before being able to break it."

Anger shot through me. I clenched my fists. "I do. I did. Look." I pointed to the curve of cheekbone, the strong brush of jaw. "I'm following the rules."

"Not good enough. The width of the eyes and space for the forehead is unbalanced, and not in a good way. You're rushing to get to the good parts, and not taking enough time on foundation. Do you think I've given you art history basics to hear myself talk? Start again, and give me what I've been trying to teach you for six weeks."

She turned on her heel to leave, and I lost it. "What the fuck is your problem?" I asked. "I get that you're trying to teach me, but you don't do this shit to the others. You like insulting me. I didn't bitch when you stuck me in the basic classes to waste my time. I followed the rules time and time again. But I can't seem to satisfy you."

Ah, shit.

I held my breath and waited for her fury. Waited to get thrown out on my ass over my crappy temper issues. Again.

Instead, she tilted her head and stared at me. Her eyes were the lightest green, almost gold, and now they drilled into me as if probing my very soul. A trickle of awareness slid down my spine. What the hell was going on? That look was just...uncomfortable. Not like a teacher to a student. More like a woman to a man. Right? Unless I was just screwed up in the head and imagining things not there.

"Mr. Hunt, I assure you I'm not out to get you. I'm here to do my job and push your limits. I think you've had an easy life, and you don't know what to do with the first criticism you've received on something important to you."

I jerked back. Damned if she wasn't right. My art was my heart and soul, other than Quinn, and the idea of failing put me in a cold sweat of fear. Either way, I was already on her shit list, and challenging her wasn't a good idea.

"I'm sorry," I said shortly.

She kept studying me. "Mr. Hunt, do you have a problem with men?"

I blinked. "Huh?"

"Men. It seems you are always drawing women. Now, I know they are probably more interesting due to your gender, but a true artist does not limit himself."

I stared at my portrait. I never really thought of it before, but my subjects were mostly female. "Does it really matter?" I challenged. "They both have similar structure to sketch, which seems to be the point. I'd draw a male just as well as I do a female."

"Again, you refuse to push yourself, Mr. Hunt. We will be having a nude model come in next week to pose. Since it's a male, I'll be looking forward to you proving your theory. For now, I'd advise you to start again, and go back to basics before allowing yourself to stretch boundaries."

I seethed with frustration, having no fucking clue what she was talking about. My fingers curled tight around the pencil, but she didn't seem to care what emotions I was struggling with. The click of her heels resolutely dismissed me as unworthy for a longer conversation. I studied the picture, which I had thought was pretty good, and ripped it to pieces.

Fine. I'd start again. I'd keep going till my fucking fingers were bloody and my eyes crossed if I'd just be able to do one lousy thing that didn't make her lips purse like she just sucked on a damn lemon.

I got back to work.

Hours later, I realized I was late for my date with Quinn. I grabbed my phone, which I'd put on silent, and found three text messages asking when I'd be there. Shit. I quickly texted her to give me thirty minutes, packed up my stuff, and flew back out of the school.

Since my place was close to the school, I showered and changed in record time, and got to her house with two minutes to spare. When she opened the door, she had a cute sulk to her lips I rarely saw. Quinn wasn't the whiney, high-maintenance sort. Another reason why I loved her. Little makeup, casual clothes, honest to a fault, she was a straight-shooter and rarely complained. When she did, I found her spikes in temper hot as hell.

"Sorry, babe." I kissed those gorgeous lips. "I got caught up."

She smelled like everything clean in the world. Cucumber. Cotton. Pure soap with just a hint of floral. I wanted to strip off her clothes and devour her, but I'd promised her an actual date on the town since we'd been working so hard.

"I'm hungry."

"You're pouting. It's adorable."

She gasped. "I don't pout. I'm just starving, like my stomach is eating itself, I'm so hungry."

I laughed. "And you're dramatic. Well, let's go, then. What are we waiting for?"

She grumbled as she donned her coat, pulled a knit hat over her head, and wrapped a scarf around her neck. One thing I learned about Chicago in January? The so-ca

lled Windy City froze my balls off. "What are we doing?" Quinn asked.

"Not sure." Funny, in the past, I usually planned elaborate dates. Dinners on my boat, beach cruises, dancing in celebrity clubs. But I loved exploring the unknown with Quinn, just throwing myself out into the world with her at my side and an adventure before us. I was used to expectations entwined with money. Quinn couldn't have cared less about expensive dinners, and her favorite was a hot dog at the food truck. "Let's go to The Bean and figure it out from there."

"Sounds good. Food first."

I knew the only way to satisfy her appetite was the best damn deep-dish pizza invented. We left the apartment, and I pulled her in tight against me, wrapping myself around her delectable body to protect her from the wind. We'd gotten used to walking everywhere, and I enjoyed living in such an amazing city filled with art, food, and interesting people, even if I missed my boat and the sun occasionally. I never expected Quinn's city to become mine, but in these past six months, I'd made it my own, too.

We finally reached Gino's East and got into a booth, ordering our favorite classic deep-dish with sausage. "Why were you so late?" Quinn asked.

I didn't want to get into it, but owed her the truth. "I was working on my portrait when Ava came in. Let's just say she made it quite clear it sucked. I started over."

She nibbled her lower lip in that sexy way of hers that made me jealous. I wanted to be the one sucking on her lips. "Just because she teaches there doesn't mean she knows what she's talking about," Quinn said fiercely. "Maybe she's a wannabe artist and she's jealous!"

I laughed. Damned if she didn't make me feel good believing in my talent more than anyone else. Quinn never spoke badly about anyone, so this was a sign of her loyalty. "Gonna beat her up for me, baby?" I teased. "My money's on you to take her down."

Quinn rolled her eyes. "Seriously, James, is there anyone else you can talk to at the Brush Institute? The Dean or program coordinator?"

They placed the sizzling pizza on our table. The scent of garlic, sauce, and gooey cheese hit me hard, making me salivate. We dug in with little fanfare and hardly any manners. "Nah, I'm gonna handle this myself. If I have to suffer for the next few months, then I'm done with her. I can take anything she gives me, and now I have something to prove."

"Doesn't she have a say in who displays their work in June?" she asked. "I don't trust her."

That worried me. There was a student exhibition at the end of the year where some high-society art dealers and patrons attended. The Brush Institute had a great reputation with some serious successful artists, and I needed to get there. But I still had time to dazzle, and I wouldn't give up until I did. "Next week I get to sketch a nude male," I said. "I got this."