Page 8 of Beautiful Monster

Alexander Caldwell wants to make small talk with me in my bedroom at almost midnight on a Saturday. Unease burns within me like a fire. My brain knows it’s wrong; my body can’t seem to care.

Ignoring his question—which felt more like a jab—I pick up the trays off the floor and take them to the attached bathroom’s sink. With my back to him, I quickly rinse the paint off before it stains the porcelain and my mother loses her mind.

"You're good," he says, and I peer over my shoulder to see him taking a sip of whatever is in the glass he's holding.

"Thank you," I mumble before peering into the mirror to see him in the reflection. He catches me watching him.

"You don't mind me hanging out in here, do you?"

I shake my head.

"Thanks. Sometimes I just need a break. Can I admit something to you?"

After I dry off the trays, I turn back to him, giving him a quick nod.

"I snoop at every party I go to."

"Everyone does that.”

"Yeah, but I like to go find quiet rooms and just hang out in them like they're my own."

As I step closer to him, I can make out the weathered skin around his eyes, where crow's feet have started to form. Other than that, he barely shows his age. His shirt fits him snugly around the arms, strands of muscles peeking out of the light-colored fabric.

For some reason beyond me, this man’s face makes it hard for me to breathe. I want to sketch him, the darkness of his eyes. The slope of his nose. The harsh line of his lips.

Instead, I turn away and kneel next to the easel again.

Alexander’s silent presence behind me is like a shadow. He watches me while I mix the paint and stretch my arms before I get back to it.

Is he just going to sit there and watch me the whole time? It should make me uncomfortable…but it doesn't. I normally hate when people watch me paint.

The ice in his glass clinks when the song changes, and I focus on the lines around the portrait’s eyes.

"Who taught you to do that?" he asks. His voice has a little slur to it.

"Do what?"

"To paint that look in her eye."

I glance back at him to scrutinize if he’s fucking with me or not. "What look?"

His eyes level with mine. "The look that says she wants you."

I swallow. Everything in me stiffens, but another part—the part that draws eyes like this—thrums at the attention.

"I don't know," I mumble, turning back to the canvas.

He should be out there with my sister. He’s forty. I’m nineteen. He should be mingling with my mom's friends and not hanging out with me.

But as another two or three songs play, I get accustomed to his presence. There’s something so blunt and honest about Alexander that I like. He doesn’t bother me or try to get anything from me. His watchful eyes are oddly comforting.

"How old are you, Sunny?" His voice is husky, and his words dance through the space between us the same way ink swirls through water, slowly changing the color of everything. A moment ago, it felt like he could be my friend. But now…

The subtle pursuit in that question turns my stomach.

I'm nothing more than a blip on his radar. An itch to scratch. A notch on his bedpost. A weekend indulgence. And I’m not sure I like it.

"Nineteen," I mutter, leaning over to finish the shadow around her left eye.