Chapter 16: Sixteen

"Wow, you look especially beautiful today." June mused, leaning his head onto his hand as his eyes scanned me head to toe. From the corner of my eye, I saw Joel stop what he was doing and glance up at me. Fuck. I offered him a polite smile, setting my bag by my ankles before hopping onto the stool.

"Thank you. Do you think we will get around to painting today?" June's bright eyes squinted with his smile.

"I think so. Professor Steal-Your-Girl has been pretty busy with set up for the last five minutes." My eyes widened, and I avoided looking at Joel by turning to face June directly, subtly covering my face with my hand.

"That's one hell of a nickname." I whispered back. He shrugged, undeterred by the fact that he could hear him clearly.

"I just don't like how he acts. He's a teacher. Don't you think he should act like one?" His eyes formed into a quick glare with a side glance at Joel, before whispering back. "I don't like how he looked at you when you walked in. As if he were interested, you know?"

"I'm, um, sure you're just reading into it too much. Look at me. I'm the last girl Jo- Professor Becker would be interested in." His eyes ran down me again in contemplation.

"I guess you're right." Ouch. "You're not the type to spread your legs for a guy like that." Double ouch.

"Miss Matthews, could I have your assistance, please?" Joel's grated voice rang out, and the entire class quieted. I flinched, turning slowly to Joel who had his arms crossed over his chest, a cold stare never leaving June. What the hell was he thinking? I stood up, awkwardly making my way across the entire classroom, feeling the weight of jealous glares and curious glances.

Once I arrived at his desk, my eyes met his.

"What can I help you with, Professor?" I was cordial with my tone, but my eyes said, 'What the hell are you doing?'. He just smiled kindly at me.

"Actually, I would like to use you as an example." What? He gestured for me to follow him onto the platform, where two easels were set up and ready, tubes of acrylic paint and brushes on the tables beside them. Please tell me he wasn't expecting me to paint in front of everyone.

It was the first practical lesson! I didn't know jack diddly about painting!

"Please, have a seat." He nodded to the stool opposite him, and I obeyed. Then, he turned to face the class. "The Mona Lisa. Ophelia. Beata Beatrix. All of these paintings have one thing in common. Can anyone tell me what?" The blonde bimbo in the front row was the first to raise her hand. "Yes, Sara?"

"They're all of women, aren't they?" Her high pitched voice made me wince. God, she was grating.

"Close, but not quite what I'm looking for. The similar motif is their use of muses for their work. A muse is something, or someone-" He cast me a glance. "-that serves as inspiration for a work of art. Sometimes they are portrayed literally, like my examples, but other times their influence is more abstract, and one would almost need a peek inside the artists heart to see the full story." He leaned over, picking through a paint can and coming back with a brush. "I could spend all semester explaining to you the difference between painting styles and brush strokes, but it would just be a waste of both our times. My goal here is to teach you how to paint, not how others have painted before you. And rule number one of painting: find a muse. It doesn't need to be a lover. It can be a character in a story, as in the case of Ophelia. Or it could be an ideal. If you wish to paint the essence of innocence, for example, do so. I won't tell you what you should use to inspire your work, but as your first assignment, I recommend you pick something important to you."

"Wait. So why am I up here for this?" He grinned mischievously.

"Well, Miss Matthews. You will be my muse. And I, yours." My mouth dried up. Didn't he just say he wouldn't tell us what muse to use? And now I would be forced to paint a picture to represent my secret lover in front of the whole damn class. Was he crazy? Did he want us to be discovered?

"Professor? What exactly do you want us to paint, though? Your instructions are pretty vague." June shouted from the back.

"Exactly. To put it frankly, I don't give a shit what you paint. It could be a splash of color or a whole damn forest with a bunch of happy trees. As long as you use your muse to create it, there are no boundaries." He turned back to face me, nodding to the can of brushes and palette. "So just pick up your brush, and paint."

I hesitated. Of course I did. I was terrified. I didn't know what the hell I was doing, and I was sitting across from a man who had fucking art shows in his honor. Anything I would create would be cow manure compared to him.

But he didn't hesitate. As soon as people started bustling to pick their paints, he lifted a tube of white, forming a dab on the flat slab of wood in his fingers.

Then, his eyes landed on me, raking down my body slowly with slightly parted lips. I clenched my jaw, countering by reaching for the black. His brows shot up, his lips twitching at my choice. Next for him was pink, followed by crimson red for me. Then, sky blue. I eyed the selection. Orange it was.

"Those are some bold colors, Miss Matthews." He muttered, just above a whisper.

"I'm only following my heart, Professor Becker." I retorted with a smirk. His choices were soft, delicate, while mine screamed of rage and fire. Before I knew it, I was staining the canvas. Layer after layer of deep shades and dark imagery.

If you were to ask me what I was painting, I wouldn't be able to answer. Because I had no fucking clue. All I knew was what I felt. And what I felt for Joel. He was infuriating, selfish, petty, and arrogant. He drove me crazy, but I loved it. My colors morphed, adding layers of warmth and scolding heat around the sides. Passion. Unbelievable passion. But he was stormy. Those eyes of his offered little refuge, urging me to take shelter lest I be drowned out at sea. Deep blue was added, along with swirls of gray and white.

He was there. Watching me.

I never even bothered changing brushes. I only needed one, because there was nothing defined with my muse. He was chaos, confusion. Everything blended together in one big hodgepodge of flames and destruction, and I had never felt so liberated.

Is this what painting was?

Throwing some color on a blank space, pouring your heart out for the world to see?

This was no copy/paste. I wasn't unlocking my inner Da Vinci. I was unlocking me.

I needed green, for the envy I felt with him. And gold, for the cursed reminder of the bitch who broke him. A little bit of pink, yellow, for the light he brought into my life, and lastly, more red. Red for the color I see when he wounds me.

Short stroke, long stroke. After what felt like no time at all, my muse spoke.

"Alright, class, that's all for today. Please clean up your stations and leave your works to dry." What? Already?

I glanced at the digital clock hanging on the wall behind me. It had already been over an hour. How was that possible? And why was I breathing so hard?

I licked my dry lips, placing my brush in the vase of water beside me, immediately clouding it black.

"Can we see your painting, Professor Becker?" Sara called, and the whole class froze in place, straining their necks to get a good view of the platform.

"Oh, yes, of course." He replied with a smile, standing with a tantalizing stretch before lifting the easel effortlessly, turning his painting with the utmost care to face the rest of the room. Gasps and whispers filled the empty space, making me blush before I even got to see it. I stood timidly, straightening my top with painted fingers, but I didn't care. I just wanted to see what he'd created.

"Oh my God."

It was a grove, filled with none other than Cherry Blossoms. They were falling, raining seemingly from the sky onto a silhouette of a woman. The world around her was so alive, so beautiful, but she was just a shadow. She was curled up in the grass, hugging her knees with her head down. And on the girls head, was a crimson red blindfold. She was blind.

Blind to the life. Blind to the warmth.

My initial thought was to feel bad for the girl. She was so unaware of the good surrounding her. That was until I remembered where the art came from.

This was Joel, with me as his muse.

The girl was me.

But not just me. I remembered our conversation about flowers. Joel told me that I was a cherry blossom. So if I was the cherry blossom, who was the girl?

Still me.

But inside of me. My shadow.

The top of my shirt was getting cold against my skin, and I realized quickly that I was crying. Joel's painting of me, the true me, was haunting. He saw me alone and afraid. But safe and bathed in light.

How?

"Jennifer? Are you okay?" I lifted my head as I felt him grab my arm. Shit, he was touching me! But as I looked around, we were alone. Had I been staring at it for that long?

"It's beautiful." Which was true. Painfully so. Hence why my tears were still flowing, no matter how much I swiped at them. He glanced at the closed door of the classroom before taking me in his arms. He smelled of paint and mint, the subtle moving of his jaw on the top of my head telling me he was chewing gum.

"I'm sorry if I hurt you." He mumbled, pulling me in tighter. I returned his hug, ignoring my messy hands once again as I painted the back of his light blue dress shirt.

"You didn't. I'm just…"

"Emotional?" He finished with a chuckle, and I poked him hard in the ribs.

"You haven't seen emotional, yet, mister." I grumbled, pulling away so I could cover my painting. But he caught my wrist, holding me captive.

"Nu-uh. I have to see it."

"Hell no! You created a fucking masterpiece, Michaelangelo. I created a blob of paint." But he only laughed, holding me back with ease as he stepped to my side of the platform.

"Many artists work with color representation instead of literal imagery like I've done. That doesn't mean it's any less impressive." I tugged back on his arm, but he brushed me off. As soon as my painting came into focus, his eyes shot open wide.

"I just kept adding colors. I didn't know what I was doing." I tried as an excuse, chewing on my bottom lip.

"Wow. It's... Wow."

"Stop saying that. Actually, stop looking at it!" I whined, but he shook his head.

"I don't know why you're so insecure. This is great. Ha. I can almost hear it." Hear it? Was he on drugs?

"I have no idea what you're talking about. Is it the paint fumes getting to your head?" He chuckled, extending an arm for me to join him. I did so hesitantly, but once he had hold of my hand, he yanked me into his arms, my back to his front.

"Look at it closely, and imagine it as a song instead of a painting." I looked up at him, curiously, as he continued. "It's loud, angry yet sorrowful. A minor key, but filled with powerful emotion. Like fire and kerosene. Dangerous." He paused for a beat, his fingers drawing circles on my forearms. "Sensual."

I sucked in a shaky breath. He was exactly right, and I could see it. Hell, I could almost hear it.

"But, I don't think you painted this with me in mind. I think it was us you were thinking about." He added. I turned in his arms, gripping his shirt in my fists as I rested my forehead on his chest.

"Correct." One of his hands fell to the small of my back, the other coming up to rest in my hair.

"I'm glad no one saw it, then. Your painting screams sex." I gasped, my gaze shooting up to his.

"No it does not!" I argued, appalled, but he raised a brow.

"It does. Angry sex, at that. What would poor little June think?"

"Don't you start, Joel. He already hates you, you know." His brows furrowed, his fingers gripping a tuft of my hair and pulling my head back so his lips could crash on mine. I grunted, and just as quick as it started, it ended. What the hell was that for?

"I don't give a shit what that kid thinks. He doesn't get to do that, now does he?" He replied equal parts proud and pissed.

"You're pretty damn possessive." I growled in response, suddenly being reminded that I'm technically nothing to him. I broke free of his grasp, marching over to my station so I could clean it up.

"I don't like frat boys eyeing what's mine." He gritted after me, making me freeze.

"Yours?" Finally coming back down from his envious high, his eyes widened.

"Well, you…" He stopped, trying to formulate his words carefully.

"I'm what?"