Page 17 of If You Give an Artist a Killer Muse

Oscar frowns before nodding and turning his attention to the ladies.

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I let out a sharp breath, leaning over the sink to cup my hands and splash cold water on my face. I need to calm down. I don’t know what’s wrong with me today; I’ve never cursed or snapped at a stranger just because they annoyed me.

That’s not me.

I’m calm.

Collected.

Chill.

Laid-back.

I splash water on my face again before grabbing a handful of paper towels and dabbing my face. After I toss them into the garbage, I stare at my reflection, place a hand on my chest, and inhale slowly.

Fucking migraine of a woman.

I exhale, shaking my head. I’m Rurik Campbell, damn it. My stepdad is a beloved senator. He does his best by getting rid of riffraff. People think I’m so sweet and quiet. I’m a great goddamn artist on my way to leaving my mark in the industry. My goal in this short life is to live fully until the last beating of my heart.

No woman is going to ruin my carefully laid-out plans.

I glare at my reflection again, shaking my head in frustration as I reach for the door to leave. But before I can step outside, the lights flicker off, enveloping me in darkness.

Suddenly, I'm assaulted by a blend of scents—berries, jasmine, and dark chocolate—followed by a soft yet firm hand slamming over my mouth.

I don't even have time to yell before I'm forcefully shoved into a stall.

I scramble to avoid landing on the toilet, slamming my hands against the sides for support.

My survival instincts kick in as I attempt to push the person away with ferocious strength. They emit an animalistic hum, and I hear the sound of a muffled snap before I find myself shoved down until my knees buckle, my ass landing on top of the toilet seat cover with a grunt.

I feel the person’s weight straddling my lap, causing me to stiffen with confusion.

“Ssshh, angel,” a melodic voice whispers. “It’s me.”

Briar?

I blink and stare at her in disbelief. Briar’s lips curve in a wicked grin as my vision adjusts from the darkness.

“Hello, you,” she whispers, her nose brushing against my jaw as she inhales. “Holy shit, you smell perfect. What is that? What brand?”

I’m going to die. This psycho woman is going to be the death of me. It’s often the boring, quiet one who gets killed in those cheesy horror movies, right? This is my scene.

Shit. I could feel my heart about to take flight, and I can’t breathe —

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Breathe, you stupid asshole.

I try to speak, but her hand remains firmly clamped over my mouth. Her eyes narrow at my struggle, and she rolls her eyes with a sigh before releasing me. However, instead of freeing me completely, her fingers tighten around my neck, locking me in place.

I glare at her as I inhale deeply, ignoring the painful rattle against my chest. “What the actual fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Her chest is pressed against mine, her long, wavy black hair fanning her face as she looks down at me. Fuck, why is she sitting on my lap?! I could feel the warmth between her legs radiating against my crotch and — Fuck.

“Such naughty words coming from a good boy such as yourself, angel.”

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