Page 44 of If You Give an Artist a Killer Muse

Crazy, annoying little shit.

She sends me another text.

CRAZY MIGRAINE

- If you don’t end things with her now, Rurik, I will visit her and decorate her bougie ass walls with the beautiful color of dark red. And I won’t need to buy new paint because her body produces the exact color I need just fine.

I stare at her text. What the fuck is wrong with her? Is she actually a psychopath? Does she think this way? She’s joking. She must be.

There’s no way anyone would just text anyone like that and not worry about getting in trouble. I glare at her message again and sigh.

ME:

-Not that it’s any of your business, but I broke things off before things could continue.

-But I did it because I wanted to, not because of you.

There. I don’t know why I felt I had to let her know; it’s seriously none of her business. But hopefully, that’ll satisfy her enough that she’ll finally ignore me throughout the day.

Wishful thinking, I know.

I place my phone in my armband and put on my headphones before leaving my apartment. I know I will see Briar on my run; I always do. So I’m hoping that using these big headphones will give me an excuse to show that I can’t hear her and, therefore, easily ignore her when she comes.

*-*-*-*

She never showed up.

It's not that I was looking for her. I was able to go through my entire run this morning because she wasn’t there to distract me. Still, I couldn’t help but feel distracted anyway because I kept looking behind my back, thinking she would pop out of nowhere or throw a rock at my head.

I can’t help but scowl at nothing as my mind starts raging. I’m in my second bedroom, which turned into my art studio, where I picked up a blank canvas and supplies. I don’t know what I will paint; I only need something to keep my hands and thoughts busy.

Only I can’t because of a fucking migraine that keeps making her way into my head.

With a frustrated sigh, I dip my brush into the paint and focus on the canvas before me. My strokes start methodically, making sure the colors blend in to create the texture I want. As minutes pass, I get a vague idea of how this would turn out. I've been doing landscapes and sketches lately, but what if I paint a portrait of Mum? Mother’s Day is coming; maybe Mum would appreciate it. I dip my brush into yellow and pause, frowning at the color.

It’s a good thing Briar isn’t here. She might use this color and ruin my painting again.

For fucks sake, why the hell did she feel the need to shove her way into my life? I was doing fine with my life and keeping things in order for the unavoidable future I’d have to face. I was fine being alone; I was fine having only a few close friends; I was fine being the nice, sweet senator's stepson; I was fine just painting whatever the hell I wanted.

So why the hell am I thinking about the crazy woman?

I should be happy that I haven’t seen her today, right?

Shaking my head to clear my thoughts, I focus on the canvas and swipe my arm; splashes of color hit the canvas, reminding me of Briar’s yellow splatter again. Every time that woman continues to linger in my thoughts, the more I beat up my canvas with paint. Briar’s face swirls in my mind, mixing with the colors, creating a chaotic mess of things.

Fuck her.

Fuck that crazy woman.

Who the hell does she think she is?

How dare she threaten me! I can date whoever the hell I want. How dare she try to barge into my life, demanding things when I've made it clear countless times that I have no interest in her. How dare she make my heart stutter every time I think about her? My heart is fragile enough as it is. How dare she think she has any ownership over it? And how bloody dare she continue to invade my thoughts when I just want to forget everyone and everything.

How fucking dare she.

Redness slowly creeps into the corners of my vision, causing me to pause. I can feel my pulse quickening and my blood pressure rising, so I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

Calm down, asshole.

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