Page 39 of Antidote

Dipping my paintbrush into my palette, I mix green and the tiniest drop of white, then go back to the eyes. Jamie is watching intently as I put the finishing touches on it, and I do my best to ignore him. I don’t really feel like explaining myself, although as someone clears their throat behind me, I realize I’ve been saved from it.

“Wow,” the professor says. I only know he is one by his attire: slacks and a button-down shirt. Everyone else in here is splattered in paint and wearing their least favorite t-shirt. “That’s beautiful. What’s your name, son?”

“Oliver.” I clear my throat. “Scott.”

“Do you have any other work with you?” he asks me, and I nod, grabbing my backpack and handing him my sketchbook. My hand shakes slightly, and Jamie grabs my wrist tightly to keep it still. “What mediums do you excel at?”

“Acrylics,” I choke out, not loving the attention. Except he’s not even focused on me as he flips through the pages, a star-struck look in his eyes. I know what he’s seeing—obsession. Eyes, lips, noses, parts of Hunter’s body I dare not name. Fuck. “And sketching, as you can see.”

The professor pauses on a page, and my entire face turns beet red. It’s a drawing of Hunter with his hand stroking his cock. Jesus fucking Christ. “You’re very talented.”

Someone help me.

There’s no way this is happening right now.

“Thanks,” I squeak out, and Jamie tightens his grip on my wrist once, reassuring me. “Professor…?”

“McGuire,” he finishes. “Did you sign in when you came in?”

“Yes, sir.” Professor McGuire hands me back my sketchbook, and I set it on my lap, wishing he’d be done already.

“There’s this auction in a few weeks in downtown Raleigh.” He pulls out a card from his wallet and hands it to me, then runs his hand over his salt and pepper hair. “I don’t usually invite students who are not my own—but you have something here. I think this piece…” He points at the painting of Hunter, which I haven’t yet finished. “Is incredible. I could bet my life you’d sell it in a heartbeat.”

Okay, so the piece is good, I won’t lie. And that’s not me stroking my own ego—it’s just a fact. What sells it, however, is Hunter and his incredible fucking body. One that I miss terribly.

“That would be amazing,” I breathe. “Thank you.”

The professor nods and pats my back. “I’ll email you the details.” Then he walks away.

Jamie finally lets go of my wrist, and with shaky hands I put my sketchbook back in my bag. If it weren’t for him being a professor, I probably would’ve never let those sketches see the light of day. Mainly due to how embarrassed I am at the level of obsession I’ve achieved when it comes to Hunt. It’s borderline creepy if I think about it too hard, so I choose not to.

This is wild, though. That a professor thinks my work is worthy of being at an auction. He barely even looked at it for longer than a minute before asking for my sketchbook, but he seemed to make his decision pretty quickly. Would someone actually buy it? And where would that person put a naked Hunter?

A smirk takes over my lips as I think of selling a naked masterpiece of Hunter Hartman. Goddamn, he’s gonna be so fucking mad. Maybe this is precisely what I need to get a reaction out of him. Am I taking it too far? Probably. Do I care? Fuck no.

“Good for you, babe,” Jamie says, shoving me playfully, and I snap out of my petty reverie. “And we both know anyone would buy this painting in a heartbeat.”

“Oh, yeah?” I snort. “Where would you put it?”

Jamie puckers his full lips and pretends to think. “In my living room, right above my couch.”

“Sexy.” I grin. “What would your guests think?”

“I don’t really care.” He shrugs, picking up his backpack from the floor. “Everyone already knows I’m gay as fuck.”

“As fuck, huh?”

“Come on, Ollie.” Jamie rolls his eyes. “I’m the captain of the football team, and I’m hanging out with you.”

“Ouch!” I gasp, covering my heart with my hand as if he’s wounded me. “Be nice to me. I’ll have you know I’m a great friend. You don’t need those jocks anyway.”

We both laugh at that. “Wanna get coffee?” he asks as we walk to the exit. Thankfully, there are not a lot of people in the studio, and others don’t fuck with my stuff while the paint dries.

“Sure.” I nod.

Thirty minutes later, we’re sitting at the campus Starbucks at a little table nestled in the back corner, away from everyone. Jamie got my order for me because he said he invited me, and now I’m trying to figure out a way to get even. Maybe if I?—

“You’re kind of a psycho,” Jamie tells me, then takes a sip of his Matcha Latte and watches me over the rim of his cup. “Who the hell drinks a Peppermint Mocha Frappuccino in September?”

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