Page 52 of Wicked Dreams

Caleb settles on the stool beside me, his easel already loaded with his year-end project canvas. It’s blank—I checked when he didn’t immediately come in. We haven’t worked on it in the past few days, and Robert mentioned that we’d be dedicating one day a week to it.

He looks like shit, though. There’s a drop of blood on the collar of his crisp white shirt. His lip is bleeding—or was, I guess, since it seems to have stopped—and there’s a blooming red mark across his cheekbone.

The rumor mill was fast at work, and Riley already sent me a video of it. Him andLiam, his best friend. Why on earth they fought is anyone’s guess. The person who videoed it didn’t start until after it was well underway.

And now he’s here, his posture straight, his gaze on the canvas.

Boys are idiots.

“Should I add that to my painting?” I ask dryly.

He shrugs again, avoiding my eye.

I turn back to my canvas. It’s also blank, but not for lack of trying. I’ve got paints on my palette, my brushes laid out. The turpentine to clean the oil paint in a mason jar on a side table. Everything is ready, and all I need to do is that first wash of color.

I just need to start.

Robert—er, Mr. Bryan—is circling around the room, and he stops behind me.

“Interesting,” he says. “Is that how you see Caleb?”

I glance up at him. “Can I just paint the whole thing black?”

Caleb grunts. “Real original.”

“You wanted a window into his soul,” I tell Robert. “And his soul is?—”

“Okay.” He holds up his hand. “I’m sure there’s more to Mr. Asher than what meets the eye. You’re our only pair that hasn’t evenstarted. Why is that?”

“I have her figured out,” Caleb says. “It’s just a matter of finding the right way to portray it.”

I hum. “Pretty sure he’s blowing smoke out of his?—”

“All right,” Robert interrupts. “Come on, Margo. Caleb. Get to work.”

He leaves us, and I focus back on Caleb. Not him, per se, but the shape of his head. I use my pencil to sketch out a rough outline. When I’m satisfied with the shape, I dip my brush in the orange-brown paint, then turpentine. I use broad strokes to cover the canvas, and the color is thin enough to still see my pencil markings.

Caleb sits back, a clean brush in his grasp. He fiddles with it, his gaze steady on my face.

“You’re unnerving,” I say.

“You don’t look like a soul-sucking demon when you’re concentrating.” He leans forward and braces his elbow on his knee. “You stick your tongue out a little, like this.”

The tip of his tongue peeks out of his lips.

I frown. “No, I don’t.”

“Okay, fine.” He sits back with a smile.

So fucking smug.

“I’m going to add the bruises.” Not that I even have his face figured out… or where to start.

The other day, we worked on mapping faces. You know, drawing the circle and then the curved lines through it, essentially figuring out where to put the nose and eyes and lips proportionally. It was difficult at first, but actually more like math than anything else.

I got the hang of it pretty fast after that.

Robert circles back around, pausing at Caleb’s shoulder. He waits. The pause is pointed. Enough for the hotshot hockey star to heave a sigh and get his brush coated in the same orange-brown color. A lot of turpentine, which is meant to thin out the paint in this way. It makes it nearly translucent on the canvas.

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