Page 36 of Extraction Play

Pixie stood in front of the canvas, putting the finishing touches onWelcome the Night, a painting that had been inspired by her midnight rendezvous with Eva. The taste of her, the feel of their skin brushing against each other’s, the quiet texture of the velvet night around them—all those sensations and feelings bled out of her fingertips. Usually, paintings took her weeks or months or a few all-nighters, and recently, she’d been pulling more and more of the latter.

The canvas breathed to life, the colors leaping to the fore, and a sense of exhilaration swilled through her veins whenever she created. Eva left the munch two days ago, and she promised to return today, since she’d finished packing up the rest of her belongings. Pixie couldn’t imagine being able to cram all her shit into a single car now.She’d had to do it her whole childhood, so the second she got old enough, she’d started collecting so much it didn’t fit in the space of her condo. She’d needed to rent a storage center outside of the city for her comics and blankets and weird sculptures.

Pixie swept a few more brushstrokes of navy along one of the curvy shadows, trying to recapture the visceral sensation of the darkness that night, how it had coated her skin, sparked light into her very soul. Moments like this, when she chased a creative high, she could forget the problems waiting for her when she returned to reality.

Her phone buzzed on the table. She glanced over, and her stomach flipped at the familiar name on the screen. After one more stroke, she wiped her hand on her pants and answered the call, paintbrush in tow.

“Hey, Francis.” Pixie walked over to the sink. She turned the water on and washed the brush and her paint-stained hands, cradling her phone between her shoulder and cheek. Now that she wasn’t in active creation mode, her back ached from hunching over a canvas for close to two days straight. Her stomach rumbled with a loud reminder she had barely eaten as well.

“I figured I’d wait to call until there was news,” Francis said, his voice eager over the phone. Pixie’s stomach twisted. The concept of leaving tangled her up. Some days, she wanted to stay more than anything, and others, she believed if she remained here any longer, she’d forget how to breathe. After moving for so long, the idea of finding a true home was one she secretly cherished but didn’t think she would ever get.

When things got hard, the urge to bolt burned in her blood.

“What’s going on?” Pixie shut off the water, placed the paintbrush down, and leaned against the sink.

“They want you to come and interview for the residency.” It was the answer she’d anticipated, and she should feel thrilled. Except thefirst thing that came to mind was Eva and the creativity she’d inspired that still stained her fingers.

However, Eva wasn’t anything more than a fling—nothing to hang her hopes on—no matter how many sparks flared between them.

“When?” she asked, her mouth dry. This wasn’t just taking a different job across town. No, this would be a full-out move away from the people she loved. It seemed ridiculous to even entertain the idea, given she knew what starting over was like. But she also knew what it was like to stand by someone as you got let down time and time again.

And she’d choose the former after a lifetime of the latter.

“Three weeks. This is such a rare chance, Pixie. They were impressed enough by your art to move forward, so that’s something to be incredibly proud of.”

Pixie swallowed hard. Her chest warmed at the praise because Francis meant it. He tended to be on the critical side, and he wouldn’t step to bat for just anyone. He viewed her as talented, even though most of the time, she still felt like a kid clutching a paintbrush, trying to escape the world.

“I’ll be there.” An interview couldn’t hurt. Checking out the area, seeing what the opportunity was like. She could always back out if needed.

“I’m relieved. For a moment, it sounded like you weren’t sure,” he said.

“Come on, Francis. Who wouldn’t be excited about a potential resident artist position?” she joked, even though her heart was too at war for excitement.

“I’ll update you with details.” With that, he ended the call.

Pixie gripped her phone and stared at the ceiling. The news should’ve made her elated. Opportunities like those were rare. Once-in-a-lifetime sorts of deals. Yet even beyond her friend grouphere, Pixie was scared to leave her mom behind. That if she wasn’t close to pick up the pieces, no one else would. That responsibility had followed her since she was a kid, and she wasn’t sure how to live without it.

“A resident artist position?” Micah asked from the doorway.

Pixie’s stomach dropped. Fuck. “My art dealer threw my name in the ring, yeah.”

Micah’s expression was unreadable, his hazel eyes taking on an icy shade. “Where’s it at, Pixie?”

Guilt rolled through her. “Portland. But before you get all angry with me for not saying anything, I didn’t think it was necessary. Francis had put it out there as a potential, not even something I believed would turn into a reality.”

Micah crossed his arms. “Right, so you wouldn’t tell your best friend this was even on your radar? Look, I know I don’t bug you to open up, but hell, I didn’t realize you thought so little of our friendship.” He pushed up from the doorframe and strode down the corridor.

Panic gripped her, and she hurried after him. Fuck, she was a shit friend. Her therapist had told her for years she needed to open up to others, to let her friends into her life, but she kept everyone at arm’s length, willing to be there for them but not vice versa. She hadn’t even left San Francisco, and she already torpedoed her relationships.

Pixie burst into the living room, where Micah slouched on his side of the couch. The slightest gasp of relief filtered through her. She’d half believed she’d find him gone.

Except since he was still here, she’d need to speak about more than what kinky shit they were getting up to or the highlight reel of their days. Of all the myriad problems she kept on lockdown, this was one thing she should bring up. Especially to her best friend and roommate.

“I’m sorry.” She plopped down next to Micah, grabbed one of the throw pillows, and clutched it tight to her chest. “You’re right.”

Micah cocked an eyebrow, a move that reminded her a lot of Eva. Still, he didn’t say anything, sprawled into his corner of the couch like he tried to meld with it.

“This directly involves you, and I should’ve been upfront the moment Francis brought up the opportunity,” Pixie said, even though her heart thumped hard. This might be the issue that pushed him away.

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