Page 66 of Messy Strokes (Wrecked Roommates)

“Yeah, I pieced it together, but I also figured out she’s the woman in your sketch hanging at the shop.”

My jaw tightens as I climb into the car, turn on the ignition, and pull out of the driveway. “Are you going to sell me the shop or not?”

“Why haven’t you been coming around since you broke up with her?”

“Ihavebeen––”

“I meant the garage, and you know it. Do you know how many-half finished pieces are lying around in my back shed?”

“I told you to toss ‘em,” I remind him, shoving the car into drive. The tires squeal against the dark asphalt.

“They’re good, Milo.”

“They’re shit.”

“No, son. They aren’t. They’re good. Really good. People would pay a lot of money for some of those pieces. They simply need to be finished––”

“Then, go finish them,” I growl.

“They aren’t mine to finish. You have talent, Milo.”

“And I’m utilizing my talent at the shop,” I counter, pressing the gas pedal down a little harder.

“I’m not gonna waste my breath,again, on this subject. The deal I mentioned to Maddie stands. You want the shop? You enter a piece into my friend’s gallery.”

“I don’t have time––”

“Make time. You don’t need to be at Etch 'N Ink every second of the day.”

“I have a kid to take care of,” I argue.

“Bring her to the garage. And bring Maddie too.”

“Sucha bad idea.”

“Or it’s an excellent one. Your muse will be five feet away in case you’re looking for more inspiration.”

I shake my head, ignoring the way my chest constricts like a damn snake is squeezing the life out of me. I’m still too worked up from my kiss with Mads.

What the hell was I thinking?

“She’s not my muse,” I mutter, though I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince. I rake my fingers through my hair.

Everything is so messed up.

“You think I didn’t notice the shift in your work? It went from dull and lifeless to mesmerizing and thought-provoking before turning dark and heavy a few months later. I might be an old man, but I’m not an idiot. I think I can piece together the timeline.”

My blood boils, and my grip tightens around the steering wheel, but I don’t take the bait. There’s too much other shit I have to sort through. I unclench my hand and flex it open, forcing myself to take a deep breath, though it doesn’t stop me from feeling like I’m suffocating.

“I’m not gonna waste my time creating a piece for the gallery just because you want me to.”

“What Iwantis for you to be happy, son. For you to be happy, and for you to stop playing it safe all the time.”

I scoff, close to snapping. “What’s wrong with playing it safe?”

“Nothing. But thereissomething wrong with refusing to do what you love because you’re terrified of it.”

Bullshit.

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