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Noah
The last of the people left as I muffled goodbyes. Thanks to that girl my masterpiece has been destroyed.
I bent down and took the shreds of the canvas between my fingers, rubbing them together over the fabric. If she thinks that I'd let myself get threatened so easily she has got another thing coming. I only let it go because of the paparazzi here. I gritted my teeth together and threw the piece onto the pile of rubbish that was supposed to be my piece de resistance.
Ophelia, my gallery manager, came down the steps to the studio. She walked towards me and rested her hand on my bicep flirtatiously.
"Should I clean this up?" She gave me a toothy smile. I didn’t miss how her eyes trailing down my shoulders to my waist as she mentally undressed me.
"No, it can wait until tomorrow. Can you get me the guest list and then lock up?" She nodded and headed to the studio with her clicking heels. I felt a new surge of anger pulsate through me. Ophelia came back and handed me the list, with it in hand I headed to my motorbike and stuffed it into my backpack. I got on my bike and sped towards my house.
As soon as the door to my house swung opened, I relaxed. I quickly pulled the list out of my backpack and sat down on the leather couch sprawled in the middle of the living room. This was my sanctuary.
I scanned through the names on the list trying to figure out who that girl was since she never introduced herself. I stopped at two unknown names- Harper Andrews and Grace Harris. I vaguely remember the redhead called that girl ‘Grace’ before they rushed out of the gallery. Well, Grace Harris, I'm going to get my money back one way or another.
The following day at the gallery I arrived early so that I could clean up after last night and get to work on a new painting. Last night I dreamt of that girl hurling through my painting repeatedly in slow motion. I wondered if I could depict pure and utter hate because if I could I knew exactly who I was painting.
Just as I was about to sit down and had rolled up my shirt's sleeves, dipping the brush into the acrylic paint, I heard the gallery's doorbell ring. I bolted out of my chair from annoyance and paced down to the steel stairs.
I walked down the steps but stopped mid-step when I saw that girl from last night. Grace.
Grace
The morning after the unfortunate incident I was wide awake at the crack of dawn since Harper decided that she'd have a singing competition with her showerhead and howl the whole neighbourhood awake before sunrise.
The more I tried to cover my ears with the pillow and yell at her to shut up, the louder she sang.
My ankle felt a whole lot better thanks to having it wrapped the whole night. It seemed like it wasn't sprained, just badly bruised.
I decided to get dressed and escape the apartment as soon as humanly possible- there was something about Harper's second verse of Phantom of the Opera that made me want to run. I also had to go and fix my mistake of last night. I couldn't just hope and pray he wouldn't find me because I'm pretty sure a man like he would be able to with a snap of his fingers.
When we got home last night, I sat up reading about him and his renowned works. There were a few articles on him, but it was mostly just celebrity gossip. All of them emphasised that he just got out of an engagement and it wasn't pretty. The more I read up on him, the more I found out that he was far from understanding. Last night was a testament to that as well as the now bright purple bruise on my arm.
I realized that besides me bruising easily that if I didn't try to barter with him, he would most likely sue me or from what I've read - do unspeakable harm to me. He was more than capable.
Most days I wish I was not this clumsy.
I had no idea how I'd be able to pay him back, but we had to work something out before it comes back to bite me in the ass. I awkwardly rang the bell of the gallery since the door was locked. I was silently hoping that no one would be here.
I heard something and saw him standing on the steps through the window staring at the door. His face turned to a deep frown and I could see he wasn’t even remotely interested in seeing me. I deserve that.
I'm sure I’m about to be ripped a new one.
He continued walking down the steps and unlocked the door.
"Did you come to pay me for your accident?" I scoffed and lowered my gaze.
"I can't afford it, but I would like to pay you back one way or another?" I realized a second after those words left my mouth that it sounded very sleazy at best.
"There's nothing you have that I would be interested in having." He raised his eyebrow after letting his eyes slide over my physique; he turned around but then turned back to me half as if he suddenly realized something.
"There is one way you could pay me back...”
"And what would that be?"
"I'm painting my personal version of hate. Can you guess who the muse is?" I had to fight the urge to not roll my eyes. He can’t be serious.
"How is that going to help me pay you off?"
"The only way for you to pay me off is to work as my assistant, to be around when I paint to fuel my inspiration so that I can try to make my money back."
"No." There was no way in hell that I'm working with this prick since there was a 100% chance that he'd use that position to torture me for what happened. He'd make my life a personal hell.
"No? You know there is no other way for you to pay me unless you come up with the money?" I sighed, I didn't have a choice at all, and Harper is going to have a field day with this. I tugged at my hoodie, so I must sell my soul to the devil, and it has to be this one.
"Fine." He crossed his arms over his chest.
"And you are not going to tell a soul about this, okay?" This could turn into some fun and games I must admit-oh dear Noah you are going to meet your match.
"I see here we are making conditions up as we go, only if I don't have to deal with you using this to torture me-and you will not sue me later on." A mischievous chuckle escaped his lips before pressing them back into a thin line. He nodded. With a glare, he said that I should come by every afternoon around six from Monday and then slammed the door in my face.
I had no idea how long I'd have to work for him to pay off that much.
I don't even want to think about it.
I had other things to worry about. Besides the finals, I also had to worry about my brother coming home soon. We couldn't get in contact with him for the last month to tell him about Sarah, his fiancé, and only heard he was coming home from people who weren't in the field. I didn't know what to expect but I knew that by next week things wouldn't be the same. I would also need to go back home and help my father break the news.
I turned around and walked back to the sidewalk. I stopped a few steps further realizing he didn't even know my name. I tore a piece of paper from a note in my pocket and scribbled on my name and number, I slid it beneath the door. My gut churned.
Is this how it feels to sell your soul?