Chapter 29 - Oliver

J amie is looking intently at my canvas as I mix more paint to get Hunter's eyes just the right shade. He still hasn't said anything about the fact that he's naked, yet I'm sure that's next. It's only a matter of time before Jamie meets him and realizes he's real, especially if we keep hanging out the way we have been for the past few days—spending every moment together when we're not in class.

My new friend is attractive, yes. With blond hair, light brown eyes, and a killer body, he's honestly a wet dream. But unfortunately, my heart is owned by my bitch of a stepbrother, and there's nothing I can do about it.

I know the other night at the party must have given the impression that I was fucking Dylan just to get back at Hunter, but that wasn't the case. I let him fuck me because I wanted him to. Because he's hot as fuck, and I'm a human with needs that are not being met—and will not be met by the person I want.

Dylan is a thousand times better than ruining my newfound friendship with Jamie. So it made sense that when he grabbed my hand and all but hauled me toward my room, I let him stick his dick inside of me. And goddamn did it feel good. I don't regret one single second.

I especially don't regret it because Hunter had a little jealous bitch fit and ripped Dylan off me, further confirming that his hate only goes so far. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he doesn't hate me in the slightest.

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?"

I take a sip of said drink and moan, enjoying the little crunch of the peppermint. "I do." Shrugging, I shake my cup a little to make sure I keep drinking the frozen bits instead of having it melt. "It's my favorite."

Grabbing the little bag in front of us, I take out my slice of lemon cake. "See?" Jamie points at me. "Psycho."

Yeah, I do have to admit it's odd for me to eat lemon cake and drink peppermint, but oh well. I don't really care what people think. "So, Jamie." I smirk. "Big, bad, quarterback turned Art major. Who would've thought?"

"Literally everyone." He laughs, pulling out his sketchbook. He shows me a sketch of me . "Like it?"

I gaze intently at it, trying to pick it apart. But the truth is that it's as if someone took a picture of my face and pasted it onto his paper. He's really good. "It would be creepy if you weren't this good at it." I chuckle. "And, damn, look at that shading."

I'm pretty sure I have heart eyes as I stare at myself, because damn. He made me look pretty. Not to mention, no one has ever drawn me. I'm always the one drawing people. It's nice for a change. It makes me feel kind of special.

"Yeah, I practice my shading a lot," he replies as he stares at the page, running his fingers over my face on the paper. "I used to suck at it."

"I doubt that." I take a small bite of my lemon cake and chew it, the tart taste bursting on my tastebuds. "Are you here on a full ride?"

"For football," he affirms.

"That's cool." I nod. "I'm not cool enough for a scholarship. I've pretty much sucked at everything but this my entire life."

"I doubt that, Ollie." Just then, the little bell rings at the door, and he looks that way, his brows furrowing in confusion. He then looks back at me. "Oh, yay, hockey players."

Jolting in my seat, I glance back at where they're standing in front of the counter, placing their orders. And, of course, because luck is not on my side, Hunter turns around and meets my gaze. Unlike me, there's no surprise on his face, and he narrows his eyes at me. I can tell he's angry by the way the green flares, looking even brighter than usual.

Why would he be mad, though?

Before I can process what's happening or think too hard about it, I twist back around. Please, please, let him stay away from me. The last thing I want right now is to have to explain shit to Jamie.

"Do you hate hockey players?" I ask Jamie nonchalantly.

"Oh, yeah." He grins, then takes another sip of his coffee. "They're assholes."

I choke on a laugh. I mean, he's not wrong. Just look at Hunter. "Isn't that a little hypocritical? Aren't football players also assholes?"

"Not me."

"Of course not," I mutter, rolling my eyes.

I bend down to grab my sketchbook and pencil out of my backpack. I know—I can feel it in my bones—that Hunter is going to come this way any second, and I want to make him jealous. So what do I do? I start sketching Jamie.

"Are you for real?" Jamie asks. "I can't even drink a coffee in peace?"

However, there's a little smile peeking through, as if he loves that I'm doing this. So I continue, mainly drawing lines right now. Within two minutes, though, there's a shape to his face. It's beginning to resemble him—if only slightly. "You can drink your coffee while I do this just fine."

My pencil strokes the paper, and I begin to shade Jamie's eyes and lightly run my thumb over it. But then—someone hits me upside the head. And I could bet my life that that someone is Hunter.

"Fucking emo brat," Hunter mutters, quickly walking away from us, leaving with his friends.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to calm down my heartbeat. It's thundering in my ears, and my hands shake slightly as I place my pencil down. Why does every interaction with him always stress me out?

When I open my eyes again, Jamie's are narrowed on my face. "Who is that?" he asks softly, glancing at Hunter sitting down across the room. "He looks familiar."

"No one." I clear my throat, my voice hoarse.

"Wait a damn second—you said you made him up!" Jamie slaps his hand on the table and laughs. "You little liar."

"Listen—" Jamie shoves me playfully again—he has a thing for that—and I cringe. "He's my stepbrother."

His eyes widen. "That's hot."

"He hates me."

" Hotter ." He grins, and I roll my eyes. "Seriously, I don't see the problem."

"The problem is that I've been in love with him for years, and he can't even stand to look at me."

Jamie reaches across the table, grabs my hand, and keeps it in his. My breath hitches, and he says, "Look at me, not him. Act like you like me."

"I do like you." I grin.

"You know what I mean," he replies, peering over at Hunter's table. "From what I can see, he has no problem looking at you—like at all."

"Great," I mutter.

But deep down, it brings me a little thrill to know he's pissed off. Maybe, just maybe, he'll take it out on me later. And I sure as hell will be waiting for it.