4. Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Mark

W hen I walk into painting the next week, the model is there. He's wrapped in a fluffy, blue robe that complements his artfully tousled sandy blond hair. Although I was genuinely hoping he'd be here, I still freeze at the door.

Logan almost bumps into me. " Oh ," he says, his tone insinuating so many things that are definitely not safe for work.

"Yeah," I say.

I finally venture into the classroom. There are a few minutes before class officially begins, and it would be more than enough time to walk up to the model and just ask where I know him from. But how do I do that? What if I'm mistaken and don't really know him? What if he doesn't recognize me ? What if I just embarrass myself?

"So, are you going to talk to him or not?" Logan asks.

"I'm thinking about what to say."

Logan rolls his eyes. "It's easy. ‘Hey, do I know you from somewhere?'"

Sure, it sounds easy, but the last time I walked up to a guy this hot, I short-circuited and started rambling about how his face was as expressive as a Hellenistic sculpture. Gawd ! I doubt I'd get any better results with this guy. Probably doesn't know ‘Hellenistic' from a speed bump. Although being a nude model, he might have more appreciation for Hellenistic sculptures than most. That's assuming, of course, he's actually knowledgeable about the art world and not some dumb model who happened to get a job modeling at Bluehaven College.

"Sure. Easy for you. You talk the ear off anyone who gives you the time of day," I reply.

"Well, I'm not letting you chicken out," Logan says, walking right up to the gorgeous model.

"Logan, no!" I hiss.

My words do nothing. They never do. Damn him! "Hey," Logan says. "My friend over there thinks he knows you from somewhere. Any idea?"

Logan jerks his head toward me, and I do my best to force a pleasant, natural-looking smile.

I'm going to kill Logan, kill him; as in dismember the body, snip off his fingers for fingerprints, carve out his teeth for dental identification, bury his body in multiple locations, and hang his fingers on fishhooks and save them to decorate a Christmas tree.

Now, that's hate.

The model leans to the side a bit and looks straight at me. His eyes are so blue they remind me of the sky on a cloudless day, and as cliché as I know it sounds, my knees start trembling like they're about to give out and send me crashing to the floor.

The model snaps his fingers. "I do know you! Mark Delacroix," he says. "Yeah! I thought I recognized you the last time I was in here."

Good news: I do know this guy.

Bad news: I still have no freaking idea who he is.

I consider trying to bluff like I think I recognize him. But how long could I reasonably manage a conversation like that? Not long. If he's courteous, though, he probably won't call me out on it.

"Brandon Matthews!" the model offers.

That does it.

"Right! Chemistry lab!" snapping my fingers and walking closer.

And physics and biology. Brandon and I took all our required science classes together and, bless him, he was sooo patient; not too good with math, so I had to crunch all the numbers, but he was always happy to copy pages out of his lab book for me. I was the absolute worst at remembering to bring my lab book to class with me.

"That is!" Brandon replies. "God, it's been—what? Three years now?"

Now that I know who he is, it's easier. "Yeah," I say. "How did you end up here? Wasn't your plan to go into med-school or nursing?"

Maybe that's still his plan and this is how he's paying for it. I know quite a few people who've taken less savory jobs than nude modeling to pay for college. I'm fortunate enough to be a graduate assistant, a position which waives most of my tuition and pays me a decent stipend. It isn't much, but I manage. And it's not the sort of position that people harass you about; like nude modeling .

"It's a long story," Brandon says, giving me a self-depreciative smile. "You look great, by the way! Wow."

I don't really look any different - a couple wrinkles and possibly a white hair or two that Logan teases me mercilessly about. My acne has cleared up.

Now Brandon, he looks different. At least I think so. I never saw him completely naked in any of our labs (what the hell kind of lab would that be?), and he wore mostly loose-fitting hoodies. So, it's difficult to say. He might've always looked like an Adonis, and perhaps I just never picked up on it. But I'm fairly sure there's at least more muscle definition. "Thanks," I reply. "You, too."

Brandon laughs. "I bet you didn't quite imagine ever seeing this much of me, eh? To be honest, I never imagined you seeing this much of me either. Funny, huh?"

Logan clears his throat. I flush in embarrassment. "Ah…this is my roommate, Logan Smith," I say.

"Right! The Halloween junkie," Brandon replies. "I remember you talking about that. Good to meet you, man."

"You, too," Logan says, flashing a wicked glance my way.

When Brandon holds out his hand, Logan just stares at it like he'd rather face down a rabid raccoon. I have no idea why. But when Logan doesn't shake his hand, Brandon only smiles.

"Yeah, Mark talked about you all the time," Brandon says, laughing. "I feel like I almost know you myself!"

"Oh, I hope he only told you the good stuff," Logan tries to joke, adding a bit of a laugh himself.

"Of course," Brandon replies. "What kind of friend goes around talking smack about his roommate?"

Well, Logan for one.

I guess I never really advertised that, though. Assuming Logan and I were even having sex when I was in that class with Brandon; I don't quite remember when Logan and I started adding sex into the mix.

"Well, I do know where he sleeps at night," Logan says without missing a beat.

"Right on! Anyway, Mark, I don't suppose you'd be up for coffee or something? We can catch up for old times' sake," Brandon said. "I just moved back to Bluehaven, and you're the first person I've run into that I actually know."

"Yeah, that sounds great," I reply. "When are you free?"

"This Friday?" Brandon suggests. "We could meet at the Tipsy Turtle at six."

The "Tipsy Turtle" is a café down the road from our campus, and when I was in undergrad, it was always the place where everyone met to group-study before finals. After finals, it was the place where you got booze.

"Sounds great," I answer. "I look forward to it."

Our professor walks in, and I offer a sheepish smile.

"Showtime, I guess," Brandon says.

"Oh, yeah," Not realizing right away that that meant class is about to start. "I'll see you, then."

I walk back to my easel, and Brandon drops his robe, revealing—predictably—absolutely nothing underneath. Well, not exactly "nothing". I pull out my paints and brushes, setting everything up. I have a very particular way about how I paint, as opposed to Logan who never plans ahead and tends to pull out whatever works at the moment.

"So, what're you going to wear on your big date?" Logan asks.

I roll my eyes. "It's not a date. He just invited me to catch up over coffee. I don't even know if he's interested in men, anyway," I blurt back.

Come to think of it, I can't recall Brandon ever mentioning any sort of significant other, but we hadn't really talked much about our relationships.

"Oh, I'll say he's interested," Logan scoffs. "From the way he looked at you? Yeah."

"I didn't notice him looking at me any specific way," I say.

"Oh, Mark, Marcus, Marky-poo. Young grasshopper, you have so much to learn about the world of romance!" Logan ends the statement with a flourish.

"Uh huh," I say.

"Personally, I wouldn't go for someone like Brandon. He just strikes me as a man with all the personality of a saltine cracker, but to each his own."

I don't know—if I were going to pick a romantic mentor—that I would pick Logan . His romantic specialty is of the "whirlwind" or the "let's have sex because it's fun" sort, and I don't need that. Maybe it's na?ve of me, but I want something special. Something long-lasting. More like a Hallmark film than Casanova . That's probably not Brandon, though. Despite Logan's insistence, I'm positive this is just a casual, friendly meet-up. It isn't a date. I might not be an expert at romance, but I'm not so oblivious that I can't tell when someone's romantically interested in me.

Friday comes quickly, and while I don't spend the whole day thinking about my meet-up with Brandon, Logan evidently has. Every five minutes there's some question.

"What am I going to wear?"

"Should I go shopping for something to wear?"

"Does this shirt clash with these pants?"

"What will I order once I get there?"

When lunchtime rolls around, I'm sitting on the sofa and adding details to some preliminary sketches. Logan has fallen silent and is working on the dreaded paper portion of his thesis. Despite being art students with art theses to write, we're still required by the department to write massive papers explaining our stylistic choices and processes. I haven't even started that yet. I tell myself I'll get around to it and that I won't wait until last minute, but then I do, always. Organization has never been my strong suit. It isn't Logan's either, but he's also a workaholic; kind of makes up for it. If there's so much as a forum post due in three months, he's on it. All his work is done months in advance. He's been quiet for a while, though, so I'm thinking he must have run out of questions.

"So," Logan says.

I swear he can read my mind.

"Coffee is a good standard first date. Just so you know. The one downside is that it typically involves a lot of conversation. Too much talk wrecks things. With booze you can get sloshed and just stare at each other. I personally prefer movies as first dates, especially if you want to jump straight into the—"

"Dammit, it isn't a date! Do you even listen to me, or does everything I say just zip in one ear and right out the other?"

Logan smirks. "I listen, but I also know you wouldn't recognize romance if it bit you on the ass. You need to get it together and channel your inner Lord Byron!" Logan declares, throwing in a dramatic faux faint onto the sofa.

It took me a few seconds to remember who Lord Byron was. Literature has never been my strong suit. "So, I'm going to die of malaria while trying to liberate Greece," I reply.

"Sure, but you'll look good doing it! And that's the most important thing," he says cheerily.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and glance at the clock. Okay, maybe I haven't been thinking about this coffee meet all day, but I definitely have been thinking about it. It's hard not to think about it because Brandon is such an attractive man, and when I think of spending an evening with him, my insides become all light and fluttery.

Do I kind of hope it's an official date? Totally. But I really don't believe it is. Logan is just turning everything into a soap opera for his own amusement. Why he can't just find a series on MovieFlix or any of the countless streaming services we have to binge-watch for entertainment is beyond me.

"I doubt Lord Byron looked very good while he was dying of malaria," I said.

"You don't know," Logan says. "You weren't there!"

"Neither were you," I point out.

"Well, no, but I'm different."

I roll my eyes. "How?" I ask.

"Because I am so awesome that Lord Byron personally rose from the dead and graced me with his presence."

I glare at Logan and shake my head.

"You scoff now," Logan says seriously, "But when the zombie apocalypse finally arrives, Lord Byron will protect me! His aura will guide my knives!"

Truth be told, he probably will be ready. Logan does have an impressive set of biohazard green knives made specifically for the zombie invasion.

"And I'll apologize for scoffing when that day finally arrives," I say.

"No, you won't," Logan replies, raising one eyebrow. "You'll just continue as if you didn't just demolish my family honor with your lack of faith."

I turn my notepad around. "What do you think?" I ask, showing him my sketches of rabbits and coyotes.

"I think that rabbit in the top left corner has something wrong with its left ear. The angle or something," Logan says, tilting his head to get a better look. "Yeah, the left ear."

I look at the notepad, realize he's right, and fix it.

"Doing your project on inspiration from animal fables was pretty cool," Logan adds. "Did I tell you that?"

I shake my head. "But thanks. I'm really excited about it."

Logan nods. His project is on a revisioning of the Arthurian legend, right up his alley, so lately, he's been looking through a million books at billions of pictures of knights. This also has meant I've had to endure an excessive number of jokes about knights, lances, and swords lately, but I tolerate it.

What attracts a knight in shining armor even more than a damsel in distress? A magnet.

Arthur and Lancelot visited an inn, renting a room. Arthur slept in a king-sized bed.

Lancelot took the queen.

Took the queen!!… Hah!... get it?................. Neither did I.

Which of King Arthur's knights built the Round Table?

Sir Cumference

At least, Logan is passionate about something; I like to see him excited and invested.

I glance at the clock again. It's time to go.