Pretty Little Promises

Ch. 5: The Firefly

DAMON

The narrow staircase of Firefly Art Studio feels like a treacherous ascent into the pits of my own personal hell. I can't believe that I'm here. An art class? Really? That's what came out of my mouth? Fucking idiot. I thought she'd forget that slip of the tongue, but no. The woman's got the memory of a damn elephant. A gorgeous, sexy fucking elephant. As if I don't have better things to do. Like what, Damon? Emery's voice sounds in my mind. You're unemployed and need a hobby. I inwardly scowl. Keeping Amir Hadid from looking at you is my fucking hobby.

Fuck!

I push open the door, frustration etched on my face. The eyes of the people inside the studio dart toward me. Great, I'm a damn tourist attraction. Clearly, they're confused as to why Damon Cavanaugh, a man who can afford private lessons, is joining a beginners' art class in fucking Chelsea. I grit my teeth, offering a stiff nod to the curious glances as I make my way through the room.

Easels are set up in a circle, each one hosting an aspiring artist. I roll my eyes at the cliché bowl of fruit placed in the center, wondering why they couldn't choose something more interesting to paint. The art teacher, an older woman in her 60s, sports a smock that's seen better days. She calls out for everyone to take a seat. I scan the room, and my gaze locks on the only available stool. With a resigned sigh, I navigate toward it, my irritation palpable.

The woman occupying the stool next to mine gives me a warm smile and waves me over. Her friendliness is unsettling in this sea of unfamiliarity. As I take my seat, she extends a hand.

"Hi, I'm Sage. First time here?"

I reluctantly shake her hand. "Damon. And yes, it's my first time. Hopefully, my last."

Sage chuckles, tucking a stray dark curl behind her ear. "Don't worry, Damon. We're all here to have fun."

"Easy for you to say," I mutter, casting a glance around the room. I can't shake the feeling that every brushstroke here is a subtle judgment of my presence.

As the class begins, the art teacher introduces herself as Bella Sharpe and provides an overview of the session. I glance at the assortment of brushes, paints, and canvases in front of me. The prospect of turning these mundane materials into art is a challenge I'm not sure I'm ready to tackle again. I've never painted with purpose before. I've enjoyed the chaos of my creations, but today will undoubtedly be organized and bland. Fan-fucking-tastic.

Sage elbows me playfully, offering encouragement. "Come on, Damon. It's not so bad. Just have fun with it."

I scowl at her. "Your enthusiasm is annoying."

She rolls her eyes, dipping the tip of her paintbrush into a violent shade of yellow. "And your pessimism is nauseating." I lift a brow at her quick response. Sage glances at me, smirking. "What? Has the great Damon Cavanaugh never been called nauseating before?"

"Not that I can recall," I murmur, woefully humbled by the tiny art geek.

"Figures." Her gaze zeros in on the monstrosity she's painting. I scowl at her odd color choices. There isn't even a lemon in the bowl. What is she doing? "I bet you pay people to follow you around and shout compliments." She puts on an awful aristocratic English accent. "Oh, Mr Cavanaugh, aren't you simply dashing? Mr Cavanaugh, the way you walk resembles that of an elegant gazelle. Oh, Mr Cavanaugh, your shit smells like the finest bouquet of roses!"

I blanche at her obsurdidty. "I—"

She grins. "Uh-oh, Sage got your tongue?"

I blink. "Is this how you normally speak to strangers?"