My New Muse (Mild Wattpad Version) (Completed) [SLOWLY BEING EDITED]

4. Friends

(A.N. I changed up the story. If you're confused, read from the last chapter.)

Last night was fuckery.

After returning from David's house, I came home to find my apartment in complete darkness. After trying to turn on the light no less than ten times, I chose to believe that the bulb had blown. I walked down the passage way towards my room, stumbling over the box of clothes that I had left right outside my door, and after trying- and failing- to turn on the light in my bedroom, I finally accepted that my light had been cut off because I neglected to pay the light bill. Again.

Luckily, my phone wasn't dead, and I have a data plan. I had to use my phone to put a picture of my latest photograph on my website before going to bed.

Now, driving my rickety old car, on my way back from dropping off the said box of clothes to the 12 to 17 girls home not too far from my house.

As I am driving, my work phone rings. It's Marcus. I've never been one to take risks with my life — watched too many final destination movies —so I pull over and park before putting my phone on speaker.

"Yes, dear?"

"I see you've put up something else on your website. Why didn't you tell me?"

I really don't have any time for this shit right now. It's really annoying when Marcus gets all controlling boyfriend on me. I mean, I know that it's his job to manage me, but still.

"I put it up last night, using my phone, because my electricity had been cut off due to lack of payment. I was tired. As I am now."

He sighs, still sounding displeased.

"Someone saw it and wants it. Wants you to deliver it too. I'll text you the address. It's somewhere in Stony Hill."

"Okay. Does this someone have a name?"

"Yes. David Rochester."

***

David Rochester.

It just had to be him, didn't it?

Why couldn't it be someone else?

Why?

Additionally, if he has a house in Stony Hill, why the hell is he living in a studio?

These are the thoughts that plague me as I drive my car angrily up the hill towards his address.

I park right outside a large, two story house, and push a button on something that looks like an intercom, on the wads beside the gate.

Instead of a voice coming through the intercom, the gates began to open immediately, and I begin walking up the steep drive with the photograph — rolled up this time — over my shoulder.

When I reach the main house, I see him standing in the doorway with a smile in slacks and a dress shirt. This time, he takes the photograph from me, and invites me in, following me inside the house.

"I saw your photograph on your website this morning," he says by way of explanation.

"How often do you go on my website?"