My New Muse (XXX) (Completed)

Chapter 4

(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.

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.

"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.

"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 envies 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?"

"Every night since the first time I saw you. I found it by googling your name."

We reach the living room, and he sinks into the couch. I follow suit.

"I think I should go home."

"Have dinner with me."

We both say this at the same time.

"I think I should—"

"Leah, please."

"You already apologised."

"I know. I want to prove to you that I'm not a complete asshole."

I rub my forehead in frustration.

"Why does it matter so much to you?"

"I like you. You're interesting, and I want to get to know you better."

I look up, grasping just how crazy this man is.

"You ordered my painting and called me up here to eat dinner with me."

He just shrugs.

"I knew that you wouldn't come any other way."

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. When I open them, he's staring at me, waiting patiently.

Why the hell not?

It's true. I have nothing else to lose. I didn't pay my electricity bill today; the bank was too full, so my apartment I still completely dark.

"Okay. Under one condition."

"What?"

"I get to charge my laptop."

***

David an I sit beside each other at his dining table, eating pasta and talking. So far, I've learned that his favourite colour is red, his favourite animal is a dog (hence he just bought a photograph of three dogs dressed as a ballerina, an Ashanti tribe member, and a Chinese princess), and that he hates cockroaches (like me).

It actually isn't that bad.

"So... tell me about yourself."

"What do you want to know?" I ask. There isn't really much to know about me.

"How did you become a photographer?"

I chew my lip, wondering how much I should say. He looks at me, waiting patiently.

"I had a photograph in my bedroom of my mother as a child. It was so beautiful; black and white. She had her eyes closed, head upturned.

"When I was fifteen, our house burned down. Ever since then I've been trying to to produce a picture even half as beautiful as that one."

He nods, obviously thinking about something else.

"Because of how you view that photograph, you'll only be able to achieve that goal using something of great emotional value to you."

I know this. The only problem is that the fire took more than the house and picture from me. My mother was all I had, and she died in that fire. Since then, I've never been able to connect with anyone.

"I know," I say with a sigh.

He shifts the conversation to a better topic — my favourite colour, which also happens to be red — as we finish our meal.

Once I'm done, he offers me a glass of red wine, but I decline.

"I don't like red wine," I reply.

"I'll make a note of that for next time," he says as he walks me down the hallway.

Next time?

"So," he says, a small, nervous smile on his face as he opens the door for me to leave, "friends?"

I give him a small smile of reassurance. He's actually not so bad, and I don't want him to think that I hate him.

"Friends."