Being Bleu

Chapter 1

              I sat in the middle of Jackson Square with my sketch pad balanced on my knee. The sun beat down mercilessly on my back and my pink bangs kept obscuring my vision. I brushed them away with an impatient flick of my hand. I was not in a good mood. My pencil was poised above my sketch pad as if I was going to draw, but I  had no inspiration whatsoever to do that. I ground the pencil tip into the paper and unsurprisingly, it broke. With a frustrated growl, I let the pencil roll off the blank paper and on to the ground. I didn’t even bother picking it up. It was pointless. I looked up at the wrought iron fence where my artwork hung along with everyone else’s. The only difference between mine and theirs was that the other people were actually making money off their paintings. Mine just hung there every single day and I wasn’t getting a penny for my hard work. I was running out of money quickly and I had rent to pay. I sighed and dropped my head into my hands. What was I going to do?

                “I believe this is yours,” said a voice from above me, breaking me out of my silent pout. I looked up through my heart shaped sunglasses at the guy who stood, blocking the sunlight with his tall frame. In his outstretched hand was my pencil. Where the lead had once been was now a smashed nub of wood. Great, now I was going to have to buy new pencils, too.

                “Yep,” I said irritably, plucking it from his fingers without even saying thanks. A frown tugged at his lips from my rudeness, but I didn’t care. This guy was gorgeous, and I didn’t trust gorgeous guys. Especially ones who had more tattoos than me.

                “Is that your work?” He asked, indicating my paintings with a sweep of his long arm. I nodded and popped my raspberry bubblegum loudly. I wished the guy would leave. I was definitely not in the mood to chat.

                “I like it. The clockwork painting has amazing detail.” He praised.

                “Tick tock,” I muttered. I hated people who just stood there and looked at my work. They never actually bought it. If he thought it was that amazing, why didn’t he pay up? The guy seemed to understand I didn’t feel very talkative because he left with a nod of his head. I watched him go sit at the corner of the gate, next to an easel. I watched him for a moment longer before I packed up my things and put them in my blue beetle bug. I was done attempting to sell my art for the day.

               I drove through the traffic- filled streets to my loft, which was only a few blocks away from the square. The room I was sleeping in still had a fresh paint smell because I’d only been living there for a few weeks. I was still having trouble calling New Orleans my home, no matter how much I loved it. It was just so different from where I used to live. As I put away my things, I thought about what I would do to decorate the room. It was so empty and…lonely.

                “I’m not lonely.” I quietly assured myself as I picked up my guitar and left for the coffee shop only a short walk away from my loft. Sure, I’d left everything behind when I ran away to live there , but I was fine by myself. I didn’t need anyone.

                I stepped into the crowded coffee shop and took my place at a stool in the middle of the room. I was playing tonight for the shop’s customers that night to earn some cash. Not only did the Joe, the owner pay me, but the customers tipped me. It was good money, considering I wasn’t even that great at the guitar. They all thought I was, though, so I just went along with it.

                After closing, I said goodbye to Joe and began making my way along the dark streets. I was halfway out of the door when a familiar voice stopped me.

              "Hello, little rude one. I liked your music. You're a very talented girl, aren't you?" The guy from the square said from the shadows of a building. A cloud of smoke hung in the air around us from his cigarette. He had changed into a black tank, so now his mirage of tattoos was visible.

                “I suppose,” I answered vaguely. I pretended not to be freaked out that he had followed me. I narrowed my eyes at him as he stepped from the shadows with something in his hands.

                “You left this at the square. I was just bringing it to you.” He explained, handing me my sketch pad. I shoved it into my messenger bag and shifted impatiently on my feet.

                “You should learn to say thank you, little one.” He told me. I rolled my eyes at him.

                “My name is Bleu. “ I said. I really didn’t like the nickname he had given me. He couldn’t be much older than me, anyways. The guy laughed a deep sound that echoed across the alley we were standing in. I raised one questioning eyebrow at him.

                “But your hair is pink. It’s ironic. And I’m Axel, by the way.” He said. He flashed his set of straight teeth at me in a smile. For some reason, my heart sped up at the sight. I shook my head. What was I doing? I was never one to be fazed by pretty guys because they all meant trouble. I tore my eyes away from him with great difficulty.

                “It was nice meeting you… I guess. I’m tired though, so I’ll see you around.” I said before turning to leave. He murmered a goodnight back as I jogged away, trying not to look like I was running from him.

                When I reached my loft, I was no longer tired. Actually, I was wide awake and finally inspired to sketch. For some reason, though, all I kept drawing was Axel.I somehow got his perfect bone structure and bright eyes exactly right, but he was still too perfect to be put on paper.  I groaned and dropped my head into my hands. Why did he have to be so gorgeous?

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