I decided to accept Deacon's offer and come to the college. It wasn't a far walk from my beach house, making it convenient. Walking through the endless halls and classrooms, I finally came to a smaller building in the back. It was dark and quiet in this area of the college. I walked down the steps leading to two old brown double doors. I knocked before opening one of the handles, but they were locked.
"Well, not here after all," I muttered to myself.
I turned to walk back up the steps when I heard the bolt in luck.
"Ivy! You came!" I heard Deacon's voice behind me.
I rolled my eyes in annoyance; why did I come if I knew this would bother me so badly? I faked my best smile.
"Yeah, I decided to see if you were a Professor or just trying to fuck me; I guess you won," I turned to leave when I felt a form rough hand seize my left wrist.
"Wait, that's it? Come inside," he said.
I didn't have a choice but to follow when he pulled me inside after him. It was small and dark, but there were spotlights all along the ceiling. There were wooden easels scattered all over with paint-stained wooden stools accompanying them. The scent of old paint and setting spray filled the room. I remember this smell. I closed my eyes, and it took me back to my mother's art studio. I could hear old music playing while she'd be painting anything that came across her mind.
"Are you okay?" Deacon's voice broke my train of thought.
"Y-yeah, sorry," I shook the memory from my mind, "So you are an art professor."
"Yes," he confirmed.
"No desk? No whiteboard? Just a lounge chair in the middle of the room?" I observed.
"I like to teach visual art," he explained. "Today, we had a model, and they drew their interpretations of what they saw."
I turned around the room to observe all the art hanging on the walls. Some, stretching from children to Picasso, were so realistic you'd think they were professional already.
"I naked woman?" I implied.
Deacon dropped his head with a chuckle before pushing back his glasses, "Yes."
"And you wanted me to pose naked for your students?" I glared.
"N-no, I wanted you to pose for me," he clarified.
I froze and turned to face him, "How does this not imply you wanted to fuck me?"
"I want to paint and sketch you," he reiterated.
"Beg your pardon?" I asked.
"I haven't painted or even touched a charcoal in years," he explained.
"How come?" I asked while folding my arms across my chest.
Deacon's head dropped as his expression turned serious. He removed his glasses before looking back at me. I dropped my arms in awe. He was handsome. It's incredible what removing glasses could do to one's physical appearance.
"I lost my child six years ago during childbirth. My wife and I had never been the same. She left and started traveling the world for photography, and I crawled into a hole. I couldn't paint or sketch without becoming upset or angry," he began fumbling with his tie, "She's rarely home. I lost both of the ones I love that day."
I was so wrapped up in my world that I hadn't realized his hair wasn't slicked back in Clark Kent style like when I met him a few days ago. It was short but slightly curly and barely moved as he ran his fingers through his hair in thought.
"Sorry," I apologized while walking over to him, "I didn't mean to be so abrasive and rude."
"No," he shook his head and looked up at me. His piercing blue eyes froze me in my tracks, "Your expression reflected how I felt inside. That's why I wanted to paint you—the combination of everything, unable to express itself."
His words made me blush, "You got all that just from me sitting alone at the bar?"
"You don't understand how long I've been sitting alone at that bar," he reassured.
How do I respond to him? He lost a child just like me, but he seemed to have lost much more than that. I didn't want to be someone's muse, but what else would I do? Sit at a bar and drink myself into oblivion? StumI stumbled the street hop and walked through the right front door.
"Okay," I sighed while turning back to Deacon, "You can paint me."