Page 110 of Wicked Dreams (Fallen Royals 1)
I cart down my canvas, my box of paints, and brushes under my arm. Robert has already laid out newspaper on the dining room table, along with a small easel.
He comes in as I’m setting up.
“Do you know why I picked oil paints for this assignment?” he asks.
I shrug, staring at the vague outline of Caleb. “Because it’s a difficult medium, and you wanted to challenge us?”
He nudges me, shaking his head. “Because it’s forgiving.”
I tilt my head. We’ve been working with a bunch of different paints—watercolor, acrylic, oil. I haven’t picked a favorite.
“You make a mistake? Go over it. Erase it. Hell, do a painting and then repaint it the next day. You can’t do that with watercolors.”
“Ah.”
“You’ve barely touched the surface here, Margo,” he says. “You’ve painted an interestingly mute background… and that’s it.”
That’s all I had the nerve to do last time Caleb and I sat down together.
Robert leans his hip on the table, meeting my eyes. “You don’t need him in front of you to paint him. In fact, I think you’d capture his essence better when you’re not looking at him.”
He leaves me alone while I stare at the canvas. Sooner or later, I’ll have to start.
I take my time putting the paints on my palette, preparing my brushes, lining up the charcoal and turpentine. I mix a few different colors together, trying to find the right shade to match Caleb’s skin.
But nothing is perfect, so I just…
Put a stroke on the page.
So what if it isn’t beautiful? He’s not beautiful—not on the inside. He’s broken, just like me. It comes out in the way the colors clash on the page. I take Robert’s advice and redo the background. The blues and purples I had originally painted, trying to go for a nice look, don’t work.
His jaw comes to life with dark slashes.
I leave his eyes blank for now. I’m tempted to paint them completely black, honestly. Yet, that wouldn’t quite do.
“Wow,” Robert says over my shoulder.
I twist around. “How am I doing?”
“Fantastic emotion.” He leans closer. “Once this dries, you can go back with an artist’s eye and clean up some of the lines. Make every stroke purposeful.”
I nod and glance at the clock. I’ve been sitting here for two hours.
“What do you have planned for his eyes? And lips?”
I shrug. “I haven’t decided.” I can’t see it yet.
He chuckles. “That boy is in trouble.”
“I think I’m the one in trouble.” I stare at Caleb’s face. It isn’t exactly in his likeness—it’s a little too abstract for that. Plus, there are the blank gaps: his eyes, his lips, his eyebrows. To capture the scowl or make him smile…
“Speaking of,” Robert says, going to the window. “He just pulled up.”
“Distract him!” I grab the canvas. “I need to hide this!”
He chuckles as I dash around, but he distracts Caleb long enough for me to get it put away. Caleb walks into the dining room. I’m cleaning up my paints. Robert showed me how to preserve them, covering the palette with plastic wrap to keep the air away from the paints.
“Working on our project?” he asks.