Page 7

Chapter Six

Cameron

I sleep like shit, because I can’t stop thinking about what went down in the lab. I’m too nice to people. That’s the issue. I see someone who needs help, and I want to help them anyway I can. It’s funny because a lot of people would say I’m an asshole for the way I treat guys—fucking them and never calling them again, but I make that as clear as I can before we get into things. Still, being someone who sleeps around typically means you’re a jerk. I’m not. Seriously, I’m not. Which is why I had no issue helping Carter with his drawing stuff, especially since there was an exchange and my car was being fixed in return.

We sat down Wednesday afternoon and I went over some stuff with him to help him draw more realistically, sort of the way I helped Austen. Carter drew a ton of things and he was doing great, but then he said his issue was drawing live models and maybe it was because they were naked and he couldn’t focus.

I get that. I’ve heard it over the years and even felt the same when I first took the class. Him looking at my car didn’t seem like a fair trade for one quick study session, so I offered to do another.

Technically, I should not have been up in the drawing room naked for him to draw, but I knew there wouldn’t be anyone around to complain. The only time a model should be nude is during the scheduled times, with other people around for safety, but I wanted to help the guy out.

Only it seems our idea of helping him out were two very different things. Apparently, he took the entire thing as me wanting to hook up with him, when not even for a second did that cross my mind. I truly wanted to help the guy learn to draw better and ease his anxiety over drawing a naked person. Seems he was trying to get a gay hook-up under his belt, if the comment he spewed at me as he walked out was any indication.

“If you tell anyone I tried touching your dick, you’ll be done at this school.”

Cool. Totally what I needed in my last year.

I mean, I’m not sure how much weight his words have. Not that mine has a ton, but I haven’t had any issues in this school since being here and I’m almost done with my degree. But if he has a daddy in high places, it could screw me. I tried to let him down as gently as possible, but all he did was get furious. It’s not the first time I’ve dealt with an enraged “straight” guy who was pissed because I turned them down for their first gay experience. I’m not a fucking carnival ride, for fuck’s sake. I’m a human, and it’s really fucking sad that people act like this.

Though I’d love nothing more than to spend my entire day in bed, hiding away from the world so I can sit in my bad mood, I peel myself out of the bed, hop in the shower, then get ready for class. The day drags by, I hardly notice what goes on in class. I get a shit ton of homework to do over the weekend, which is just fucking peachy. Homework is so stupid, like why am I going to class if you’re just making me do stuff at home? I should have taken online classes.

By the time the drawing class rolls around and it’s time for me to model, I’m exhausted. I prefer when they have me lay down on a lounge, but today I’m propped on a stool. My back is burning, my neck stiff, and my ass is going numb.

When class is done, everyone thanks me and I head to the back room to get dressed. The football game should still be going on. If I had to guess, I’d say they’re finishing up halftime right now, so if I hurry I can catch the last quarter of the game.

I’m hurrying out the door when someone calls my name. I grit my teeth and slowly turn, worried I’m going to see Carter or some other asshole I don’t want anything to do with.

But this is a new guy. Just what I need—another asshole.

“Do you have a minute?” he asks, hurrying over to me.

“Uh, I was hoping to catch the last of the football game.”

“I’m heading that way too, actually. Can I walk with you?”

“Sure,” I say carefully, tugging my backpack straps tighter as he hoists his portfolio case higher on his shoulder. Don’t miss carrying those big things around.

“So, I don’t want this to sound weird or anything, but have you considered modeling?” he asks.

“Isn’t that what I just did?”

He laughs as we head down the stairs and toward the doors that lead to the parking lot.

“I mean real modeling. Like for magazines, billboards, that sort of thing.”

I chuckle. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t have time for it? There’s no way I can fight people for jobs when I’m in school full time and dealing with life.”

“What if I said I could get you an agent?”

I stop dead in my tracks, and look over at this guy questioningly. He’s smirking at me.

“Who are you, exactly?”

He holds out his hand. “Quinton Smith.”

“That sounds fake.”

He barks out a laugh. “I’ve heard that before.”

I raise a brow, hoping he continues because I don’t have time for this. I need to catch the end of the game. Austen asked me to go out with him after, and though I don’t want to, I said I would. But maybe he’ll give me another free pass because I really am exhausted.

“My father is a scout for a pretty high profile men’s magazine, and maybe I get some of his commission if I help him find people,” he says casually.

“Are you fucking with me?”

He shakes his head. “Not at all. I think you’d do great modeling. You’ve got the body for it.”

“Thanks, but my comfort zone ends at thirty people.”

“You wouldn’t be naked. It’s not a porn magazine. It’s clothes and cologne. That sort of thing.”

I stare at him, because this is exactly how scams start.

“You’d make a lot of money,” he says with a grin.

I still stare at him, not sure what to say. He digs into his pocket and pulls out a card. What is with all these people and business cards?

“That’s my father’s contact info. Email him, get more information, but make sure you tell him I sent you. You have headshots or anything?”

“No, those cost money. I’m a struggling art student, just like all the rest.”

“It’s fine.” He waves a hand at me. “Just send him an email. Trust me, this would be good for you.”

I murmur an “mhm,” and then we keep walking. The field isn’t too far, but it’s far enough that our silence is awkward. Once we reach the gates, we part ways, him going to the top of the bleachers and me continuing down the walkway to get to the other side.

I sit in the bottom row, since that seems to be where no one wants to sit. I’m tall enough that I can see over the railing, so it’s no fuss for me. I don’t know much about football anyway, so it’s not like getting a better view means anything. I only somewhat know what’s going on when I’m watching it on TV and have that yellow line to help me out. Who knew that wasn’t a real thing out on the field?

You’d think being friends with Austen for so long I’d know the game in and out, but I don’t. I know just enough that I’m not lost when I’m here, but there hasn’t been one single time that a flag is thrown, and I understand why. Doubt it’ll change, no matter how many times Austen explains it to me.

They’re down by seven points, which I know means they need a touchdown and the extra point. They don’t play well under pressure, and if they’re losing going into the last quarter, they won’t make a comeback. It’s just not their thing.

It’s proven true a short time later. They lose. Meaning Austen isn’t going to take me changing my mind about going out well, but I’m so tired I can’t handle his annoying jock buddies who think it’s okay to make stalker jokes about me right to my face. At least have some decency and do it behind my back. I laugh at that because I’m sure they do that, too.

They’re a bunch of immature cretins who’ve been hit in the head one too many times. They’ll likely never change and will marry the hottest girl they find who will deal with their shit, pop out a bunch of entitled little brats, and live their lives making people feel like shit about themselves.

I fucking hate jocks. I hate people. This whole state sucks ass. Bunch of close-minded assholes in all these Virginia small towns.

The exception being Austen, because he doesn’t fit in with them, and I don’t understand how he calls them friends.

As I head toward the parking lot, I text Austen to let him know I’m going home because I have a headache. It’s not entirely a lie. I feel one coming on, right behind my eyes. I’m tired and need to sleep. I should catch up on homework, since it’s going to be a busy weekend, but I just want my bed. So, after I send the text, I shove my phone into my pocket and head for my room, ignoring the way it’s blowing up. I’m so tired I sleep right through the dings, and don’t wake up until morning.