Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 31591 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 158(@200wpm)___ 126(@250wpm)___ 105(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31591 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 158(@200wpm)___ 126(@250wpm)___ 105(@300wpm)
As for me, the more I tried to dull the restlessness inside me, the stronger it became. The alcohol only magnified the problem and my emotions. Aggression, need, and anxiety crashed like waves through my veins, sweeping me away from myself.
“How about we take this party to the back?” the shifter asked, staring at me with fuck-me eyes.
Something inside told me to decline his offer, but I didn’t listen. I was keyed up and ticking like a bomb. If I didn’t release some pressure, I was going to blow, and I was afraid of what that could mean. I nodded at the man and turned to give my wallet to Hunter. As the owners, neither of us had to pay, but it was a habit.
“Here, pay this...gonna, um...go fuck,” I hiccupped.
He smirked as he grabbed my wallet from my hand. “Get out of here.”
“Have fun, Talon,” Rowdy added as he poured himself a drink in my glass and knocked it back.
Coyote man grabbed my hand and pulled me across the dance floor, and I bumped into blurry, swaying bodies on our way to the bathroom.
Chapter Two
Brandon
I groaned and dropped my forehead onto my desk. I’d been working on the same drawing for hours but I still couldn’t get it right. As if that weren’t bad enough, it was due in three days.
And it had to be perfect if I had a prayer of passing my Fine Arts class. It was the last obstacle I had to overcome in order to obtain my Bachelor’s Degree in Visual Art. I’d breezed through graphic design and excelled in animation, but fine art threatened to be my downfall. I had no choice but to keep trying; I’d worked my ass off for the past four years to get to this point, and I couldn’t let myself trip at the finish line.
The problem was that ‘fine’ art wasn’t my passion; comics were. They were the reason I wanted my art degree in the first place. I loved creating stories and losing myself in bringing them to life. Nothing made me happier than creating action and movement on the pages of a book in just a way that made a person believe that the characters could actually jump right off of them.
When I worked on my comics, I always had a clear vision of my hero; for years, I’d filled pages with sketches of a tall man with bulging muscles, tanned skin, and deep black eyes. I saw him clearly in my dreams and copied him into the action scenes where he saved the city and stole hearts.
But I couldn’t capture the same magic when it came to this portrait. I tried to make my work true to life, but my heart lay in a fantasy world. The image on the desk before me had angles that were too severe and shading which was too dramatic. Everything was too...cartoonish; not a bad thing when it came to comic books, but practically a death sentence for a still life.
“Why...do...I...suck?” I asked out loud, thumping my face against the wood with each syllable. There was no one around to hear me, though; I was alone in my dorm room, as I had been for the past four months. My roommate (which I barely ever saw to begin with) dropped out of school over a semester ago, and the school never assigned me another one.
For the most part, I didn’t mind the peace and quiet. It gave me time to work on my portfolio, though I did get lonely every now and then. If I managed to pass this last class, I would graduate in a week, and I always thought it would be nice to have a roommate once I got out on my own.
Of course, that was just a thought; I had no actual plans when it came to my future, such as living arrangements, job prospects, or pretty much anything else that was charging towards me like a freight train. Get it together, Brandon; I can only handle one panic attack at a time, so let’s focus on this drawing.
I took a deep breath and lifted my head to inspect the charcoal disaster on my desk, only to groan again. What I needed was some inspiration; if I had a model in front of me, it would be easier to draw the lines of their form. But my final project was a portrait of the male form; so if I wanted a model, I had two options.
The first was to strip down and study my own body, which was laughable. I was far from art; I stood at only five foot eight, was too thin, had a nose that was too large, and puffy brown hair that refused to lay flat.
The second option was to approach a man and ask him to strip down and pose for me, and the thought alone gave me anxiety. I was awkward and shy around men, which was exactly why I was a twenty two year old virgin. I kept to myself, usually reading comic books or creating my own. As much as I wanted to find someone special, it was safer and easier to admire men from afar.