Helpless (Book 1)

Chapter Forty-One

I WATCH HIM slowly lower himself into the seat across from me. My stomach twists with a sudden urge to run, to get out of here, to call John for back up. But something also tells me to remain put. So, I do. I grip the edges of my chair, curling and uncurling my fingers nervously, never taking his eyes off of mine. 

I swallow thickly, my lips pressed tightly together and my jaw clenched tightly. Andre pulls out a black leather-bound journal and a pen and starts to sketch something. I gasp silently to myself. He's an artist. Much in a way someone else I know is. I chew on the inside of my cheek, narrowing my eyes at him as I watch him sketch something. His dark brown eyes keep on flickering up to me from his sketch book and then back to his sketchbook again, then back to me. I frown, confused. Is he really...? 

 "You have very exquisite eyes, Alexander," Andre hums, still staring down at this sketchbook. His eyes tick back up to mine, a smirk on hiss face. "A dark purple with light, electric shades of blue. Such a strange, unique, yet beautiful color. It suits you." 

 I swallow.

 "Can I help you?" I say, tersely and rather annoyed. 

 "No need to be so harsh, Alexander," Andre laughs. "I'm only trying to start a conversation!" 

 I growl silently behind my closed lips and huff out a long breath. "Fine. My apologies. I'm not the person who likes to trust people so easily." 

 Andre arches an eyebrow. "Oh. I see. Well, it is an honor to see you again, Alexander." 

 "Nice to see you again too," I say hotly. "What are you doing here, Andre?" 

 He shrugs, glancing around the ball room of the mansion. "Only here to enjoy myself and the pleasure of another's company such as yourself. We all could use a break from the torture known as high school." He shivers, grimacing at the thought. He turns back to me for a quick second before quickly scratching something in his sketchbook. I tilt my head to the right. "You look quite divine tonight, Alexander. Such a pity Laurens couldn't be here to witness your beauty."

 I frown, trying to fight back the smirk I feel tugging on my lips and also trying to hold back the small, snort of laughter. I raise an eyebrow, inclining my head a little as I fold my arms over my chest. 

 "Why are you sounding like you're from the 18th century?" I ask.

 Andre shrugs again, scratching something down on his sketchbook again. "I just like big words and turn them into long and complicated sentences."

 I feel myself grin, despite my desire not to. "Me too." 

 He smiles a little and hums when he glances back down at his sketchbook in thought. I couldn't help but ask, "Are you an artist?" 

 Andre's eyes flicker up to mine, but his head remains facing down towards his sketchbook. He smirks. "I like to call myself an artist, yes."

"What do you? Art wise, I mean. My boyfriend's an artist as well," I say, blushing when I call John my boyfriend. Well, he is. 

 "Is he?" Andre says with mock surprise as he sits up straighter and sets his pen down, closing his sketchbook. "I mostly focus on portraits, just rough sketches of people who I admire most and of friends and family, so that way if they start to disappear from my mind, I won't be able to forget them." 

 "That's sweet," I say kindly. 

 A pause. 

 "May I see?" I ask, glancing up from Andre's sketchbook to Andre himself. He frowns, hesitant but then smiles softly nonetheless. He flips open to the page he was on and slides his sketchbook towards me.