Blues

8. Round Of Blues.

"A chorus in your eyes
Another round of blues."
Round of blues by Shawn Colvin.

Chapter 8:

He's gone.

The asshole stole my sketchbook and fled.

I take the stairs, descending them zippier than ever. My chest feels tight with panic, and I keep wondering whether he has already seen my paintings or not. What does he think of me now? A miserable freak? Or maybe he isn't that invasive. Maybe he took it just to get under my skin. At least that's what I hope.

I bump into a firm, unyielding chest as I exit the building, and two arms hasten to wrap themselves around my waist, thankfully steadying me before I knock myself flat on my ass like a moron. “Woah Candice, why the rush?” the stiff chest jounces against my head as its possessor speaks, and I recognize the deep, seductive voice right away.

I look up and I'm met by a pair of coruscant, luminous gray eyes. The kind that robs you of your sanity and never lets it free again. I clear my throat,hoping that my face doesn't look as red as it feels. “Hey, Logan.” I attempt to smile, stepping out of his embrace.

He smiles, his eyes manifestly twinkling under the dazzling sun. “What a lovely coincidence. Were you headed somewhere?”

I straighten my shirt, pinching and tugging at its collar as I ponder whether I should tell him or not, but then decide on the former. I really need to find Dylan before I lose my mind. “I was searching for Dylan. Have you seen him?”

His eyebrows instantly shoot up, showing his surprise. “Dylan?”

“Yes.” the word sounds like a question more than an answer.

He chuckles, replenishing his normal expression again. “Of course.” He shakes his head before he beckons to a black Porsche a few meters aways from us. “I saw him in his car.”

“Thanks! See you later.” I quickly say, striding toward Dylan's car and leaving Logan with a dumbfounded expression on his face.

I advance toward Dylan's car, my hands already clenched in ire. I even consider giving his beautiful face an eternal scar. My heart beats faster the closer I get to his car, a fusion of agitation and wrath dashing through my blood, but all of that stops the moment I see him there, lounging inside his car and leaning back against the seat as he smokes a cigarette and flips the pages of my sketchbook. His face looks impassive, as if he were gazing at a meditation coloring book and not sketchbook charged with melancholic paintings tinctured in a singular color- blue.

It's funny how those paintings failed to actuate a mere emotion of his and how they consistently bust me into pieces every time I see them.

He abruptly looks up, as if sensing me standing there, and our eyes lock in a persistent eye-contact. “Get in the car.” his voice sounds very hushed with the car window separating us, but I hear him. He gestures to the passenger seat when I don't budge for a few seconds, and this time I move and get into the car, but not because he ordered me to. It's because I had to. He has something of mine that I need to restore.

Once I'm settled, I take a long breath, willing myself to cool down. “How dare you?” My voice comes out throaty and lethal, and I'm suddenly aching for water to assuage my dry throat.

“Why only in blue?” He muses as he stares at a blue painting of my mother, ignoring my bitter question altogether. In the painting, her face is contorted with hatred as she looks straight forward. Her naked body is curled into a ball, her legs and arms shielding her private parts. She looks afflicted. She looks lost. She looks lonely.