Deals With The Devil's Spawn

Wet, Dirty, Frustrated

“I would offer you something to drink, but with my track record, it would either end up on you or around you, so...yeah...” I said, breaking the awkward silence that had settled once his brother had left.

“Yeah, I don't think that's a good idea. I actually like this shirt,” he replied, glancing down at his dark blue shirt, a small grimace on his face. I followed his gaze and swallowed.

“Yeah, I could see why, it um, it does wonderful things for your...” I felt my face redden, “...oh god.” I looked away from the proud smirk on his face with a wince. God, I wished I could just sew my mouth shut; it would benefit so many people.

“It's possible if you're doing it for a couple of hours, I don't think you'd like it very much for more than that,” he answered and I fought the urge to groan. He wasn't supposed to hear that.

“Um, right, so you should probably go home,” I told him, turning back towards my paint supplies, ready to gather them up and head in.

“Why don't you like people seeing your paintings? Is it a self-conscious thing? Do you not think you're good enough? Or is it a tortured artist kind of thing?” I jumped when he spoke up after a few minutes; I had expected him to be heading towards his car by now. I had after all technically kicked him out. Guess I was wrong.

“Wow, um, you really don't hold back do you?” I asked, incredulous, turning around to gauge his reaction. He gave me a shrug and a blank look, his blue eyes boring into mine. The way he just stood there intensely staring at me, made me want to fix my hair or make sure there wasn't any broccoli hanging from my teeth. I hadn't even had broccoli.

“Why would I? That's how people have misunderstandings. I ended up with a hard on and missing chunks of hair once because I wasn't completely honest about my age,” he replied with a wince, and I gave him an incredulous look. “Don't ask.”

“You know it can also lead to hurt feelings, right?” I replied.

“Why would being honest hurt someone's feelings?” he asked with genuine curiosity and I actually had to stop for a second in disbelief. He couldn't be serious? Everyone knew that sometimes being honest wasn't the best the way to go.

“You can't be serious?” I asked him and he shrugged. “Brayden, sometimes-”

“Brady,”

“What?”

“Brady. No one calls me Brayden,” he answered, his eyes shifting away from me for a split-second. Whatever I saw in them right before he did, gone by the time he looked back at me.

“Why don't people call you Brayden?” I asked, curiously. “Do you not like your name?”

“I think they're good. Your paintings, I mean. If it's the self-conscious thing...you shouldn't be. You're good,” he said, avoiding my question all together, shifting anxiously on his feet. He shoved his hands in his pockets, before pulling them back out, one of them going up to scratch the back of his head.

“You've only seen one,” I told him, trying not to smile.

“The color, texture and confidence in your brush strokes in that one painting tells me everything I need to know,” he answered, confidently. My eyes widened as my brows shot up.

“I didn't know you were into art,” I told him.

“I'm not,” he replied. “And if I was, how exactly would you know?” he added with a smirk and I shifted, nervously.

“I wouldn't. I mean why would I? It's not like you and I are friends, and I would know anything about you. Why would I know anything about you... I mean aside from the few times we've crossed pathways, I barely even know you. And don't get me started on the times that we've crossed pathways...you either ended up wet, dirty or frustrated-”