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“Okay, little,” he stated, stopping me. He took his pad back, and apparently, didn’t want to show me more.
I did get that being an artist. I had work myself that would never see the light of day in my own sketchpads.
“You’re very talented.” I wasn’t trying to stroke his ego, facts.
Ares closed the pad. “Thanks. I do a lot of geometric work too. I try to put it into my designs when I can.”
“What are you trying to do with it?” I asked. “Your art.”
“Design school is first.” He dropped an arm on the shelf that housed all the watercolor paints. “Actually, that’s what my senior project is. I’m going to use it for my applications.”
That was cool. I figured I’d just do an essay for mine. We just needed it to graduate, and since I hadn’t thought about going to college, doing anything more than that hadn’t crossed my mind.
“I could use some help with it,” he said, stealing my attention. His eyes narrowed. “This piece has gotten a little bit away from me, and it’d be nice to have the assistance. I’m still in the design phase, but I can tell it’s going to be too much for one person to meet my deadline.”
“Wait.” Was he asking me to help? “Are you asking me to help you out?”
His stare didn’t let up. “I guess I am. Like I said, it’s too much for one person, and what you’re doing with these galaxies flows with what I’m trying to do.”
I wondered what that was, but I wondered even more why he was asking me of all people. He didn’t trust me. Hell, he couldn’t stand me. “Why are you asking me? I thought I couldn’t be trusted.”
“Lucky for you, what does or doesn’t come out of your mouth has nothing to do with how well you can paint.” His jaw ticked. “Which is decent. Even if I don’t want to admit it.”
Shit, he was honest. Like a fucking slap-in-the-face honest.
His hand slid in his pocket. “Anyway, if you decide to commit, you’ll get credit for your own senior project.” He shrugged. “You can even use the piece on your applications of wherever you decide to go for college.”
That sounded really good and was another thing I wouldn’t have to think about. I had enough on my mind these days. I shifted on my stool. “What about Dorian?”
He messed with his curls. “What about him?”
I twitched. “Won’t he be pissed you asked me to help?”
His thick eyebrows knitted. “Well, I guess it’s good things between my friends and I have nothing to do with you. You and I are working together. And as far as you’re concerned, that’s all you need to worry about.”
Fuck, this guy was a literal nightmare and definitely didn’t give a shit about me.
And his words stung more than I wanted to admit.
In fact, so much so that I was considering working with the asshole. Why should I care about what Dorian thinks about what I do? He didn’t care about me. At least, not enough to listen to me. He’d just left.
My mouth moved. “When would we start?”
He blinked, as if shocked I’d agree so quickly.
“It’d be right away.” He angled his phone out of his pocket. “I’ll text you everything. You’d need to sign a contract and an NDA.”
“Wait. What?”
His eyes lifted from his device. “The contract is so you don’t pussy out if the work starts to get to be too much for you. I don’t need you leaving me hanging. The contract locks you in. No getting out once we start.” His gaze was sharp. “The NDA is to avoid any potential problematic shit, i.e., loose fucking lips. The art you see stays between us. No photographs. No talk. I don’t need my shit showing up everywhere.”
I didn’t miss how he called me problematic again. He really didn’t trust me, but apparently that didn’t matter since I could hold a brush well enough.
I really didn’t want to work with this guy, but I couldn’t deny having the school credit wouldn’t hurt. I also didn’t want to care either about what Dorian would say.
I’d look over his little contract, and if things seemed on the up-and-up, I’d say yes. I wouldn’t care about Dorian Prinze, or his opinions about it. He didn’t own me.
At least, he wouldn’t anymore.
