Read Online His Masterpiece by Ava Lore - Free Book Online Page A

minute or two, then gave up and grabbed my e-reader and snuggled back into bed.
    I woke up later, after the sun had gone down and the ghostly lights of the city filtered in through the windows, leaving the room eerie and beautiful. Malcolm slept like the dead on the floor next to the bed. I sat up and rubbed the sleep from my eyes, feeling hungry. Slipping off the mattress, careful not to wake him up, I padded across the floor towards the stairs. A dark square on one of the overstuffed chairs caught my attention.
    The book he'd been using as a lap desk.
    I stole a quick glance at him to make sure he was still asleep and tiptoed over to it. When I touched it I found the book to be large and leather bound, like a year book or a photo album, and sandwiched between its heavy pages I saw the razor thin edge of a piece of printer paper poking out.
    I hooked a finger under the book's cover meaning to lift it away. Then I bit my lip and hesitated.
    Would it really ruin it?
    I realized I wanted to trust him. I didn't want to take that chance. I left the book where it was and crept downstairs in search of food.
    ––––––––
    He left that book laying around where I could easily open it and peek inside, and he gave me no end of opportunities to do so. I should have gotten a medal for self-restraint. One afternoon he came up the stairs with a set of oil paints for me, a canvas and a drop cloth and told me to start expressing my 'inner pain' while he prepared for his masterpiece upstairs.
    “Ain't no one want to see that shit,” I told him. “Inner pain? Ugh.”
    “Oh, come on,” he wheedled. He carried a small tackle box at his side and I was dying to know what materials were in it. You could hide a lot in a tackle box. “I bet it's a goldmine of stuff.”
    “Yeah, but the kind of mine that caves in and everybody dies.”
    He sighed and rolled his eyes at me, which was such a me thing to do that I almost did a double take. “Just try to enjoy yourself with the paint, okay? I must needs prepare my studio.”
    So dramatic.
    The book containing his sketch lay on his desk and I felt its presence hovering there the entire time I listened to him banging around upstairs. Thumps and footsteps distracted me, until I finally slapped a large frowny face on the canvas and propped it up, facing the corner, to dry. I spent the rest of the afternoon pacing the floor, convincing myself that any second Malcolm would start back down the stairs and I just had to hold on a little longer. I didn't want to ruin the surprise, did I?
    I hate surprises. But I persevered.
    When Malcolm finally came back downstairs, he started straight for my own canvas, curiosity on his face.
    “Don't touch it,” I said. “It's a quantum masterpiece.”
    He smiled. “I could see it in a gallery, definitely. It's brilliant. Don't forget to sign it.”
    I grabbed a brush, wiped the turpentine from it, and drew SM across the back of the canvas in red. Malcolm nodded his approval.
    “I love... it,” he said.
    I smiled at him, and when I woke up later that night, I saw him standing and staring at my signature on the back of it, shaking his head, as though he couldn't understand me for the life of him.

Chapter Eighteen
    The next day, it was time for him to complete his masterpiece.
    We spent a leisurely morning reading in bed, though I have to admit I didn't absorb a word I read. I was too anxious and excited. Malcolm helped me get dressed and took me out to lunch. There were photographs and staring eyes, but all in all it wasn't as bad as I thought it might be. I enjoyed sitting with Malcolm and holding his hand right where everyone could see it.
    Check me out, bitches, I wanted to say, but I didn't because that kind of thing just got you in the papers. We ate sushi and talked about nothing for hours, and when we finally reached home I was feeling sleepy and sated.
    Malcolm closed the front door behind us and locked it—the first time I could remember him