Uninspired Muse (Mt. Olympus Employment Agency: Muse Book 3) Page 3

  After pausing to get a good look at the house, I kept going. One block up and one block over—that was the rule of thumb. A Muse was never supposed to park right in front of a client’s house, especially since we’d be going there at least several times a week, if not every day. Somebody was bound to notice. In fact, we tried to park in a different place each time to avoid suspicion .

  Nobody wanted to tangle with a neighborhood watch .

  I locked the car and pressed the button on the buckle of my belt. I felt no different and could see my own arms and legs without any trouble, but no one else would be able to see me .

  I was invisible .

  Despite having done this countless times, it always made me a little nervous. Since I wasn’t invisible to myself, I had no way of knowing for sure if the belt worked. A dark-haired woman in sweats raked leaves across the street. She stopped and rested for a moment, glancing around the neighborhood and brushing her hair off her face. I waved at her. Vigorously. She looked past me, then away .

  Either she was a bitch, or I was invisible. She went back to work, smiling to herself and humming. So, probably not a bitch. My belt was functional .

  I strode up the block and around the corner to Gordon’s house. No one, humming or otherwise, appeared to care much about the leaves in his yard. The wind picked up as I approached the front door, and, due to a recent rainstorm, leaves collected around my ankles like wet starfish .

  Maybe I’d inspire my new client to do a little yard work while I was at it .

  At the door, I took a deep breath and stepped through into the house. Again, no matter how many times I walked through closed doors, I half expected to slam my head into the hard surface. As always, the magic in my belt sent me through .

  I stood in a vacant living room. The furniture was all dark leather and glass, and the floors were bare wood with a burgundy and navy throw rug in the center. A floorboard creaked from somewhere deeper in the house, and I followed the sound .

  The doorway to the left led to the kitchen and dining room. I followed the doorway to the right down the hallway and found my target. The entire room—originally a bedroom—was tricked out as an art studio. Blank canvases leaned against one wall, and what appeared to be several completed paintings faced the wall, half-covered with a cloth. Multiple easels were set up around the room at different angles, presumably to catch the light at different times of day .

  A large drop cloth speckled in bright colors covered the main traffic areas of the floor. A wooden table held tubes of paint, jars of brushes, solvents, cloths, and palettes .

  Gordon stood barefoot and bare chested in the middle of the room, gazing out the window. His chestnut hair hung over one dark eye. He ran stained fingers through it and dropped onto a stool next to him. He sighed and rubbed his palms over his jeans .

  I folded my arms and leaned against a clean, empty spot on the wall by the door. “What’s keeping you from working, my barely dressed friend ?”

  He groaned and glanced at the blank canvas propped on the easel. His weight shifted, and he slid off the stool to pad over to the paint table. With a rag in one hand and a brush in the other, he paced the length of the room. He stopped in front of the window, wiped the brush on the cloth, then resumed pacing .

  “Oh, you’re a mess, aren’t you?” I’d seen this sort of thing before. Something was on the guy’s mind. Something big .

  “I can’t work in here today. It’s just…it’s too much.” He tossed the rag and paintbrush on the table and strode past me out the door .

  I followed him. I’d learned over time that it was better on the first visit to pay more attention to the client and get a feel for what was stopping the creative juices from flowing than it was to actually begin the inspirations. This guy was in no condition for me to start working on him .

  We wove our way through the house, stopping in the living room while he picked up then dropped a magazine. Gordon led us to the kitchen, where he grabbed an apple, took a bite, then left it wobbling on the counter .

  He stopped for a full five minutes to stare at a squirrel scurrying up the tree outside the kitchen window, then let out a sigh and left the kitchen for the den. I was seriously afraid the guy was going to whip out a clove cigarette and an acoustic guitar. He clearly had a lot of feelings he needed to express .

  Artists .

  In the den, Gordon pawed through a pile of mail on his desk, saw nothing that interested him, and ran his hand through his mop of hair .

  “Dude, come on. Just get started already. Why are you putting it off ?”

  Gordon moved through the house like a ghost, adjusting flowers in a vase in the living room, washing his hands in the bathroom sink, getting a glass of red wine in the kitchen .

  Never in my six months as a Muse had I seen anybody procrastinate so hard. He was an Olympic-level non-starter .

  We returned to the studio, and he sat on the stool in front of his blank canvas with a chunk of charcoal resting in his palm. After a long moment, he took the charcoal in his fingers and drew a small oval in the center of the canvas .

  “Hallelujah.” I hopped up to sit on an empty spot on his supply table. “Let’s see what you’ve got .”

  His hand stilled, then dropped to his lap. “I’ve got nothing .”

  I dropped my head into my hands. “Dude. You’re killing me. I gave up all my clients to help you.” I pulled his paperwork from my bag and gave it another scan. There wasn’t a lot of information—name, address, a one-word description of his project. I ran my finger down the page until I hit the bottom entry for the deadline .

  I’d never seen one like that before .

  “What does this mean?” I held up the piece of paper, as if he could see and hear me. “There’s no date on the deadline. It says ‘BID’ in that spot. Am I supposed to guess?” I shook my head. “You’re going to be a problem, aren’t you ?”

  Gordon cracked his neck and scratched his shoulder. “There aren’t enough birds in the garden in November .”

  I wondered if that was a secret passphrase to get into the super-secret artist’s club in his head .

  “Everything about you is strange.” I slid off the table and grabbed my bag. I needed more information before I could attempt to help this guy. “Even your deadline kind of pisses me off. Why are you so special ?”

  My new client dropped his charcoal in a tray next to him. “I’m not special. Not even a bit.” He left the room, went into the bathroom, and closed the door behind him .

  My skin broke out in goose bumps. Could he hear me? Was everything he’d said to himself in response to something I’d said, or was I imagining it? Who was this guy? I hurried out the door, making a focused effort not to run to my car .

  I wasn’t coming back until I learned everything I could about Gordon Gordon .

  I didn’t go back to the office. Despite the upgrades to the computers at work, my Internet connection at home was faster, and this level of snooping required a glass of wine and feet propped up on the coffee table .

  When I came in through the kitchen door, I may have slammed the door a little more than intended .

  Phyllis, my potted philodendron, sat in her usual place in the kitchen windowsill so she could watch the world go by .

  She fluttered her leaves in my direction. “Wynter, you startled me .”

  I dropped my purse on the counter. “Sorry .”

  Her branches leaned toward me. “ Rough day ?”

  “The worst.” I eyed the refrigerator and wondered if I had any wine in there. Since it was only one in the afternoon, I probably shouldn’t have been thinking about it. Instead, I pulled my assignment from my bag. “They took away all my clients and replaced them with one angsty artist with a bogus deadline.” I waved the paper at her. “It’s not even a date .”

  Phyllis was quiet for a moment. “Honey, I can’t read that from here. What does it say ?”

  “It says ‘BID.’ What the hell is that supposed to mean?
Barely Identified Deadline? Because I’m Doomed? Badly Internally Decided?” The page flapped in the air with my exuberant gestures. “How am I supposed to help this guy ?”

  “They pulled you from the rest of your clients. He must be in greater need than the rest.” Her voice was gentle, as if she knew something and was trying to figure out how to break it to me .

  “Okay. Sure. He’s in greater need. Am I reading this thing wrong and maybe I’m supposed to ‘BID’ for more time?” I ran my fingers through my short, spiky hair. “I should go back to the office and make Polly give me more information .”

  “Wynter .”

  “She might not even be in her office, though. She doesn’t usually stay past lunch.” I paced the length of the kitchen, trying to decide whether to go back to work .

  “Wynter, listen to me .”

  “Maybe Audrey can decipher it. She did train me when I first started. She’s been there for years .”

  “Wynter, stop!” Phyllis’s leaves quivered .

  I stopped pacing and turned toward the window . “What ?”

  “I know what BID means. It’s a standard acronym at Mt. Olympus .”

  “Oh.” I frowned. “ Okay . Cool .”

  “Well, no. Not cool, sweetheart. Sit down .”

  I wasn’t sure how a deadline could be so ominous she was making me sit down before she explained it. Something about her tone of voice made me shiver .

  Once I was seated at the table, I folded my hands in my lap, prepared for a ridiculous deadline like next Tuesday or by next weekend. Most deadlines were a month or more away. But then, all my other deadlines had stated clearly how many days I had .

  “So, tell me the bad news. How long do I have to straighten this guy out ?”

  Her branches drooped. “Only the Fates know for sure. That’s why it’s not exact. Probably not long .”

  I frowned. “So what does BID stand for , then ?”

  “It means…it means Before Imminent Death.” Her leaves rubbed together in a soothing shushing sound. “Your client is going to die, and you have to help him finish his final project before he goes .”

  A rmed—or burdened—with the new knowledge that my client could die at any time, I spent the afternoon online finding out everything I could about Gordon. I assumed he had a terminal illness, but there wasn’t a single peep about that on the Internet, at least that I could find .

  There was plenty, however, about the eccentric artist, Gordon Gordon. Galleries proudly listed the works of his they’d sold. His website listed his appearances and latest new pieces. I found a fan-run Facebook page, numerous Pinterest boards of his paintings, and several interviews .

  Despite all this coverage, there was nothing new. According to the Internet, Gordon Gordon had dropped off the face of the Earth nearly three years ago. His fans had discussed his disappearance among themselves for about six months, then they must have lost interest. Nobody seemed to care about him anymore .

  The artwork was gorgeous. Unicorns and dragons danced across brilliant fantasy landscapes. Nymphs, with faces so real I wanted to touch their cheeks, swam in a crystal pool beneath a willow tree. I found several of Gordon’s paintings on book covers, and someone on eBay was selling a 2003 calendar of Gordon Gordon’s artwork .

  Apparently, my client had been kind of a big deal before deserting the world. I had a feeling whatever had chased him out of the limelight was what was keeping him from painting now .

  A knock on the door pulled me out of the virtual rabbit hole I’d been spiraling down, and I shut the laptop. “Phyllis, who’s at the door?” I pulled myself up from the couch .

  “ It’s Mark .”

  “Oh. Mark . Good .”

  Usually, having my neighbor Mark stop by to hang out made me happy. I was comfortable around him and enjoyed his company. Lately, I’d thought things might move in a more romantic direction. It wasn’t entirely crazy, since Phyllis told me all the time that Mark liked me .

  I’d been telling myself I needed to do more work on myself before I jumped into another relationship. With my track record, it seemed like a good idea to take a break. But now, thanks to seeing Scott at jury duty, I knew the truth about myself —I was practically a monster, stomping on hearts like Godzilla stomped on buildings. I liked Mark too much to hurt him. I had to figure out what the hell was wrong with me before I let this friendship turn into a romance .

  Mark deserved that. I deserved that. Hell, Phyllis deserved that, since she was the one who’d have to watch him through the window after Hurricane Wynter blew off his metaphorical roof .

  But he was a really great friend. So I opened the door .

  He stood in my doorway with the bottle of wine I’d been dreaming about all day and a brown bag full of white cardboard cartons from my favorite Chinese restaurant .

  His dark hair swooped over one eye, and he flicked his head to push it back, since his hands were full. “Hungry ?”

  I smiled. “Starving.” As soon as the word was out of my mouth, I cringed internally. Did that sound seductive? I wasn’t trying to be seductive. What if I was sending out signals I didn’t mean to send ?

  I stepped back from the doorway and let him through. He’d been over so many times in the last six months, he knew my kitchen better than I did. While I stood stupidly watching how tight his T-shirt and jeans were and berating myself for even thinking about Mark in any way but friendship, he pulled out plates and napkins and poured us each a glass of wine .

  “You want to watch TV or eat here in the kitchen?” His warm chocolate eyes regarded me with amusement. “Are you okay? You look a little …off .”

  I shook my head as much to clear it as to deny anything was wrong. “I’m fine. Let’s see what’s on TV .”

  I helped him carry everything to the coffee table, and he found us a cheesy sci-fi movie to watch while I opened all the containers. We piled our plates with fried rice, General Tso’s chicken, crab Rangoon, and pork egg rolls. Mark had brought a ton of food. He usually didn’t take the leftovers home, because he knew I was horrible at feeding myself .

  At a commercial break, Mark set his plate on the table and faced me. “So. You’ve been scowling since I got here. And now that I think about it, you left two days ago with a smile, a wave, and an overnight bag. You came back last night looking kind of sad. I was on a business call, or I’d have come over.” He reached for his glass and took a drink. “Want to talk about it ?”

  I shrugged. “It’s work stuff .”

  “So, you can’t talk about it.” He averted his eyes and took another sip .

  Mark had been awesome with not asking a lot of questions about what I did for a living. I may have implied that I worked for a top-secret government agency. He’d been a good sport about my comings and goings and the mysterious nature of my consultancy job .

  I followed his lead and took a swallow from my glass. “No. I can’t talk about it. But it’s been a bad week .”

  His face stilled, and his gaze locked with mine. “You know, I’m here if you need me .”

  I nodded. “ I know .”

  His hand raised to brush my cheek, then rested on my thigh. “I don’t want to see you unhappy . Ever .”

  Tiny prickles of excitement mixed with dread filled my stomach. Was he going to kiss me? Why tonight after all this time? What should I do? What did it mean? Oh, god, I was going to be ill. I never should have eaten that third crab Rangoon .

  His glance flicked from my eyes to my lips and back again. He was going to do it. My palms slicked with sweat. His head moved toward me, and I lost my shit .

  I flung myself backward and nearly fell off the couch .

  Mark’s face lost all its color. “I’m sorry! I don’t know what happened. I thought…no, it doesn’t matter. It’s my fault. I’m so sorry .”

  If he’d done this a week ago, I probably would have responded differently. I’d known even then that I probably shouldn’t get serious with him right now—I was still sor
ting myself out—but I’d been single for about six months, and Mark was pretty great, so I might have gone with it. But now? Now I was a mess all over again. Perspective could do that to a person .

  I tried to make light of it, but failed. “No, really, I’m such an idiot. You shouldn’t be sorry. I’m sorry .”

  “No, I misread the situation. You had a bad day. I shouldn’t have …”

  I nodded. “Yeah. I had a bad day .”

  We sat on the couch, an ocean of distance between us, pretending to watch the movie. Later, I couldn’t remember what the movie had been about .

  The minute the end credits started running, I hopped up to clear the table .

  Mark grabbed the plates and took them to the kitchen. “Listen, I have a lot of work to do tonight, so I should get going .”

  “Sure. Yeah.” I threw away the trash and held out the remaining cartons. “Did you want to take the leftovers ?”

  A shadow crossed his face. “No, you eat them .”

  I gave him an awkward smile. “Thanks for dinner .”

  He smiled back, equally as awkward. “Yeah. Of course. And sorry about earlier .”

  “No, forget about it. Really .”

  He gave a sharp nod, then turned to the door. “Well, have a good night.” He closed the door behind himself .

  My voice was small, pathetic, and too late for him to hear. “ You , too .”

  Chapter 4

  W hen I went into the office on Thursday, several people were already there. Audrey and Kayla stood in their skyscraper heels by the bulletin board, drinking coffee and gossiping. I could tell what they were doing by the sneers on their faces. When I’d first joined the department, those sneers had been for me, but now, I was part of the team. Whoever the unfortunate target was probably worked elsewhere .

  I dropped my purse in the bottom drawer of my desk, poured myself some coffee in the mug my coworkers had given me for my birthday—bright flowers on a green background—and joined them by the bulletin board .