Nila brushes her half-naked tits against my arm and Bethany does the same. They’re starting to piss me off, or more like, I’ve been pissed off since they each took an arm.
I refuse the mere notion that this black state of mind has anything to do with a certain muse. It’s been exactly four days since I last saw her—three if we count the day she snooped into my room and ran away like her tiny arse was on fire.
Mia’s been doing a spectacular job of avoiding my vicinity. It’s a whole ritual that started with ignoring my texts and ended with avoiding our cocoon of mayhem.
She also hasn’t met up with Bran and, instead, has been making a point of being surrounded by Jeremy, Nikolai, and Killian—often at the same time. And while I’m open to suicidal missions, I can’t exactly hate-fuck her when I’m nursing broken limbs.
Seems that I underestimated Mia’s ability to play dirty. She’s anything but docile, which is my cock’s flavor of fucked up, but it’s difficult to tame the wild-horse spirit that’s hidden behind cute ribbons and fake smiles.
But then again, I’ve never shied away from a challenge.
I pull out my phone for the third time in the span of five minutes and stare at the texts she hasn’t graced with a reply.
Running late tonight?
I’m not the punctuality police, but you’re over an hour late. My cock is developing a serious case of blue balls that can be easily fixed with your pretty little lips.
If you weren’t coming, you could’ve sent a text. Your manners are 404 not found.
Then the next day.
Are you in the mood to witness blood spilling on your edgy boots? Because I don’t mind some petty knife crime with your Heathens.
Your ghosting efforts are proving to be both vexing and irritating. Believe me, you don’t want to push me. Come over tonight and I won’t hurt you.
Okay, I lied. I won’t hurt you much while I punish you for the insolence.
She didn’t show up. Not that night or the one after or the one after. My string of threatening texts went completely unanswered as if she couldn’t dignify me with a reply.
So I referred to my second preferred method of gathering information, also known in pop culture as stalking.
These days, she’s been posting pictures with her gang for the day. Today—as in, an hour ago—she posted a selfie, where Jeremy is in the background, leaning against a sofa and watching TV.
Mia is pouting at the camera, face leaning against her fist and her other hand pulling at a blue ribbon.
The caption is Bored.
My fingers tighten around my phone and I glare at Jeremy in the background. She’s been spending more time with him than necessary lately—the necessary amount is zero.
She’s vindictive, yes, but I’m not sure if she’s petty enough to try and provoke me with Jeremy’s constant presence around her.
Who am I kidding? Of course she is.
She possesses the hotheadedness of a bull on crack.
Seems I have to take matters into my own hands.
I send her a text she can’t ignore.
Landon: You didn’t only make the mistake of ignoring me, but you also went the very wrong way about it. Challenge accepted, little muse. If I have to effectively and personally wipe out your newest boy toy, that’s exactly what I’ll do.
Half an hour later, I physically check myself out of the party and drive to an unassuming place no one would think fits my plan.
In reality, everyone and everything does. Like a chess piece on my board.
Mia included.
She just doesn’t know it yet.
The only difference is that I’m alarmingly relying on her presence to create or, more accurately, finish the failures that didn’t make the cut. Before she came along, I used to shape this convincing fa?ade that I was able to sculpt at will. Unquestionably, I made some stunning pieces of art, but I often found them underwhelming, like getting to a physical climax, but the mental side doesn’t live up to the intensity.
Ever since Mia’s ghosting, I’ve spent time in the studio staring at the miniatures I’ve made or the statues I’ve finished since she came along. I’ve created unquestionable masterpieces that I’m too possessive to show to the world. Not even Mum, who’s been my number one art guide and cheerleader wrapped in one.
The process is even weirder since I made those while she was slumbering, watering—and talking to—plants, or eating like a weirdly adorable food monster.
At this point, it’s veering dangerously close to an unhealthy addiction and I don’t allow those. Even smoking is an indulgence I can quit if I choose to. In fact, I’ve been cutting down on the cancer sticks lately.