Page 42 of Break the Rule
He did not paint one thing and move on. He didn’t forget. He didn’t do anything except well—obsess. Charlie has a problem.
A blue-eyed, skirt-wearing, pretty-boy problem.
Looking around his studio and the half-dozen canvases that line the wall, he can acknowledge his creative haze over the last week has been one of the most intense of his life. He barely slept, only eating when Andrew stopped by and demanded it. If Andrew hadn’t forced him into the shower on Thursday, he’d be stinkier than he is now. That’s saying something since he’s definitely more than a little ripe and wearing the same paint-stained shirt and boxers he’s had on for three days. Even his normally vivacious hair is limp.
Fuck. Charlie is so fucked.
Sucking in a deep breath, Charlie scrubs his hands over his thighs, smearing a bit of wet paint on his skin. Yeah, he’s going to really need to shower today. It’s Saturday, or at least he thinks it is. He’s definitely lost track of the days. And the time. There are no clocks in his studio, by design, but Andrew insisted he bring his phone out there because he was, in his own words, deeply concerned Charlie might pass out from dehydration or starve to death before anyone found him. Charlie pointed out that since Andrew comes over daily to give him water and food, not unlike a dog, he couldn’t possibly die without notice. He also, for reasons unknown to him, finds it easy to break from his art to care for his fur babies. Even that evil fucking hamster that bit him again last night. If only taking care of himself came as easily.
None of this had calmed Andrew’s anxiety, the only reason Charlie caved and brought his phone out here—along with half adozen alarms Andrew set reminding him to stretch and eat and hydrate. Charlie’s ignored them all, but he has no intention of ever admitting that to Andrew.
Grabbing his phone off the table to see what all he’s missed today, he’s shocked to find that it’s nearly four. When did he last sleep? Yesterday or maybe the day before. It’s been years since Charlie fell into such a deep creative hole, and coming out of it feels a bit like having a hangover.
Along with his post-creative crash comes the guilt when he realizes all the things he’s shut out. There’s five texts from Andrew, over a dozen in the family group chat, and a voicemail from Denise, likely reminding him to pick up the suit he needs for another gallery opening in a few weeks. The most pressing notification is the one from his agent reminding him she’s coming over. According to the clock on his phone, she should be here—now. Shit.
“Charlie King, you better not be standing me up.”
Tugging his shirt down then pushing his messy hair out of his eyes, he takes a step out of his studio just in time to see his agent Amanda traipsing across his yard—her bright red heels sinking into his grass. She curses with every step.
“You should try some Crocs.”
“It’ll be a cold day in hell when I wear Crocs,” Amanda snorts, throwing her dark hair over her shoulder. She’s a few years older than Charlie and an absolute knockout. She’s also desperately in love with Denise and very much off limits. Neither of those stop Charlie from appreciating what a beauty she is.
“You look stunning as always, Amanda. New hairdo?”
“My hair is the same as it’s been for the last two years. Stop buttering me up, mister. You didn’t reply to any of my emails this week. I was going to bang your door down, but Andrew let me in.”
“Andrew’s here?” Charlie asks, turning towards his house.
“He’s inside cleaning, I think.” Amanda stops in front of him, smoothing down her floral skirt. “He let me in through the back and said he’d put on a pot of coffee. God, I love that man.”
“I love him, too,” Charlie grins, pretty sure she likes Andrew better than him. It should bother him, but it does the opposite. “I just hope he’s not going to organize my pantry again. Last time he cleaned my house, he labeledeverything.”
“A little organization wouldn’t kill you.”
“You say that, but I’m pretty sure it would. In fact, I think a part of my soul dies inside when things are too organized.”
“Would that be why you haven’t signed a single one of the documents I emailed you? Or why you haven’t yet agreed to finalize your pieces for the next showcase? It’s in a month, Charlie. Your talent got you in, but the curator is getting antsy. Between her and my annoying hockey-shaped problem my head is pounding.”
“What annoying hockey-shaped problem?” Charlie questions, offering her his arm to lead her to his studio.
Amanda links her arm with Charlie’s and sighs. “Just a new client being an even bigger pain in my ass than you are.”
“Since when do you take on hockey players?” Charlie questions. “I thought you were an art agent.”
“I am. Let’s just say he’s a charity case.” Amanda sets her purse on the chair, moving around Charlie and letting out a low whistle. “Holy shit, you’ve been holding out on me. Who is she?”
“He,” Charlie corrects, sprawling over the desk. The same one his Cinderella fucked him over a week ago. A shiver of pleasure runs up his spine as he remembers every touch while watching Amanda pace in front of the art, hands on her hips.
“Please tell me these are your pieces for the showcase.”
“They’re notnotmy pieces.” Charlie props his chin on his hands, staring at the paintings. He can’t believe he did that many so fast, especially since they’re good. Likely because the subjectis stunning but still. Charlie is damn proud. He’s also not sure how to handle their existence since creating them did not get rid of his obsession but deepened it. Not a single one of the paintings of his pretty boy scratched the itch. None of them got him out of Charlie’s brain. If anything, he’s all Charlie can think about. Maybe they should fuck one last time, just to get it out of Charlie’s system and see if it helps him move on to painting something else.
“What exactly does that mean?” Amanda questions. She turns to fix her hazel eyes on Charlie. With her delicate features and hyper feminine style, she’s often underestimated, but she’s shrewd and perceptive. Charlie can literally feel her trying to mentally dissect him right now. It’s a little terrifying and kind of sexy, if you’re into that thing.
“It means I don’t have his permission, or his name.”
“As your agent, I’m obliged to remind you that for something like this you’re not actually legally required to have either.” Charlie opens his mouth to speak, but she covers it with one long, manicured finger. “As a decent person, I’m going to say good job. I’m also going to tell you to go fucking get both because you need these in your showcase. These are?—”
