Free Becoming His Muse, Complete Set by KC Martin Page B

Roman I was granted an A minus. My creativity had not been appreciated.
    Even though I told Logan that I’d rather be sketching than reading—and that’s true for the most part—I still manage to read a fair bit, it’s a basic college requirement, after all. And in the last few days I’ve made an effort to read one of his novels. I want to learn more about him from his writing. And I want to see what all the fuss is about. Some of what I’ve read so far is intellectually pretentious, but a lot of it’s just raw, visceral, and honest. Some of it is even beautiful. His words make you feel something, even if that feeling isn’t always good. From his writing, I’m discovering that he’s much more layered and complex than I first judged, and so he’s become even more intriguing to me. I know from my own creative process that it’s important not to confuse the art with the artist, but it’s one of those jagged blurry lines that you can’t help detouring from sometimes. People are capable of making ugly and beautiful things, and those things often reflect the ugliness and beauty of their creator.
    The magnetic draw I feel toward Logan O’Shane has only gotten stronger with a few days of fiery imagination. But when I enter the building and walk up to his half open door, I tell myself it’s with the intention of taming my imagination with the sobering facts of reality. He’s just a man, after all. Just a man. And I’m just a woman, a woman capable of saying yes. Or no.
    I lift my hand to knock and then hesitate. Through the half open door I can see him sitting at his desk, a pen in his hand, a notebook open, its white pages glowing under the lamp directed at it. I watch him lift the pen to his mouth, the end of it touches his bottom lip. He closes his eyes for a moment. Thinking? Composing a new sentence? This is a private creative moment for him, a moment few get to see. I savor it, understanding it, but it’s not often I get to observe it, secretly, in another. It is a beautiful, naked moment, with just a tinge of sadness, because such a moment reminds me of our separateness, hints an the impenetrability of another human being, reveals the abyss that love and art seek to bridge, if only temporarily.
    Logan’s eyes open and flash to the door. I haven’t knocked. I haven’t moved. He sees me though, and seems surprised. But he jumps up quickly, comes to the door.
    “Come in,” he says, opening the door wider. I peek in first. The room is dark apart from the pool of lamplight over his desk. He’s pulled the thick drapes shut, though he must have left the window open slightly because the navy fabric moves as if by a breeze. I’m sure he needs extra fresh air to clear out the smell of smoke.
    “Come in,” he says again.
    I hesitate at the threshold.
    “Are you afraid I might bite?” he says.
    I laugh nervously. “It’s just a matter of time, isn’t it?”
    He raises an eyebrow and smiles. “I’m the kind of man who likes to take my time, so you’re safe for a little while.”
    Safe is not how I feel as I step across the threshold into Logan new office; I know I’m taking a first step across the threshold of my own limitations. I feel a rush of fear and daring.
    Inside, I’m surprised at the comfortable, settled-in state of the room.
    He walks around me back to his desk. “I had my personal effects sent up by train. My agent, Lowell arranged it. I just couldn’t bear to go back to the city.”
    He doesn’t say why and I don’t press for an answer. I’m too busy looking around his office.
    In less than a week, he’s made it look like he’s had this office for a decade. He has shelves filled with books, a two-seater velvet couch with cushions that match a threadbare carpet thrown over the institutional floor tiles. A big leather armchair, looking old and well-used, sits near his desk, which is cluttered with paper, books, an old Smith Corona perched on one corner, and a desktop computer and