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

by R. L. Naquin

  I didn’t comment on the weird face-deleting he was doing .

  A second fist-sized bubble floated toward him and bounced off his elbow where his blanket had slipped. He scratched the spot where it had landed. Had he felt it ?

  “Show me something new, Gordon. Show the world your dreams. Unicorns were so five years ago. I know. I checked out your work. What do you have in your mind now ?” I sent a third slow bubble floating toward him .

  It popped on his neck, and he smacked the spot like a bug had landed there. That was not supposed to happen .

  Gordon placed his brush on the palette and set them both on the table. His hands shook, and he pulled the blanket tighter around him. His skin was pale, and his eyelids were puffy .

  “Are you okay?” I stepped closer to him, my hand held out to check his temperature before I realized I couldn’t do that .

  “I need to rest.” He shuffled back to his room and climbed under the covers. A moment later, his soft snores filled the silence .

  As I had last time, I sat in the chair by the foot of his bed and watched him sleep, wracked with guilt. I’d gone easy on him. I hadn’t bombarded him with tiny bubbles. All I’d sent him were three large ones, and there he was, wiped out in bed again. Possibly feverish. Definitely exhausted .

  Once or twice, he whispered the name Charlotte in his sleep, and my heart felt as if a hand had reached into my chest and squeezed it .

  I pulled myself from the chair, stretching to ease my cramped muscles. “Get some rest, buddy. If I’m going to help you, I need to come back with different equipment. I’ll see you tomorrow .”

  I moved through the house like a ghost and phased through the front door. At the sidewalk, I took a quick scan around to be sure no one was looking and shut off my belt so I’d be visible, then checked my phone for messages or missed calls .

  Nothing from Mark. I’d kind of hoped. I’d also sort of dreaded .

  When I looked up and turned to go, I smacked right into Gordon’s hateful manager .

  She scowled at me. “ Watch it .”

  I gave her a slow look up and down. “Sorry.” I didn’t sound sorry .

  She turned away and headed up the path in Gordon’s front yard. “Bitch,” she muttered under her breath .

  I turned back toward her, but she was already halfway to his door and almost out of earshot. I waved at her and raised my voice to be sure she heard me. “You have a good day, too!” I headed back to my car, knowing she was watching me go. “Bitch .”

  The number one rule for being a Muse was to never bring attention to yourself .

  Guess I blew that .

  Chapter 9

  D eep in the mysterious depths of the bedroom closet in my apartment was a bag filled with bubble wands I’d purchased at a toy store. Some of them were huge. One was a contraption of two long sticks with a thin rope connecting them on one end. Hold the sticks together, dip the rope in the bubble fluid, then slowly pull the sticks apart while dragging the contraption through the air .

  I’d tried that one a few times and was getting fairly good at it. The bubbles it made were big enough to encase a large toddler .

  So, I had everything I needed to make enormous bubbles to use on Gordon. Unfortunately, I’d have to sneak into my apartment on my way to work to get them .

  Did I say sneak? That would be stupid. I was a grown woman. I didn’t need to sneak. I would march in there, grab what I needed, then march out, head held high .

  I did pretty well, except for the head held high part. Once I was out of my car and in the courtyard, I couldn’t help myself. I ducked my head and watched my feet all the way to my door. I didn’t want to run into Mark and have a repeat of our last awkward encounter .

  Part of me still wished he’d come running out of his apartment, though .

  I unlocked my door and let myself in, both relieved and disappointed that I hadn’t seen him .

  The place looked the same. I’d only been gone a few days, of course. I’d left a fork and a glass in the sink. Toast crumbs lay scattered on the kitchen table. I wrinkled my nose at a creeping stench .

  Probably needed to take out the trash on my way out .

  In my room, I dug through my closet until I found the plastic bag from the toy store. I yanked a couple of blouses, a skirt, and a pair of jeans off their hangers and shoved them all into a duffel bag. A handful of underwear and bras, three T-shirts, and a pair of yoga pants followed. I’d taken clothes with me to Mom’s, but it wouldn’t hurt to grab some more .

  Back in the kitchen, I stuffed a shallow plastic storage bowl and its lid into the bag with the bubble equipment, then shoved it all into the duffel bag and zipped it up. A shadow fell across the kitchen sink through the window and I froze .

  Mark walked past. His footsteps scraped against the pavement outside my door. I pressed my forehead and one hand against the wooden frame of the door, waiting for him to knock. I could hear him breathing. After a moment, the footsteps scuffed against the ground, then faded off in the other direction .

  His door slammed across the courtyard .

  I took a deep, ragged breath and blew it out. I had to fix this. I couldn’t let one awkward attempt at a kiss ruin a good friendship. Or whatever our relationship had been growing into .

  But I couldn’t stop now to fix it, either. Gordon could die any day. I had to figure him out and pull him through his dry spell before it was too late .

  I grabbed the garbage out of the can, slung the duffel bag over my shoulder and left. I had a lot of messes to sort out .

  My own would have to wait .

  T he close encounter with Mark at my apartment left me rattled. I went straight to the office with every intention of shaking it off and getting back to work. Instead, I spent a good portion of the morning moping and attempting to cyberstalk Mark on social media with little success. Mostly all I found were pictures of Mark’s finished projects—playgrounds, tree houses, sheds turned into offices. Mark wasn’t big on sharing pictures of his breakfast or checking in every time he went to pick up coffee .

  Disgusted by my own pathetic neediness, I logged out and headed to my client’s house where I had a better chance of being useful .

  Gordon sat at his kitchen table dipping baby carrots and sliced cucumbers in a container of store-bought hummus. A small pad of paper and a pencil sat at his elbow, and from time to time, he paused in his eating to add a few lines to the portrait he was sketching .

  I drew closer to get a better look. The features were the same. He was drawing Charlotte again .

  “She really is beautiful. How did you lose her? Can’t you get her back?” Clearly, his heart was broken by this woman. Maybe that was what I was really supposed to be doing. Maybe I was supposed to reunite him with Charlotte before he died .

  He let out a heavy sigh, then gathered the remains of his light lunch to put it away. “She’s never coming back,” he whispered .

  I followed Gordon into his workroom. At least I didn’t have to convince him to get to work. So far, we were having a pretty good day .

  He placed an enormous sketchpad on the easel, picked up a piece of charcoal, and stared at the blank page without blinking .

  “Awesome. Good start, my friend. Now, let me see if I can help you with the next step .”

  I dropped to the floor and reached into a small bag I’d tied to my belt. The plastic container rested on my knee while I unscrewed the cap to my bottle of Muse bubbles. I poured half the bottle into the dish, screwed the cap on, attached the bottle to my belt, then produced a wooden handle with a wire loop about six inches across. The plastic tray was a little small for the loop, but I managed to dip the whole circle into the bubble solution before blowing a large, slow bubble .

  It floated through the air with rainbows swirling across its delicate surface, touched Gordon’s knee, then burst .

  “Just let it flow, Gordon. You can do this. All those beautiful creatures inside you want to come out and dance acro
ss the page. You’re brilliant. I’ve seen your work. The world deserves to see more of it.” I blew another huge bubble and watched it bounce off his sleeve and pop on his wrist .

  He frowned at the charcoal in his hand, as if he didn’t recall picking it up. His face thoughtful, he placed the charcoal on the table and moved the sketchpad aside .

  “Dude, no. I thought we were making progress.” I lifted my hand to blow another bubble .

  Gordon grabbed a freshly stretched, pristine canvas on the easel. He took a pencil between his thumb and first two fingers, holding it lightly, and sketched a tentative oval in the center. He let out a soft sigh, then added lines and curves in a gentle, deliberate flow .

  I blew one more huge bubble to keep him going. “That’s it. You’re doing great.” After a few minutes, I hooked the loop to my belt and poured the bubble juice back into its bottle so I didn’t have to keep holding a dish of magical liquid soap .

  I stepped back and watched as Gordon Gordon finally worked his magic. I’d never been able to draw or paint more than stick figures and an old dresser I bought at a garage sale. My creative talents lay elsewhere. But watching someone like Gordon work was magical .

  As his hand floated over the canvas, a woman’s face took shape. Narrow nose, large eyes, full lips. It was the same woman he’d been sketching before. Her chin rested on the back of her hand, and a window appeared around her head and shoulders. The expression on her face was still rough, but it was filled with longing, and the gaze was focused on something far away .

  Gordon continued to fill in the area around the woman—Charlotte, no doubt—and the window became part of a train chugging across a pastoral countryside .

  Pencil sketch or not, the detail was incredible. Gordon had captured so much beauty and emotion I was left breathless, feeling as if I, too, missed Charlotte .

  “Gordon, she’s lovely.” I stepped closer, peering over his shoulder. “Why does she look so sad ?”

  He paused, hand in the air. I thought for a moment he might answer me. He might have. There was no way to tell. As he opened his mouth, the front door opened, and heavy steps clattered down the hall toward us .

  “Gordon?” The woman I’d come to assume was Gordon’s manager appeared in the doorway. “Oh, good. You’re working. Let’s see what you’ve got.” She beamed as she strode through the room to his side .

  He scooted his seat away from the canvas so she could get a better look, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “It’s not far along. Just a sketch. I think I captured her, though .”

  All happiness slipped from the woman’s face, leaving her with a cold scowl. She kept her voice level, but it sounded controlled, as if she might lose her grip on herself and start shouting any second. “Dammit, Gordon. When are you going to let go of the past? The gallery commissioned a fantasyscape. That’s your signature style. This is supposed to be your big comeback. You can’t come back with a portrait of Charlotte on a train .”

  Gordon sat up straighter, his pencil clutched tightly in his hand. “They’ll get what I give them. I’m Gordon Gordon .” He thumped himself on the chest. Beads of sweat gathered at his temples, and his face was flushed. “I decide what my signature style is. You don’t tell me.” He thumped himself again. “I’m Gordon Gordon.” The last part sounded weak, and he slumped a little on his stool .

  “Oh for the love of…” Elizabeth screwed her face up in disgust. “Look what you’re doing to yourself.” She placed a hand on his forehead. “You’re hot. You need to calm down. How about I get you your pills, and you take a rest for awhile .”

  Gordon’s head drooped, as if it were too heavy for his neck to hold up. He set aside the pencil dangling from his loose fingers and meekly followed his manager out of the room. I brought up the rear of the people train moving into the living room .

  Elizabeth helped Gordon sit on the sofa. “I’ll be right back.” She disappeared into the kitchen .

  Gordon sat on the middle cushion. His gaze was distant and his breathing shallow and slow .

  I sat on the arm of the couch scrutinizing his sweaty face. “What is it you have? Are we so sure there’s nothing we can do about it ?”

  Elizabeth returned with a glass of water and a pill in the palm of her hand. She handed him the pill first, then the water. “Drink .”

  He obeyed. Within seconds, his head tipped toward the sofa arm I was sitting on. He drew his legs up on the other end and went to sleep .

  Elizabeth shook her head and covered him with a knitted throw strung across the back of the sofa. Without a word, she slipped down the hall to the studio .

  The second she turned her back, I hopped up and poked my nose into her purse. The pills she’d been giving Gordon lay sideways on top of her wallet. I reached in, and my hand went straight through the purse, the pills, and the wallet. Concentrating, I tried again .

  I’d never mastered interacting with things while I was invisible. Muse magic somehow kept my ass from falling through chairs when I sat down, but my hands never wanted to cooperate as smoothly as my butt. It took me three more tries and several deep breaths, but I finally snagged the bottle of pills and stashed it in my pocket .

  A moment later, Elizabeth reappeared with the canvas tucked under her arm. She paused long enough to pick up her purse from the corner table, then left through the front door, taking the sketch of Charlotte on a train with her .

  This bitch. This. Bitch. I’d had about enough of her interference .

  I scowled and patted my pocket. Soon I’d have the answers I needed to help Gordon finish his work. Maybe there was even a cure and he didn’t have to die .

  And if Elizabeth didn’t lighten the hell up, maybe I could inspire Gordon to fire her .

  I left Gordon’s house feeling a mixture of anger, sadness, and determination. I muttered to myself most of the way back to the office, mostly expletives directed at Elizabeth .

  Audrey got one look at my face as I blew into the office and turned on her heel to go the other direction. After I hung my belt on its hook under my name in the supply room, I refilled my bubbles and left them on the shelf, along with the standard bubble wands that didn’t work on this particular client .

  I booted up my desktop and dug through my bowl of chocolate while I waited for it to load. Most of the good stuff was gone, picked over by my coworkers .

  Once the computer was ready, I pulled out the bottle of prescription pills and entered the name of the drug Gordon was being given. If I could find out what it was, I might be able to figure out what he was suffering from .

  I didn’t necessarily think I could stop him from dying—though I hadn’t given up on the idea—I might at least be able to figure out how best to help him, or at least how long I had to do it in before whatever he had killed him .

  The slow Internet connection chugged along until it brought up a list of websites talking about the drug I was looking for. I clicked on a wiki article and nearly choked .

  The name of the drug in question was cyanocobalamin. In layman’s terms— vitamin B12 .

  “Sonofabitch.” I ran my fingers through my hair and scrubbed my face with my palms .

  Audrey slid a cup of coffee toward me and hopped up on the edge of my desk. “Thought you could use something to wipe away that look on your face. What’s up ?”

  “I have no idea what I’m doing.” I shoved my back against my chair and waved my arms in the air in frustration. “I’ve got a feeling he’s not even dying. I’m totally being punked .”

  She leaned forward and squinted at my computer screen. “I don’t get it. What’s B12 got to do with anything ?”

  I flung my hands up again. “Exactly !”

  “Drink your coffee. You forgot how to make sense.” She took a sip from her own cup .

  I folded my arms across my chest. “Every time he gets worked up, his manager grabs a prescription bottle and gives him pills. He calms down and goes to sleep.” I nodded toward the screen. “But it turns out, sh
e’s dosing him with a damn vitamin. I don’t get it .”

  Audrey tipped her head to the side and crossed her dangling ankles. “Sounds like a placebo. Maybe the doctor prescribing it is a head doctor, not a dying-of-a-mysterious-illness doctor .”

  I gave her a quizzical look. “That’s not a bad theory. Let’s find out.” I examined the bottle, then typed the name of the prescribing doctor. The search engine churned and spit out the results .

  Audrey snorted. “Well, there you go. He’s a shrink .”

  “She.” I pointed at the screen. “Dr. Chris Marconi is a woman.” I sat staring at the doctor’s website, focused mostly on her office hours .

  Audrey scooted closer to me and put a warning hand on my shoulder. “What are you thinking about? You’ve got a weird look on your face .”

  I frowned at the monitor. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him. I don’t know if his mental problems are a result of a physical problem that can’t be treated, or if the issues he’s seeing Dr. Marconi for are his only real problem. I don’t know if he’s a suicide risk and I should be watching him constantly, or if I’m causing damage to his psyche every time I blow bubbles at him. I need to know what he’s being treated for so I can do my job .”

  “And how are you planning to do that ?”

  “I’m going to break into the doctor’s office tonight and get a look at his file .”

  Audrey laughed. “No you’re not. Seriously ?”

  “Seriously. Between his moody refusal to do any work and his manager making off with any work he does do if she thinks it’s inappropriate, I don’t think I have any choice. I have to find out what’s going on with him.” I took a gulp of coffee and burned my mouth .

  “Don’t get caught.” Audrey glared at me. “I don’t care who your parents are. I’m pretty sure what you’re proposing breaks every rule in the book, plus several human- world laws .”