Chapter 22
Mila
I was fine with having people watch me when I danced. There was no need for words; I just performed. I was good at performing a role. This, though, school life, well, that wasn ’ t a role. It was my life. I wasn ’ t okay with every person gossiping, watching, and judging me as I walked the halls. I couldn ’ t disappear from this, and I had a feeling if I tried to, Dash would hunt me down and drag me back to his side. I know he needed me for the smaller, private tasks, but there was something else brewing, something neither of us was going to admit. A chemistry, those kisses.
Did he think about them as much as I did?
Am I just a silly, foolish girl playing with the big bad wolf?
Dash didn ’ t seem to care what others said, or what the gossip mill was churning out, that or he was really good at ignoring people. At least people feared him, even with his broken leg. I was the one who they approached now, who they questioned. Girls cornered me in the bathroom, guys looked at me like I could be their next fuck. It was infuriating.
If I got one more question as to what Dash, Dante, and Cillian were planning, I think I might just poof and explode. It hadn ’ t even been one full school day and people were coming up with nicknames for the three of them; none worthy of mentioning thus far. Creativity wasn ’ t people ’ s strong suit here.
“ We have gym next,” I mumble as the final bell rings. I push from my desk, stand, and flex my toes, trying to bring blood back into them. Half the room glances at Dash before he moves to leave. I don ’ t miss how, when each class ends, half the class waits for him to leave first, and the other half flees from the room in fear. I don ’ t know which is wiser.
“ Actually,” Dash lazily reaches for his crutch, his eyes scanning those who linger in the room with us. He places the crutch on the floor as if he just pulled out Excalibur. It ’ s powerful, breathless, such a simple, effortless act Dash King has turned into a suspenseful spectacle. His movements are fluid and, okay, I admit it, sexy. Dash is ethereal, god-like, and I can ’ t stop thinking about him.
I think about that kiss, his harsh words, his fire, his taunts. I can ’ t stop thinking! A part of me wants to kiss him again and the other part thinks I should run.
I don ’ t think I ’ ll listen to her. Most girls don ’ t. Women have hearts that beat with passion and what ’ s more passionate than scars? They are filled with memories, and memories are only made by events that are impactful, whether heartbreaking or euphoric. We need a scarred heart in order to live, in order to breathe, be wiser the next time around, or be more numb if we make the same mistake again.
Josh and Ethan, two guys who linger now, hurry, bumping into the row of desks they pass by as they flee the classroom. Those two have been clinging close to Dash, as if he would grant them entry to his newfound lunch table.
“ We don ’ t have gym next,” Dash replies as he places the crutch under his arm.
“ Oh.” I do. Why does not seeing him during my next class make me feel…deflated? I should be happy. I get a break from dancing with the devil. I grab my backpack and swing it over my shoulders. “ Okay, I ’ ll see you at dinner then. Remember, I ’ ll meet you there because I have ballet before.” I begin to turn to the door.
“ Little fox,” he purrs. Hearing that ridiculous nickname makes my heart jump. I feel all giddy, like a kid about to do something naughty. “ Not so fast. We do have class together. It ’ s just not gym.”
Inhaling deep, I hesitate, then slowly turn to face him. That sly grin he wears so well would make the cast of the Vampire Diaries jealous. It ’ s so snarky, insanely seductive and…panty-melting.
Why is a dangerous smirk from a bad boy so tempting?
“ I have gym.” Oh, lord, what happened to my voice? I sound like a clothespin is pinching my throat closed, allowing only insecurity and pain to squeak out. Reaching up, I grab the straps of my backpack tighter.
Dash shakes his head, his platinum blonde hair reflecting the classroom lights like a shiny sword. He loves the power of knowledge he ’ s holding over me.
I cross my arms, trying to mask my nerves.
He begins to walk past me confidently. When his shadow covers me, my heart skips a beat. It ’ s like watching an eclipse, being encased in darkness, with only an eerie light guiding your way. Slowly, he glances over his shoulder. “ Come on, you don ’ t want to be late,” he playfully scolds me.
“ Where are we going?” I reply as I hurry to catch up with him.
“ Class, obviously.”
“ Smartass,” I scold.
Dash snickers, earning a few looks of shock. You ’ d never expect the devil to laugh freely. I even find myself glancing from left to right, expecting to find a torture scene that caused his laughter.
Dash either has a photographic memory of the school layout or navigates us with sheer luck. We weave through hallways until we reach a new building.
“ That ’ s the Arts building,” I state as he pulls the door open. When I hesitate, he moves his crutch and smacks me in the ass with it. I yelp and glare at him.
“ I like to be punctual,” he whispers conspiratorially, his words wrapping around me like a spider spinning its web. “ Hurry up.” He nudges his head, and I enter the building.
“ Why are we in the Arts building?” I ask, confusion creeping into my voice.
“ What ’ s one plus one, Mila?” he retorts without missing a beat.
I roll my eyes. “ Five,” I reply, hoping to piss Dash off.
“ Wrong. Does that mean you want me to punish you?” He smirks like a demon that finds an angel ’ s feather and is ready to hunt her down.
“ What ’ s your point?” I stop walking and cross my arms.
He pauses and looks down at me. “ We have art class together. Hurry up.” His voice loses its playfulness, walls erect as if there ’ s an emotional danger lurking.
“ Art class?” I try to walk shoulder to shoulder-with him. The warning bell rings, echoing down the hall.
Dash sighs but doesn ’ t reply. He turns down the hall and leads us into the painting room. The scent of oil and fresh canvas fills the air.Mrs. Jones, one of the art teachers here, looks up and smiles warmly at Dash. I don ’ t know her personally since I ’ ve never taken her class, but from what I hear, she is one of the rare teachers here who doesn ’ t enjoy inflicting pain on her students.
“ Dash and Mila, welcome.” Mrs. Jones comes forward and greets us. “ They added a table for you both over there,” she points to a table in the far back. I glance around the room. The class hasn ’ t started yet, but the few students present are already taking out their supplies. I release a much-needed breath. Everyone seems chill, relaxed, and at ease. They have headphones in, and it seems like this room is a safe space.
Mrs. Jones guides us to the table. “ Since you ’ re starting mid-semester, I want to get a feel for your levels.”
Dash doesn ’ t regard her as he sinks into his chair.
My stomach churns, so I grip my backpack tighter and look at Dash like he ’ s a lighthouse and not an anchor dragging me down. “I know what you’re doing.” I hiss. This is his way of ensuring I paint, forcing me to use art therapy to stop my self-destructive behavior. My throat tightens, toes curl in. Run! Don't let him see any more of you!
“ Sit down, Mila,” Dash states with more authority than a president.
Mrs. Jones looks from him to me before flashing me a friendly, almost motherly smile.
I swallow. “ I can ’ t paint. I mean, I never have,” I whisper in her direction.
She reaches out and touches my shoulder. “ That ’ s okay, honey. We are never too old or young to play with paint.” Her voice is so kind that my knees wobble. I reach for the chair and sink next to Dash.
We sit in silence as Mrs. Jones talks. She sets up a small, still life consisting of simple shapes arranged under a spotlight. Then, she hands us each a brand-new sketch pad. “ This is meant to be fun, so don ’ t worry about a grade for this assignment. I want you to draw what you see.” She points to the shapes and then puts down a variety of drawing tools, from pencils to thick charcoal crayons and even ink pens. “ Try different mediums; get a feel for what feels right for you.”
“ I ’ m not good,” I declare.
She touches my shoulder again. “ This isn ’ t for a grade. I just want you to start somewhere. Just try, Mila. You can fill out that entire pad today, or you might only use one sheet. Just let go and feel the lines.” She smiles, then walks away toward another student who is waving for her help.
My eyes remain glued to the pencils. “ Why?” I whisper.
Dash reaches forward and shoves the pencils toward me, grabbing one for himself. “ You know why.”
“ I don ’ t understand why you ’ re trying to fix me.”
He snorts happily. “ Good. You ’ re finally admitting you need help. That ’ s a good start. Now,” he levels me with a cold stare, “ start drawing. I expect a picture at the end of class. You owe me.” His eyes linger, searching my face, tracing over my features.
How can eyes hold so much weight?
I reach out and grab a pencil, hoping to pacify his glare. I press the tip to the paper and begin to trace the shapes in front of me.
For the next twenty minutes, we both sit in utter silence and just draw. I look at what I have made. It ’ s not as bad as I feared, but it still looks childish.
I sigh. “ This feels stupid. It ’ s not going to help me,” I sneer, frustration bubbling under my skin.
Dash looks at my sketch, then at me, his expression unreadable. “ You ’ re not trying,” he growls.
“ I drew it!” I flash him my sketch pad.
“ Try harder. Try so hard that you stop thinking. Control the pencil; force the lines just like you force the needle into your finger.”
“ Shhh!” I scold him, my eyes glancing wildly around the room, but thankfully, everyone is absorbed in their art.
“ If you don ’ t want your nasty secret getting out, then stop doing it.”
A knot of embarrassment settles in my core.
He glances at me, then at his sketch pad, and continues to draw.
“ Let me see yours?” I protest, sounding like a petulant child.
“ No.”
“ How can you sound so emotionless at times, but then speak so proudly?” I blurt out.
His lip tugs up. “ It ’ s called talent.” He glances at my sketch pad as if to mock my lack of skills.
I roll my eyes, grab the pad, and start a new page, this time trying the charcoal pencil. As soon as I pick it up, a black, dusty residue is left on my finger. At first, I want to drop the charcoal and wash my hands clean again. Instead, I freeze and look at the stains.
“ Looks like you found your medium of choice,” Dash comments.
“ What?” I ask, unable to look away from the residue on my fingertip. I don ’ t know why, but it ’ s so captivating.
“ You connected with the charcoal.” He replies. I finally look at him. “ Makes sense because inside, you ’ re a mess. Now you can control the mess on your paper,” he adds without looking up from his drawing.
Stop looking at him! I can’t.
He ’ s so intense, like an eclipse that blinds you; you know you shouldn ’ t look, but you do because you think one second won ’ t hurt. One second is all it takes to alter the course of your life. It makes me want to act out, grab his sketchbook, and tear it to shreds.
“ You ’ re so annoying,” I mutter as I drop the charcoal and sketch pad. I grab my backpack and dig for my headphones, shoving them into my ears with so much force it might have popped my eardrum.
“ The truth often is. That ’ s why so many of us choose to ignore it,” he replies before I can block out his voice with my music.
I roll my eyes and put Spotify on shuffle. “ My Soul I” by Anne Leone comes on. I grab the messy charcoal and start to try to draw the shapes again. When it comes to adding the shadows, I push the charcoal hard into the paper; some of it crumbles and breaks. It ’ s a perfect reflection of me—dirty, broken, a mess. So opposite from when I dance. Ballet is clean and choreographed.
I push harder, too hard. My finger slips, and the black lines go outside the shape. I purse my lips, growing frustrated but also feeling free, so free that I don ’ t realize what I ’ m doing until the entire page is colored black. My entire palm is filthy from the charcoal. I ’ m panting by the time I realize what I have done.
I toss the sketch pad down on the table and look at my hands. I feel a strange high that is equal to when I poke my flesh with the needle. It ’ s different, though; with the needle, I feel in control, but then I feel guilty; with the art, I feel wild and free, chaotic. I suppose that ’ s control. I wait for the guilt to hit me, but it doesn ’ t.
I didn ’ t think that ’ s what I liked, but I think I do. It ’ s a different form of control, allowing yourself to make mistakes, be messy, filthy even.
The song is suddenly paused. I look up to see Dash holding my phone. “ Good. You snapped.”
“ I thought you wanted me to feel control, not lose it.”
“ Part of finding control is losing it, Mila. You have to run free in order to know how strong you are,” He states so seriously. I think he must have been a psychologist in another life.
Slowly, he paints a playful grin on his face; then, he selects a new song for me to listen to. “ Devil Like Me” by Rainbow Kitten Surprise. Dash sets down my phone and continues to work on his drawing. I just watch him sitting there for the entire song. It ’ s the lyrics of the song that make my chills have chills. He knows he ’ s the devil, but the song suggests he cries, too. What ’ s even more disturbing is the lyric that questions if the devil cries when the girl dies on the inside.
Dash King, does my pain, my broken, hurting state, my slow death in my current life cause you to feel too deep?