Chapter 3 Reyna
REYNA
Pink Ink? God, why did I think the premise of this project was a good idea?
Re-creating murder scenes with pink blood?
That shit is a nightmare to edit to get the tone just right.
Don’t even get me started on what a pain in the ass it is when the vibrancy of the corn-syrup mixture differs from batch to batch.
I’ve stared at my laptop for so long I’m starting to see double.
The idea came to me when I was eight and I just got caught watching Carrie. I told Mom it would be less scary if the blood was pink. She shook her head, told me I could do that when I’m older, then instilled the fear of God in me for sneaking out of bed.
Bradford laughed at my concept. If he does it another time, Nicole will need to hold me back from supergluing his desk drawers shut.
My alarm goes off, and I tap my screen a little too aggressively.
Grumbling under my breath, I pack up my things and shuffle out of the library.
I don’t want to say that the assignment I’m submitting tonight is a pile of trash.
But I’m not saying my mom wouldn’t compare it to my classmate’s work and passive aggressively point out everything they did better than me.
Some of the framing is definitely off.
Is it worth a C? Absolutely not. Is Professor Bradford going to give me a C? One hundred percent.
I am not sure how many more of those I can afford before I lose my scholarship. I’ve been getting decent enough grades in my other classes, but he’s single-handedly annihilated my GPA. Even the psychology elective I’m suffering through is going substantially better.
Hell, maybe Mom and Dad didn’t want me going to Cresswell because they have issues with Professor Bradford and no one cared to enlighten me about it.
I exit the library, going down the grand steps, toward the fountain that has water pouring from the mouths of sea monsters.
Behind the Gothic gate, the traffic noise disappears, as if this university exists on its own plane.
The spires of the neo-Gothic library casts the barest shadow across the courtyard pavement, cutting through the fog where skyscrapers should be.
The campus looks like a jigsaw puzzle of buildings erected across multiple centuries.
On the left, past the russet four-story Victorian-era liberal arts building, is the Cresswell Art Gallery.
I can just see it beside the glass cheese-grater-looking monstrosity that stands out like rotten fruit. I call it my personal brand of hell. Everyone else calls it Cresswell Law School. It replaced the neoclassical brownstone that burned down about a decade ago.
People walking to and from buildings, wrapping themselves tighter in their coats, juggling books, and balancing canvases. Some perch on the edge of the fountain to eat their late lunch or hang out.
I lower my head to avoid making eye contact with anyone.
It’s a big place, with an even bigger student body.
Everyone doesn’t know everyone. But anyone who knows who I am, knows I don’t belong here.
I’m considered… odd because of my circumstances.
The girl with dead parents who moved across the country midway through her final year to make “fucked-up” videos, as someone from the film club called them.
It doesn’t help that I didn’t sign up for any groups or societies. Everyone I know at Cresswell, I know through Kimi. I’m just her tagalong friend. Lawrence didn’t see me that way, and I liked that too much.
Music blares through my headphones, just shy of my ears bleeding.
It’s doing a crap job of keeping me from falling asleep while standing.
As if that’s not bad enough, I’m panting and peeling my scarf from my sweat-slicked skin after needing to run across campus to the very edge of the east side and into the Victorian brownstone that houses most of the lecture halls.
I need to get to class early so I can ask Bradford to explain why my last assignment was only worthy of a C. He’s usually pissy after needing to teach, so hopefully he’ll be in a reasonably decent mood if I catch him now.
The music cuts off as I lower the headphones down around my neck.
The last time I walked into Bradford’s class with them on, he threatened to confiscate them like we were back in high school—but a much prettier high school that takes pride in always having art displayed on the walls and proper mahogany desks that have somehow survived abuse from students.
The muscle in my jaw twitches and prepares to interact with the human embodiment of a viral infection.
Except Bradford isn’t lounging behind his desk, hand over his beer gut.
His stale stench doesn’t assault my nostrils the second I step inside.
No, there’s something… masculine lingering in the air instead—like bergamot.
The room is empty except for the man leaning against the cedar desk, with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and glasses pushed right up his nose.
His imposing frame is relaxed, casual yet refined, lost in the book he’s reading.
I can’t help dragging my eyes from his polished shoes to his black slacks, up to his woolen vest and plaid button-up combo with tie.
Then to the five o’clock shadow and full lips and, finally, his poison-ivy eyes.
Oh.
Oh no.
“It’s you.”
His gaze snaps up to mine, and the temperature plummets ten degrees.
“You.” He sneers, British accent lacing the single syllable.
Shoot me.
“Where’s Professor Bradford?” I whip my head around the room in case I might spot him hiding in the corner. I’ll pick the Grinch who stole Christmas over the Lord of Darkness.
“Unavailable.”
“Is he dead?” I probably sound a little too hopeful. I’ve been watching too many horror movies.
“No.” He raises an eyebrow like he’s only partially amused by my response.
When he doesn’t elaborate, I follow his line of sight to the whiteboard behind him, where two words are written in cursive letters: Maddox Shaw.
Shaw, like the artist I openly criticized last week. Shaw, like the man I looked right in the eye and said that his painting is lacking.
The only thing Shaw is glorifying is his ability to use a paintbrush.
Oh, I definitely fucked up.
I’m going to lose my scholarship.
“Feel free to drop out of this class,” Shaw says, stirring me out of my existential crisis.
My jaw drops. “It’s midway through the semester.”
Getting my liver plucked out by a big bird every day would hurt less than this interaction. I knew Shaw taught at Cresswell; I just didn’t expect him to look like… like a goddamn dream.
“Not my problem.” He shrugs, returning his attention to his book as if I’m an inconsequential speck of dust.
This is the great Maddox Shaw? Color me livid.
I can’t move a muscle. I’m stuck, dumbfounded, and seething.
He’s the one who wanted me to explain the observation I made about the painting.
He’s the one who started the conversation to begin with.
Now he’s butt hurt and wants to be a threat to my career?
Absolutely fucking not. I have come too far to have it all thrown away by an obnoxious, overly sensitive, entitled man.
Moss-colored eyes flick up to me from above the black frames of his glasses. “Didn’t your mother teach you not to stare? Although, I’m sure she forgot to teach you a lot of things to do with basic respect.”
My blood boils to near-deadly levels at the mention of my mother. If he knows she’s a sensitive topic, what’s the likelihood he’ll use it against me for the rest of the semester?
I’ll be damned if I am going to sit by and let some arrogant asshole talk shit about my mom just because he’s too egotistical to take criticism. Shaw can dish it out, but he can’t take it.
“Yes, just like teaching you how to put emotion on canvas would be a lost cause.” I’m not sure whether it’s the stress or lack of sleep that’s making it so that I don’t give two craps about the trouble my mouth will cause. Logic and reason aren’t registering right now.
His nostrils flare. It’s barely noticeable, but I’m paying attention like my life depends on it.
Shaw slams his book shut, places it on the desk, then casually walks to the storage room near the front of the classroom. Beneath his touch, the old, rickety wooden door releases a squeal that comes from the bounds of hell.
He holds it open, waiting for me to follow. Now that makes me pause.
But any hesitation I have evaporates when he makes a show of checking his watch like I’m boring him. I storm ahead.
It’s like walking myself into a slaughterhouse.
This was a bad idea. There are far worse things than death. Failing this class and being kicked out of Cresswell is one of them. But turning around would make me seem weak.
Shaw strikes me as the type of person who’s never had anyone challenge him. I’m happy to oblige—even though the only thing I should be doing is shutting up.
The small, enclosed space surrounds us, closing in on me as if my soul is about to separate from my body. Old cassette tapes, paperwork, and junk are stacked atop more crap on the old shelves. But it’s he who takes up the most space. I’ve never understood claustrophobia until now.
Dust particles float between us, the only barrier between me and him. Beneath the must and scent of old books, is him. It’s heady, and suffocating, and it makes my lungs squeeze because if I keep breathing him in, the wires in my brain are going to stop firing.
“Name?” he asks.
I blink hard, reorientating myself. “Why? Will you try to guess whether the assignments were directed by a man or woman? I assure you it can be just as painfully obvious.”
There’s no point resisting. He’s got access to all student records. It’d take him all of two minutes to figure my name out.
Slowly, Shaw closes the distance, stalking forward like a beast cornering its meal. Maintaining eye contact is like I’m threatening a lion, and I am nothing if not a stubborn idiot sometimes.