Chapter 3 Reyna #2
Shivers ripple down my spine under the full weight of his attention. I raise my chin, willing my fraying nerves to stay put for the next two hours so I can leave this class with what little sanity I have left.
And with my scholarship still intact.
His voice a low rumble only God and I could hear. “Hear me when I say this: You are unqualified. You are inexperienced. You do not matter. Your opinions are inconsequential.”
I pause.
This grade-A asshole.
I don’t give a rat’s ass what my résumé looks like, no one deserves to be so demeaned. Shaw represents everything bad about this industry: the ego, the entitlement, stepping on those he deems lesser because he’s set himself up on the gilded pedestal that he made.
I’m getting under his skin, and he hates it. If he wants someone to kiss his ring, there are people in this class who would volunteer to do his laundry. If he wants someone to push around, he’s barked up the wrong tree.
Folding my hands behind my back, I ask, “And what qualifications do you have to teach this class?”
He narrows his eyes. Heat zaps through the air between us, electrifying each of my blood cells.
I have to hold my breath to stop taking in his addictive scent.
He’s close enough to trail my fingers along the curve of his cheek.
Three steps and I could press myself to him to feel his strength against me.
Pretty people like Shaw are giant red flags until proven otherwise. Men like him make you stupid. The fact that I’m still thinking he’s the most attractive man I’ve ever seen while he’s looking at me like I’m the greatest inconvenience in existence is evidence enough.
“Maddox Shaw. Look up the name.”
“Why? Does your Wikipedia bio confirm that you struggle with conveying emotions? Maybe some crayons would help.”
Not only is my inability to keep my mouth shut going to get me kicked out of this university, but it’s a blatant lie. Feeling isn’t the issue. There’s just a disconnect with what he was trying to achieve and the execution. The look on his face tells me that he thinks I believe my words.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to backtrack. Mom would never say anything like that unless she backed it up with suggestions on how to improve. He beats me to it before I can.
“Get out.”
I fight the urge to cower. “You first.”
With how much I need this class to get my degree, an army of the undead couldn’t drag me out of here.
“I’m your professor.”
“You’re our temporary teacher,” I correct. “You have no authority to kick me out of a class I’ve paid for when you are neither the convener nor named in the syllabus. You’re a fill-in. Your demand holds no weight.”
Shaw stares at me for one long, tense moment, and it’s like a switch goes off in his head. He straightens. Any hint of burning emotion that was flashing through his eyes is gone in an instant. “Very well. I look forward to receiving your assignment tonight.”
My stomach drops. I forgot about that.
I should apologize. Maybe make pretty promises not to misbehave.
Shit, I should call a truce. Except I spin on my heels, exit the storage room, and take a seat behind Nicole, who has her nose shoved in her laptop.
The lecture hall must have quickly begun to fill while Maddox and I had our little spat.
The vast majority of arriving students are drooling over our new teacher. If I didn’t have prior interactions with him, I’d be falling victim to his charm.
Maddox Shaw is a Cresswell legacy known worldwide for his morbidly beautiful pieces.
Born into wealth, he made a name for himself at sixteen.
He was the recipient of the prestigious Henry Locket Award for Artist of the Year at age twenty-two, making him the youngest person who has ever received it.
He has two paintings in the Louvre, another in Buckingham Palace, and one in the Pentagon.
And I just insulted him.
Again.
I don’t need to look him up, because I know all his accolades. I just didn’t know what he looked like.
Shaw didn’t just jump into stardom; he plunged into it.
I can’t remember the exact name of the piece, but I recall seeing photos of it when I was a kid.
Even Mom was thoroughly impressed by it.
She nudged me and said that I’d be a bigger deal than him one day.
It was her way of saying that she was enamored by the piece.
At sixteen, he made a life-size mixed-media painting where he sculpted a woman onto the canvas.
She was cloaked in an intricate white cloth, painted with a lace pattern, and she had torn black sinew wings that hung from the canvas, ripping a king’s head off.
Parts of the man’s face were shredded to reveal a real pig skull beneath.
The only reason I remembered it was because it traumatized my nine-year-old brain. I asked Mom if a demon made it.
It enraged the animal-rights activist groups.
When Shaw was asked about it, he smiled and said that’s part of the art.
Saying, people will make assumptions about things they don’t understand based on a single glance.
Then he provided evidence he used a diseased pig that died long before Shaw got his hands on it.
That kid turned into the legend standing before me today.
God, I’m an idiot. I need to get a handle on myself and make it onto his good side.
Give him a gift basket or something. Shaw’s mentorship would be invaluable and push the bounds of my abilities to turn me into the type of person that people make documentaries about.
Still, I know I won’t take all of it back. Buying his forgiveness would be fruitless.
Shaw used to create masterpieces. What I saw in the exhibition wasn’t one. It’s been years since I’ve looked up what the critics are saying about him, and I don’t imagine it would be very good.