Chapter 9 Reyna
REYNA
Don’t bite the hand that teaches you, or whatever the saying is.
My argument with Shaw is just as stupid as my decision to climb the three flights of stairs to his office instead of taking the elevator. I’m only delaying the inevitable.
Just because I’m aware I should own up to my mistakes doesn’t mean I like nor want to. Alas, I must re-salvage whatever professional-nonprofessional relationship we have.
He scared me shitless when I heard him coming up behind me last night.
Whatever relief I felt from it being him and not an attacker was short-lived when I ended up (regrettably) stunned by how well he wears the smart-disheveled look.
Then I became immediately ungrateful that I was getting verbally attacked.
Thank you for your concern, Mr. Shaw, but kindly fuck off. Oh, and don’t let this impact my grades, pretty please xoxo.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I stop in the middle of the marble steps to shove my chunky screenplay textbook into my satchel, and my shoulder immediately screams in protest.
LAWRENCE:
What are you doing tomorrow night? My buddies from work got me vouchers to some restaurant.
My sigh threatens to shake the foundations of the old building. I really want to cut ties with Lawrence, but I can’t. He has information about my dad and is my only access to the murders. It’s not like the kills are appearing on the news. I’m stuck with him.
ME:
I can’t, sorry. I promised Kimi I’d accompany her shopping.
Grocery shopping. So it isn’t a complete lie.
I tuck the phone into my pocket and ignore the next text that comes through.
I give tight-lipped smiles to students and staff passing by and swallow my envy that they aren’t on their way to open Pandora’s box.
I could technically put this off until after class tomorrow, but I’m bound to lose sleep over it if I do.
I’d rather rip out the anxiety in my chest. It’s not good for the soul.
I swipe my sweaty hands on my dress as I climb up the final set of steps. Of course, he gets the nicest floor in the building. The hallway is grand, much like the rest of Cresswell, with high ceilings and arches framing each solid-mahogany door.
Paintings from various alumni adorn the corridor, and a Renaissance-style mural sprawls across the ceiling. It seems to come alive beneath the low, golden light coming from the gilded sconces.
There’s only one door at the very end of the hall, secluded from everything else.
Fitting for the harbinger of death.
Taking a deep breath, I rap my knuckles on the old wooden door and give the entrance a wide berth in case he decides to rip the thing open and knock me out with it. The seconds stretch on as I wait. And wait.
And wait.
I knock again.
Maybe he’s not here.
I don’t think he’s teaching any classes this afternoon. It’s definitely outside of his scheduled office hours. I mean, I did decide to leave it until five to talk to him, so it’s entirely possible he’s gone home for the day—
The door whips open to reveal Shaw standing there, scowling like Satan himself has come to shit on his parade.
His hair stands at odd angles and brushes the skin of his face; it’s beautifully tousled and made to run fingers through.
Dots of navy paint cover part of his hand, and there’s a blotch of white on his dress pants.
The top buttons of his shirt are undone, sleeves rolled up to the top of his forearms; his usual tie and vest combo is nowhere to be found.
He’s the most attractive disheveled mess I’ve ever seen, and God I can’t get enough of the smell of him. I want to touch his ridiculously gorgeous face, feel his hands on me, and listen to him rip into me in his lethally addictive British accent—the simple things in life.
Wait, is he wearing yesterday’s clothes?
Venomous green eyes widen before his brows knit together in a deep frown.
“Did something happen?” Maddox—Shaw sounds genuinely concerned.
The question takes my axis for a spin. The same fuzzy feeling I felt last night fizzles in my chest. I expected a comment about how this isn’t his office hour, or how I should have booked an appointment if I wanted to speak with him—word on the street is that he’s very particular about when he can and cannot be disturbed.
“Can we talk?” I clasp my hands together to stop myself from tugging on the sleeve of my cardigan. “About last night.”
Something dark crosses Shaw’s eyes. He considers for a beat, then steps back to let me inside after sticking his head out the doorway like he’s making sure no one saw his dirty little secret. My plan to question his behavior dies.
His studio is stunning.
Without permission, I help myself into his space.
The room is situated at the corner of the building and wraps toward the opposite wing in an L shape.
The afternoon sun illuminates the canvases spread throughout the entire studio, hanging on the forest-green walls, stacked on the floor, or on the easel taking center stage.
Clay sculptures are scattered throughout, some that just need finishing touches, others that appear far from complete.
Everything he could possibly need is in here. Against one of the walls is a kitchenette complete with a fridge, portable stove, and microwave. There’s a rumpled blanket sprawled over a leather couch, and a pillow dangerously close to falling onto the Persian rug.
I don’t know of any other professor who’s been awarded this much luxury. I’m fairly certain every art teacher here gets a dingy little office and a studio they can book if they want to paint. Yet here he is, like he’s the king of kings. I guess he’d need the big space for his massive ego.
Shaw makes no move to stop me from going farther into the room, and I take it as his silent invitation.
My lips part as I absorb every half-finished piece of art.
I have to shove my hands in my pockets to keep myself from going through the stacks of discarded canvases, and unveiling his sculptures.
The easel in the center of the room beckons me closer until I’m only a couple of feet away from Shaw’s current piece.
One thing crosses my mind: He’s back.
A faceless woman stands at the edge of a cliff, staring into the distance as a taper candle melts onto her hand.
Six feathered seraphim wings are spread high and proud, but she holds herself like she’s exhausted, pained, as if she’d be swaying if the painting weren’t stilled in a performance that never ends.
We aren’t looking at her front on, but from a low angle and to the side, like we’re a devotee worshipping at her altar.
I don’t know how long I spend staring at the painting. Colors have been set down everywhere except her face, like he hasn’t quite decided how she’s meant to look. The sight of her already makes my heart ache.
It’s almost unrecognizable compared to what I’ve seen of his work. This woman was painted through the lens of a lover. It’s intimate.
“Quite the piece,” Maddox says, like the first time we met.
“It’s beautiful.” It comes out on a breath, and I mean it wholeheartedly.
“Your words mean nothing.”
Two steps forward and one step back.
Irritation flashes through me. I turn in time to catch the bitter amusement passing through his expression. “Great. I’ll say it again in a year’s time while holding my bachelor’s. Or would I need a doctorate to be considered qualified by your standards?”
Shaw shakes his head, frowning at his work. “I’d say the same thing if it were Rembrandt himself telling me. It’s incomplete and lifeless, far from any masterpiece.”
“Sometimes you have to trust the process.”
“I don’t trust anything.”
“That must be exhausting.”
He huffs a humorless laugh. “There’s no rest for the wicked. I’ll take a break when I’m dead.”
I roll my eyes. How dramatic. “Or you could rest now. Have a hard reset before you end up in an early grave—which probably sounds more like a holiday for you since you seem to love all things tortured.”
The full weight of his attention falls on me, holding me in place. The violent intensity in his eyes tells me that I’m barely scratching the surface of that truth. As fucked-up as that is, it excites me.
“And you?” Maddox raises a brow. “Following a serial killer? Poetizing murder for the screen? You have an affinity for the morose.”
“I find peace in the dark and the macabre.”
“That’s awfully grotesque of you, Miss Sinaga.” A slow half smile pulls at his lips, and mine curls to match. My pulse hammers at the same time a swarm of wingless butterflies flitter through my stomach.
My cheeks heat, but I can’t bring myself to look away from him. I’ve never seen a genuine smile on him before. I wish I had my camera on me so I could capture the moment and set it in stone the only way I know how.
In another life, I think we could be friends. There’s too much difference in this one.
And he’s an arrogant bastard.
My eyes catch the images stuck onto the wallpaper behind him, and a boulder lodges in my throat. At least six annotated printouts of Maria van Oosterwyck’s paintings, as well as countless other pieces of art done by women in the same era.
He listened to my opinion. He listened even though he thought I was wrong.
“And?” Maddox asks. At my questioning look, he gestures at his painting. “Penny for your thoughts.”
I suck in a sharp breath. My skin feels too heavy for my body. The warmth unfurling in my stomach makes it hard to think clearly. Maddox Shaw is asking for my opinion. He wants it. Even after everything he said.
My throat bobs. There are a thousand different things I could say. If I call him remarkable, he won’t believe me. If I say it’s lackluster, I’d be lying.
“Why is she faceless?”
The muscle in his jaw twitches in frustration. He doesn’t answer for a while, and I’m left stewing that I’ve chosen the wrong thing to say.
“I’m deciding whether I’ve met her yet.”
I frown at the painting. It could be anyone. The image I have in mind will never be precisely the same as his.