Chapter 13 Reyna
REYNA
“Guess how much these cost me.” Kimi taps her acrylic claws on the table, half an inch away from my bowl.
I could guess, but either way, it didn’t come out of her wallet. Whenever her dad limits her bank account, random men step up—hair, nails, eyelashes, Botox, weekly facials, massages, all the things I wish I were in the tax bracket to even think about doing.
“You could take an eye out with those things.” I spoon the disappointing, Westernized nasi goreng into my mouth.
She holds her hand up, admiring the flowery design. “Exactly. You know who to call if you need them for one of your scenes. As long as it’s not too fucked-up, I’m in.”
There are those words again. Fucked-up.
I brush them off because I know she doesn’t mean it as an insult. She supports what I do and what I like, but she doesn’t see what I see. “Don’t get too ahead of yourself. I need to come up with a new concept for that to happen.”
There are plenty of kills by the Shadow that I could choose from for my next project, but none of them have me hooked. The recent ballerina-esque murder was inspiring, except I don’t know anyone who does ballet. My two left feet sure won’t be playing the victim in it.
Obviously, I could come up with my own murder idea. In fact, I really want to. But it weirdly feels like I’d be betraying the Shadow if I did. So unless he has a new kill, I’m stuck with the ballerina idea. But…
“You took dance when you were younger, right?”
Kimi grimaces. “I did hip-hop for, like, six months, then got kicked out for arguing with one of the other girls.”
“Arguing?”
“I threw my shoe at her,” she clarifies.
“Same thing.” It’s a wonder how she’s never spent a night in jail.
“I love that you support women’s wrongs.” Kimi grins.
I roll my eyes. “That’s not a blanket rule. A lot of women do terrible things.”
“And we love it. A woman doing wrong is just a woman acting the way men get away with—wait.” Kimi double-taps her phone to check the time.
“Shit. I’m so late.” She jumps to her feet and contorts her fingers in an unnatural angle to hold her iced coffee, phone, wallet, keys, and books in a single hand.
Frowning, I check my watch. “Our next class doesn’t start for another two hours.” We both picked psychology as our elective paper. Turns out, we both suck at stats, so we’re like dumb and dumber in that class.
Kimi winks at me. “I have a hot date.”
“With a new flavor or an old one?”
“A rich one. Owen.” She sings his name.
“What happened to Jake?”
“Jack,” she corrects. “Jake was the one before him. I saw him run up the stairs, and immediately got the ick. His personality was nice while it lasted—and he didn’t last very long.”
I chuckle at the innuendo. I’m not sure how that girl manages to go on a date every week. Over eighty percent of the time, it’s with a new guy. “You really need to stay away from guys whose name starts with J.”
“Babe, you haven’t lived unless you’ve been traumatized by at least one dude with the letter J at the start of their name. It’s usually the Joshes,” she says as she saunters away.
“Wear protection,” I say a couple of volumes too loud.
And I’m not just talking condoms. Something that could take a man out for long enough to run. There’s no way in hell I’d fall asleep at night without knowing she can keep herself safe.
“Okay, Mom!” she throws over her shoulder as she rushes out of the cafeteria—if it can even be called that. This place is pretty much a gourmet food court.
Way back when, this Victorian building doubled as the on-campus dorms—or orphanage. I can’t quite remember. They’ve kept the mess hall operational ever since Cresswell opened, with exposed wooden beams above our heads and antique picture frames displaying the university’s original blueprints.
The whole “old timey” open dormitory vibe is an odd contrast to the food stalls with neon signs that clearly didn’t exist when this place was built.
The mess hall has every cuisine imaginable, and everything is well out of my budget. But every once in a while, I agree to meet Kimi here and order the cheapest thing on the menu.
Does this fried rice taste like it’s worth twenty-five dollars?
Absolutely not. Is it at least close to how Mom would make it?
Fuck no. They’re not even on the same planet.
I could get the same thing back in Indonesia from a stall on the side of the road and it would cost me two bucks and taste a thousand times better.
I take bite after begrudging bite, until there isn’t a single grain left on the plate. I’m not wasting my inheritance on expensive bad-tasting food I don’t finish. I don’t get hired as a videographer nearly often enough to pay the bills.
I nurse my half-decent coffee in my hand and mindlessly scroll through my phone.
I have a hundred other things that I should be doing right now, like planning my next film project, working on my other assignments, or attempting to comprehend a statistical analysis on the behavior of chickens.
Instead, I’ve spent over forty hours searching for a hint of what the honeycomb symbol could be.
There’s nothing helpful online, and I haven’t found anything in the library.
Searching for the symbol and the ceiling in Dad’s picture while simultaneously working, studying, and filming has made me hungover from life.
I’m at a dead end with my investigations.
My creative well is drying. I got a bad grade—a B—on the screenwriting assignment I thought I did really well on.
I woke up at 4 a.m. to help Nicole film her assignment.
I’m on the brink of losing my scholarship.
I just forked out close to a grand on new film equipment because my camera stopped working.
Honestly, I’m tired.
I want my mom. I want to know the father I never really got to have. And I want to be the star they always thought I could be.
I’m failing on all fronts.
Although, it was nice to have Shaw recognize my art and my macabre interests. It’s making me feel minutely less like a total screwup.
Sighing, I pack up my shit. If I’m going to mope, I might as well do it in front of a computer. That way if I find it in me to churn out five minutes’ worth of work, that’s still five minutes I’ve shaved off.
The weight of my satchel digs into my tense shoulder, and I mumble profanities under my breath. I think I need a full-body massage on top of a two-week nap.
I turn around, and gasp when I collide with a hard wall of muscle. The half-empty cup of coffee falls from my hand, and I stumble back, reaching for the chair behind me to stop myself from slipping.
Strong hands wrap around my waist to keep me steady. Bergamot and paint assault my senses, and my gaze clashes with poison-ivy eyes and a venomous scowl. Maddox.
Dear fucking God, I feel like I’m a real-life Wattpad character.
I follow Shaw’s line of sight.
To the man who’s still touching me.
Warm hands squeeze my waist, and I tense under the stranger’s hold. “You all right there? Sorry about that; I should have watched where I was going.”
It takes a beat before the cafeteria stirs back up.
“I, uh…”
If looks could kill, he and I would be dead ten times over under Shaw’s stare. Darkness pools into his eyes, and there’s something in his expression that I can’t quite make sense of. It’s an emotion I’ve never seen on him that sends chills down my spine.
Beyond the war behind his eyes, he looks like he’s been through hell and back, and got the shirt to prove it. It unsettles me in a way that almost makes me start asking questions about his well-being. Is it his art? Work? Family? Has he lost someone?
I have no right to know any of these things, but I’m no less curious. There’s a reason behind his Jekyll and Hyde personality. He seems to wear his arrogance like it’s a suit of armor, but everyone knows armor weighs a person down and makes it easier to drown.
Just like the last time I saw him disheveled, I can’t help but resonate with him.
He lost his art, and right now, I’m losing mine.
I clear my throat, stepping out of reach of the stranger.
The two men are like night and day standing next to each other.
Maddox, with his dark brows drawn together, five o’clock shadow, heavy bags under his eyes, radiating murderous energy.
The other man with bright-blue eyes, an easy smile, and the kind of casual Shaw wishes he could convince people he had.
“You have to let me get you another one.”
I stare at the man standing beside Shaw. He looks like he could be my age. It’s hard to tell with the stubble he’s sporting. “Another what?”
He motions toward the coffee splattered across the floor. “It’s my bad. Really, I owe you another one. It’d be rude not to.” His eyes twinkle to match his dazzling smile.
If Kimi were here, it’d be a hook, line, and sinker.
“Uh, that’s okay.” I shoot an awkward glance over to Maddox, who’s glaring daggers at the space between me and the guy. My gaze shifts to the hand Pretty Boy has moved to my elbow. It’s soft enough that I barely notice his grip, but there’s no mistaking its insinuation.
“What about dinner, then? I know a really nice steakhouse overlooking the river. Consider it my way of apologizing.” He gives me a bashful grin. “The name’s Spencer by the way.”
Dinner?
For one stupefying second, my deranged little brain wishes it were Maddox asking me out instead.
The last time someone offered to take me on a date within thirty seconds of meeting me would have been at a house party freshman year. He was smashed and slurring his words. Since then, the only male who has shown a modicum of interest in me is Lawrence, and that’s clearly going fucking great.
“She’s busy.”
Our attention snaps to Maddox. From the bottom of my heart, what the fuck?
“She has an assignment coming up.”