Chapter Eight
“What the hell?!” I shout, shoving my chair back with a screech as my avatar respawns for the fourth time in ten minutes.
On my screen, Thiago’s character is standing still, but his cackling through my headphones gives me visions of him doubled over, clutching his sides.
All I have to go on though is the stoic avatar whose armor is flickering gold and crimson in the torchlight.
His little dragon familiar snorts flames like it’s laughing too.
“I told you not to charge into the ogre cave,” he says, all too smug for my liking. “But nooo, you had to go full rogue assassin before you’ve leveled up enough. I can tell patience isn’t your forte.”
“I had that ogre down to twelve HP! Twelve! You just stood there like a show pony!” I pace in a circle, coming back to lean on the desk. I can confirm gamer rage is a real thing. Thiago clears his throat for my attention.
“Correction. I stood there like a majestic battle stallion.”
“Battle stallion my ass. You were adjusting your inventory.”
“I was crafting a better bow!”
I press my palm to my forehead. This man is going to be the death of me.
Pulling me into this virtual realm, only to leave me to fend for myself whilst he’s rearranging his inventory.
I drink the last of the vitamin water from my Stanley cup and collect myself before taking a seat.
My shoulders ache from hunching and I decide to check the time on my phone. Damn.
“Do you know we’ve been playing this game for four hours and we’ve made zero progress in the storyline?” I huff, irritated all over again. At what, I’m not exactly sure. Thiago makes a small humming sound and I can imagine him shrugging.
“Progress is overrated. I just like hanging out with you.” I go still, letting his words sink in. A blush rises to my cheeks far too easily and I’m thankful Thiago can’t see me right now. Licking my lips for some composure, I click back into the game.
“If that’s the case, help me defeat this ogre then.” Just as I lift my spear, Thiago’s avatar crafts a small bed and lies himself in it.
“I’m done for today,” he comments in my ears. A few bones crack and the groan of a good stretch quickly follows. “Now you’ve been dutifully distracted, we can revisit why you’re hiding in your room instead of sitting in class. What are you supposed to be in right now?”
I glance at the planner I spent all morning decorating, as if that could have made the day roll by smoothly. Unfortunately, my planner doesn’t account for small-minded assholes.
“An introduction to the applied arts,” I mumble. It was probably a class I shouldn’t have missed, but I didn’t even make it across the quad before the whispers and stares weighed me down so much, I could barely breathe.
After yesterday’s dramatics, the rumors have gotten worse.
They’re saying I somehow started the fire.
That I planned it in case Everest beat me in try-outs, and how I lured him into the flames in an attempt to get rid of him for good.
Poor Everest, they said. Jealous bitch, they called me.
I scoffed a bitter laugh, turned and strode straight back to the safety of my room.
If Thiago has picked up on my change in mood, he doesn’t comment. Instead, he asks if I’ve used my new planner yet, which I respond that I have, and then asks me to talk him through my week.
“Well, I have a private counselling session every Thursday morning, and group social interventions on Tuesday afternoons. Most mornings are taken up with practical art classes, although Wednesdays are for art history and theoretical work. And afternoons are for project work or study time. That’s it,” I purse my lips and close my planner.
It’ll be an adjustment, to say the least. I thought switching my major to art might be therapeutic, and doing forensic psychology no longer interested me.
I don’t want to dive into the minds of criminals anymore.
An ex-con kidnapped and tortured me. My new coping mechanism is to believe bad people are just born bad and no amount of sympathizing will change the fact that I became a victim to one.
I won’t allow myself to understand him. I just want to hate him.
Thiago hums and I almost flinch. Almost. I’d briefly forgotten he was listening in.
“Sounds good as far as timetables go. Plenty of free time to be on call with me until the early hours of the morning.”
I roll my eyes but there’s a smirk growing on my face. “We might run out of things to talk about.”
“Impossible,” he snorts before loudly slurping in my ear. “We can talk about your terrible decision-making when faced with a giant ogre blocking our path.”
A trickle of laughter escapes me.
“Or we could discuss your coffee addiction.”
“Hey, this is only my….third cup, maybe. Who’s counting?”
“Your kidneys are.” I deadpan. Thiago is mid-retort when a new notification slides across my phone screen. My smile fades as I click it open. Immediate summons to the Dean’s office. I sit back in my chair, my heart kicking up a beat against my ribs. The email states I’m expected in twenty minutes.
“Everything okay?” Thiago asks, quieter now. I click the message closed.
“I, uh, yeah. I’ve been requested to the Dean’s office. I’ll message you later, okay?”
“Oh,” Thi says, and I hear the static shuffle of him probably sitting upright and placing down his coffee. “Yeah, of course. Speak soon, Amorzinha.”
I close the call and tug off my headset.
My reflection catches the black screen of my monitor.
Hair messy, cheeks flushed, expression tight.
Screw it, there’s no time to debate how I look.
I straighten my sweatshirt and shove my feet into my shoes.
Whilst running through a mental checklist, I pat down my pockets, closing the door behind me as I leave.
The hallway is quiet except for the hum of overhead lighting and the distant squeak of someone’s sneakers on linoleum. I round the corner toward the stairwell and collide full-force with a warm wall of muscle.
“Shit,” I stumble back, but a hand clamps firmly around my upper arm to steady me. I blink up, ready to tell whoever it is to watch where they’re going, but the words catch in my throat. It’s the guy from next door.
The one with the sharp cheekbones, the ever-present beanie over his stark white hair, and the permanent scowl.
His hoodie’s half-zipped, still covered in paint streaks, revealing a string of tattoos that climb his collarbone like dark secrets etched into his skin.
The curve of muscle beneath the fabric is distracting enough, but then his fingers linger a beat too long on my arm before dropping away.
His eyes sweep over me deliberately, starting at my flushed face, trailing down my sweater and pausing at the fashionable holes torn into my jeans.
I can’t tear my eyes away from his. Their stormy gray coloring is unlike anything I’ve seen before, intriguing and mysterious.
I stand there long enough for his aftershave to envelope me, a light scent that isn’t overpowering.
I force myself to swallow when no words come out.
The silence stretches long enough to become uncomfortable, yet it’s charged with something I don’t understand.
The metal ring in his lip glints, the veins in his arms are an unwelcome distraction.
For some reason, he doesn’t seem to mind my visual exploration, since he’s doing the same to me.
Whatever prolonged moment we’re having comes to an abrupt end, as he pulls a single earbud from his hoodie pocket and slides it into his ear.
He arches a brow but says nothing, brushing past me.
As if I wasn’t just standing in his way, a few inches from his chest. I track him all the way to his door, where he opens it and disappears without looking back once.
Shaking my head, I remember I’m supposed to be going somewhere. I take the stairs two at a time, feeling the vibration of my phone in my back pocket. I slide it out and almost die at the message waiting there.
Thi: Well, that was weird.
Stopping still, I glare up at the CCTV camera in the corner blinking red at me.
Meg: Stop watching me. Go outside or shower or something.
Pocketing my phone before I can read Thiago’s reply, I take off, practically running down the rest of the stairs, wondering for the millionth time why my life is so confusing.
I have a rival who is acting like an unspoken hero, an inconsiderate neighbor who is far too broody for his own good, and a cyber hacker who is confusing caring for stalking.
This may be a year of abstinence talking, but what happened to territorial men who just said what they meant and took what they wanted?