6. Caleb
Chapter 6
Caleb
C lass passes slowly. My mind drifts, not comprehending the lecture the teacher gives at the front of the room. I paste on a bored expression and hope he doesn’t ask questions.
Two girls try to pass me notes, but Theo intercepts and reads them. He scrawls crude little stick-figure drawings of people fucking doggy-style or in a sixty-nine position. He flashes them at me before flicking them back to the girls.
I don’t catch how they take it. I don’t really fucking care either.
My attention is on Margo . Filled with the sight of her, her sweet, innocent reactions when I do something obscene. Like kissing Savannah, which was risky at best.
That’s twice now that I’ve used Margo’s ex-best friend in retaliation, and an uncomfortable feeling worms down my spine. Savannah is known to get attached—especially when it comes to things she wants but can’t have.
Nothing I can’t handle, but something to be mindful about.
The second-to-last bell rings, and I unfold myself from the desk with a slow exhale.
Hockey practice has been kicking our asses lately. Coach Marzden just wants us to be ready for our first game. With a whole slew of new teammates, and us stepping up into the senior positions, it’s been an adjustment. Nothing we can’t handle, of course. I run a well-oiled first line.
Last year, at the end of the season, I was made captain. There was nothing better—except perhaps winning the championship title. Something we have our sights set on again this year.
My ribs are bruised from an ill-timed block the other night, hitting just above my padding. They’re sore, but everything should be fine by the time we hit the ice to play against Lion’s Head next weekend.
Theo follows me out the door. We go in the same direction, our classrooms for the next period in the south tower. We don’t speak, but that’s always been the way of things. He’s quiet and stoic, only lightening up when we drag it out of him. It usually takes strong-arming or ribbing him incessantly to peel away his brooding mood.
His classroom is at the base of the tower, and mine is at the top. Four stories up. I march up the spiral steps without complaint, although my ribs make sure to ache at every step.
I’ve done my best to keep this part of my life low-key. It’s not that I’m embarrassed about this class, it’s just that I don’t like to advertise it. I’d hate to get a bad rep for being soft—or worse, artsy —when I’ve done so much to protect my charming asshole vibe.
Finally at the top, I enter the room. I take a deep breath, shifting the strap of my bag on my shoulder. Up here, the scent of paint and paper is soothing. There’s faint classical music playing from the desk in the corner.
Mr. Bryan walks around the empty easels and stools. They’re arranged in a circle, all pointing inward. We’ve been working on various small projects, learning the different mediums, and sometimes our art class takes a break from doing to learn about the history of it.
The days that I walk in and the easels are stacked against the wall aren’t my favorite, but I put up with it for the rest. Mr. Bryan and I have an understanding. He seems to see me without any of the strings that the other teachers regard.
Mainly, my last name.
The legacy of it, plus the business I stand to inherit sooner or later. My career has been laid out for me since I was young. I’m going to finish at Emery-Rose Elite at the top of my class, go to an Ivy League college—preferably Harvard, but maybe Yale or Brown—and then go work under my uncle. Learn the ropes.
With that kind of power amassing, it’s understandable why teachers—and so-called peers, instructed by their parents—walk around me as if on eggshells. Or worse, try to get close to me for disingenuous reasons.
Mr. Bryan isn’t like that. He treats me like everyone else, which at first I loathed, but now have a grudging respect for. I took my first class with him my sophomore year. While I’ve been drawing since I was twelve, only recently has he convinced me to try other mediums.
“You might be surprised,” he said, winking.
How could I resist that curiosity?
Now, I’ve come to realize that it’s like therapy. Who needs to talk when I can mess with paint for an hour and soothe some of the wild anger inside me? It’s either that or beat people to a pulp on the regular. Since my aggression can usually be handled on the ice, we breathe a bit easier during the season.
Hockey, too, fills a void. It’s something I naturally excel at, and I am addicted to the rush of the game. It’s strictly at odds with my artistic side.
I know, I know. I’m a complex human.
The classroom slowly fills, picking their regular spots. No one pays attention to me.
Art students, I’ve learned, don’t give a shit about the popular kids. It’s a relief not to be considered a fucking royal here, in the brightly lit classroom, surrounded by other disinterested students. It’s like the art department has a mind of its own.
And then Margo Wolfe walks in.
My blood boils before I even comprehend why. Her dark hair is long and silky, pulled over one shoulder. There are little twists in some of the locks, like she’s been nervously twirling it. Her plump pink lips are scored by her teeth.
The habit is a sign of worry, and it’s one of her weaknesses. My uncle broke any bad habits from me before I even entered high school. But watching her chew her lower lip and scan the room, big brown eyes wide, the urge to slam her against the wall grows stronger.
My heartbeat rages in my ears the longer she doesn’t see me. She really is like a lost lamb, standing waiting for a predator to devour her.
Me. I’m her biggest predator.
I’m half hidden by my easel, but it’s impossible to consider that she can’t feel my stare.
Mr. Bryan makes his way in her direction, but he’s stopped by another student with a question. Margo’s gaze falls to her feet and stays there.
Look at me , I want to yell. And if she still didn’t, I’d go up and wrap my hands around her pretty throat until she had no choice.
My dick hardens. I shift, but I can’t take my eyes away from her. This type of response from my body is… unusual, to say the least. I’m always in control of myself—until I’m not. But that comes with anger, not lust.
At the very least, if anyone glances back, they won’t be staring at my pants. It’s the face that’s the moneymaker, at least in a school uniform. Naked… whole different story.
Look at me.
She jerks around like I had spoken out loud, her eyes big as saucers.
I hate that she became beautiful.
She was a pretty child, a head of dark curls and big brown eyes, but she’s prettier without the baby fat. And the haunted glint in her eyes? It’d be better if I knew I was the one who put it there.
Right now, there’s too much uncertainty. Too many gaps in time for me to be confident in my involvement in her life.
“Go sit, Margo,” Mr. Bryan says, giving her a little push.
How dare he touch her?
I glower at him, but it’s lost when she finally moves. Her steps are quick and short, more of a skitter than walk, and she picks the farthest easel from me.
That won’t do. I gather my things and move to the seat next to her. “What am I? Chopped liver?”
Her expression blanks.
Before she can come up with something to say, Mr. Bryan claps.
“Welcome back,” Mr. Bryan says to the class. “Let’s start on a fresh canvas today, one of the smaller ones.”
He nods to one of the kids, a fragile-looking boy who’s flown under the radar for the most part. Tim? Tom? The kid picks up a stack of six-inch-by-six-inch canvases and passes them around.
“Quick warmup,” Mr. Bryan says. “Let’s use one color paint, and I want you to depict the mood you’re feeling. Ten minutes, then we’ll move on.”
I open my paint set and squirt black onto my palette. I ignore Margo and dip a thin brush into it, getting to work. It’s easy to sweep the black across the canvas, to project all of my locked-up feelings onto it.
As I said, this is way better than talk therapy. Even though I’m not watching Margo, I’m channeling my feelings toward her into this six-by-six frame.
And when I’m done?
Well, it’s a self-portrait, obviously.
A black monster escaping from the closet, its lower half a vortex of black smoke. The teeth are the best: white against its black face. White eyes.
Mr. Bryan never looks at these. Not when we’re around, at any rate.
I scrawl my initials at the bottom and put it off to the side to dry. Margo does the same, setting aside her square canvas. I can’t see it, but I do catch a glimpse of baby-blue paint on her brush. She wipes it clean and sets it down, fiddling with the hem of her shirt.
“Excellent,” Mr. Bryan calls. “How did that feel?”
Someone else answers. He has a particular skill of knowing exactly how to tune in and listen, and he nods emphatically at everything the girl says.
“Good. Now, we’re going to start our semester-long project. I know a lot of you are intimidated by oil paints.” There are a few snickers and gasps around the room. “Well, don’t be. Oil paints are persnickety things, but once you’ve mastered it… Beauty. And endless possibilities.” His voice is too fucking dreamy to be talking about oil paints.
Although an image flashes in my mind. Margo, covered in paint. Naked, of course. Maybe even tied down…
Hmm . Now that’s not a bad idea.
“A lot like life,” Margo says.
I snap to attention.
“Fuck no.” It comes out automatically. Pretty sure I would’ve disagreed with her no matter what she said.
She bristles, and I smirk in her direction.
Mr. Bryan ignores us and continues. “We’ll be pairing up and doing portraits. I expect you to see past the person’s exterior and bring out their best qualities.”
“Portraits?” Tim or Tom groans. “Like…”
I think he joined this class to work on his comic drawings, but the little shit would never admit such a thing.
“Like da Vinci,” Mr. Bryan answers, “or Picasso.”
“Wildly different examples,” another student says.
“And I expect you to explore your options before settling on a technique,” Mr. Bryan responds. “You’ll turn in one painting on the last day of class. It’ll be your entire grade.”
Margo groans. “Is this based at all on skill?”
“Afraid you aren’t up to par?” I goad under my breath.
“Yes and no,” Mr. Bryan answers her. “Whether you start working on that final piece today or a week before it’s due is up to you. Take time to improve upon skills or learn about your partner…” He shrugs. “Turn to the person beside you and introduce yourself. You’re going to get quite familiar with their face. I’d suggest starting with getting to know them, and if you feel comfortable, start with a sketch.”
That same kid goes around with bigger canvases, setting them on our easels quickly before returning to his chair. There’s a flurry of movement and chatter rising, everyone pairing up, but I remain still.
Margo turns in the opposite direction, but her neighbor has already paired with someone.
I clear my throat, pulling my lips up in the best imitation of a true smile. “Buckle up, buttercup. We’re going to get quite familiar.”
She swallows, and my pants tighten again. Damn her .
This is pure revenge—I’d do well to remember that. Toying with her, baiting her along…
She stares at me, the fear flashing across her eyes. She acts strong one minute and cowers the next. I don’t know what’s going on in her head. There used to be a time when we could practically communicate without words, when I could read her slight expression changes and she could read mine.
I fear we’re well beyond that now.
“Please don’t make my life hell in this class,” she whispers.
I lean closer to her, not sure I heard her correctly. She should know better than to ask for favors. It makes me want to give her the opposite. To twist the knife just to watch the betrayal flicker across her innocent face.
We could do this all year. She’ll ask and I’ll deny.
Just like she denied me of my dreams seven years ago. I know that sounds dramatic, but the truth of it burns inside me. The old fury that I used to keep locked away stirs in my chest. It demands justice. Repentance. Vengeance .
I’ve held on to this anger since I was young enough to pinpoint blame. Over the years, I’ve fantasized about how to make her pay. Or at the very least, how to make things right . But it seems like the only path forward is through pain.
I lean back on my stool, kicking out one leg. Around the room, people are maneuvering their easels to get a clear line of view of their partner. Margo doesn’t move. I just stare at her, trying to resist the urge to drag her out of the room and show her what hell is like.
Instead, I ask, “Why?”
“B-because.” She looks away. Toward the teacher.
I scowl at her. “What does Mr. Bryan have to do with anything?”
She turns bright red. It’s fascinating, really. The color crawls up her neck, over her jaw, and devours her face.
“I asked you a question, little lamb.”
“Is this part of the game?” Her perfect brows furrow.
“Yes.” Everything is part of this game. And it’s a game because it forces me to not take her too seriously. Not like when we were kids?—
Don’t think about that.
For the longest time, I ached for my friend. But then I learned the truth, and it was like my whole childhood warped. Imagine learning that you’re colorblind, and here are these glasses to give you a new perspective.
That’s what happened to me.
Softening to Margo would be going back to a gray world.
She eyes me, the corner of her lip tilting up. “You’re too curious, Caleb. I think that means you lose.”
I lose? I blink in shock, then laugh. It’s been a while since someone has surprised me. But that’s the thing about Margo: she’s full of fucking surprises .
She doesn’t say anything, and her lips press together.
“Mr. Bryan.” I draw him closer. “Margo isn’t feeling well. I think I should escort her to the nurse.”
He comes over and puts his hand on her shoulder.
She doesn’t flinch.
She doesn’t even twitch .
My eyebrows hike up, and my gaze goes from his hand to his face and back to her. I will her to pull away, but she does no such thing.
He leans down. “You okay, hon?”
“Just woozy,” she lies. “I think the past week is catching up to me.”
He nods, sympathetic.
Hon?
I want to strangle him.
“Caleb will take you to the nurse. Let me know if you decide to go home, I’ll write a slip.”
She nods and stands. I jump to my feet, too, waiting for his hand to leave her shoulder. When it does, I take her arm. I grip just above the elbow and lead her out of the room.
My breathing is steady. Years of perfecting my nonchalant attitude has prepared me for this moment. I try not to squeeze too hard, not wanting to scare her away just yet.
Instead of going to the nurse, we go down the spiral steps and across the top hall. Its windows look out toward the front lawn. She doesn’t say a word until we’re in an empty classroom two floors away. It’s a science lab, the rows of benches set out with equipment for the next class.
But for now, we’re alone.
I lock the door and face her. She’s just now realizing there’s no nurse here, and the first flicker of fear comes back.
I clench my fists in an effort not to do something stupid, like throttle her. He was touching her, and she didn’t give a fuck. To think, I actually used to like Mr. Bryan.
Not any-fucking-more.
Leaning against the door, I spit out, “I didn’t think you’d have the guts to bone a teacher.”
She blanches. “Excuse me?”
“You and Mr. Bryan. I can see why you wouldn’t want me to make your life hell . So many secrets to hide,” I muse.
She snorts and turns, like she plans on going to the window or something. She likes to do that. She did it when I found her in the other tower, and now she’s trying to retreat again. I move forward, ignoring the tug of pain across my ribs. I slide my fingers through her hair, burrowing until I reach her hot skin. I grip the back of her neck and pull her back toward me.
She swings around, much more pliable than expected, and hits my chest with hers. Her little grunt does dangerous things to my body. Surprise is on my side, though. I capture her wrist with my free hand and pin it to the small of her back.
“Tell me, how good of a lay is he?”
She’s struggling against my hold, but my grip is iron.
“Does he have a giant dick? Cuddle you after?—”
“He’s my foster dad,” she snarls. “Let go of me.”
“No,” I snap, just so I have a second to process. Then, “Foster dad.”
The words sound weird on my tongue.
I know her dad. And her mom. That she has another family… I mean, I know she’s had a myriad of other families, a lot of which were absolute shit. Does she call him Mr. Bryan in his home? And his wife? She can’t be on a first-name basis with them… or worse, call them her parents.
Foster dad.
Huh.
“Caleb. Let go.”
While I consider her words, she’s still putting up a struggle. Her free hand has wedged between us, shoving at my chest. But her squirming is only igniting a new sensation inside me. One that’s been dormant for too long.
Don’t get me wrong—I’ve fucked around. But this is different… this is electricity.
I walk her backward, until the tall workbench stops us. It hits just under where I hold her wrist captive. I release it and trail my hand up, over the side of her breast. I pause there. The urge to maul her when she’s helpless…
It’s not the time or place to give in to my baser urges. If it was, I don’t think I’d stop at just touching her breast over her shirt. I’d want to touch her skin, see her nipples stiffen under my gaze, taste her…
I force my hand higher, up the front of her neck. Her pulse beats against my palm, and my fingers dig lightly into her jaw. “You afraid, baby?”
“Don’t call me that.” She tips her head away from me.
“I think you secretly like it.”
“Is this because I said you lost?” She wriggles again.
God, I cannot stand her.
I shove my hips forward, making my unfortunate situation in my pants very clear.
Her eyes widen, and she goes perfectly still.
“Remember one thing about me.” I put my face right in front of hers.
Her breath, each ragged exhale, touches my lips. My thoughts go back to the game, to the only way I won’t lose my mind over her. The game with no prizes, no end in sight. Just Margo and I, locked in combat.
“I’ll do anything to win.”