Chapter 12
“A secret is a debt. Someone always collects. Someone always bleeds.”—The Count of Monte Cristo
LILAH
I’m late for my only class of the day, which isn’t surprising considering the amount of wine I had the night before.
At least I slept. I didn’t see his face but I did, however, wake up to my lower lip looking a bit bruised, leave it to Jude to figure out a way to leave a hate hickey on someone’s lip.
I could still feel his tongue sliding across it, teasing me, taunting me. It was like time stopped in those few brief seconds, and I realized how stupid weak I still was for him.
And I’m convinced it’s just one more way for him to get into my head.
Make me fear him then crave him, cool. So basically, his only plan is to make me suffer for the rest of the semester.
I find I’m a bit relieved that he’s at least not behind The Dean’s List. On the other hand, if he’s the guy I’m supposed to be seducing in order to stay off of it, I’m completely screwed.
It was difficult when we were in high school and he actually liked me; it would truly be impossible now. He’s the enemy and won’t touch me unless it’s to prove a point.
I quickly chug some of my hot coffee so I can focus on the burn of that versus the burn of Jude. Silly, to think it would work, but I kept drinking anyways.
I check my phone.
It’s ten minutes past start time. At fifteen we can walk.
I’m eager to get started on my Princess and the Frog sculpture, and the longer I sit in class the more time it pulls from the studio, I hope whatever new professor takes over for Evans doesn’t like the sound of his own voice so much that he drones on and on stealing away studio time.
Four more minutes. Yes! We may get to escape after all.
God knows I could use a break for both my nerves and to start my project, something about feeling the clay around my hands, the wetness, the smoothness to create something takes me to another place, one I desperately need if I’m going to survive Jude.
The door to the side opens. Shit. So close.
I slink back in my chair as a figure appears then nearly spill my coffee all over my desk when it’s Jude who crosses the threshold and puts his coffee on the professor’s desk and smiles up at us, his eyes scan the room before finding mine, they lower, focusing in on my lip.
I instinctively lick it.
He does the same.
Oh shit.
Butterflies that have no business existing floating around in my belly suddenly take flight.
He smirks like he knows exactly what I’m thinking and addresses the class.
“Sorry for the tardiness, it won’t happen again.
I’m Jude Hale the Third and I’ll be your adjunct professor for the rest of the semester.
I graduated Summa Cum Laude two years early from Harvard with an MFA degree in Sculpture and a background in business arts administration and honestly I’m only here because my father donates a shit ton of money to this school and nobody wanted to touch this position with a ten-foot pole.
” Students chuckle at his honesty. “Nepotism aside, I own two of the largest art studios downtown, Bulletproof and Daze.” I’m numb.
The two places I wanted most in the world to submit my work.
He owns them? How? Was it a fake name online then?
Is he a silent backer? Suddenly the world I so carefully constructed starts to fade around me into oblivion.
That was the plan. Finish this semester apply my work to both, ask for an internship possibly, work on my masters.
I had plans. Incredible plans that this program leads right into.
And now, he’s in the way of all of it. No, not just in the way; the guy who steals my tears is the shitty gatekeeper.
He’s still talking, he checks his phone.
“I know you all got your senior projects decided yesterday and you’re itching to get to the studio, so I’ll stop talking.
Go ahead and prep, my office hours are Tuesdays and Thursdays from noon to six.
Class dismissed.” I start to get up when he clears his throat. “A word, Miss Hayes.”
Me. I’m Miss Hayes.
People rush past me, eager to get to the studio. The room is quiet as I take the steps down to his desk where he waits like a king on his throne.
“Didn’t see this one coming,” I admit out loud.
“Your lip’s swollen.” He points at my mouth. “I’m curious do you sleep with all your professors or do you have standards now? I just want to make sure you aren’t going to jump me now that I have a title.”
I want to punch him.
“Very funny.” Nothing about the confusing feelings I have are funny right now.
He’s messing with me; I know it instinctively.
And yet, here I am, faltering, wondering, falling prey, is that it?
I almost take a few steps back, instead I level him with the same bored stare I’ve tried to keep these past few years every single time someone tries to throw me off.
He laughs. “I’m kidding. I just wanted to make sure you were good with finishing up your project. It’s a larger sculpture. A big undertaking. The Princess and the Frog, am I the inspiration?”
He’s too close. I swallow and then suck in a deep breath to buy myself more time to answer. I force a smile. “Safe to assume had the sculpture been Lucifer, yes.”
He barks out a laugh. “Disappointing, I know how you like frogs.”
I keep the admission inside, biting down on my cheek. I feel the freshness of tears again. Because how dare he stare into my dreams.
And then a sick part of me asks how dare he? You know deep down, you deserve worse. He was in prison because of you!
“I’ll give you an equal shot if that’s what you’re worried about.” He reads my mind. “I’m not that heartless and this, shockingly enough, was not part of the plan, though it would have been diabolical if it was, sometimes the universe does things on our behalf without us even asking it to.”
Lucky him. “Right. Well, if that’s all…”
“I’m not done,” he interrupts. “I noticed that your last sculpture got you into this very coveted class.”
Oh no. No no no! He’s seen it.
Shit!
I forgot.
It was about damning love.
I just sculpted from the heart.
From a dark place, such a dark place that dark doesn’t even begin to describe it.
It was want, yearning at its most raw form, it was a piece that dared me to question what would have happened back then had I not made the choices I made, had I done better, had I been right.
Had he not died. My nightmares weren’t of him stalking me, or even of him hurting me, my real nightmares were the dreams where everything was perfect because I knew what could have been in those moments and I was tortured with the truth of the beauty of them knowing that because of me and me only they were ugly now, twisted, wrong.
And there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it.
He walks around the table and tosses a picture of it between us. “I was more shocked you got my eyes right than anything, Delilah. I’m impressed.” I go stock-still. “Safe to say if you mess up a damn frog when you’re this good you’re not getting hired for shit, understood?”
“Yes.” My voice cracks.
“And Lilah?” His voice is closer now, warmer.
I can feel him behind me. I can barely breathe. He doesn’t touch me at all, but he’s right there, right behind me, breathing, existing. He inhales, exhales. I hold my breath.
“Put some ice on your lip, we wouldn’t want it to swell.”
“Maybe you should stop biting.” I snap. It’s a lie. I liked the bite. I can still feel it, the way his tongue lingered.
“I would if you really wanted me to, but you know you dreamt of that bite all night long. I wonder how long you’ll last.”
“How long I’ll last?” I look over my shoulder.
“Until you force more tears for my benefit. I can’t fucking wait.”
“You said my body was mine.” I lower my voice.
“Your tears, however…” He nods. “Aren’t.”
I’m quiet.
“You’re dismissed.”
Again.
I stomp up the stairs, grab my bag and walk out the door and when I get to the studio and try to start practicing my frog all I see is his face.
And all I feel is my lip.
Until I can’t breathe.
Until he’s the only air in my lungs.
And for some sick reason when I want to cry, I stupidly save my tears in hopes that one day he’ll be worthy of them.