Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 66997 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66997 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
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.