Page 11 of Pink Ink

Getting my liver plucked out by a big bird every day would hurt less than this interaction. I knew Shaw taught at Cresswell; I just didn’t expect him to look like… like a goddamn dream.

“Not my problem.” He shrugs, returning his attention to his book as if I’m an inconsequential speck of dust.

Thisis the great Maddox Shaw? Color me livid.

I can’t move a muscle. I’m stuck, dumbfounded, and seething.

He’s the one who wanted me to explain the observation I made about the painting.He’sthe one who started the conversation to begin with. Now he’s butt hurt and wants to be a threat tomycareer? Absolutely fucking not. I have come too far to have it all thrown away by an obnoxious, overly sensitive, entitled man.

Moss-colored eyes flick up to me from above the black frames of his glasses. “Didn’t your mother teach you not to stare? Although, I’m sure she forgot to teach you a lot of things to do with basic respect.”

My blood boils to near-deadly levels at the mention of my mother. If he knows she’s a sensitive topic, what’s the likelihood he’ll use it against me for the rest of the semester?

I’ll be damned if I am going to sit by and let some arrogant asshole talk shit about my mom just because he’s too egotistical to take criticism. Shaw can dish it out, but he can’t take it.

“Yes, just like teaching you how to put emotion on canvas would be a lost cause.” I’m not sure whether it’s the stress or lack of sleep that’s making it so that I don’t give two craps about the trouble my mouth will cause. Logic and reason aren’t registering right now.

His nostrils flare. It’s barely noticeable, but I’m paying attention like my life depends on it.

Shaw slams his book shut, places it on the desk, then casually walks to the storage room near the front of the classroom. Beneath his touch, the old, rickety wooden door releases a squeal that comes from the bounds of hell.

He holds it open, waiting for me to follow. Nowthatmakes me pause.

But any hesitation I have evaporates when he makes a show of checking his watch like I’m boring him. I storm ahead.

It’s like walking myself into a slaughterhouse.

This was a bad idea. There are far worse things than death. Failing this class and being kicked out of Cresswell is one of them. But turning around would make me seem weak.

Shaw strikes me as the type of person who’s never had anyone challenge him. I’m happy to oblige—even though the only thing Ishouldbe doing is shutting up.

The small, enclosed space surrounds us, closing in on me as if my soul is about to separate from my body. Old cassette tapes, paperwork, and junk are stacked atop more crap on the old shelves. But it’s he who takes up the most space. I’ve never understood claustrophobia until now.

Dust particles float between us, the only barrier between me and him. Beneath the must and scent of old books, is him. It’s heady, and suffocating, and it makes my lungs squeeze because if I keep breathing him in, the wires in my brain are going to stop firing.

“Name?” he asks.

I blink hard, reorientating myself. “Why? Will you try to guess whether the assignments were directed by a man or woman? I assure you it can be just as painfully obvious.”

There’s no point resisting. He’s got access to all student records. It’d take him all of two minutes to figure my name out.

Slowly, Shaw closes the distance, stalking forward like a beast cornering its meal. Maintaining eye contact is like I’m threatening a lion, and I am nothing if not a stubborn idiot sometimes.

Shivers ripple down my spine under the full weight of his attention. I raise my chin, willing my fraying nerves to stay put for the next two hours so I can leave this class with what little sanity I have left.

And with my scholarship still intact.

His voice a low rumble only God and I could hear. “Hear me when I say this: You are unqualified. You are inexperienced. You do not matter. Your opinions are inconsequential.”

I pause.

This grade-Aasshole.

I don’t give a rat’s ass what my résumé looks like, no one deserves to be so demeaned. Shaw represents everything bad about this industry: the ego, the entitlement, stepping on those he deemslesserbecause he’s set himself up on the gilded pedestal that he made.

I’m getting under his skin, and he hates it. If he wants someone to kiss his ring, there are people in this class who would volunteer to do his laundry. If he wants someone to push around, he’s barked up the wrong tree.

Folding my hands behind my back, I ask, “And what qualifications do you have to teach this class?”