Page 12 of Pink Ink

He narrows his eyes. Heat zaps through the air between us, electrifying each of my blood cells. I have to hold my breath to stop taking in his addictive scent. He’s close enough to trail my fingers along the curve of his cheek. Three steps and I could press myself to him to feel his strength against me.

Pretty people like Shaw are giant red flags until proven otherwise. Men like him make you stupid. The fact that I’m still thinking he’s the most attractive man I’ve ever seen while he’s looking at me like I’m the greatest inconvenience in existence is evidence enough.

“Maddox Shaw. Look up the name.”

“Why? Does your Wikipedia bio confirm that you struggle with conveying emotions? Maybe some crayons would help.”

Not only is my inability to keep my mouth shut going to get me kicked out of this university, but it’s a blatant lie.Feelingisn’t the issue. There’s just a disconnect with what he was trying to achieve and the execution. The look on his face tells me that he thinks I believe my words.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to backtrack. Mom would never say anything like that unless she backed it up with suggestions on how to improve. He beats me to it before I can.

“Get out.”

I fight the urge to cower. “You first.”

With how much I need this class to get my degree, an army of the undead couldn’t drag me out of here.

“I’m your professor.”

“You’re our temporary teacher,” I correct. “You have no authority to kick me out of a class I’ve paid for when you are neither the convener nor named in the syllabus. You’re a fill-in. Your demand holds no weight.”

Shaw stares at me for one long, tense moment, and it’s like a switch goes off in his head. He straightens. Any hint of burning emotion that was flashing through his eyes is gone in an instant. “Very well. I look forward to receiving your assignment tonight.”

My stomach drops. I forgot about that.

I should apologize. Maybe make pretty promises not to misbehave. Shit, I should call a truce. Except I spin on my heels, exit the storage room, and take a seat behind Nicole, who has her nose shoved in her laptop. The lecture hall must have quickly begun to fill while Maddox and I had our little spat.

The vast majority of arriving students are drooling over our new teacher. If I didn’t have prior interactions with him, I’d be falling victim to his charm.

Maddox Shaw is a Cresswell legacy known worldwide for his morbidly beautiful pieces. Born into wealth, he made a name for himself atsixteen. He was the recipient of the prestigious Henry Locket Award for Artist of the Year at age twenty-two, making him the youngest person who has ever received it. He has two paintings in the Louvre, another in Buckingham Palace, and one in the Pentagon.

And I just insulted him.

Again.

I don’t need to look him up, because I know all his accolades. I just didn’t know what he looked like.

Shaw didn’t just jump into stardom; he plunged into it. I can’t remember the exact name of the piece, but I recall seeing photos of it when I was a kid. Even Mom was thoroughly impressed by it. She nudged me and said that I’d be a bigger deal than him one day. It was her way of saying that she was enamored by the piece.

At sixteen, he made a life-size mixed-media painting where he sculpted a woman onto the canvas. She was cloaked in an intricate white cloth, painted with a lace pattern, and she had torn black sinew wings that hung from the canvas, ripping a king’s head off. Parts of the man’s face were shredded to reveal a real pig skull beneath.

The only reason I remembered it was because it traumatized my nine-year-old brain. I asked Mom if a demon made it.

It enraged the animal-rights activist groups. When Shaw was asked about it, he smiled and said that’s part of the art. Saying, people will make assumptions about things they don’t understand based on a single glance. Then he provided evidence he used a diseased pig that died long before Shaw got his hands on it.

That kid turned into the legend standing before me today. God, I’m an idiot. I need to get a handle on myself and make it onto his good side. Give him a gift basket or something. Shaw’s mentorship would be invaluable and push the bounds of my abilities to turn me into the type of person that people make documentaries about.

Still, I know I won’t take all of it back. Buying his forgiveness would be fruitless.

Shaw used to create masterpieces. What I saw in the exhibition wasn’t one. It’s been years since I’ve looked up what the critics are saying about him, and I don’t imagine it would be very good.

He’s been on his high horse for so long that he thinks people will settle for his mediocrity.

It’s hard to believe that his fall from grace landed him here to be Bradford’s substitute. I mean, it makes sense why he was chosen. Shaw has taught many theory-based classes and written several research papers on the history and modernization of art through various mediums, such as film, photography, and 3D printing. Mom told me he held a photography exhibition three years ago involving corpses and skeletons of all species—a decision that shockedmanycritics. I suppose that makes him qualified to teach this class—even if his mediums of choice are paint and clay.

Shaw clears his throat and introduces himself to the room. I’m sure most students here haven’t got a clue who he is beyond the fact that he belongs on the cover ofVogue. Every fine-art major knows his name. The film students? God, no.

“Professor Bradford had a fall and is not in a state to teach—rest assured, he is still alive, but less than well.” Shaw looks at me when he says it, and I try not to glare back. “I will be teaching this class for the foreseeable future.”