Page 36 of Pink Ink

That’s the worst possible thing she could have responded with. It would have been better if she didn’t speak at all.

“Death could be a bloody fucking blessing compared to what could happen.” I’ve passed the point of irritation, transcended the realm of anger. Her willingness to die for a film project sends white-hot rage up my spine.“You aren’t going.”

This hobby of hers is stupid beyond belief.

Fire blazes in her as she crosses her arms over her chest. “Like I said, that’s not your decision to make. You’re not my dad. You’re not my husband. You’re just my professor.”

Hearing the wordsyou’re, my, andhusbandmakes my brain short-circuit in a possessive way that I don’t like. Not one bit.

“Yes, that’s right. Iamyour professor. And as yourprofessor, I am telling you to stop going to those crime scenes and sticking your nose in places that it doesn’t belong.”

“As if you haven’t done anything reckless for your art.”

Touché.

“There’s a difference between us: I haven’t gotten caught.”

“Yet.”

This little shit.

“You have no idea what you’re dealing with.” My fingers itch to grab her high school’s pen from my coat pocket to prove that it’s a matter of time before someone else notices her slipups.

“We all have our vices. I’m sticking with mine while I can,” she says, tone even and calm. “So let me make this clear:I’m still going.”

“Do not fight me on this, Miss Sinaga,” I warn.

“You can yell at me, scream at me, berate me, and I’ll still be going where my passions lead me.” Each word comes out poised, with a faint air of hostility. “Other people might bend to your every whim, but I’m not going to give up something I enjoy just because you told me to. If you want a pet to sit and stay put, then I suggest you get a dog. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an assignment to write. Good night, Mr. Shaw.”

She dips her head, turns on her heel, and storms away, breezing off into the night with regal grace very few could pull off.

“Reyna,” I call, and the brat has the audacity to ignore me even when I call for her a second and third time.

I scowl at her back, watching her slink out of view. It’s not a difficult decision to follow behind her. It seems someone needs to ensure she gets home safe. I have half a mind to catch up with her to finish our conversation. Except I know better than anyone that a verbal scolding will do nothing to curb a creator’s obsession. Common sense and reason go out the window for the sake of art.

Ask for forgiveness, not permission.

In all truthfulness, stopping her from doing what she is clearly talented at feels like a crime worse than murder. She’s an artist with a vision, and once that spark is gone, it rarely ever returns.

Still, I will not be the reason she dies.

REYNA

Don’t bite the hand that teaches you, or whatever the saying is.

My argument with Shaw is just as stupid as my decision to climb the three flights of stairs to his office instead of taking the elevator. I’m only delaying the inevitable.

Just because I’m aware I should own up to my mistakes doesn’t mean I like nor want to. Alas, I must re-salvage whatever professional-nonprofessional relationship we have.

He scared me shitless when I heard him coming up behind me last night. Whatever relief I felt from it beinghimand not an attacker was short-lived when I ended up (regrettably) stunned by how well he wears the smart-disheveled look. Then I became immediately ungrateful that I was getting verbally attacked.

Thank you for your concern, Mr. Shaw, but kindly fuck off. Oh, and don’t let this impact my grades, pretty please xoxo.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I stop in the middle of the marble steps to shove my chunky screenplay textbook into my satchel, and my shoulder immediately screams in protest.

LAWRENCE:

What are you doing tomorrow night? My buddies from work got me vouchers to some restaurant.