Page 54 of Pink Ink

I chuckle at the innuendo. I’m not sure how that girl manages to go on a date every week. Over eighty percent of the time, it’s with a new guy. “You really need to stay away from guys whose name starts withJ.”

“Babe, you haven’t lived unless you’ve been traumatized by at least one dude with the letterJat the start of their name. It’s usually the Joshes,” she says as she saunters away.

“Wear protection,” I say a couple of volumes too loud.

And I’m not just talking condoms. Something that could take a man out for long enough to run. There’s no way in hell I’d fall asleep at night without knowing she can keep herself safe.

“Okay, Mom!” she throws over her shoulder as she rushes out of the cafeteria—if it can even be called that. This place is pretty much a gourmet food court.

Way back when, this Victorian building doubled as the on-campus dorms—or orphanage. I can’t quite remember. They’ve kept the mess hall operational ever since Cresswell opened, with exposed wooden beams above our heads and antique picture frames displaying the university’s original blueprints.

The whole “old timey” open dormitory vibe is an odd contrast to the food stalls with neon signs that clearly didn’t exist when this place was built.

The mess hall has every cuisine imaginable, and everything iswellout of my budget. But every once in a while, I agree to meet Kimi here and order the cheapest thing on the menu.

Does this fried rice taste like it’s worth twenty-five dollars? Absolutely not. Is it at least close to how Mom would make it? Fuck no. They’re not even on the same planet. I could get the same thing back in Indonesia from a stall on the side of the road and it would cost me two bucks and taste a thousand times better.

I take bite after begrudging bite, until there isn’t a single grain left on the plate. I’m not wasting my inheritance on expensive bad-tasting food I don’t finish. I don’t get hired as a videographer nearly often enough to pay the bills.

I nurse my half-decent coffee in my hand and mindlessly scroll through my phone. I have a hundred other things that I should be doing right now, like planning my next film project, working on my other assignments, or attempting to comprehend a statistical analysis on the behavior of chickens. Instead, I’ve spent over forty hours searching for a hint of what the honeycomb symbol could be. There’s nothing helpful online, and I haven’t found anything in the library.

Searching for the symbol and the ceiling in Dad’s picture while simultaneously working, studying, and filming has made me hungover from life.

I’m at a dead end with my investigations. My creative well is drying. I got a bad grade—a B—on the screenwriting assignment I thought I did really well on. I woke up at 4 a.m. to help Nicole film her assignment. I’m on the brink of losing my scholarship. I just forked out close to a grand on new film equipment because my camera stopped working.

Honestly, I’m tired.

I want my mom. I want to know the father I never really got to have. And I want to be the star they always thought I could be.

I’m failing on all fronts.

Although, it was nice to have Shaw recognize my art and my macabre interests. It’s making me feel minutely less like a total screwup.

Sighing, I pack up my shit. If I’m going to mope, I might as well do it in front of a computer. That way if I find it in me to churn out five minutes’ worth of work, that’s still five minutes I’ve shaved off.

The weight of my satchel digs into my tense shoulder, and I mumble profanities under my breath. I think I need a full-body massage on top of a two-week nap.

I turn around, and gasp when I collide with a hard wall of muscle. The half-empty cup of coffee falls from my hand, and I stumble back, reaching for the chair behind me to stop myself from slipping.

Strong hands wrap around my waist to keep me steady. Bergamot and paint assault my senses, and my gaze clashes with poison-ivy eyes and a venomous scowl.Maddox.

Dear fucking God, I feel like I’m a real-life Wattpad character.

I follow Shaw’s line of sight.

To the man who’s still touching me.

Warm hands squeeze my waist, and I tense under the stranger’s hold. “You all right there? Sorry about that; I should have watched where I was going.”

It takes a beat before the cafeteria stirs back up.

“I, uh…”

If looks could kill, he and I would be dead ten times over under Shaw’s stare. Darkness pools into his eyes, and there’s something in his expressionthat I can’t quite make sense of. It’s an emotion I’ve never seen on him that sends chills down my spine.

Beyond the war behind his eyes, he looks like he’s been through hell and back, and got the shirt to prove it. It unsettles me in a way that almost makes me start asking questions about his well-being. Is it his art? Work? Family? Has he lost someone?

I have no right to know any of these things, but I’m no less curious. There’s a reason behind his Jekyll and Hyde personality. He seems to wear his arrogance like it’s a suit of armor, but everyone knows armor weighs a person down and makes it easier to drown.