Page 10 of Pink Ink

I am not sure how many more of those I can afford before I lose my scholarship. I’ve been getting decent enough grades in my other classes, but he’s single-handedly annihilated my GPA. Even the psychology elective I’m suffering through is going substantially better.

Hell, maybe Mom and Dad didn’t want me going to Cresswell because they have issues with Professor Bradford and no one cared to enlighten me about it.

I exit the library, going down the grand steps, toward the fountain that has water pouring from the mouths of sea monsters.

Behind the Gothic gate, the traffic noise disappears, as if this university exists on its own plane. The spires of the neo-Gothic library casts the barest shadow across the courtyard pavement, cutting through the fog where skyscrapers should be. The campus looks like a jigsaw puzzle of buildings erected across multiple centuries. On the left, past the russet four-story Victorian-era liberal arts building, is the Cresswell Art Gallery.

I canjustsee it beside the glass cheese-grater-looking monstrosity that stands out like rotten fruit. I call it my personal brand of hell. Everyone else calls it Cresswell Law School. It replaced the neoclassical brownstone that burned down about a decade ago.

People walking to and from buildings, wrapping themselves tighter in their coats, juggling books, and balancing canvases. Some perch on the edge of the fountain to eat their late lunch or hang out.

I lower my head to avoid making eye contact with anyone. It’s a big place, with an even bigger student body. Everyone doesn’t know everyone. But anyone who knows who I am, knows I don’t belong here. I’m considered…oddbecause of my circumstances. The girl with dead parents who moved across the country midway through her final year to make “fucked-up” videos, as someone from the film club called them.

It doesn’t help that I didn’t sign up for any groups or societies. Everyone I know at Cresswell, I know through Kimi. I’m just her tagalong friend. Lawrence didn’t see me that way, and I liked that too much.

Music blares through my headphones, just shy of my ears bleeding. It’s doing a crap job of keeping me from falling asleep while standing. As if that’s not bad enough, I’m panting and peeling my scarf from my sweat-slicked skin after needing to run across campus to the very edge of the east side and into the Victorian brownstone that houses most of the lecture halls.

I need to get to class early so I can ask Bradford to explain why my last assignment was only worthy of a C. He’s usually pissy after needing to teach, so hopefully he’ll be in a reasonably decent mood if I catch him now.

The music cuts off as I lower the headphones down around my neck. The last time I walked into Bradford’s class with them on, he threatened to confiscate them like we were back in high school—but a much prettier high school that takes pride in always having art displayed on the walls and proper mahogany desks that have somehow survived abuse from students.

The muscle in my jaw twitches and prepares to interact with the human embodiment of a viral infection. Except Bradford isn’t lounging behind his desk, hand over his beer gut. His stale stench doesn’t assault my nostrils the second I step inside. No, there’s something… masculine lingering in the air instead—like bergamot.

The room is empty except for the man leaning against the cedar desk, with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and glasses pushed right up his nose. His imposing frame is relaxed, casual yet refined, lost in the book he’s reading. I can’t help dragging my eyes from his polished shoes to his black slacks, up to his woolen vest and plaid button-up combo with tie. Then to the five o’clock shadow and full lips and, finally, his poison-ivy eyes.

Oh.

Oh no.

“It’s you.”

His gaze snaps up to mine, and the temperature plummets ten degrees.

“You.”He sneers, British accent lacing the single syllable.

Shoot me.

“Where’s Professor Bradford?” I whip my head around the room in case I might spot him hiding in the corner. I’ll pick the Grinch who stole Christmas over the Lord of Darkness.

“Unavailable.”

“Is he dead?” I probably sound a little too hopeful. I’ve been watching too many horror movies.

“No.” He raises an eyebrow like he’s only partially amused by my response.

When he doesn’t elaborate, I follow his line of sight to the whiteboard behind him, where two words are written in cursive letters:Maddox Shaw.

Shaw, like the artist I openly criticized last week.Shaw, like the man I looked right in the eye and said that his painting is lacking.

The only thing Shaw is glorifying is his ability to use a paintbrush.

Oh, I definitely fucked up.

I’m going to lose my scholarship.

“Feel free to drop out of this class,” Shaw says, stirring me out of my existential crisis.

My jaw drops. “It’s midway through the semester.”