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He’s so close I can feel the heat of him through his clothes, smell the spicy bourbon tones of his aftershave. His chest presses against mine, his face so close that I have to tilt my head up to meet his eyes.
“You don’t know shit.” His voice is low. Threatening. “So I suggest you shut your mouth.”
“Or what?” My heart is slamming so hard against my ribs that I’m sure he can feel it in his own chest, but I pretend it isn’t. I pretend every molecule of my body isn’t reacting to his proximity. “What are you gonna do about it? You gonna toss my room? Destroy my shit?”
He goes still, his eyes darkening like he’s considering taking me up on my suggestion. Or maybe leaving the room alone and destroying me instead.
It’s hard to breathe with him so close.
It’s hard to focus.
With every inhale, I draw more of his essence into my lungs, feeding a craving I like to pretend doesn’t exist.
The room goes silent, and part of me wonders what the fuck Declan and Elias must be thinking as they watch the two of us in our silent standoff, my body pinned to the wall by Gray’s large frame.
Can they feel the tension that crackles between us like an electric cloud?
My gaze darts in their direction, and as it does, Gray pushes off the wall, leaving me sagging against it. I straighten quickly, crossing my arms over my chest to hide the way my nipples have peaked from rubbing against his chest.
As if nothing out of the ordinary just happened, the smooth, cool mask slides back over Gray’s face. He resumes his perusal of my dorm, his attention moving from my bookshelf and its meager contents to the art on my walls.
I stiffen as he cocks his head, stepping closer to one of my biggest pieces. I completed the whole thing in about twenty minutes one day, the shapes and images pouring out of me as if I was just a conduit for something bigger than myself. Bigger than words.
Not many people have ever seen my pieces. I don’t create them for others, I create them for me, and I’ve never had much interest in baring my soul for any asshole off the street to stare at and judge.
But that’s exactly what Gray is doing right now. I can feel it in the way he examines the painting, his eyes narrowing slightly. He’s not just looking at paint. He’s looking at me.
A part of my soul he’s not supposed to see.
My skin prickles, a stinging sensation like I’m being bitten by a thousand ants, and when one of his large hands reaches out toward the canvas, my heart seizes in my chest.
It’s bad enough for him to look. It’s too fucking much already.
But if he touches that painting, I’m not sure I’ll be able to survive it.
I lunge forward, but Declan and Elias catch me by the arms before I can reach Gray. They hold me back from him, and Elias chuckles.
“Jesus, you’re fast. Did you ever play sports? You’d make a great cornerback.”
“Fuck off!” I snap, twisting in their grip. My gaze doesn’t leave Gray as he moves on to the next piece on my wall, examining it with the same probing stare. “Don’t fucking touch that. It’s mine!”
I channel my panic into anger. Guide the fear that’s beating my heart out of my chest into pure fury instead. I’m not going to let them see what makes me weak.
Gray chuckles, looking over his shoulder at me.
“Oh? Have I struck a nerve?” he mocks. “It’s against school regulation to tack anything up on the walls like this. I’m afraid all of it’s going to have to come down.”
The panic surges again. I hate the emotion, hate the way I can’t control it.
Hate the fact that Gray Eastwood can make me feel it.
“Why do you care what I do?” I blurt, aware that desperation has seeped into my tone but unable to stop it. “Find someone else to fuck with. Why do I matter so much?”
Gray’s hand is on the wall. His fingers splay next to a sketch of Jared smiling. It’s a recent piece, one I did just a few days before arriving at Hawthorne—a replacement for the one Brody destroyed. It’s a complete figment of my imagination; I don’t think Jared ever smiled the way he is in the drawing, yet I couldn’t help but feel comforted as I sketched the easy curve of his lips.
Now I brace myself for his image to be destroyed again, ruined forever because Gray Eastwood has a bone to pick with me. I can imagine the sound of the paper ripping. Can imagine the graphite leaving residue on his fingers as he tears the piece to shreds.
But the ripping doesn’t come. Gray studies the black and white face on the wall in silence for a second. Then his hand withdraws from the sketch and he turns around. His expression is almost mocking.
