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* * *
Prim and I skipped breakfast.I walked her back to the dorms and she was curled up with Samson when I left. I enter the campus gym. It’s massive with thousands of workout equipment. There’s a tanning room and yoga rooms, but I’m looking for a certain room. With the permission of the sleazy guy at the desk, I enter the dance room, which is equipped with poles. I think it’s amazing that pole dancing is now a form of exercising.
It's empty today. So I set my bag down, pressing Play on my speakers as Marilyn Manson’s haunting beat comes through and “Sweet Dreams” starts. It’s not a dancing song, per say, but I love the energy it provides, the all-encompassing feeling as the beat strums through my body.
I wrap my hands around the pole, beginning with a fireman spin. I repeat this a couple of times to warm my body up. I then transition into carousel spins before I work on my pole sits. Cupid, scissor, figurehead, and twisted ballerina. I get lost in the music, my body taking over as I dance. Pirouetting around the pole. Setting myself up for an extended butterfly, I lock my pole sit, counting in my head, when the music abruptly cuts off, throwing my focus away. I almost fall on my face, but catch myself at the last second.
Turning over my shoulder from my position on the floor, I meet the caramel mossy eyes that disrupted me. “Can I help you?”
He shrugs, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, highlighting the robust build of his arms. “The song’s been on repeat for so long, it was getting on my nerves.”
My mouth parts. “How long have you been here?”
He lifts his chin, eyes dancing. “Since you began.”
I rake my fingers through my hair, frustrated. “What do you want?”
“To watch you,” Beckett rasps.
His response catches me off guard, the way he spoke causes warm liquid to pool in my stomach, splashing over my toes. “I… No.” I shake my head. “You can’t watch me.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t like you.” I pick myself up off the floor, walking to him. I reach down, putting my speaker into my bag and zipping it up. Rising, my body is slammed into the wall. Beckett cups my breast, his nose teasingly brushing over mine as our chests heave. His other hand skates down my stomach and I grab it, stopping him.
My eyes connect with his. “I think you’re lying,” he says darkly.
I bite my lip, and his eyes catch and hold on to the action. They meet mine again, his tongue peeking out to lick his lips, when a loud bang on the door has us both jerking our heads to see Vance. He motions for Beckett to go to him, eyes murderous as they trace over every part of our bodies that are touching. Beckett steps back, smirking before walking out.
I throw my head back into the wall, my eyes shutting as my body shudders.
My body should not react to him like this. My brain should know better. But my heart, the way it races, thrashing inside my chest, begs to give the mysterious psychopath that’s said only a handful of words to me a chance.
But he’s a killer.
A cult leader.
A fucking prick.
So no, stupid heart, we won’t be doingthat.
* * *
I scanthe campus paper on Monday as I walk to the art studio. The headline today reads,Killer on Campus. Is it one of us or an outsider?
The article goes on to outline theories. A statement from the dean, who assures everyone that they are safe. How the cops have no leads.
The fountain has been closed off with yellow tape, people posing in front of it as if it’s an attraction instead of a travesty. I sip my coffee, eyeing the water fountain that now has a coppery look to the once white.
The manner of the murder was personal, the way they strung his body like a trophy, leaving it for the world to see. If the body was hidden, if his death was caused from a gunshot wound to the head, I might have believed it was random, not personal. But this, plus what I witnessed, I know it’s personal.
I arrive at the art studio, going to the back room to slip on my robe and snag one more sip of coffee before I walk onto the platform. A wingback chair awaits me, a fur blanket draped across it. The professor approaches me, a smile on his thin lips. “Miss Archer, nice to see you again. You did so exceptional last time, plus, you’re a natural, so perfect, I couldn’t miss a chance to bring you back.” I smile awkwardly, and he frowns. “Just don’t make that face.” I scowl when he visibly shows his disgust. “Today I want your most intimate parts covered as you sit in the chair.”
“Okay.” I remove my robe, sitting in the chair and pulling the blanket to cover the apex of my spread thighs. One hand clutches the blanket over my breasts as my elbow leans on the arm of the chair, chin resting on my closed first.
“Perfect,” the professor praises, and I look to the ceiling.
I hear the door open, small chatter and the scraping of chairs as people begin to set up their work spots. I feelhim. His penetrating gaze, but I stare at the spot right above his shoulder, refusing to make eye contact and be stuck that way again.
