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No matter how Van Gogh paints himself, I know the real person behind the art. “Good,” he clips, ignoring my theatrics and blah-blah-blah insertions. “I do not care to repeat myself.”
Thank goodness. I drop the mascara wand into the sink, not even bothering to cap it in its reservoir. It was old and empty anyway, and my cheap ass was trying to salvage the last little bit of color from the outside walls. It leaves a mark in Van Gogh’s sink, and I see his gaze narrow at it.
“Would you like me to clean it, sir?” I offer with a teasing lilt to my voice. His eyes flash up to mine.
“No,” he clarifies. “I’ll clean it, and you can suck me off while I do it.” There’s the man who struggles with feelings.
“Whatever you want, lover.” I shrug my shoulders and brush past him. “Hurry. I don’t want to be late.” Van doesn’t know I’ve been habitually late to Professor Arden’s class. I might be the teacher’s assistant, but I am not an example to the students about punctuality.
Van Gogh continues to stand still and unemotional, like a wannabe sociopath.
“Hello…” I prompt. “Did you hear me?”
Van’s head doesn’t turn in my direction, but his voice is loud and clear when he says, “Don’t fuck with me.”
“Why?”
“I have very little patience for people. Much less for people plotting against me.” It’s like ice freezes inside me, and my muscles lock up from the cold of his threat.
“I’m not plotting against you,” I counter. “I didn’t before, and I’m not now.”
Some people may be stupid enough to go against Van Gogh, but I’m not one of them. Not to say I don’t do stupid shit. I do, but I don’t do anything that betrays the only man I’ve ever loved.
There’s a stillness in the bathroom that wasn’t there before. All the joking, teasing, and bullshit rules that were threats seem to be locked in the stagnant air as Van Gogh gazes at the empty spot where I was standing.
“Run, my love,” he threatens, his voice calm and collected. “Run as fast as you can. Hide behind the women’s shelters you feed with the money you steal from hacking wealthy men. Pull out every weapon you have against me, my darling, and run. But know that every whisper you feel on the back of your neck is me inching closer. Every ounce of sweat dripping down your forehead is my heat behind you—coming for what’s mine.”
The moment is so eerie that I can’t even find it in myself to make a snarky comeback about what is his.
“I will find you, my love,” he continues, unaware of the chills breaking out along my skin. “You will pay for every second you are away.”
I could crack a joke about how hardcore criminals are treated better than me. But Van doesn’t seem to be in the mood. It already took a blow job and excessive begging to convince him that I wouldn’t run if he allowed me to go back to work. Don’t get me wrong, I thought about it. But the thing is, I could have run many years ago, and we both would have enjoyed the chase.
I’ve never needed a companion, and neither did Van Gogh. I had no friends, only a sister I hadn’t seen in years. And Van had no one. We have both been isolated from everyone we had ever known by circumstances beyond our control. We didn’t ask for a lonely life but were handed one, nonetheless. Running is our specialty. But not this time. Not anymore.
“Are you done?” I pitch my voice a little lighter, hoping he doesn’t notice the fear he instilled deep in the bottom of my soul, where it belongs.
“Yes,” he says slowly, carefully, like he isn’t so sure.
“Okay, then. Let’s go to work.”
Like a traditional suburban couple, Van and I drive in silence, taking sips of our coffee, which he actually brewed.
“Don’t ruin someone’s life today,” Van clips as soon as he pulls into the college and parks.
“Ditto, my love.” I get out of the car without another word and slam the door a little extra hard before flipping off Van Gogh or Alistair, whatever the hell his name is today, and head into Dr. Adler’s accounting class.
My eyes scan for Blake, who’s riding the back row like the slacker he is. His eyes rise from his computer and find mine, as if he feels my gaze.
I wiggle my fingers and give him a little wave and smile, mouthing silently for him to meet me after class.
Fifty-two minutes later, Professor Adler dismisses class early, having a secret agenda of banging the girl in the front row.
“What do you want?”
I laugh, a hearty chuckle at the audacity this fucker has. “What do I want? Well, that’s a new one for you.”
I could feel eyes drift in our direction from the lingering students. So, like the criminal I am, I loop my arm around Blake’s, ignoring the way he jumps, and pull him towards the door.
