by Mae Doyle
I’m only human, after all, and he was definitely formed by the hands of an artistic god.
Quinn shrugs but doesn’t take his eyes off of me. “Fine by me, Abigail. But I just need you to remember that I expect you to hold up your end of the bet.”
I give him a curt nod and then walk back to the back of the room, shutting my curtain tight behind me before I kneel on the ground. I’m not prepared to beat him. There’s no way in hell that my painting is going to be better than his, and I’m sure that he knows it.
Even though I don’t have any clue what he’s painting or how it’s going to look, he said it himself. He’s a god at Trinity Prep, handpicked by Mr. Stanfield himself.
I’m fucked.
***
“No offence, Abby, but you look like shit.” Madeline hands me a coffee, black, with plenty of sugar, and I take a grateful sip. “How late did you stay up last night?”
My head started to buzz with the caffeine right away and I closed my eyes, enjoying the feeling. “I think I was up until 2? Maybe 3, I don’t remember, really. I just remember getting back to my room and passing out with my shoes on.”
She laughed and took a bite of her omelet. “I’ve been there, Abs. We all have, and let me tell you, it doesn’t get much better. You have to not only balance your school but also your art, and that’s really damn hard.”
“Yeah, I’m beginning to see that.” It wasn’t like this at my old high school, probably because the school wasn’t set up as an art school. We all studied hard and played harder. Hell, I’d even been on the track team, but Trinity Prep doesn’t have any sports teams. I had thought that that was strange, but it was easy to see that the students just didn’t have time to practice or compete.
“So, is today the day?” She glanced over at Quinn where he sat flanked by his two friends. She’d told me earlier that they were Carter and Trae, and they were both as focused and mean as they were hot. Since the day in the cafeteria when they came over with Quinn to talk to me, I’d done a great job avoiding them.
But that avoidance was over now. They, along with everyone else at Trinity Prep who wanted to know if I could stand up to Quinn, were all going to meet us in the art department as soon as classes were over.
Suddenly, the coffee I’d been happily sipping feels curdled in my stomach. “Ugh, yeah, today’s the day,” I tell Madeline, pushing my mug to her. “I think that if I eat or drink anything else today that I’m going to be sick.”
She looked at me with compassion. “It’s gonna be a long day then.” Before I can stop her, she grabs the croissant off of my plate and takes a big bite. “But don’t you worry, Abs, I’m there for you however you need me.”
I can’t stop laughing as we walk out of the cafeteria. That’s good, because the rest of the day is going to suck.
I feel like I’m in a haze all day long, but before I know it, I’m in art class, listening to Mr. Stanfield talk about the challenges of adding enough movement to a still life. Still life is not my forte, so I’m desperately taking notes. Quinn, on the other hand, has his legs stretched out under our desk and looks completely relaxed.
“You suck at still lives, Abigail?” His voice is a whispered hiss and I do my best to ignore him. “I just hope that you’re not a cold fish in bed. Can you promise me that you’ll put a little effort into it when you give it up to me?”
“Shut the fuck up, Quinn. My painting is worlds better than yours.” Even as I talk to him, I’m writing as fast as I can, trying to keep up with the lecture.
“We’ll see.”
Before too long, Mr. Stanfield lets us free and I scurry back to my center as fast as I can go. I need to put the finishing touches on my work and just hope that it’s good enough. Even though I was up all night working on it, I’m sure that there are a few things that I can do to make it better.
Yanking open the curtain, I breathe a sigh of relief when I see that my painting is still there. It’s turned so that I can’t see it, but that’s to keep other students from peeking in and taking a look at it without me knowing that they’re checking on me. But it’s there, and that’s what matters. Part of me was terrified that something would have happened to it overnight, but even Quinn wouldn’t stoop that low, right?
Right.
That’s what I tell myself as I prepare my paints and get out my turpentine. As the strong scent hits my nose, I take a deep breath, enjoying the slightly heady feeling it gives me. There’s honestly nothing like knowing that I have a few hours to get lost in my work.
The rest of the class is working on their projects for the internship, and I know that I shouldn’t be wasting a whole week working on this piece, but I have to show Quinn that I’m a better artist than him.
Actually, I think that I have to prove to myself that I’m just as good – or better – than he is.
Once my paints are ready, I grab a brush and walk up to my painting. Frowning, I look closer. The colors I put on last night look muddy and aren’t nearly as vibrant as I remember them to be. Carefully I reach out and touch the painting, and when I pull my finger back, there’s a wash of black paint on it.
“What the hell?” My voice is quiet, and I reach back out, wiping off a bit more of the black wash. Someone took black paint, thinned it out, and then painted all over my canvas. The closer I look, the more I see how, not only are the colors muted, but there are smears and smudges that weren’t there before.
“No.” I’m still talking to myself, but I feel panic start to rise in my chest. “No, no, no.” Dropping my brush, I grab a clean one and wipe it across the corner of my canvas, trying to see if I can remove some of the paint.
I’m horrified when I look at the brush and see that it has not only removed some of the black wash, but also the bright colors underneath it. The turpentine mixed with the oil paint to thin it out has affected all of the layers of the paint, even the ones that I thought were dry.
“No!” I don’t want to draw attention to myself, but I can’t help it. Someone came in and fucked with my painting last night, and now Quinn is clearly going to win. Nobody can look at my canvas and think that it looks good, let alone that it looks better than something that he could paint.
My single loud cry brings Mr. Stanfield to my curtain. “Is everything okay in there?” Before I can answer, he whips open the curtain and comes to stand next to me.
Tears spring to the corners of my eyes and I sway slightly, but I don’t move. He doesn’t say anything at first, and the silence is even worse than if he had said something right away.
Finally, he speaks. “Is this a joke?”
His voice jolts me back to earth and I feel grounded again. Worse than that, though, I feel weighed down. Turning to him, I force myself to speak. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I asked if this was a joke.” He waves hand at my canvas. There are huge drips that I hadn’t noticed before where the paint is running from the additional thinned out layer on top. It looks horrible. He knows it, and I know it. “I was told that you were skilled, Abby, that you were going to come to Trinity Prep and shake the place up, but I didn’t think that this is what they meant when they said that. This is, quite frankly, terrible.”
“I didn’t do this.” My voice is quiet, but he still hears me and leans over closer to me.
“Come again? Is this not your space?”
“Yes, but – ”
He cuts me off. “Is this not your canvas?”
“It is, but – ”
“Then it’s your work.” He turns to me, his dark eyes angry. “Listen up. You’re here because you’re supposed to be good, but if you can’t hack it then you will go back to your second-rate high school. Just because you’re good compared to a group of inner-city kids doesn’t mean that you will actually amount to anything.”
Now I can’t help the tears that spring to the corners of my eyes. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, trying to keep the hiccups out of my voice. I have a really bad habit of ugly crying when I’m up
set, and I have a very strong feeling that right now is going to be one of those times. “I promise you that I will work hard to make you proud, Mr. Stanfield. I’ll do everything I can to show you that I deserve to be here and that I’m the top of the class. I want that internship, and nothing is going to stand in my way.”
He pauses for a moment, staring at me, before saying anything. “I hope that you can pull it together, Abby. I know that you want this, but wanting it isn’t enough. The best students here are willing to bleed and die for their craft, and you have to decide if you are willing to do that, too. Are you?”
I don’t have to think about it. I already know how badly I wanted to be here. “I’ll do anything it takes, Mr. Stanfield. I promise, you won’t regret that I’m here. You’ll see. I’ll show you and I’ll show the rest of the class.”
“Big words, Abigail.” Quinn’s voice makes us both turn to look at him. He slides around my curtain, but from his vantage point, he can’t see my canvas. The thought gives me a little relief, but I already know that he’s going to see it eventually this afternoon, and there’s nothing I can do to hide or cover up how terrible it is.
“Don’t worry, Quinn. I know that you think the internship is yours, but I’m going to give you a run for your money.” I’ve almost forgotten that Mr. Stanfield is standing right next to me, but he suddenly claps his hands together.
“Oh, good. I do love a little friendly competition in my class. You know, I really think that the two of you could be good for each other. I have no doubt in my mind that you will end up pushing each other harder and farther than you ever thought possible. What do you think?”
Quinn doesn’t take his eyes from me when he answers. “I think that I’m ready to push Abigail here until she breaks.”
My breath catches in my throat. Before I can say anything, Mr. Stanfield walks past me. “In that case, I’m going to let the two of you get to it. I expect amazing art from everyone in my class, you know, but you two have a passion that I haven’t seen before.” He turns his gaze to Quinn. “Watch out. If she’s nearly as talented as she claims to be then she could be trouble, especially with all that passion in her.” He then turns to me. “Don’t make me regret you being in my class, Abigail, because right now I do.”
He leaves the two of us alone and the curtain flutters shut behind him before Quinn speaks. “You’re just packed full of passion, huh, Abigail?” His voice is low and rich and I can totally see how most girls would willingly throw themselves at him. I’d be one of them if I weren’t so worried about our bet.
“You ruined my canvas.” It has to be him. I can’t think of anyone else who would be stupid enough to get in the middle of this bet, but when I accuse him, he just smiles at me.
“You really think that I need to stoop that low to win?” Before I can stop him, he walks to stand next to me, slowly letting his gaze slide across my canvas. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and I almost break the silence, but I bite my lower lip to keep from talking.
“It probably wasn’t utter shit before someone ruined it.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel good?” Anger courses through my veins. “I was up all night working on it and this is what I have now!” Throwing my hand out, I gesture at it, but he’s unflappable.
Slowly, he turns his blue gaze on me. “Come with me, Abigail, and I’ll show you what a winner’s canvas looks like. You aren’t half bad, but you’re not good enough. You need something more in your work.” He grabs my hand and pulls me from my curtains, guiding me across the giant room to his corner.
As much as I wanted to peek in here last night, I knew that if I did, I would regret it. I didn’t want to know what he was painting. I didn’t want to know how much better than me he was.
When I don’t move, he sighs and reaches for the curtain, violently pulling it back. It flutters down to the floor, exposing an incredible painting.
“Oh,” I breathe, unable to stop myself.
It’s a portrait, and gorgeous, with bright colors that play across the girl’s face. She’s turned halfway away from a window, her stare serious and full of longing. I lift my hand but then drop it to my side. I can’t touch his work, no matter how I want to run my fingers across it. There’s just no way that he completed this this week.
“You’ve been working on it since before this week,” I accuse, turning to him. “That’s cheating.”
“Look again. You’ll see that I haven’t.” He sounds bored as he walks up to the canvas and I follow, needing to get a closer look.
He was right.
He hadn’t been working on it longer than just this week. That means that he’s damn near the most talented person in the building, except for Mr. Stanfield.
The reason that I know he’s telling the truth and that he didn’t cheat by using an existing painting is the girl.
She’s gorgeous. She looks light-hearted and happy, and he managed to perfectly capture her half-smile and the twinkle in her eye.
It’s me.
Chapter Six
“I think that we can both agree that my painting is better. Of course, if you’d prefer, we can get someone to come in and judge.” Quinn looks at me with an intense look on his face, but he doesn’t seem rushed. He actually seems to be really enjoying this.
There’s not anything for me to say, and he knows it. His painting has life and mine…well, even before someone ruined it, it wasn’t really anything special. His colors simply danced across his canvas, while on my painting they looked flat and uninspired.
I hate him for it. The rage I felt boils up inside of me and I clench my fists and grit my teeth. This is not how I wanted this bet to go. I was supposed to wipe the floor with him and earn the respect of Mr. Stanfield with one gorgeous painting.
Instead, I’m standing in front of the most incredible portrait that I’ve seen in a very long time. Even the way he applied the paint, with thick gobs and thin swipes, made my face come alive in ways that I couldn’t have imagined. As much as I don’t want him to know how incredible he is, I can’t help but lean closer for a better look.
“You can admit to my anytime that mine is better.” If only he would just shut up, then I could enjoy myself, but I know that he’s not going to back off, so I stand back up and turn to face him.
“It’s obvious that you had help. There’s no way that you painted this.” I know that it’s not true, and he knows that it’s not true, but I can’t think of anything else to say. I want to hurt him the way that I’ve been hurt.
He scoffs and crosses his arms across his chest, pinning me in place with a level look. “You’re kidding, right, Abigail? I told you that I have more skill in my pinkie than you do in your entire body, and now you’re just pissed because you can’t hide the fact that I’m better than you. I bet that it sucked having Mr. Stanfield rip apart your painting, didn’t it? You want to tell me about it? I’ve never had it happen.”
He looks so cocky and sure of himself that suddenly I know that I have to get out of there so I can breathe. Instead of answering him, I push past him, but he reaches out and grabs my wrist, squeezing it tight enough so that I can’t move.
“Did you forget about our bet?” There’s a threat in his voice, and it makes something low in my stomach twist. I don’t want to think about giving him my virginity, but any other time, under different circumstances…Quinn is hot, no doubt. But there’s no way that I want to sleep with him now. Not after I lost a bet.
Not after I know that I’m just a conquest to him, and nothing more.
“I didn’t forget.” Yanking my wrist, I try to pull away from him, but his grip is stronger than I would have thought it would be. I can feel my pulse pounding against his skin, and I bite my lower lip, trying not to concentrate on the way it feels to have his warm body pressed up against mine.
“Good. Because, Abigail, I need you to know that I fully intend on collecting on the bet.” When he lets go of my wrist, I pull it back as quickly as possible, rub
bing it with my other hand. He hurt me, and he knows it, but he doesn’t care. “Make sure that you keep yourself in great condition, okay? I made a bet for you right now, and I don’t want you to let yourself go in any way.”
“Let myself go?”
He grins, a sick smile splitting his face. In that moment, I wonder how in the world I ever saw anything attractive in him. He’s evil, that’s for sure, and the way he’s looking at me right now lets me know that he’s taking this very, very seriously.
Maybe I should have, too.
“You know what I mean.” He waves a hand at my body, allowing his eyes to slowly rake up my shape, making me shiver as he looks at me. “Girls get complacent sometimes. I don’t know what you do go stay in shape, but it’s working, so don’t go changing now. I’m not ready to collect just yet, but I don’t want to be disappointed when I do.”
“Disappointed? You’ll be lucky to ever lay a hand on me again, you asshole. I can’t believe that you think that I’d actually sleep with you!” My voice is getting loud, but I don’t care if everyone in the art class hears us. Maybe if they did they would all understand that I have no desire to give Quinn the thing that he wants.
Most guys would be mad, but he just throws back his head and laughs. “Seriously? You made a bet, Abigail, and at Trinity Prep, your word is your bond. So you’re gonna have to suck it up and get used to the idea that I’m going to come to you one day, and I’m going to take what’s mine.” I glare at him, daring him to continue.
Even though I know that I should move, I can’t seem to get my feet to respond to me. I feel rooted to the spot. My brain is screaming at me to leave, but my body aches to know what he wants to do to me.
I’ve lost my damn mine.
He leans forward. Whatever he’s going to say is apparently for my ears only. “If you’re really good and sweet, Abigail, I may let you come. Otherwise, I’m going to use that hot little body of yours. You owe me, honey, and I’m going to collect. You can either give it up willingly or I’ll just take what’s mine. Nobody ever crosses me, do you understand?”
