Dust

by Mandy Harbin

  "'Don't puss out.' Really?"

  He looked over the protection of his work and winked at me. "Solid advice."

  "So did you just draw this up now or did you take my things?"

  "I took them." He stood and stretched. Holy crap. He was tall. And big all over. He had to be at least half a foot taller than my five-six. He scooted his stool closer to me, and I stiffened. He sat down and pointed at the sheet. "It looks like you just started drawing without thinking about it first. You should have a game plan in place before you tackle a project, no matter how small it may seem. How many art classes have you taken before?"

  If he'd asked with an attitude, I'd have told him to fuck off, but because he was so nonchalant about it, my answer came easily. "None. Not counting art appreciation." That had been a required course for any bachelor of arts major at my previous school, so I'd had to grin and bear that seminar-style instruction early on in my education.

  He nodded, seemingly concentrating. "Well, I put some general notes on here to help you. You can apply these to any assignment you do. Don't beat yourself up, though, drawing hands is very difficult. Even seasoned artists have trouble with it."

  I just stared into his gray eyes, trying to understand him. The only thing I could think was... Um, yeah, okay, he's hot. I might've been dead inside, but outside I was still a woman. Not that I was happy to have those thoughts. It wouldn't change anything except make me mad at myself for feeling an attraction toward a man. I wasn't a lesbian, but I didn't date. Why would I? I didn't have any positive experience with men. Those who I'd been exposed to had done something to hurt me. I'd liked boys once a long time ago. I remembered some of the ones who ran around my old neighborhood, playing football and baseball and riding their bikes and teasing the girls. That was back when life was innocent and carefree. Back when I had a life worth living.

  Back before everything had changed.

  Now, even if I felt the urge to be near a man, I wouldn't allow it. History had proved they could hurt me, but what if the opposite happened? What if one made me happy? That was unacceptable. I existed. That was it. I would not allow anything more.

  "Thank you," I muttered and forced my eyes downcast.

  His knee started bouncing, but other than that, he didn't move. "I'm sorry I was rude the other day. I have a hard time keeping my mouth shut."

  I looked up at him. He'd folded his arms across his chest and was watching me. "You didn't know."

  "I didn't know what?"

  "That I don't like to be called that."

  He laughed without humor. "I don't think anybody likes to be called an outcast."

  I frowned at him. "Huh?"

  "You know. When you said that about me, and I practically called you a freak. I wasn't thinking."

  "You called me darlin'." I snapped my mouth shut. Why would I say the word? Just thinking it would make my hands sweat sometimes. Saying it could make me start to shake. Now he was looking at me with his head cocked to the side. Great. He'd jumped to the wrong insult, and I'd just corrected him. I should've kept quiet. Calling me a freak would be an insult, but calling me the other word was practically chivalrous around here. It would require explanation, and he wasn't going to be getting one.

  "You don't like that word?"

  "No."

  He licked his bottom lip and nodded slowly. "Okay. Just that word or any hospitable Southern term?"

  "Just that one." We continued to stare at each other, and I wondered what he was thinking. But I jumped when he suddenly grabbed his leg. I looked down and saw his hand clamped down on his knee. Then my gaze flew back to his.

  "Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you." He let go of his leg and stood. Then he grabbed his stool but stopped there without moving back to his easel. "I have ADHD. The hyperactivity part of it is sometimes hard to hide. Every so often, I feel like I have to move around or talk, which makes some people uncomfortable." He moved back to his artwork, and I was stunned in silence. I'd never met anybody who confessed to having that, though I didn't talk to people much. I guess it wasn't too bad. He wasn't covered in puss-filled sores and contagious or anything, but the look in his eyes when he'd confessed conveyed more of an apology than his words. It tugged at something deep within me. Something I didn't want to acknowledge. Something I wouldn't acknowledge. But discovering whatever that was inside me wouldn't be necessary to assuage the pain he'd felt in that moment of admittance.

  "I'm deathly allergic to peanuts," I muttered before considering. Maybe knowing he was sitting next to someone who was also defective would make him feel somehow normal enough.

  His head snapped up, but the shocked look in his eyes didn't stay. He suddenly smiled and shook his head before picking up something from his case and tending to whatever he was working on.

  "So, Liv. What's your major?"

  Our serious moment thankfully gone, I copied his actions by grabbing a pencil out of my book bag before answering. "Creative writing. You?"

  "Art." He chuckled. "God, creative writing? Really? I hate writing. I found out I have a major research paper due this semester, and I'm seriously dreading it. I can't write worth shit."

  "It's not hard. I can help you." The fuck? Where did that come from? Were we going to be BFFs now or something? Doubtful. I snapped my mouth shut and flipped my sketchpad to a clean piece of paper. I'd use his drawing of a hand to help me—along with the image in the textbook—with a fresh attempt.

  "You could've just been being nice when you said that since I gave you a few drawing tips, but I'm supposed to graduate at the end of this semester. If I don't pass that class, I'll have to take it again this summer." He dropped his hand and looked at me. "No way do I want to do that. Especially when I'm so close to finally being finished with school. I'm seriously going to hold you to that offer. Desperate times and all that B.S. But if you want, we can trade tutoring services. I help you with art and you help me with writing. I don't care as long as you help me with the nightmare of crafting that paper."

  I wasn't sure what to say. He seemed to switch gears faster than I could follow. "Big plans after graduation?" It was the first thing I could come up with, latching onto his comment about almost being finished with school.

  "Actually, I interned for an advertising company last year. After that, they threw a few freelance gigs my way when they were too booked to handle some small jobs internally. Before Christmas they offered me a fulltime job after graduation. Since then, I've been working part-time for them as my schedule allows. With school and taking care of my granddad eating up so much of my time, it's been a pretty sweet arrangement. They're flexible with me."

  "Okay," I said slowly and tried to focus on my assignment. He did like to talk. During his last little spiel, the professor had walked in. She'd dropped something on her desk and stepped over to the closest student to observe. Maybe her being here would be his cue to be quiet now.

  Oddly enough, it was the first time in a long time I'd actually felt indifferent to that possibility, rather than relieved.

  "I didn't think art was a requirement for creative writing," he said a little quieter, but not whispering. "For some reason, I don't see you picking it as an elective because it's just something you love. So why are you here?"

  He'd rambled this without looking at me. I could fake an answer, but what would be the point? It wasn't like it was some big secret. "I want to write greeting cards," I replied as I watched the top of his head. He looked up at me with an unfathomable expression. Then he leaned around the obstruction of the easel, giving me his undivided attention.

  "Why?"

  If he'd laughed, I would've ignored him. If he'd snickered, I would've cussed him out. But he hadn't done either of those things. His demeanor was unpredictable. He'd plainly asked, and I felt his question pulling my response from within the deepest parts of me. That simple, one-word question shouldn't have been easy to answer. The topic was always hard for me, but in this moment, it was real. Easy. "My sister always loved them
. She used to save all the ones she'd get and hang them on our bedroom wall. It didn't matter how basic or elaborate they were, she'd save them. But she always wanted me to make special ones for her. Even before I could write. I'd fold up paper and draw squiggle lines for words and tell her what it said." I half smiled and looked down at my hands. "She'd save those too."

  "What happened to her?" My head popped up, and I gaped at him. "You said she loved them. Not love. Past-tense." He shrugged, but it wasn't a rude gesture, just matter-of-fact. I could tell him I killed her. I knew it was the truth, but I didn't want to. Not because I was worried what he'd think of me, or because it was too personal, but because I just didn't want to. Saying that didn't feel right for some reason.

  "She died."

  "That sucks." He turned back to his artwork, and I barked out a laugh I quickly stifled. It hadn't been a heart-felt condolence or an awkward comment some people make when faced with the topic of death. It was totally unexpected.

  And slightly refreshing if I were being honest.

  I heard him chuckling behind his canvas before he looked at me with twinkling eyes. "Sorry. I probably should've said something more..."

  "Apologetic?" I offered when he struggled to finish.

  "Yeah. But it does suck."

  I smiled at him. "Yeah, it sucked." It was odd how that description was both fitting, yet hugely understated. "That's why I go by Liv now. Because it’s not what she called me."

  "That's deep." His phone beeped, and he looked down at it. He narrowed his eyes and muttered something that sounded like, "Women."

  "Girlfriend?" I asked, partially relieved with the easy subject change.

  His gaze cut to me, a smile playing at his lips. "Hell no. I don't date."

  "I think that's the smartest thing that's come out of your mouth." I refrained from pointing out that I would know since he’d already gone on about everything under the sun.

  He laughed out loud, then quickly stopped, looked over his easel, and apologized to the instructor. He looked back at me. "Don't get me in trouble," he hissed playfully. "I'm in enough trouble as it is."

  I rolled my eyes and shifted the book closer to inspect the hand. "You don't strike me as the in-trouble type."

  "Tell that to the counselor. Maybe he'll let me stop going to my university-ordered sessions a month early."

  We'd enjoyed a little back-and-forth banter, but I knew immediately he wasn't kidding. I looked over at him again. His left hand fisted on his thigh. I didn't know why I was letting this guy be a distraction to my boring art class, but he fascinated me. Now that he seemed tense, I should want to take the opportunity to shut him out and focus on my assignment. I usually relished the moments in life when talking could cease.

  But I didn't want our conversation to end on a bad note. I could console him somehow, but I wasn't one do to that. I wasn't one to lift someone's spirits at all actually, but at least I could follow his lead and maybe lighten the situation. Maybe ease his tension. Hell, now seemed like a good time to tease him about his diarrhea of the mouth problem.

  "Uh-oh. Did you talk someone into a coma with all that rambling you do?"

  He twisted in his seat and looked at me. I watched his eyes as the storm brewing shifted and humor twinkle within them. They really were a gorgeous gray-blue color—not that I was paying attention to that or anything.

  "No, smarty pants. I threw a desk. At someone's face."

  Oh really. I quirked an eyebrow. "Remind me not to piss you off."

  "Don't piss me off." He said, chuckling as he went back to his artwork. "Why do you think that was the smartest thing that's come out of my mouth?" he asked as if the face-bashing had never been brought up.

  "About the dating? I don't date either."

  "I guess we're a lot alike, Liv," he murmured, and I wasn't sure if he sounded happy about that. If he were as messed up as me, he'd have reason to not like that.

  "Who knows, er..." I leaned back and looked at him. I couldn't believe we sat next to each other in class and had spoken on two occasions now, but I didn't even know his name. Normally, I wouldn't care enough to ask. People tended to push themselves onto me with introductions and all that crap. I couldn't remember the last time I was the one who initiated introductions. "What's your name, by the way?"

  He stilled. I couldn't see him behind his canvas, but no tell-tale sign of motion was evident. Then he moved, scooting his stool, and stood. He stepped over to me and stuck out his hand.

  "I'm a dick."

  "Nice to meet you, Dick." I shook his hand without thinking first and surprised myself further when I didn't cringe away at his touch.

  He chuckled. "I should've introduced myself before. You're the new one here. And I'm not being a very gracious host-slash-student. Killian," he said a little softer. "Killian Ashley. Some people call me Kill."

  "Olivia Musgrave. Everybody calls me Liv." I pulled my hand away before any sudden reflexes to yank it out of his grasp would embarrass me. He put his hands in his pockets.

  "Well, Olivia 'Liv' Musgrave. Can I make up my thoughtlessness by giving you a ride to the fundraiser tomorrow?"

  I felt the blood fall out of my face, but I forced myself not to flee. Is that what he was after? I was so inexperienced around guys because I avoided them. It was hard to learn what was considering flirting when I refused to do it or even acknowledge it. "I don't date." I freaking told him that already.

  "Good. Then there will be no misunderstanding, because, as I told you, I don't either."

  I glared at him. "I'm not sleeping with you." I didn't do that. Wouldn't do it ever again. My one experience with it resulted in enough therapy sessions to last me a lifetime. But I wasn't telling him all that. He just needed to know the basics, which in this case was that he was not getting into my panties. Period.

  "That's good." He chuckled but then suddenly paled. "Oh shit, that came out wrong." He put his hand on my shoulder. "You're sweet, Liv. I like talking to you, but I don't date or hang out with girls I fuum...I mean I don't do relationships. I was serious when I said I needed help with my term paper. If we're going to help each other out with our classes, then we have to keep things strictly friendly."

  Any normal girl would feel insulted by what he'd just said.

  Good thing I wasn't normal.

  Even more so, I was relieved. I didn't need the pressure of a man making a pass at me and trying to hook up. No way. No how. No thanks. I hadn't shrunken away at his touch, but the thought of a man doing anything more made me want to vomit a little. It was too easy to get lost in the past, to remember the smell of alcohol-laden breath and unforgiving hands. Hell no.

  I hadn't missed his comment about tutoring again, but if helping him with his paper gave me a free pass not to be on the defensive with any offensive flirting maneuvers he used, I was willing to consider it. Later. We had a more pressing issue to deal with right now. I took a deep breath before answering. "Well then, I accept. As long as you know my panties are off limits."

  He chuckled as he placed his right hand over his heart and lifted his left hand in the air. "I promise never to breach the limits of your panties."

  He really was a nice guy and easy to talk to. I wasn't sure how I felt about that since discussing personal stuff was usually off limits and blabbering about useless crap was too—on principle. But he could help me with my art class, and at the very least, he could make my time in the classroom more tolerable. Chatting with him was already pushing the boundaries of my comfort level, but if I was going to be working for Hallmark or Shoebox or any other greeting card company, I needed to get used to talking to artists. Learning the basics of art and how artists worked were the reasons I even bothered taking this class. This would be good practice, not just a highlight on my resume to give me an edge over other applicants.

  And if his declaration about my panties stung any, I ignored it.

  4

  He was late.

  I looked at my watch for the hundredth t
ime, and then cursed myself for agreeing to go to the fundraiser with Killian. I knew better than this. The night had big-fucking-disaster written all over it. I did not do social engagements, and college parties disguised as charity events qualified as such.

  "You can ride over with me, Liv."

  I glanced at my roommate and shook my head. She'd been decorating at the student union building all afternoon. She'd come to the dorm a few hours ago spouting off some nonsense about needing to make an entrance, so she'd come back to freshen up before arriving fashionably late.

  I wasn't fashionable. Just late.

  "Did you text—" She stopped and looked at the door when a knock sounded. I gritted my teeth and stomped over to it, knowing exactly who it was—or who it better be—and yanked it open.

  "You're late."

  "I'm sorry," he said at the same time. "My grandma was missing. If I hadn't found her before I left, my grandpa would've blown up my phone when he realized he'd hidden her."

  I frowned at him. I wasn't used to any social engagements, so I had no idea what proper etiquette was at a time like this. I knew he was late and my time was important, regardless if I was just going to stay hidden in my room for the night reading. I was pretty sure an acceptable form of punishment was introducing my Sperry's to his balls. I couldn't help it if I lacked societal knowledge and embraced a violent protocol. I'd be erring on the side of caution, really. But what he said momentarily threw me, confused me to distraction. "That probably makes sense in here," I tapped his forehead. "But what came out of your mouth sounds jacked up."