Red: Burning Desire (Spectrum Series Book 7)

by Allison White

  I lean forward, my forehead resting on hers. I feel like we’re in a bubble in our own world…like in the story.

  I want to capture this moment. Paint it. Hang it in a museum…no. I want this moment to ourselves.

  I’m greedy for her. She makes me so greedy. I’m starving for her. I want her.

  But she jerks away, treading water. She pauses, mouth frozen apart, looks regretful, then says in a low voice, “We should go before a security guard catches us or something…”

  The words sting, and I want to shove the words back in her mouth. Press my own lips against hers. Feel her warmth again. I feel instantly cold, submerged in a lake of ice. But instead of doing what every fiber of me desires, I give her a curt nod.

  Her eyes hold all the words I want her to say: “Don’t go. I changed my mind. Kiss me.” But she stays silent and ends up looking away.

  “Sure. Yeah. Let’s go.” I climb out of the pool, feeling extremely hurt. I shouldn’t be this hurt, shocked. I mean, we are total complete opposites. How I could think she’d actually feel something for me? I’m not even sure if she likes me, let alone is attracted to me. She barely gives me the time of day, after all. So why the hell would she let me kiss her? I should probably just lay off her, not catch any feelings for her more than I already have.

  But as we’re riding back to campus, I think, That’s much easier said than done. Because damn it, she smells good. Like vanilla, but also something else…danger.

  Chapter Twelve

  A week has passed since Red and I broke into that YMCA. One full week since she’s cut all communications with me. I haven’t heard any word from her. I’ve tried countless times calling and texting her but I’ve gotten no reply, so I’ve stopped trying and have given her her space. I try my best to not make assumptions or anything, which is easier said than done. I just mean, it sucks a little that she would ditch me like that. Especially after our little…moment in the pool.

  Despite how hard she tries to appear all the time, I saw a different side to her. A lighter side that knew how to smile and laugh and play around. She was teasing but not mocking or in an underhanded sardonic manner like usual. She can admit it or not, but she’s different when she’s around me. It’s like whatever rests on her shoulders constantly, dragging her down, lifts and I give her a chance to breathe. I want to relieve her of whatever’s weighing her down again. If only she didn’t fall off the face of the freaking earth.

  “Hey, you okay?” Rachel asks, nudging me gently. The worried expression splayed on her petite face tugs at my heart strings.

  “Yeah. I’m sorry. I was zoned out for a bit,” I apologize and run a hand over my hair.

  I feel like a prick. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own head, I focused on myself and the confusing situation with Red and me, effectively blocking her out. She’s been kind enough to accompany me to art club every day, introducing me to her friends and getting me back in my groove painting-wise. So far this week, I’ve created several art pieces that caught the eye of the instructor, Mrs. Turner. Rachel’s been a great friend, and I’ve been a self-centered bastard who hasn’t been that grateful.

  “Really. I am very sorry. Maybe we can grab a bite to eat after this?” I suggest, giving her my utmost attention. But she laughs and holds up her hands, telling me to back off a bit, but in a nice way. Blushing, I pull away and think to myself, How horrible am I really with girls? And why haven’t I noticed before?

  “I have a study group with a few friends after this,” she says, “but you can join if you want…”

  I begin to deny, but then I stop myself and think what the hell else do I have to do? The list of guys that made the team goes up today, but that could be a total bust. Once I’m out of the art room, I’m a sack deprived of inspiration and creativity. I’ve been painting so long on my own that, once pulled from my comfort zone, I’ve shriveled up and lost my touch. Either that or I’m more acclimated to painting girls after I’ve fooled around with them.

  So I let out a breath and shrug. “Sure, why the hell not?”

  A few minutes later, I’m sitting on a stool in front of an empty canvas. Since it’s Friday, we have free range to use what we’ve learned through the week to make whatever the hell we want. But I have no clue as to what I want to paint. I have creator’s block, and it sucks. It blocks my mind from thinking of the cool things that usually bounce around my head so much, it’s the reason I keep a sketchpad on me at all times. Maybe if I walk around I’ll be hit with some sort of nugget of inspiration.

  Setting my brush down, I stroll over to the wall of students’ works.

  I can’t tell if the painting I’m looking at is portraying a man sitting on the toilet or a man contemplating suicide. Either way, there’s a man…I think. That’s the problem with abstract art: it’s half-illusion, half-imagination. You choose what the painting represents. Let your heart decide if a man is shitting or choosing between a gun and pills. Art leaves everything on the canvas and lets you decide. It’s one of the many things I adore about it.

  A painting of a boy holding a girl with red lips catches my attention as I’m looking at the student’s art on one wall. I take three long strides backward. But the painting isn’t what I thought. It’s a man biting into an apple. My mind is playing tricks on me, yet…I feel a jolt of inspiration run through my veins.

  I rush over to my easel, eager to erase every inch of white on the canvas. As I dip my brush in the black paint, I wonder, When did I pick up the brush? Stroke after stroke, I quickly sketch the bodies, faces, go into graver detail. My eyes jot back and forth quickly as I mix colors, creating a colorful background. I stand and gently paint her lips, create his playful smile. His eyes are lush forest green, hers blue like the wings of an exotic butterfly.

  Minutes pass, or seconds, or an eternity—I can never really tell when I’m painting.

  “Noah?” a soft voice says.

  They may as well have been from Mars, because I could barely hear them as I focused on her golden hair.

  “Noah?” the voice calls again. This time it’s followed by my arm being squeezed gently.

  “Huh?” I snap out of my little bubble and turn around. Rachel is beaming at me, and the instructor is staring at my quick painting. It could have been five minutes, but I feel like I’ve been painting for hours.

  “You just made this?” the instructor asks, stepping closer with curious eyes. “Just now?” She’s staring at me behind her winged eyeglasses.

  My cheeks burn. “Um, yes?”

  Her jaw slacks, and she turns back to the painting. “Interesting…”

  “This is so…beautiful. Haunting, really. You can see how much he cares for her from the way he’s looking at her.”

  “Thanks.” I blush.

  “Have you thought of entering the contest?” Ms. Turner asks me.

  “What contest?”

  Rachel answers. “It’s a contest where, if you win, you get the chance to be a prodigy of Luc Van Wilkson.”

  My eyes bug out of my head as I gape. “Luc Van Wilkson? The son of the guy who followed in Picasso’s footsteps?” I’ve looked up to that man and followed his works for years. Getting to be his prodigy would be mind-blowing. Crazy. Freaking scratch-that-off-my-bucket-list crazy.

  “Yes.” She pauses. “You’d be perfect for it because this,” she gestures to the painting and chuckles, “this is freaking incredible. It’d be stupid of you to not even try. So…wanna give it a shot?”

  “I don’t know.” I rub the back of my neck. I want to jump at the chance to be taught under that man’s influence. To be by his side and learn so much from him, from basically Picasso himself…it’d be a dream come true. But what if I’m not good enough? Art is a hobby, a passionate hobby of mine, but what if he sees what I can do and laughs in my face?

  “Think about it, okay?” Mrs. Turner sighs and looks at the painting with a forlorn expression. “Your talent would be a helluva waste otherwise.” Then she walks over to
a guy next to me and begins chatting with him about his work.

  Rachel places a small hand on my wrist, eyes and smile warm. “Just give it a shot. You’ll hate yourself if you don’t.”

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. Holding up a finger to excuse myself, I slide it out onto my palm and look at the screen. My eyes double in size. It’s a text from Ty, saying he needs the room to “entertain” a lady friend and that the list for those who made the team is up outside the stadium.

  I jump to my feet, shrugging on my jean jacket. “I’ve gotta go. The list for the team is up.”

  “I’ll come with,” she says.

  “You don’t have to.” I don’t want to drag her away from this.

  “I want to, dummy.” She smiles softly, and we leave promptly, excitement admittedly fizzing under my skin, eliciting goosebumps even though I told myself to not get attached. But I think my plan of ducking my head for the semester is shot to shit, don’t you think? From Red, to the art club, to football, to the short story I’ve worked on myself, I’m a full-on college student. I don’t know how to feel about it.

  There’s a large, buzzing crowd in front of the cork board in front of the stadium. Leaving Rachel to the side away from the bustle of guys, I push through the crowd, bypassing more pissed-off guys than victorious ones. As I get closer and the paper comes into view, my heart is out of control. My palms begin to sweat, so I tell myself that this doesn’t matter. That I am only here because I was forced to be here. That they didn’t say I had to join the football team. But it’s all lies. I want to be on the team. I want to be a part of something, I realize as I am smack dab in front of the paper.

  “Noah Wells, Noah Wells…” I mutter under my breath as my eyes scroll up and down the list, frantically. Desperately. I’m bouncing on my heels, biting into my palm lightly, when I see it.

  Noah Wells, it reads, jersey number: 14.

  Relief, shock, accomplishment, and elation push through me in waves. I can’t believe I actually made it. I’ll admit, I was good in high school. But college football is more prestigious and important somehow. Scouts from the actual NFL often sit in. It’s broadcast on television. And I made it through the difficult tryouts. I’m still surprised I didn’t flunk my way through it. But I guess when you want something enough, you’re almost guaranteed to get it.

  “The newbie got in. Guess there is no budget on Daddy’s card, huh?” a familiar voice slurs behind me.

  I turn around to face Ian, who’s sporting a shit-eating grin. “Wasn’t money that bought me that spot; pure talent and determination. Both things I’m sure you’re lacking in.”

  A few guys overhearing whistle, and he chuckles, eyes low and dark.

  “How do you think I got the captain position?” he says.

  I shrug. “Maybe you took a different version of suck up, used it on Coach.”

  His face melts into rage as guys chuckle. “You’d be a fucking expert at that. I mean, you haven’t banged Red yet? Which is utterly fucking shocking since once you get some liquor in her, promise she’s a pretty girl, she’s a real easy piece of ass…” He pushes his black hair behind his studded ear.

  Heat overtakes my cheeks as I say, “What the fuck did you just say?” He would never know Red in that way, right? I barely know her, but something tells me she wouldn’t go for pricks like him. That weird guy she brought to class, yeah, definitely. But rock bottom is Ian.

  “You heard me—” he begins to sneer.

  I grab his shirt and push him into the bulletin board. “I will fucking kill you…” I promise in a tone that scares even me. By the looks of it, he’s surprised as well, because his dark eyes widen just the slightest tad…then he bursts into mocking laughter.

  He raises his hands. “Oh, please don’t hurt me,” he whines, popping out his bottom lip. A few guys chuckle.

  “Definitely not worth it, Noah.” Rachel pulls me from the group and pats my arm as she pulls us around the bend, into the bustling activity of students who have five classes rather than four.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I have no idea what just came over me. He was just talking about Red and I…” I run my hands over my hair. I need to stop pulling at it or I’ll go bald in the near future, so I pull out a red beanie I keep in my pocket and tug it on. She watches me and seems to be fighting an internal fight within herself. “What?”

  “You mean Red? Red Sylvetti?” she asks, and I nod, and that fight turns into an outright battle of the century. “She’s utter bad news, Noah. You should stay away from her.”

  I laugh. “I think I can handle a little bad.”

  “No, I’m being serious. She’s someone you run away from, not toward,” she says in a serious, low tone that sends shivers across my skin.

  I should be listening to her, taking her words to heart. The look in her eyes screams knowledge. Like she knows just how bad Red is. I want her to tell me more, to explain why I should stay away because, so far, it’s been a hell of a lot easier said than done. I feel this sort of pull toward her. Like the positive end of a magnet seeking the connection of a negative end. If what Rachel is implying is true, Red is a damn inferno of bad news, dangerous. And I’m that stupid moth that doesn’t know danger when he sees it. I just keep flying closer and closer, hoping for a sweet heaven, only to be fried to death.

  I begin to follow her to her study group, but a nagging feeling telling me to turn around stops me. I wheel around and my breath catches. Up ahead is Red being man-handled by a huge security guard. My hands curl into fists, and I take a step toward them as Red begins shouting and spitting curses in and out of Spanish. Funny, I didn’t know she knew Spanish.

  “Wait.” Rachel grabs my hand, halting me. She gives me a concerned look. “Where are you going? I thought we were going to the study group.”

  I open my mouth, but Red threatening to kick the guard where the sun doesn’t shine cuts me off.

  I give Rachel an apologetic glance. “I’m sorry, but I’ll catch up with you.”

  Her face falls slightly. “But—”

  “Later, Rach. I’ll be there soon, promise.” I squeeze her hand, sporting a grin. She smiles a little, but the frown in her eyes doesn’t diminish in the slightest. Letting her hand go, I jog over to the arguing duo.

  “Hey, Red. What’s going on here?” I ask, making sure to maintain my easy breezy smile. I haven’t seen her in a week and this is how I find her? Threatening to kick a security guard?

  The guard scowls at me, like I’m adding onto a mountain pile of issues. “This one was caught smoking weed on campus, which she knows is punishable by suspension or worse.” He spits his words directly at her, tugging at her arm. She growls at him in response, which he responds with an eye roll. “And suspected to mess with the fire alarm, which is punishable by time in jail.”

  “She wouldn’t do that,” I quickly say.

  But one glance at Red’s hidden smirk tells me something different.

  Oh geez, Red.

  My smile doesn’t falter. “Why don’t you just book her for the smoking? But the fire alarm, anyone could have done that.”

  “She was caught red-handed,” the guard says.

  “Says who?” I ask.

  “Says her hand with the red paint; the alarm was painted over earlier.” He holds up her right hand that is indeed smothered in red paint.

  Her smile is wicked and adorable at the same time. “Whoops,” she says with a shoulder shrug, eyes glinting with trouble. She is trouble. And the bad kind…and I’m kind of turned on right now.

  “Now, will you move out of the way? She’s gotta see the chancellor, let him decide which jail her little ass should be thrown in.” He jostles her violently, and I step forward. He looks me up and down like I’ve lost my mind. “You must’ve lost your damn mind. Boy, if you don’t move out of the way—”

  A piercing wailing alarm punching the air cuts him off.

  “What the—” He looks around, letting Red’s hand go.

  Bi
g mistake.

  “Come on, pretty boy.” Red grabs my hand and begins running onto the campus. I follow after her, heart thundering in my chest, blood rushing up to my cheeks. We run so fast, too fast, our feet barely touching the ground. The guard screams for us to stop, but he’s drowned out by her laughter and my “oh, shit!”

  Cutting through a group of students, we take a sharp left. I grip her hand, making sure she doesn’t fall, but she doesn’t seem to need my help. She moves so deftly, turns so sharply, I know for a fact this isn’t her first time running from authority.

  One of the many tattoos on her right arm peeking from her leather jacket and us running toward her Chevy Impala sets off a thousand warning bells. All telling me the same thing: Run the other way. She is dangerous, dude!

  I tell them to fuck off and laugh along with her.

  The minute we slide into her car, which smells strongly of lemon and beer and stale cigarettes, she jams the key in the ignition and peels out of the parking lot. Our breaths are uneven, my smile physically hurts me, and I feel like I’m floating over Emerald City.

  “That…was insane,” I finally say after a while of silence.

  “That was nothing compared to…” She trails off and smirks at me. “I’ve said too much already.”

  My heart jumps unsteadily, and I look sideways at her, enraptured by her raccoon eyes and ripped band t-shirt and leather jacket and combat boots, and listen to the Nirvana song blaring through the radio. Mesmerized by the way her black-painted fingers, chipped and all, bounce along the wide steering wheel.

  “You are something bad, Red. Something…bad,” I say around an air of fascination.

  She meets my eyes for one fleeting, smoldering second before the car accelerates, and my heart too, and she says, “You just now noticing, babe?”

  Chapter Thirteen