Hearts of Darkness: A Valentine's Day Bully Romance Collection

by Joanna Mazurkiewicz

  If Whitney Cargill is asking for war...

  So be it. I’ve never been able to tell her no.

  3

  Posing

  Lonestar Private College

  Squeaks.

  I burst out of the cafeteria. How juvenile of him to use that to tease me... to... to... bust my balls over what used to be between us. Asshat.

  Yet my body’s response had been anything but juvenile. I’d gone slick with anticipation the moment the nickname hit my eardrums. As though I’d been programmed to respond that way. Like he owned me. How dare he use it. I’m not Andrew’s version of Pavlov’s dog.

  Shit. I hate him.

  I kick the nearest ice-slicked bush, relishing the tinkling of shattered ice hitting the concrete. I march around the corner, narrowly avoiding a collision with the titty-nipple cheerleader. Thank god the triple A’s don’t follow me.

  If they had, the hostess would have had to call campus security to pry me off Andrew. I’d have either tried to kill him... or fuck him. For the life of me, I can’t figure out which would have happened.

  When I make it around the next corner, I lean against the exterior brick wall, chest heaving from loathing or lusting. Andrew has no right to use that nickname. Not anymore. He gave up everything it meant the minute he fucked his brother’s two bimbos.

  I consult my campus map once more and then march all the way to the entrance of the dorms and swipe my badge against the sensor. The light flickers red and then turns green. The latch releases, and I yank the door open.

  My aunt paid extra for a single occupancy in the co-ed dorms for the semester. Since I plan to be out of here by Valentine’s Day, maybe they’ll refund the unused days.

  A Lou Ferrigno look-alike with Hulk-sized shoulders leans on the desk in the front room. Mismatched couches fill the space. Students mill about, carrying bags or draped over the furniture. A small elevator and a narrow stair well fill the wall to the right. He rakes his eyes over me. “New blood?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Whitney Cargill? Last single occupancy in the building?”

  “That’s me. How did you know?”

  He grins and then wiggles all his fingers. “Magic.” Then he gives me a look. “Student ID image is in your file.”

  I stop at the counter. The jazz hands move seemed ridiculous from him, but the corresponding grin amped up his cute giant aspect.

  “Last single occupancy in the building,” he says.

  Nodding, I crane my neck. “Are you the Resident Advisor?”

  “You’re looking at him.” He sticks out his meaty paw. “Name’s Luca Romano.”

  “Nice to meet you.” His hand swallows mine, and he pumps it twice before releasing me. “Did my luggage arrive?” I ask.

  He nods and hands me a key card with 3-F written across the strip of tape on it. “It’s a bit out of the ordinary, but we stacked all the bags in the middle of your room. President Kensington made a special request.”

  The name makes me cringe, but my reaction isn’t Luca’s fault. “Thanks.”

  “We recommend you remove the tape once you’ve got your room location memorized. It cuts down on any improprieties if you lose your card and somebody else finds it.”

  I considered the plastic card. “Have trouble with break-ins around here?”

  “Thefts, break-ins, pranks, and bed-hoppings.”

  My eyebrows climbed my forehead. “All that from finding a lost key card?”

  “You’d might be surprised.”

  I shake my head. “Not likely. It’s college.”

  His smile nearly breaks his face. “True. We’re filled with rowdy, co-ed crowd.” He slides a large manila envelope across the Formica surface. “Code of Conduct and residency guidelines are inside. There’s a mixer in the dorm commons at the rear of the building tomorrow night.”

  “Booze?”

  He smirks. “What do you think?”

  It sounds like the best way to forget Andrew. Maybe Luca could be my amnesia. “I’ll be there.”

  “I’ll be looking for you.”

  I take the stairs, still too keyed up from hearing squeaks and then slapping the gilded stuffing out of Andrew. I take the stairs two at a time and make quick work of two flights. The third-floor hallways are mostly empty, and I locate my room on the other side of the shared kitchen and lounge area, at the opposite end of the main corridor.

  The F is slightly askew on my front door, but my card works. My mound of luggage sits in the middle of the floor as Luca had promised. I rotate beside the pile. The walls are gray and the bare, narrow mattress makes me feel like an inmate. Though, sheets were on the semester packing list, so they’re in my bags. The bedding should spruce up the place a bit, and I’ve splurged on thread count. Whether or not I want to ditch, comfortable sleep will be most important. It might keep me from murdering Andrew.

  I frown. Getting through six weeks of college with my enemy... It won’t be easy, but the quiet of my own space has already helped take the edge off. Andrew can’t chase me home against my will, and he won’t ever get an invitation from me.

  The next several hours blip by as I unload as much as I can from my trunks. Clothes get placed in drawers and on hangers in the closet. A lava lamp, three psychedelic band posters, and a bright green shag rug cancel out the generic appointment of the room. The rest of the unpacking could wait until the weekend. I had enough stuff out for socks and underwear for the next three days.

  At the end, I pull off my shirt, snuggle into the freshly made bed, and lean into the pillows...

  Andrew appears at the edge of my bed. He has flowers. I don’t want flowers. I want to be angry. I want to fight. Instead, I sigh. He’s good at bedroom things. Would it be so bad to give in?

  He smirks and then drags his hand over my chest, and his palm grazes my tits. I arch toward him, and he pauses. He rolls my nipple between his thumb and forefinger, stoking the fire burning deep in my middle. Then he twists and pain-laced pleasure shoots from my chest to the place between my legs.

  Even now, my nipples tighten, and my body tingles. I bite my bottom lip and rock my hips back and forth. But I’m not feeling it.

  With a sigh, I sit up. I need somebody real. Finding a stand-in for my ex shouldn’t be hard. I’m on a college campus for cryin’ out loud. I need a bad boy with wide shoulders and a tight ass. All the better if whoever I pick pissed Andrew off to the max.

  A thought hits me, and I smirk. Adam. He could be the answer I need.

  While Adam looked me over, his eyes widened, and his nostrils flared. He asked me questions. He was the least bad boy-ish of the triple A’s. All indications that he has exploitable interest.

  I chuckle. I just have to figure out how bad Adam wants to piss Andrew off. Andrew will shit himself if I show up somewhere public with his brother.

  I haven’t been with a lot of men since Andrew. I haven’t wanted a lot. I like to make them work for it. If they don’t measure up, they don’t get none.

  The young men in my social circles all reveled in their wealth-made laziness. Most of them earn nothing and get away with everything. I used to be that way, too, until a judge made me serve community service for a DUI.

  My aunt pulled every string she could, but I had to rub elbows with poor folk in downtown Austin. It had been the best thing that happened to me. My aunt liked to call it the worst.

  A knock interrupts my ponderings.

  The blazered young man from the early presentation stands on the other side of my threshold. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. He’s thinner than my type, and his shoulders are at least half a foot narrower than Andrew’s. After I unlatch the chain lock and fling the door open, he hands me a small envelope.

  I frown at the paper and image all sorts of bad news. “What’s this?”

  “Your short-term work-study assignment.”

  I turn the envelope over in my hand. “Short term?”

  “Two days a week for four-weeks
.”

  “Oh.” I still have no idea what the front desk clerk means. “Did I sign up for this?”

  He frowns, clearly at a loss. “You must have. I don’t know why else Administration would send me with the information.”

  “Was the application in the admission paperwork?”

  At that, his eyes widen. “I-I assume so?” He’s agreeable, but he has no idea whatsoever. He reached for it. “Should I take it back?”

  I yank it closer. “No, it’s fine. I want the job. Do you know what it is?”

  He shakes his head.

  I want to stand on my own feet. I’m not stupid enough to think a work-study position will free me from my aunt’s money-minding, but it’s a step in the right direction. I don’t remember requesting anything in all the paperwork I’ve filled out, but I’m not about to turn down a job. Every little bit counts.

  He waits expectantly.

  “Thanks,” I finally say. “Tell them I’ll be there.”

  He dashes off, and I ease the door closed. Carefully, I use my letter opener to view the insides. The hall, the classroom number, and the time are written on expensive stationery.

  Breyer Hall, Classroom 132, 8:30 AM

  Special Instruction: Wear something comfortable.

  I may not be sure what I’ll be doing in Breyer Hall, but it seems like something I’ll like. Art and all. Maybe one of the professors needs a teaching assistant. I drop the summons on the counter and return to the couch to fantasize about turning the tables on sexy bad boys.

  The Next Morning

  I check my phone again. I can’t tell if I’m going to be late or not, so I break into a run. I make it to Classroom 132 in record time. The door’s closed, and butcher paper covers the glass in the middle of it.

  When I enter, a flurry of whispers fill the air. I’m still a few minutes early, so the number of attendees surprises me. Most students don’t bother to get to class early. The room is arranged a bit like a theatre with graduated levels. I’ve never been in a classroom with theater style seating. On each level, eight easels hold eight sketch pads on each level. Stools wait beside each art station. Stairs run down the middle toward the bottom.

  A low stage rests on the lowest level, in the center of the room. Fabrics drape an antique-looking settee that reminds me of Titanic. The classroom overhead lights are off, but professional photographer’s lamps point toward the fancy seat.

  “Whitney Cargill?” The deep voice speaks from the shadows to my right.

  I turn. “Yes?”

  An older man approaches, his hair falling in white waves around his face. He looks like hold over from the 1970s. “I’m Professor Miller. You’re here for the nude modeling job, right?”

  I clear my throat. “Was it a work-study position?”

  The older man frowns. “No, it was a sign-up sheet outside class.”

  The blood drains from my face. “What class is this?”

  “Figure Drawing 101.”

  My stomach rolls.

  “The compensation is five hundred dollars per class,” Professor Miller says. “If you’re here earlier next time, you can be on the settee by the time students wander in. I’ve heard that helps with nerves.”

  “D-d-do I need to fill out any paperwork?” It’s the only thing I can think of to say.

  “No. That’s been taken care of.”

  Of course it has. What a sick joke. I tuck my hair behind my ear, and my hand is shaking. “Do I have to take all my clothes off?”

  “This is Figure Drawing, Miss Cargill. All of our models pose in the nude. You are the first in a series of models meant to showcase the beauty of bodies. The details were outlined in the sign-up sheet.” Professor Miller crosses his arms. “Has there been some mistake?”

  Grimacing, I lean against the wall beside the entrance. I’m going to throw up, and it’s not even my class. I have to get out of here. They have to understand cold feet, right?

  The teacher steps closer. That’s when I see him: Andrew.

  He’s balanced on a stool in front of an easel, his ear tilts toward us.

  “Andrew,” I bite out.

  He whirls as if he’s surprised to hear his name, and then he gives a little wave. “Oh, hi, Whitney. Fancy meeting you here. I didn’t know you’re in this class.”

  I march over to him. “Did you do this?” I whisper-yell through clenched teeth. I want to deck him so hard he tumbles down the stairs toward the stage at the bottom.

  “Miss Cargill, is there some problem?” Professor Miller asks.

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “Five minutes to class time,” he announces to the rest of the room.

  “How could you?” I ask Andrew. “How did you fill out the application? You don’t know any of my information.” Even as the question leaves my mouth, I know the answer. His mom runs the whole damn school. It wouldn’t be hard to get enough information to fill it out.

  Andrew shrugs. “What’s the matter? Too afraid?” He acts nonchalant but his eyes snap with challenge. He’s baiting me. He expects me to flee. He wants to watch me run away.

  Professor Miller stops beside me. “Are you ready, Miss Cargill?”

  My stomach churns. I scan the classroom. The class isn’t filled to the max. I’m not a prude, but it’s a lot to take in. Being naked for a dozen people isn’t the same as sex in private.

  “What’s it going to be, Cargill?” Andrew whispers in a taunting sing-song voice. “What’s it going to be?”

  All I need is to make it to Valentine’s Day to prove I’ve “tried.” Then I can drop out and never return. It’s already ten times as complicated as it should be. I sneer. I haven’t even been to my first official day of class. What fresh pleasures will Wednesday hold?

  “Well?” Andrew whispers.

  Bloody fucking bastard. He’s not giving me a choice.

  I lift my chin and stride down the stairs in front of Professor Miller. Andrew snickers softly, but I won’t turn around. I don’t care what that asshole does.

  When we reach the bottom, Professor Miller comes near. He leans close enough to whisper. “You can undress in the room to the right of the stage. There’s also a robe in in there. You can wear that during breaks. You’ll have two five-minute breaks.”

  I hurry to the changing room and slam the door . The space is more of a supply closet, but I’m undressed in two minutes. I remove the robe and hang my yoga pants and t-shirt on the hook. My heart pounds in my ear so loud I can’t hear anything else.

  A knock startles me. I shriek and grasp at the bare wall, nearly taking a spill into a mop bucket.

  “Are you alright, Miss Cargill?” The door muffles Professor Miller’s voice.

  “Fine. I’m fine.” I don’t sound fine, but I’m not giving in. Fuck Andrew and the horse he rode in on. Squaring my shoulders, I don’t bother cinching the robe closed. I won’t show my weakness. I’m a fucking queen and the whole class is going to know it.

  With the glare from the photographer’s lights, I can’t see anything, but the front row. A young man flushes bright red and shifts in his seat. The woman next to him flashes me a thumbs up.

  Damn straight.

  I own this shit. Andrew Kensington can choke on it. All I have to do is channel Sharon Stone, right? If she rocked that bare pussy scene in my aunt’s favorite part of Basic Instinct, I can do this small-class shit.

  I remove the robe and drape it on the end of the settee. The cold hits me, but I don’t feel it. When I sit down on the little couch and spread my knees, somebody groans. I hope it’s the sound of Andrew having a heart attack. The kid in front coughs and rushes out.

  Professor Miller clears his throat. He’s hovering somewhere to the right, but I can’t see him. I lean to the side on the couch and shake my shoulders a bit.

  That’s right. Draw me, bitches.

  I spend the next fifty minutes fantasizing about all the ways I’m going to exact revenge on Andrew Kensington, not limited to disembowelment
. Beheading would be too kind for his sorry ass.

  Time sails by.

  Then Professor Miller holds out the robe and ushers me back to the changing room. When I get out, he presses a wad of cash to my palm.

  “See you Thursday,” I say.

  He mutters something about needing to take a smoke break and then disappears without another word. Shivers roll through me. I did it, and I want to rub Andrew’s face in it. My search for him nets nothing. A handful of students file out of the classroom, and I follow.

  Out in the corridor, I crash into somebody’s chest.

  “I beg your pardon.” I take a step back, but it’s a minute before the familiar face registers.

  “Don’t worry about it, Whitney. No harm done.” He pauses. “Something wrong?”

  I know that voice. Shit.

  “Andrew,” I yell, raising my hand to slap his cheek.

  He catches my wrist and shakes his head. “Guess again.”

  “Let me go, Andrew.” Then I catch a glimpse of the three freckles on his left cheek and gasp. Atticus had none and Andrew only had one. That meant I had been about to slap the shit out of Adam not Andrew. “Oh, I assumed...”

  “You know what they say about assuming,” he murmurs.

  I drop my hand. “I’m sorry, Adam.”

  “I’m sure he deserves it,” he says. “But maybe you shouldn’t try to slap him every time you see him. Atticus and I will might wind up in the crossfire.”

  I shrug. “Maybe.” I don’t know what he knows and what he doesn’t. Without the backstory, my fury probably doesn’t make much sense.

  He winks at me and the corner of his mouth twitches. “No, I’m sure he does. His sins aren’t as secret as he would like to think.”

  The way he says it makes my skin prickle. “Oh?” is all I manage in response.

  “In fact, I believe we can be of mutual benefit to one another.” He offers his arm. “May I buy you a cup of coffee?”

  I freeze, shocked by his blatant overture. My brain flounders, and my tongue trips on a jumble of thoughts that all try to come out at once. What does Adam know about my history with his brother? Yet, as I consider him, the rejection dies on my lips, and a smile splits my face instead. I can’t quite believe it. The perfect opportunity for revenge just jumped into my lap.