“Not that I know of,” I murmur, playing with the bow. I pick it up and shake it gently. Something rocks in there.
“Who from?” he questions, glancing over at it and me.
I shrug. “Doesn’t say.” I pause and pull up a very small list of friends and family…family. “Probably my parents sending me a gift to say sorry for forcing me to be here.”
“Wish my parents would get that. I could use a Lambo for them forcing me to do ballet when I was ten,” he says, and I furrow my brows. He holds up his hands, shakes his head. “Don’t even ask.” He snatches up something and nods at me. “See you around.”
“Yeah…” I raise my hand and listen to him leave the room in haste. After thinking so hard of who this could be from for a full five minutes, I tug at the ribbon. I slowly reach a hand out and pop off the top.
The smell hits me hard. It’s sharp and pungent and, when I peek inside, I let out a shriek I am not proud of and throw the box on the ground.
The small, bloody heart inside rolls out.
Chapter Nine
Written on a single strip of paper in the box with the bloody heart was:
Be careful.
Whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean.
I can’t sleep, so I drew the moon. Whenever I’m upset or frustrated or anything that doesn’t sit well with me, I draw something. Anything. Some guys work out; others react violently. I sketch the moon from the roof. I just have to get my mind off of the weird present, to stop seeing that bloody heart on the ground. Each time I think of it rolling onto the floor, I draw harder. Draw the houses. Draw the couch on the lawn. I draw the entire damn town.
Literally.
I take a stumbling step back, eyes on the wall on my side of the room. I drew so damn much, thought of her even more, that I drew the entire span of the city. From memory when I canvased the city. To Google images. They’re all individual and together make up the town, the city, everything. I fall onto Ty’s bed and catch my breath and admire my own work. That art contest pops into my head for a brief second before Red does, and I stop the train of thought. That is nowhere as important as someone leaving a bloody heart on the porch for me with a creepy, ominous note attached.
After that, I still can’t sleep.
I stay awake in constant paranoia and confusion. I keep imagining a hitman bursting through the window and taking me out with an AK-47. And then I sink into a whole of who would order me dead. I haven’t offended anyone in the past year I’ve been traveling, have I? All I’ve done is paint and observe and take pictures. I didn’t start a blood war with a native in Finland or something.
But that doesn’t stop me from recalling every encounter I’ve had while traveling.
Could it be one of the girls I painted? Did they not like how their portrait came out?
Was it the waiter who caught me when I spit out a piece of the dish he served me because it was too spicy for me to register when I visited Mexico? I got used to it after the first few bites. It turned out to be incredible! I told him that. But that makes zero sense.
I can’t even say it could have been a mistake because it had my name clearly written on the tag. Which, believe it or not, is the silver lining. I don’t know that many people. I’ve only been here for a few days. The only people who know me are the guys in this house and a handful of other people. None of them really stand out as psychopaths to me.
Maybe it was Tanner or that Ian guy. But other than them, I can’t think of a single person that would do something as insane and weird as that. But then, I don’t know them well enough to have pissed them off in some way, to have created some kind of grudge. Or they’re just really vicious people. But like I said, I don’t know them that well, so I can’t make assumptions like this. Whoever sent me that heart, which I found out was a pig’s heart, was a cold, malicious person. Someone who wanted to scare me. They were pretty freaking successful.
I would call the police to report it, but there is no address. Probably no fingerprints. And God knows no one was paying attention to anyone outside of the house, too busy playing their video games to notice someone dropping off a pig’s heart on the porch. I wish the house had a security camera because then I’d be able to identify who exactly the culprit is.
I sigh loudly. The entire situation is frightening, weird, and confusing. So much so, I don’t see the girl I bump into until I hear her yelp and watch a blur of her drop to the ground. I snap out of the weird daze I’ve been in for the past five minutes on my way to the fraternity house. I just left my last class. I was so wrapped up in my head I barely paid attention to Red beside me. I actually zoned in on the professor, but not his words really. I was too busy worrying if someone’s going to jump out and slash me across the jugular.
“I am so sorry,” I apologize rapidly, squatting in front of the girl. When she looks up, I recognize her instantly. “Hey, you’re…Rachel, right? I’m Noah. We met yesterday.” I pause when she just stares at me like I’m a Martian reciting the Pledge of Allegiance. “Again, very sorry. I was just…thinking.” About someone wanting my head on a pike. “But let me help you up.” I scoop up some papers sprawled on the floor next to her, then reach for her hand, offering a small smile.
She reluctantly takes my hand, and I pull her up to her feet. “I wasn’t paying attention either. I was just looking over these stupid drawings and…” She stops as I hand her the papers, her cheeks and the tips of her small ears burning bright red. “You don’t need to hear me ramble. I’m sorry.” She tries to step away, but I block her. Her eyebrows scrunch together in confusion, and I gesture to the papers in her hands.
“Drawings? You draw?” I ask.
She begins to nod but stops. “I try to draw, but I’m not very good at it.”
I wave a hand. “Don’t say that. Can I look? I mean—” I run my hand over my hair, thinking of ways not to sound like an arrogant dickhead. Like I know the entire ins and outs of the art world. “I paint here and there.”
“Can I see some?” she asks timidly.
“Sure.” I pull out my phone and pull up photos I took of some of my paintings. I hold my phone up to her, and her mouth drops, eyes glittering with awe. “You like?” I ask, chuckling a bit at her slack expression. She looks like she just hit the jackpot during the Gold Rush. Almost like I confirmed that I’m the reincarnation of Picasso.
I think you’re tooting your horn a little too much, don’t you think?
“This is absolutely breathtaking,” she exclaims, breaking the little shell of shyness and expressing pinched cheeks and bright eyes. She pushes her pin-straight hair behind her elf-like ears and looks up at me with her huge brown eyes. I laugh, blushing at her overwhelming admiration of my work. And they aren’t even my best pieces.
“Thank you,” I say. “I’ve been doing it for years. One day I picked up a brush and just couldn’t stop…” I pause in reminiscence. I can still feel the worn brush given to me by my grandfather who passed away a year after my eleventh birthday. A memory of me painting a crappy stick-figure person in a sea of dandelions fades as she speaks.
“You have to check out the art club.”
“I don’t know about that…” I would love to, trust me. But I’m already trying out for football and don’t want to attach too much of myself to college. I promised myself that I was just here for the semester, which my parents forced on me, and then I’m leaving without looking back.
“Please!” She reaches for my wrist, rethinks it, and blushes as she yanks her arms behind her back. “I’m trying to learn, and the teacher is great and all, but she can’t paint like you.” I’m trying not to let her words pet my ego. Her cheeks burn bright red. “And I don’t know anyone there, and you being in the club would help lots.”
I seriously don’t want to actually like this place. If I get acclimated and genuinely want to stay, I will never hear the end of it. My parents would be gloating, floating on a cloud that rains “I Told You So” everywhere I went. I want to
turn her down, to just keep to myself and paint and draw on my own. But something in her round eyes and hopeful smile wears my plan down, and I end up nodding and smiling small.
“Oh, what the hell? Sure,” I tell her, and she grins.
“Awesome! I can show you where it’s being held.” She holds her drawings to her chest, smile teetering just slightly. “I was heading there just now before…” She pauses and glances away, probably embarrassed by how we crashed into each other and she fell on her butt. Not before yelping like a bruised Chihuahua, of course.
I laugh and nod. “Show me. And if you want, I can pay for a doctor check up to make sure your butt’s all right.”
She guffaws and nervously pushes my shoulder; I act like she pained me greatly, and she chuckles. “Shut up. You were the one who ran into me. You’re like a big brick wall.”
“Thanks.” I flex my arms, and she looks away. “I’ve been working out.”
She laughs, and I make small talk as we walk around a bend, then walk down a short way into another hallway. On our very short walk, I find out that she comes from a very small family—just her and her mother, after her father died on his job as a carpenter. I tell her I am sorry and she waves it off, but I can sense the lump forming in her throat. To lighten up the mood, I express how I’ve been basically all around the world. Not just taking a vacation and having the time of my life; I joined plenty of missions and donated to multiple charities—did everything I could to give back to the places I visited.
“You are something short of an angel, Noah,” she claims as we enter a room.
“I’m nothing much.” I wave at her absently, shrugging. “Just gave back where I could.”
The room we’re in is spacious, where there are clutters of stools and white bedsheets. At the back of the room is a wide span of windows that let in the sunlight that dances across the linoleum flooring. There are people talking in groups, mingling around, all wearing some form of worn clothes they don’t mind getting dirty with paint. Rachel lets me walk around while she heads off to talk to a few people.
I look around at the hung-up art decor and paintings done by students. They’re all so colorful and vibrant and unique. I gasp a few times, taking in a few sketches, and spot a few statues set in one corner of the room.
“Noah, this is a friend of mine,” Rachel says, and I turn from an abstract painting of a woman to face her and her friend. I instantly recognize her before Rachel introduces us. “Beth, this is Noah. Noah, this is Beth.”
Beth giggles as I anxiously run a hand over my hair.
“Hey, Noah.” She waves her fingers at me, grinning.
“Nice to see you again…Beth,” I say politely. God. This is so embarrassing. She and I made it clear that what went down between us was a one-time thing. I did not expect to see her here.
Rachel looks between us both, frowning. “You two know each other?”
“Something like that,” I say, voice low.
“Yo, Beth!” some guy in a group of people behind her calls out.
“Be right there,” she tells him, then turns to me. Her head cocks to the side, and she purrs while winking at me, “And I’ll see you around.” To Rachel, she chirps, “See you later!” Then she saunters over to the group, leaving me blushing and Rachel confused as ever.
“Don’t ask,” I say, chuckling. I feel my phone buzzing in my khaki pants, so I hold up a finger to excuse myself and fish it out. I know what it is before even reading the text from Mike. “Shit. I totally forgot, but I have football tryouts. Do you mind if I slip out? But I would like to join…” I pause and look around, my eyes lingering on the easels in a corner, then look back at her with a soft smile. “If that’s still a possibility?”
“Yeah, of course it’s a possibility! I’ll sign your name on the sheet later.” She beams up at me and shakes her head, as if a thought occurs to her. “You’re new, so you don’t know where the stadium is. I can take you there if you’d like.”
“I’d appreciate that so much, thank you.” I’m grateful for her kindness. Most people are assholes in this world, overrun with greed and malicious intent. It’s hard to weed out the nice people, the pure ones. She’s a rare, refreshing find. I hope I can make a better acquaintance with her; I could use a few more friends in this place. And the ones I have currently—Mike and Ty—are better than I hoped for.
I actually planned to become mute. Well, thought about it more than committed to it. I thought I could just sit through classes and in the corner of my room, not saying a single word. I’d show my parents that they can’t control my life. But of course, the world doesn’t work itself around me and my stupid ideas. It dragged me in and college threw people and football and art clubs at me. Art! My greatest weakness. Damned world. It can screw off, that’s for sure.
***
A few minutes later, we arrive at a brick building with the word STADIUM written on top of the blue-painted steel doors. A group of guys are walking up to the door the same time we arrive, and I immediately recognize one of the guys.
“You actually showed up,” Ian says with a shit-eating smirk.
“Don’t be rude,” Rachel hisses in a low tone, glaring at her step-brother.
“It’s fine, Rachel.” I laugh and look at Ian. “And, yes, I’m here to show you I’ve got what it takes to make the team.”
His eyes light with amusement. “We’ll see; just don’t get too cocky on me, newbie.” Turning to catch up with the group he came with, he tells me over his shoulder, “I hope you’re ready for a grueling tryout. It’s nothing like your little league team in high school.”
“Trust me.” I smile, ignoring his insult. “I’m more than ready. You just better hope you are too.”
He stays silent, his hard, intense gaze speaking for him: I’ll beat your ass on the field.
I smirk and let my eyes reply: I wouldn’t underestimate me.
And underestimate me he does. I push myself through the hazardous exercises. I crank out my old throwing arm. I am a bit rusty there, but besides that, I do exceptionally great. The rust wears off bit by bit, revealing my knowledge and skill from my time on my high school football team. And I actually have fun. I forgot how much fun it is, running plays and cracking jokes with friends. It was one of the few things I looked forward to in college when I was in junior high. Until I discovered my passion of painting and photography and everything art.
The moment I entered high school and talked about my passion, I lost my parents.
I shake the saddening thought away as I stroll up my block, nearing the house. I’m exhausted and sweating in places I didn’t even know could sweat. The minute I’m in the house, I plan on taking a long, hot shower, then taking an even longer nap. I forgot how tiring football is.
My plans vanish when I find Red leaning against her bike, smoking a cigarette. I rack my brain, trying to remember if we agreed to continue working on the story today or not. Either way, I am stunned and don’t say anything. She’s wearing a rock band t-shirt—ripped, of course—and a leather jacket, her combat boots crossed as she blows out a puff of gray smoke.
“Red?” I say, snapping out of my trance. I take a step toward her.
Her gaze falls on mine, and my heart stutters. She throws the cigarette on the ground, crushes it, and holds out a black helmet toward me. “Hop on,” she orders.
Chapter Ten
Any other guy would have told her to fuck off and leave her out here, right? I mean, the girl’s an absolute asshole to me ninety percent of the time. But for some unknown reason, I like that she busts my balls so much. Turns me down and every flirty, teasing comment I make. And it’s not because she’s as badass and tough as she appears. She’s friendly enough with Mike. I’m pretty sure she dislikes me. Why? I have no idea. But I fully intend on finding out the reason. Even if I have to put up with her sour attitude toward me.
“Can I ask where we’re going?”
“No, get on.” Her tone is clipped, which pulls on the
humor cords in my head.
I stuff my hands in my pockets. “What if you’re trying to kidnap me?”
She makes a guttural, choking sound and jabs the helmet into my chest. “Why would I want to kidnap you, prep?”
“Why wouldn’t you?” I take the helmet, and our fingers brush against each other, and a spark makes her fling her hand to her hair. She glares at me, trying to play off obvious electricity. I wink as I continue. “I am sort of an irresistible guy, if you haven’t noticed.”
“Trust me, you are ridiculously easy to resist.” She scoffs like the mere idea of me makes her laugh. I frown and try to figure her out, but her stone exterior makes it easier said than done. She lets out a tired breath. “Look, can you just get on? I’ve been doing good with my grades since last year, and I don’t need some random frat guy messing with it.”
“Random frat guy?” I gasp. “I’m offended in every sense of the word.” When she scowls at me like she’s imagining stabbing me, I chuckle and tug on the helmet. “Turn that frown upside down, Rossa.” I watch her eye me skeptically. To blow her mind even further, I get on the bike and look at her expectantly. She stands there on the curb, staring at me with an unreadable expression. I don’t drop my smile as her head tilts, eyes roaming my face.
Finally, she gets on in front of me, and I wrap my arms around her slender waist. I think I hear a small gasp from her, but it drowns out when she curls the engine alive. “The name’s Red,” she murmurs before swiftly putting on her red helmet and taking off.
An hour later, we’re holed up in the back of the library computer room. The last of the people working in here leaves in a hushed conversation, shutting the door behind them. We’ve been working on our story. Or at least trying to. All we’ve gotten done is two chapters, and then we sort of hit a wall. Googling how to strike inspiration, I cued up some music to jog my creative flow while she stares at the Word document like it will write the words for her.
Red: Burning Desire (Spectrum Series Book 7) Page 7