Beautiful Prince (Van der Borne University Book 1)

by Dakota Lee

  "All the perks that come with being in my circle."

  "Meaning, you guys will be around all the time making sure I don't squeal? How is that different from now?"

  "If you're my friend, you'll get some breathing room. Because I trust my friends."

  His hands are higher and I force myself not to squeeze my thighs together against the sudden onslaught of heat I'm feeling between them. "I don't believe for one second that you trust anyone, Logan McKay."

  His brows dart up, his hands recede, and just as quickly as he got down on the floor; he's back in his chair. "What's your answer, Jordy?" He asks, placing a hand on my arm to stop me from writing what the teacher is saying.

  "I'll pass."

  His fingers flex against my arm, in the punishing grip I've come to expect from him. "Wrong answer."

  Chapter Twenty-One

  He's changed up tactics and I've been dodging what has turned into stalker behavior for a week. I thought I'd get a reprieve, because I heard something about a meetup with him and his friends at some secret location called The Rift, but I was wrong, because here he is, in my room. Again.

  My meal account recharged, and I've done another grocery run, but that does nothing to relieve my worry about my food insecurity. As often as he's here now, you'd think he didn't have a dorm room of his own to chill in. One that I hear is a single with a full kitchen. A look to the left tells me Kassidy's not back yet. How are the two of them even friends?

  "You know, if you ask, I'm sure Kassidy wouldn't mind picking up extra groceries for you to keep in your room." I snatch my yogurt from his hand. "So you don't have to eat mine."

  "That's just it, Jordy. Yours…," His eyes drop to my legs. "Is the only one I want to eat, right now."

  I try not to react to, but Logan's words; good, bad, and inappropriate, have a way of eliciting a response from me. I dig my nails into my palms to prevent myself from grabbing a pillow to throw at him.

  He holds the spoon out to me. "There's still some on here. You wanna suck it the rest of the way off?"

  I'm feeling another one of those hot flashes I've been getting lately whenever he comes around. What the fuck is wrong with me? He and his friends have been making my life hell since the moment we met, so why am I reacting to these innuendos? Plus, Robbie is the guy that I'm hot for. He's the biggest reason. I'm dating Robbie and my passions burn for him.

  Still, for some reason, my eyes drift to Logan. Taking him in.

  "It's okay to like me, you know."

  "Thanks for the permission, but you don't need to worry about that happening."

  "Why not?"

  "I damn near burned through my commissary budget because your minions stole my food from my room and somehow you arranged for the cafeteria to serve the most expensive meals money can buy. You've been talking shit about me with your friends and accosting me for weeks, and let's not forget the video on Prospectus where everyone swears I let you and your buddies pull a train on me, is the reason I've got the entire goddamn campus slut shaming me, and you have the nerve to ask why not?"

  "I never actually talked shit about you. I just sat there and listened to them do it."

  "That's just as bad."

  "So let me get this straight. You don't like me and you’re refusing my offer of friendship because I didn't gossip about you, or tell anyone that the obviously doctored video on Prospectus was a fake, and because the cafeteria gave us the opportunity to experience five-star cuisine at a discounted price?"

  "Sounds about right."

  He licks the remaining yogurt off the spoon, swirling his tongue around it to catch every last wisp. When he's done, his lips stretch into a grin. He leaves without comment, and I worry that I've stepped into a snare I didn't know existed.

  Noel squeezes my shoulders, rubbing them in comforting circles. "Relax Jordanna. Let the tension out of your neck and shoulders, and let your wrists, arm and hands free. This is art, and she's a model, not a great white coming to snatch you into the deep."

  Funny, because I certainly feel like I'm being ripped apart and drowning in this class. I feel Logan's eyes on me and stiffen, waiting for his latest attack. He's uncharacteristically quiet while Noel is talking and I will myself to relax, trying to get my lines correct.

  As it stands right now, I’m still working on the details I should have mastered during the first week. As much as it pains me to say, I might need some remedial help.

  The studio’s quiet after hours and I’m using this time alone to work on my class assignment without an audience present.

  I scrub my hands across my face. Letting out my frustration in a soft groan. No matter how many times I go over the lines of this painting, it still looks like a kid drew it. Acrylics, watercolors, it doesn't matter. Right now, paint and I don't mix. I set a new canvas on the easel and prepare to try again. I dip the brush in the paint and pause. Who am I kidding? I pull my sketchbook and pencils from my bag and rough out the outline of the picture in front of me. Apples, boats, sunsets. People in the park. I can draw them all with no problem. "Why am I suddenly having such trouble with the human form?" I whisper to myself.

  "Maybe, because you're not comfortable seeing the human form in its natural state."

  Logan crosses to the front of the class, picking up and discarding paintings as he goes. "The comfort and pleasure of the eyes is what translates to the stroke of the pencil or paint. If you don't enjoy what you're seeing, whatever your vision is, will never materialize on the canvas."

  "I enjoy seeing people. I like picking out the differences in their faces, and hands and wardrobe. The colors of what I imagine their lives are made up of excite me. It always has."

  "That's safe, and you're talking about fully clothed people. This class deals with open, honest, raw data."

  He stands behind me, looking at my latest failed attempt. If he says it's un-fuckable again, I may pour this dirty water on him. When he remains quiet, the tension in my shoulders eases.

  "You know…" He says putting me back on edge. "It's probably the model."

  "Huh?"

  "You can't get the imagery or paint her, because, she's not the right model for you to start with."

  "It's a life study class. A, she's beautiful, and it's not her fault, and B it's sexist for you to blame the woman."

  "I'm not faulting her, I'm saying she's the wrong model for you."

  He doesn't wait for me to answer.

  "Find a subject, you’re most familiar and comfortable with. Then move on to someone else."

  I'm still trying to get used to the fact that he didn't trash my work today, and now here he is offering actual advice. I hazard a glance at him.

  "If I were teaching this class, I'd suggest you try drawing yourself first."

  "What?"

  "Have someone take a picture of yourself, fully nude, and draw it."

  I feel a nervous flip in my stomach. I try to play it off, scoffing at the suggestion. "That's ridiculous."

  "No, that's creative and artistic." He studies my face. "Does the idea of doing that freak you out?"

  "Having some stranger snap nudes of me? Hell yeah."

  "It doesn't have to be a stranger." His face stretches into a wide grin. "I'll do it."

  I roll my eyes at him.

  "Or have someone else, a best friend, a boyfriend, or fuck buddy do it. Just make sure it’s someone who's seen you naked before." He’s still looking at me and I know my face is beat red. "No one here that fits that description, either, huh?"

  "Not that it's any of your business, but my boyfriend is at my old university, four hours away.”

  "Trusting guy to let you come here alone."

  "That's because I'm a trustworthy person."

  "And you trust him to be away from you all this time? What happens when he gets lonely and doesn't have your," He leans in to sniff me then moves away. "Soft lavender and vanilla scent to bury his nose in? You must be doing lots of Face Time and sexting, huh?"

  "I
don't even know why I'm having this conversation with you."

  He shrugs, unaffected by the bite in my voice. "You have a block somewhere, Jordy. I think it's because you're not used to seeing and experiencing sexuality. See there." He points to my cheek. "You're blushing again and all I did was say the word. Human anatomy and art classes are basic. Scientific. They're clinical. Sexuality is personal. It's intimate. You have to get used to it, and stop shying away from it, before you can appreciate it. Think about it. Are you nervous like this when you wash yourself, or touch yourself?"

  "I'm definitely not having this conversation with you."

  "Fine, for the purpose of this exercise, stare in the mirror. Pick one usually unseen body part and draw that."

  It's a ludicrous suggestion, and I can’t be sure he wasn’t saying those things to make fun of me, so why am I considering it? I need to change the subject to something that doesn't leave room for him imaging me naked in front of a mirror. Or for this weird little free association imagery my mind has gone on to continue. Somehow I’ve wound up imagining him standing behind me as I stand naked in front of a mirror.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I can see Jordy's intrigued by my suggestion, even if she won’t admit it. She's also scared as hell. Whoever the boyfriend is, is clearly not as involved in her sexual awakening as he should be. He’s probably doing the typical young adult thing and waiting a respectable time to get permission to dirty her up. I wouldn't be passively waiting until she decides she’s ready. I'd be seducing her towards my bed, one kiss and touch at a time. She won't know what she likes or what she's willing to do until she tries it.

  My advice might be unconventional, but it's good advice, and I've just added another opportunity for her to see me as more than the jerk who embarrassed her in class.

  The silence stretches and she finally feels obligated to speak. "You're not struggling in class, so why are you here after hours?"

  I lift my hand with the supplies I'm holding. "I ran out of blue for the project I'm working on."

  "I’m surprised you’re even entering the art symposium. I thought you were a journalism major."

  So she's been looking into me. "What makes you think that?"

  "You’re the editor of the paper, you name is synonymous with publishing, and everyone knows who your dad is. Isn't that how being an heir to a dynasty works? You follow in daddy's footsteps?"

  "I have a job waiting for me after graduation. So, you're right, I'm fortunate to have that opportunity in front of me. But-,"

  "But what?" She leans forward, hanging on to my words, and I'm careful not to give her too much of myself. If I do, she'll see it as a weakness. Girls like her want to work for it. To feel like they're pulling me in, instead of the other way around. "But, what about you? Aren't you a finance major, because it's the safe, logical, stable job?"

  "I like numbers, so I picked a major that will give me a stable future, yes. What's wrong with that?"

  I shrug, half sad, half confirming that safe and logical is the best choice.

  "You have a different opinion?"

  "I have this life, this future thrust upon me, and I didn't get a vote. I'm not complaining mind you." I hold up the paint again. "But sometimes I find myself wondering if it isn't better to follow our passion."

  Her eyes widen, and I can see that she's thinking about her passion. She might like numbers, but that isn't it. Neither is the boyfriend that she's not thinking about in this moment.

  Or so I think until she snorts and laughs at me. "Pu-leeze. Do those green eyes and tortured artist rants work? Like ever? God, how many girls have you cornered here or anywhere in the middle of the night pretending to be forced into servitude and forego your one true desire, because daddy doesn't understand your need to follow your own path?"

  I'm staring at her, curious about the sudden bout of indignation she's shown, but I’m also amused. I can see a glimpse of the intrepid reporter, or is it the number cruncher, that found out daddy dearest was a multi-billion dollar fraud.

  "It wasn't a line, it's how I feel sometimes, and not a feeling I share indiscriminately with others." I turn towards the door, leaving her with one thought. "If I'd have known a moment of transparency with you would have been met with dismissive humor, I wouldn't have shared."

  Jordy’s eyes are on me as she climbs the stairs towards her seat. She stops in front of me, hugging her sketchpad to her chest. I unpack my bag, setting my pen and laptop in front of me.

  The rushed apology falls from her lips, catching me off guard. "I'm sorry."

  I glance at her before returning to what I was doing.

  "I know you were trying to help the other night, and I was rude. I'm sure you can tell I'm uncomfortable talking about certain things, and I'm hyper sensitive about my work. I've never painted a naked body before, and I'm the only student whose hand the teacher has to hold. Literally. It's a little embarrassing."

  "Noel's not giving you extra attention because your work is bad, Jordy." She gives me a look that says I'm full of shit. "Okay, okay. It lacks realism, as I've said on several occasions, but you'll get there. He’s giving you extra attention, because he has a weakness for female undergrads. Especially ones that look like you."

  She ignores my compliment, pretending to be interested in the students walking into the room. If she's apologizing to me, then that means she's at least considering I might not be the big bad wolf she imagined. I am, but my plan won't work if I can't make her forget all about that. I flash her a smile, gifting her with a dimple. "So now that I forgive you, do you forgive me for being a jerk before?"

  "Nope."

  "Is forgiveness forthcoming after an acceptable amount of groveling happens?"

  "Not likely."

  "What if I add a pretty, please with a cherry top?"

  She shakes her head at me. "I doubt people like you settle for something as pedestrian as cherries."

  I lift one shoulder. "I'd offer a diamond tennis bracelet, but I imagine you'd find that insulting."

  "I would."

  She takes a seat in the row behind me. I turn around and wink, "by the way, I love cherries." Her cheeks darken to half a shade lighter than a maraschino. It's adorable how easily she blushes.

  The low-pitched whistle in my ear breaks through the jumbled thoughts in my head. I'm spacing out on the first phone call I've had with Robbie this week. "I'm sorry, what were you saying?"

  "I was asking how classes were going. The last time we talked, you were looking into dropping or changing your life study class. Something about the asshole classmate that was unnecessarily cruel with his critique of your work."

  That was two weeks, an apology and a very unsettling middle of the evening talk with Logan, ago.

  "So did you drop it?"

  "I thought you told me to stick it out, and that peer review is a major part of life, and that if I can't handle criticism from people who don't matter, I'd never be able to handle seeing it in writing from a real critic."

  "I did, but then I thought about it. You've never had someone telling you they hated your work before. Yes, you need a tougher skin, but this guy sounds like he crossed the line. It was borderline harassment."

  Funny, I didn't feel harassed in the studio that night. Not even after he told me to pose nude for myself. I felt, desired? No, that can't be the right emotion. I desire the guy on the phone who's telling me all the encouraging things I need to hear. He's right. There's a way to critique without being cruel, and Logan was cruel all those other times in class. I could never be friends with someone like that. And even though I apologized for how I reacted during his moment of vulnerability, I can't be completely certain it wasn't an act. He and his friends seem to take pleasure in toying with anyone that's not a part of their crowd. Didn't I just hear his boy Frankie telling Sonia from our Poly-Sci class that he felt like he could really be himself around her? Logan's moment of honesty was just a poorly plagiarized variation of the same line.

 
"I don't think I'll be reporting him. I decided to stay in the class and ignore him."

  "Okay." Robbie says, withdrawing his earlier recommendation. "That's a mature approach. We grow and stretch in the middle of adversity, and what do we say about people that get their thrills off of causing misery to others?"

  We say in unison. "Don't give them that power."

  Our conversation turns to how Robbie's doing in school and what Tiffany and Marina have been up to in my absence. I really miss those guys. They understand me and supported me through the difficult decision to report step-disaster. None of us could have foreseen the ripple effect doing the right thing would cause.

  Summer asked if I would have still published my story, knowing this is where it would lead. I can't imagine hiding something like this, and even knowing that ultimately the thief was the person living in our home, I would do the same. It's better to be displaced and poor, then to live in luxury at someone else's expense.

  Robbie's voice drops to a seductive whisper. "I miss you Jordanna."

  Warmth spreads through my belly, and I sigh into the phone. "I miss you too. You're still coming up next weekend, right?"

  We pre-scheduled our visits for this semester, agreeing to split the cost of travel. He'll come here and then I'll go there. This will be our first visit. He'll be in town on Friday by the time my last class ends, and after a quick tour on campus, we’re heading to the hotel for dinner. I've been pinching my pennies, foregoing my craving for my weekly caramel macchiato, so we could live it up a little.

  "I have our whole itinerary planned." I name the places I'd like to show him and places where we can eat.

  He chuckles into the phone. "That sounds great, but I’m more interested in hearing from what time to what time, we’ll be alone in the hotel room, together?"

  "I have that time planned too. It comes at the end of everything else when it's time to go to sleep."