Page 33 of White Rabbit

Once everyone is in and settled with Officer Foxx stationed near the door, the class begins. The art workshop isn’t as dull as I thought it would be as Bishop talks about different mediums and the pros and cons of each. She shows us oil paintings, watercolors, inked pieces, sketches, and more abstract art where people have made shit out of bottle caps and whatnot.

We’re then tasked with drawing a bowl of fruit using at least two different methods for a warm-up, before we’re allowed to draw whatever we want, in whichever medium we choose. This will apparently make up part of a portfolio we’ll be working on over the next couple of weeks.

I debated toying with Bishop, antagonizing her so that she'd reveal just how sharp her teeth were, but somewhere along the way, I actually used the time to draw.

Like most children, I used to enjoy art. My mother and I would sit and sketch at the kitchen table, drawing or painting silly little things. Sometimes she would make a game of it, where she would draw something, and then I would carry it on, and then she would add to it and so on. My stupid little sketches had gotten better, and I would carry a notebook with me for between classes, boxing lessons and working with my father. One day, he’d seen me scribbling away while I waited for him to finish washing blood off his boots, and he deemed it a waste of time. He threw my sketchbook on the flames alongside the body of the man they’d been interrogating for hours beforehand.

My mother always bore the brunt of his rage and, not wanting to anger him, always took his side. There died my art career, gone up in flames along with the evidence of my father’s crimes.

Not that I would have ever been an artist anyway—I was always destined to be in the mafia, protecting The Family. Augustine Creed had plans for his son even before I was born, and I learned to accept early on that I was simply a pawn to be used to his advantage. That’s why he hated it when I rose through the ranks, and when I overtook him, he was furious. But his anger couldn’t reach me anymore.

Julian was my friend growing up, and while he went to a private school and was part of a rich affluent family, underneath it all, we were the same. Felix Asaro ruled with his fists, the same as my father had. There was no escaping the expectations of The Family, no matter how much money sat in your bank account.

When Julian killed his first man at twelve, he’d spent the night at my house, crying in my bed while I tried to tell him it would get better. We both knew I was lying. It doesn’t get better, you just become less sensitive to the blood and gore.

When he came to power after the death of his own father, he made it clear that I answered to no one but him and we vowed we would be better men than the bastards who raised us.

I’d never picked up another pencil or paintbrush because my father’s lessons still lingered. His voice was still ringing in my head. Until now.

Focusing on my sketch makes it easier to ignore Bishop, and out of the corner of my eye I noticed the occasional little sigh or tiny huff she makes every time she glances in my direction. Ignoring her seemed to antagonize her more than if I'd publicly taunted her.

Leaning back on my stool, I look at the canvas in front of me. In wispy, light pencil lines, it’s strikingly clear what I’ve drawn. It’s Officer Bishop, naked, arms behind her head with her hair flowing around her.

She’s faceless, but I know it’s her. She’s consuming me, invading every thought I have, making it worse every time she walks past in a cloud of cherry blossom, the scent clinging to her skin. Every time I inhale that scent, it’s a test of my willpower.

Standing, I head to the supply closet to grab some paints. I’d done the base in pencil, but I planned to work with acrylic since I’d never used it before. Finding a set of tube acrylic paints and a few different brushes, I can’t seem to locate a pallet for mixing. As I’m crouched down looking on the bottom shelves, someone enters behind me and holds one out, waving it in my face. The lingering notes of cherry blossoms fill the tiny space and I know it’s her without even looking.

“You’re being very quiet today, Creed.” She’s baiting me. I can see it in the gleam in her eyes. She wants me to bite, and I will, just not yet.

“All those promises you made…it appears you’re nothing but hot air.” She lets her gaze trail over me. I’d worn my gray jumper today, and as Bishop’s eyes land on the sleeves rolled up my forearms, I grin. She openly stares at my ink, practically drooling.

“I’m sorry Officer, did you want me to fuck you in front of the class? Make you scream in front of everyone?” I smirk at her with a tilt of my head. “I didn’t have you pegged as an exhibitionist.”

She blushes. She’s not an exhibitionist, but I’m willing to bet in the right circumstances she could be. Just how far would she go for me? How much could I push her?

“That’s not what I meant…” she whispers as she thinks about it. It may not have been what she meant, but now she’s intrigued by the idea.

“Yes it is.” I give a small chuckle. “Don’t be coy, let’s be honest with each other.”

I don’t know why, but I want the truth from her. I want her to face her inner demons and understand the monster that exists within. I want to be able to trust her. To trust my instinct that she’s just like me.

“Fine.” She crosses her arms. “Why haven’t you made a move, a stupid remark or tried anything?”

“You want my attention, Rabbit? Well you've got it.” Putting my supplies on a shelf to my left, I stand and tower over her, invading her space. “I have a few reasons for biding my time.”

“Rabbit?” she breathes, tilting her face up towards me.

“Mmm, my White Rabbit.” My hand snakes its way around her neck, and I rub my thumb over her pulse point. Leaning in, I let my lips brush over hers. “Innocent prey. Delicious. Addictive. Going to be the end of me. Just like the drug.”

My free hand lands on her hip, and I bring her body flush with mine so that she can feel just how much I want her. With a slow grind, I let the hard length of my cock press against her stomach. “Want me to continue? Or do you want me to kiss you?”

The corner of her mouth twitches seconds before she grabs a handful of my hair and crashes her lips against mine.

There she is, my little monster. My White Rabbit.

She tastes sweet like honey with something deeper, richer, like cherry brandy. With a quiet moan, she pushes me back carefully against the shelves, trying not to draw attention to us since she’d left the door to the supply closet open. The other inmates chatter away, oblivious to what their art teacher is up to in the dark with a criminal like me.

Her tongue dips between my lips, and I latch onto it, sucking and savoring her flavor. One taste would never be enough. I pull away, kissing her cheeks, along her jaw, down the column of her neck while she wraps a leg around me and grinds her body against mine.

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