Page 29 of Wicked Dreams

My blood boils before I even comprehend why. Her dark hair is long and silky, pulled over one shoulder. There are little twists in some of the locks, like she’s been nervously twirling it. Her plump pink lips are scored by her teeth.

The habit is a sign of worry, and it’s one of her weaknesses. My uncle broke any bad habits from me before I even entered high school. But watching her chew her lower lip and scan the room, big brown eyes wide, the urge to slam her against the wall grows stronger.

My heartbeat rages in my ears the longer she doesn’t see me. She really is like a lost lamb, standing waiting for a predator to devour her.

Me. I’m her biggest predator.

I’m half hidden by my easel, but it’s impossible to consider that she can’t feel my stare.

Mr. Bryan makes his way in her direction, but he’s stopped by another student with a question. Margo’s gaze falls to her feet and stays there.

Look at me, I want to yell. And if she still didn’t, I’d go up and wrap my hands around her pretty throat until she had no choice.

My dick hardens. I shift, but I can’t take my eyes away from her. This type of response from my body is… unusual, to say the least. I’m always in control of myself—until I’m not. But that comes with anger, not lust.

At the very least, if anyone glances back, they won’t be staring at my pants. It’s the face that’s the moneymaker, at least in a school uniform. Naked… whole different story.

Look at me.

She jerks around like I had spoken out loud, her eyes big as saucers.

I hate that she became beautiful.

She was a pretty child, a head of dark curls and big brown eyes, but she’s prettier without the baby fat. And the haunted glint in her eyes? It’d be better if I knew I was the one who put it there.

Right now, there’s too much uncertainty. Too many gaps in time for me to be confident in my involvement in her life.

“Go sit, Margo,” Mr. Bryan says, giving her a little push.

How dare he touch her?

I glower at him, but it’s lost when she finally moves. Her steps are quick and short, more of a skitter than walk, and she picks the farthest easel from me.

That won’t do. I gather my things and move to the seat next to her. “What am I? Chopped liver?”

Her expression blanks.

Before she can come up with something to say, Mr. Bryan claps.

“Welcome back,” Mr. Bryan says to the class. “Let’s start on a fresh canvas today, one of the smaller ones.”

He nods to one of the kids, a fragile-looking boy who’s flown under the radar for the most part. Tim? Tom? The kid picks up a stack of six-inch-by-six-inch canvases and passes them around.

“Quick warmup,” Mr. Bryan says. “Let’s use one color paint, and I want you to depict the mood you’re feeling. Ten minutes, then we’ll move on.”

I open my paint set and squirt black onto my palette. I ignore Margo and dip a thin brush into it, getting to work. It’s easy to sweep the black across the canvas, to project all of my locked-up feelings onto it.

As I said, this iswaybetter than talk therapy. Even though I’m not watching Margo, I’m channeling my feelings toward her into this six-by-six frame.

And when I’m done?

Well, it’s a self-portrait, obviously.

A black monster escaping from the closet, its lower half a vortex of black smoke. The teeth are the best: white against its black face. White eyes.

Mr. Bryan never looks at these. Not when we’re around, at any rate.

I scrawl my initials at the bottom and put it off to the side to dry. Margo does the same, setting aside her square canvas. I can’t see it, but I do catch a glimpse of baby-blue paint on her brush. She wipes it clean and sets it down, fiddling with the hem of her shirt.

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