Page 5 of Forbidden Deviant Games

I swipe white paint around the edges of my canvas, touching up where I’d left off last time and layering it out in soft even strokes. Bits of the paint fleck out and splatter against my hands, but I don’t mind. I’ve never really been able to get all of the paint out of my skin, hair, and clothes since I started doing this—but the fact that I’m able to actually be here, learning the master’s craft of art is amazing.

Another reason why I could never date Josh is because of something like this. Unlike me, who relies on the goodwill of scholarships to attend a place like Eastpoint University, Josh’s money comes from a long family history of wealth and influence. We come from two separate worlds. So, for that matter, do Viks and I.

My strokes become harsher. Despite Professor Wilkes’ boring lectures as we paint, at least he’s not a stickler for style. This class isn’t about realism, it’s about the abstract. He gives us boring, plain points of visuals—the bowl of fruit for example—but the end result of our art is all our own.

My paint brush pulls across the canvas, spreading a reddish orange color across the blank area, forming the bowl. The bowl, however, takes on a new shape—the shape of a lower eyelid. And the fruit suddenly becomes a reflection in the giant iris of a long-lashed eye.

While in reality, the bowl of fruit sitting no more than ten feet away from me reflects a perfect apple, banana, orange, and pile of grapes—in my painting, it becomes withered and old. The apple is a carcass of its former self. The orange is rotted and peeling. The banana is nothing more than brown slush and the grapes have all been picked clean. Around the eye, I paint a mirror—a reflection within a reflection, delving deeper and deeper—forgetting where I am, who I am, what I am as I fall into the idea that seems to stem from nothingness in the back of my subconscious. The part of the woman’s face that is shown inside the painting goes from youthful to old as I begin to crease her skin with lines, adding gray to her lashes and spots to her brow.

Everything is dying. From the fruit to the woman. I add cracks in the mirror surrounding her. Swiping a mixture of gray and white over certain areas to give a worn feeling. What started as new and beautiful has become death incarnate.

Professor Wilkes slaps down a stack of books on his desk, jerking me from my reverie, and I lift my head to realize that everyone is packing up their things. My eyes snap to the single clock hanging above the door. Class has ended.

“Please put your pieces back on the drying wall,” Professor Wilkes commands from across the room. “Make sure to leave your signature. Any unsigned artwork will be discarded and ungraded. I’ll be checking your work later this week. You can expect a response and analysis in your emails by next Friday.”

I hurry to clean up my workstation, wiping down my paintbrushes and rushing over to the sinks to clean them before shoving them back in my bag. I ignore the flecks of paint that dot my hands and arms and clothes—I never wear my good clothes to art class anyway. Halfway through my clean up, Alyssa makes her way over to me and stands to the side, staring at my piece as I rush to grab the rest of my things.

“This is dark,” she comments lightly, looking back at me as I reach for it, holding it up with gentle fingers as I carry it over to the drying wall.

“I just did what came to mind,” I say offhand. “It’s probably not going to get a good grade. It’s not very abstract.”

“Yeah, most people used the fruit colors, you kinda … went off.”

I shrug. “Art isn’t about what it is or what it isn’t. It just … exists.” And I’ve never really been able to follow direction when it comes to painting. I’ve tried—on more than one occasion—but when I put brush to canvas, what comes out is something I never have any control over.

Alyssa hums under her breath and then shrugs as she, too, picks up her bag and follows me out into the hallway. “Why were you almost late, anyway?” she inquires as we pause at the top of the stairs, letting a few of the freshmen take a place in front of us on the way down.

I groan. “Josh.”

She shoots me a raised brow. “Again? Man, that boy does not let up. Why would a rich prick like him even want to date one of the plebeians in Havers anyway?”

I snort, unoffended. After all, she’s one of those same plebeians. Probably the whole reason why we get along so well as roommates too. “Beats me,” I admit. “At first I thought it was because he thought I was easy, but that’s obviously not the case.”

“Rejecting him must have hurt his pride,” she says. “He probably won’t stop until you finally give in and as soon as you do, his interest will wither and die.”

Just like the image in my painting,I think absently. She’s probably right. I could just say yes so he can get over it sooner, but the mere thought of giving Joshua Dupont a hint of hope sits in my chest like a ball of mucus. It makes me feel icky. I shiver and shake my head.

As we exit the building, my thoughts turn back to Viks and my earlier questions arise once more.What was he doing on Eastpoint’s campus?I know that Club Outsider is owned by one of the board of directors of Eastpoint, but I was under the assumption that it was just one of the many businesses of a man like Nicholas Carter who runs a multi-million dollar, if not multi-billion-dollar, conglomerate.

“Uh … Hales?” I pause and look up at Alyssa as she draws to a stop after calling my name, but her attention is elsewhere. I follow her gaze and just as if my thoughts have conjured the man, Viks is there—his eyes locked on me as he walks straight towards us.

I blow out a breath. “Go ahead and head back to the dorm,” I say. “I’ll deal with him.”

“You sure?” I love her for her loyalty, I really do, but Alyssa has no reason to stick around when it comes to my boss.

“Yeah,” I assure her. “I’m sure he probably just wants to ask about shift changes or something. I’ll see you later.”

“Okay…” she agrees, though her tone lets me know she is less than convinced. Thankfully, however, she heads off, tossing a look back as she crosses the street and heads back towards the direction of Havers.

I suck in a breath and turn to face my doom. Watching him stride towards me meaningfully has all manner of thoughts sticking to my brain—such as the way his legs eat up the distance. Or the way his button-down shirt stretches tight over the muscles of his chest. My eyes attach themselves to the dark shadows of inked imagery peeking out from beneath the fabric.

Maybe that’s what I find so attractive about him, I think. The man’s practically a walking piece of art, and art, after all, is practically my life.

I’m addicted—pure and hardcore. Art is my drug. It would be all too easy to switch my addiction to a man like Viks.

“Haley.” The way he says my name as he approaches, stopping just before me, sends chills down my spine, and I’m proud of the way my back straightens and I tip my chin up leisurely as if I feel nothing other than obligation to respond to him. Not sexual attraction. Not fierce, intense need. Nothing. It’s a lie—to myself and to him, hopefully.

“Mr. Vikson.”

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