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“Code,” he breathes as I drop my head to his neck. I pause and shake my head.
“It’s Reid, remember? You’re not the only one playing a role here. But at least I haven’t become so wrapped up in mine that I’ve forgotten what I’m supposed to be fighting for.” I smile bitterly against his skin, continuing to kiss a path towards his collarbone when he freezes beneath me.
Maybe I should have bitten my tongue, but I’m done letting Everest win. I’m not going to be his dirty little secret anymore. His lover only when the lights are out. Somehow, someway, Everest will need to find a way to bring me into his world. After all I’ve suffered, I deserve to be part of his life without shame. When he doesn’t move, I push him back just enough to see his face.
He looks ruined. Glitter still clings to his hair in ridiculous little flashes, his reddened lips are parted, his cheeks flushed, his green eyes dark and unfocused with a mix of hunger and confusion. Welcome to the club. We quite literally have jackets.
I drag my thumb over his lower lip, watching his lashes dip, watching him lean into the touch before he can stop himself. Just when I know I’ve got him hooked on the edge of no return, I slide off him slowly, letting him feel every inch of what he is about to lose. His hands immediately find my hips again, trying to keep me there, trying to pull me back into his heat. He knows as well as I do, one more kiss would seal the wreckage we’re about to create. One more kiss and we’ll be pulled straight back beneath the tide we’re constantly trying to breach.
“You can’t have it all, Everest. Let me know when you’ve made your choice.” His fingers press into my waist, his breath stutters, and the sound he makes when I break away is almost enough to make me stay. Somehow, I hold my resolve, reaching for my t-shirt and hoodie. Behind me, Everest scrambles for me, but I push his hands away.
“Cody. Reid,” he corrects, his voice searching and desperate. Tugging the hoodie back on, I pause to glance at him over my shoulder. His features are pinched, the confusion in his eyes all too relatable. He just stares at me, chest rising hard, one hand still lifted as if we can reverse a few minutes and go back to making out.
Good, I think to myself. Let him feel it all. Let him sit there half-wrecked, my taste still in his mouth, until he understands that wanting me is not the same as choosing me.
“I-I’m doing my best,” he breathes. Licking my lips, a twinge of sadness consumes my own gaze.
“I know, Everest. And that’s the saddest part.” Twisting the door handle fully this time, I leave him there, breathless on his desk and trying to work out what happened whilst I was standing right in front of him. Perhaps he’ll come to the right conclusion, perhaps he won’t, but I can spare a minuscule moment of pride for putting myself first. I knew my worth, even if walking away still hurts like hell.
Chapter Eight
Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I brace my hands on the basin. I don’t care for my reflection, the dark shadows beneath my eyes a permanent fixture now. Instead, my head hangs low, white hair draping forward around my face. I’ve been in here for ages, yet I can’t find the motivation to leave. That is, until a knock sounds at the door and an agitated voice gives me every reason to stay right where I am.
“You gonna be long in here?” Meg calls out. A small, satisfied smile crosses my face.
“Yes, actually,” I mutter to myself. “I think I am.” Lifting my head, I tap my phone to kickstart my Bluetooth speaker and switch the shower to max heat. I wasn’t planning to shower for a second time this morning, but I drag my clean clothes off anyway and step underneath the spray. The water pounds against my naked back, the remnants of expensive body wash clinging to my skin from before.
All the while, I listen out for shifting on the other side of the door. I imagine her stepping back, arms crossed, blue eyes fixed on the painted wood, maybe doing a little pee dance side to side. I’m not usually one for bladder control torture, since even psychopaths are supposed to have limits, but unfortunately for Meg, every shred of decency I might have had died a painful death somewhere in Calloway Manor.
Another thud sounds, a fist on the door before Meg eventually gives in and leaves. Reaching for a different body wash this time, a pink bottle on the lower shelf that smells distinctly of rosewater, I lather my illustrative tattoos, going through the motions just for the sake of wasting time. My grin lasts until the heat begins to sputter out, tendrils of cold slicing through. Then, the satisfaction within me fizzles out, and I become just a man showering for the second time out of pure stubbornness.
“What a fucking loser,” I huff, stepping out of the shower with wooden movements. Dressing back into my black college sweater, ripped jeans, and paint-stained sneakers, I tug a dark green beanie over my towel-dried hair. Earbuds are shoved into place before I grab my satchel, barring anyone from talking to me as I head straight for the art block.
An uncomfortable knot in my chest remains until I step into the studio, the smell of paint washing over me. Even before Everest’s infatuation with Meg started impacting us, this room was my salvation. The one place in the world to fully be myself, even if it’s under an alias. The sketchbooks don’t care for my fake name, the canvases don’t care who I love or what I’ve suffered, only how I express it.
The studio is already half-full, students hunched over their bags, reusable takeout cups and Stanley cups, an easel placed beside each bench that fills the room. Professor Walters, Liz, as she insists we call her, stands near the front in a linen jacket already dusted with pigment, speaking with the enthusiasm of someone who genuinely believes art can save us all from ourselves. She nods my way, our line of communication condensed into small gestures. To her credit, Liz has taken the time to learn my preferences and hard limits. Direct public conversation falls under the latter.
Two steps into the room, my gaze snags on a new addition to the art studio, and my heart stops dead in my chest. Oh fuck no. Meg is sitting at the back, her hands perched on a backpack that is straining to stay zipped shut around a sketchbook. Disbelief hits us both at the exact same time, a joint realization that our escape from the world has just been compromised. I’d heard Meg had dropped down a year in order to switch majors, but I didn’t bother to enquire in what area. Now I wish I’d taken an interest, if only to prepare myself for this exact moment.
It takes everything in me to simply dismiss her. To move onwards, forcing my lungs to expand and my day to continue on. Her blue gaze continues to burn into my back as I take my spot and empty my bag. Charlie, a student who has been trying to spark a friendship with me for years, leans over to murmur a greeting as per usual, and I answer without taking out my earbud, rolling my sleeves to my elbows.
Liz commands the attention of those around me, and takes no offense when I don’t actively respond. Being a Calloway comes with many stigmas, but one I don’t mind is having classwork sent ahead of time. Everest requires reading lists and syllabuses months in advance so he can mentally prepare and fill out his fancy spreadsheets. Call it a trauma response, but whereas I yearn for a breath of free air without consequence, Everest craves control. He believes obsessive, unhealthy stability is better than having none at all. I’m inclined to disagree.
The positive, though, which I rarely find, is that I’ve already read the brief Liz is now explaining, already delved into the theme of emotional distortion and visual self-analysis. The result was spending yet another evening with charcoal embedded under my fingernails, twisting Meg into distorted shapes as if I was searching for one I could understand. I thought I could work her image out of my head and find some clarity, but I had no such luck. Just another sleepless night with my music drowning out the noise in my head.
I blame that exhaustion and irritation for making me so aware of her now. Even facing in the opposite direction, I can sense the tension rippling through her. To someone fresh out of a rehab clinic and fresh into a new major, the topic of self-expression is almost cruel. Being asked to bare yourself on a page can feel akin to torture if you don’t have the understanding behind art concepts.
Liz keeps talking whilst she strolls around the studio room. I take out my sketchpad, taking extra care to hide the sketches I’ve been allowing myself to divulge in. She’ll be a distant memory soon, I know that without a doubt. I’ve almost worked her out of my system. Charlie tries to glance over, but I angle my shoulder to block his view, opening to a blank page. Through my earbuds, in the change between songs, I hear Liz’s voice somewhere behind me.
“Maybe you should use this time for some reflection.” Withholding a groan, I turn up the volume, plaguing myself with the heavy, pulsing rock music I feed into my brain in order to mute all other thoughts. Self-reflection is the last thing I need to waste my time on. Starting in pencil, I sketch lines across the page, faint outlines at first until shape starts to emerge.
Keeping my head down and my body angled over the sketchpad, it takes longer than I’d like to find some peace. Curves appear before my eyes, but today, I force them away from the feminine form I’ve taken to creating. Instead, I force the lines to bend and shape into fingers, a pair of hands taking shape across the page. Not just any hands. Nicholas Calloway’s hands, rendered from memory and completed with blunt nails and expensive cufflinks.
I know the length of each finger, the hard square shape of his knuckles, the veins that rise beneath his skin when his patience fully runs out. Shading the gold wedding band that leashed me to this life, I can practically feel the cold bite of it against my jaw. I draw them oversized and monstrous in proportion, stripping away the elegance Nicholas hides behind in plain sight.
No one would suspect these hands are the cause of my trauma. The ones that sign donation checks, lift crystal glasses at charity galas, rest proudly on his son’s shoulder whenever a camera is nearby. Those same hands have dragged me by the back of my shirt, shoved me against walls, pinned my wrists, struck me until no more sound could leave my body.
Graphite smudges beneath my fingers as I press too hard, darkening the shadows between his knuckles and turning them into bruises. Liz pauses as she strolls by, assessing my sketch from the other side of the table and giving me a pleased nod. That respite from my own page gives me a reason to check the clock and find that class is seconds from ending. I almost choke on the relief, the past hour becoming a haze of anguish I didn’t expect to experience this morning. Although after the past few days, I can’t say I’m wholly surprised. It’ll take some time and readjustment to find solace in this studio once again.
