Page 96 of Filthy Elites

“Oh, shit,” he jerks into action and starts running. I watch him go, relieved, but of course that’s not the last of him. He turns back and calls over his shoulder. “Don’t think this is the last you’ll see of me, Haley!” he yells. “I’ll make it happen. I swear!”

Horror strikes me as every head in the vicinity turns towards me, including the one I really wanted to avoid. When I turn back to my building, my head lifts back to where Viks had been walking and our eyes lock.

Fuck.

I quickly duck into the building, hurrying into the double doors and towards my next class. I make it in time, though just barely skating in before the classroom door slams in my face.

Professor Wilkes stares me down as I skid past him and the door, but I ignore it in favor of grabbing my canvas from the ones stacked against the wall and hurrying towards the only open easel left in the room. Of course, it’s the one with the worst line of sight to what we’re supposed to be working on today, a bowl of fruit.

I blow out a breath as I set my stuff down, catching my friend Alyssa’s gaze from across the room as I do so. She raises her brows and I shake my head. I know she wants to know why I was late, but it’ll have to wait ‘til later.

Professor Wilkes launches into the beginning of his lesson, explaining the difference between types of paintings as we ready our easels and prep our materials. I’ve become so used to his rather bland method of teaching that I find myself tuning out his voice as the class gets to work.

Instead of paying attention to the words of my instructor, my mind shifts and focuses on the man I’d nearly had a run-in with right before class. I can’t say what it is about Mitchell Vikson. He is not a man that I should think about. Technically, he’s my boss. He’s the reason I had to work overtime this weekend, and the reason why I got virtually no sleep between shifts as I prepped for my upcoming showcase.

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.”

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