Page 10 of Her Name in Red
Islouch in the hard plastic chair, my eyes glazed over as the professor drones on about something I couldn't care less about. The lecture hall is freezing, as always. You'd think they could afford decent heating with the obscene amount of tuition we pay, but no. I pull my oversized hoodie tighter around me, sinking further into the fabric.
The girl near me is furiously scribbling notes, her pen scratching against paper in a way that makes my skin crawl. I resist the urge to snatch it out of her hand and snap it in half. This is exactly why I choose to sit this fucking far back. Instead, I focus on the clock above the whiteboard, watching the seconds tick by with agonizing slowness.
My mind wanders, as it always does in these mind-numbing classes. I think about the upcoming weekend, a small smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. To the warehouse on the outskirts of town between here and St. Charles where Declan Reed hosts his fights.
I can already feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins, hear the dull roar of the crowd. The musty smell of sweatand desperation. The taste of copper on my tongue. My fingers twitch, itching to curl into fists.
But it's not just the raw violence that calls to me. No, it's the hunting ground those warehouses become. A predator's paradise.
It's been too long since my last fix. My body aches for it, a gnawing hunger that claws at my insides. I need to feel alive again, to chase that high that only comes from selecting my target, reeling them in, and then...well. Let's just say I'm very particular about how I like to play.
My fingers drum restlessly against my thigh as I picture it. The flirting. The teasing touches. Leading them somewhere private.
God, I need it. The rush. The power. The way it makes every nerve ending in my body sing.
I'm lost in the delicious anticipation when I hear the lecture hall door creak open. My eyes stay closed, not bothering to see who's late to this snooze-fest. The professor keeps droning on about…fuck, I don't even know what anymore.
Then I feel it. A shift in the air, a prickle along my spine. Someone slides into the seat behind me, just off to the side. I don't need to look to know who it is. My body recognizes him instantly, every cell suddenly electric and aware.
Riggs.
I open my eyes slowly, forcing my breathing to steady even as my pulse quickens. The professor's voice fades to a dull buzz, irrelevant background noise. All I can focus on is the presence behind me, the heat radiating from his body.
I resist the urge to turn around. Instead, I stay perfectly still, hyper-aware of every tiny movement he makes. The rustle of fabric as he settles into his seat.
My skin feels too tight, too sensitive. I can almost feel the ghost of his breath on the back of my neck, though I know he's not that close. Not yet, anyway.
Part of me wants to bolt, to put as much distance between us as possible. But a larger part, the part that craves danger like a drug, wants to lean back. To close that gap and feel the solid warmth of his chest against my back.
I clench my fists, nails biting into my palms. The pain helps ground me, reminding me why I need to stay away. Riggs Rhodes is a complication I can't afford.
But god, the way he makes me feel...it's intoxicating. Dangerous. Almost as good as the high I chase in those warehouses.
I shake my head slightly, trying to clear it. I can't let myself get pulled into his orbit.
I feel my jaw clench, teeth grinding together as I fight the urge to turn around. Why the fuck is he here? This isn't his class. Is he following me now? The thought sends a shiver down my spine, equal parts thrill and dread.
As if he can read my mind, his voice cuts through the fog of my thoughts, low and husky. Just loud enough for me to hear, he says, “Had to transfer from Thursday to Tuesday to free me up for some Little Jaguars shit.”
My breath catches in my throat. Of course. The fucking mentoring program. I'd forgotten he was involved with that do-gooder stuff. It's almost disappointing, really. Part of me wanted this to be about me, wanted him to be here because he couldn't stay away.
Forcing myself to focus back on my professor is hard, but I don’t want to give Riggs the satisfaction of knowing he’s affecting me as much as he is.
God, I want to turn around. To look into those eyes and lose myself in them. To let him consume me, body and soul. But I can't. I won't.
I'm Maren fucking Marino. I'm the hunter, not the prey now.
But with Riggs…the lines blur.
I try to focus on the droning, but Riggs' presence behind me is like a gravitational pull. His every movement, every breath, commands my attention. I hear the soft tapping of keys as he types out notes on his laptop, punctuated by occasional frustrated sighs.
“Fucking piece of shit,” he mutters under his breath, barely audible.
I tilt my head slightly, curiosity getting the better of me. His mumbling continues, a steady stream of irritation.
“Come on, you useless…just connect already. How hard is it to get decent Wi-Fi in this overpriced hellhole?”
I bite back a smirk. For all his intensity, there's something oddly endearing about hearing Riggs Rhodes, campus golden boy, cursing at technology like a frustrated grandpa.
