Page 11 of Her Name in Red
The tapping resumes, more aggressive now. I can practically feel the frustration radiating off him in waves. His leg starts bouncing, the vibration traveling through the floor and up into my seat.
“Fuck's sake,” he hisses. “How am I supposed to check JaguarHallPass?”
My eyebrows raise slightly. Since when does he care about campus social media drama?
I feel his gaze on me again. It's not the first time he's looked my way during this endless class, and I doubt it'll be the last.
He thinks he's being subtle, but I can feel the weight of his stare. It lingers for a moment too long before shifting away, only to return minutes later.
Finally, unable to take the tension anymore, I turn my head just enough to catch his eye. His gaze locks onto mine, intense and searching. Those hazel eyes, flecked with gold and green, threaten to pull me under.
“Stop looking for ghosts, Riggs,” I whisper, my voice soft and tinged with amusement.
His eyes widen fractionally, surprise flickering across his face before it's replaced by that cocky smirk I know so well. He leans forward slightly, closing the distance between us.
“I never stopped seeing you,” Riggs says, his voice low and intense.
I wasn't expecting that. It shouldn't make me feel anything, but it does.
I fight to keep my expression neutral, but I can feel a smirk tugging at the corners of my mouth.
“The party this past weekend,” he continues, his voice low and husky. “I saw you in the yard. By the big oak tree.”
I tilt my head slightly, not quite looking back at him. “Are you sure about that?” I ask, my tone light and teasing.
I can feel Riggs' eyes boring into me, searching for any hint of confirmation. But I'm not about to give him the satisfaction. Instead, I lean back slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of his face in my peripheral vision.
“You know, Riggs,” I whisper, keeping my voice low and playful, “they say that old oak tree is haunted. Some poor girl died there back in the seventies. Spurned lover or something equally tragic.”
I pause, letting the words sink in. “Maybe what you saw wasn't me at all. Maybe it was her ghost, still wandering the grounds, looking for her lost love.”
I can practically feel the tension radiating off him. His breath catches, just for a moment, and I have to bite back a smile. Got him.
“Nice try, Maren,” he says, his voice low and husky. “But I know what I saw. And it wasn't some ghost of a girl from decades ago.”
I raise an eyebrow, the picture of innocence. “Oh? And what exactly did you see, Riggs?”
Riggs leans in closer, his breath hot against my ear. “I saw you, Maren. You were standing there, half-hidden in the shadows, watching the party like a hawk.”
I turn to face him fully now, arching an eyebrow. “And why exactly would I be lurking outside a Theta Chi party? Not exactly my scene, in case you haven't noticed.”
Riggs' eyes gleam with a mixture of triumph and something darker. “That's what I've been wondering. Why were you there, Maren? Why just stand outside instead of coming in?”
Rolling my eyes, I say, “Maybe I was just walking by after dinner with mommy dearest.”
“Bullshit,” he says, his voice low and intense. “You knew I'd be there. You were looking for me.”
I can't help the laugh that escapes me, even if it sounds a little forced. “Wow, someone's got an inflated ego. Not everything revolves around you, golden boy.”
Turning away from Riggs, his words still ring in my ears. My fingers itch for something to do, to distract me from his gaze burning into my back. I flip open my notebook.
Almost without thinking, my pen starts to move across the paper. At first, it's just random swirls and shapes, nothing coherent. But then the lines start to take form.
I find myself drawing a mirror, ornate and antique-looking. The glass is cracked, spider-webbing out from the center. And peering out from that fractured surface are a pair of eyes. Empty, hollow, staring back at me with an intensity that would make most people’s skin crawl.
My pen moves lower, adding droplets falling from the bottom of the mirror frame. They start off clear, but as they descend, they darken as I shade them heavier and heavier.
I stare at the drawing, transfixed. My fingers trace over the lines, feeling the indentations my pen has left in the paper. The eyes in the mirror seem to follow my movements, accusing and hungry all at once.
