Page 12 of Her Name in Red
A shiver runs down my spine. I can feel Riggs' gaze on me again, burning into the back of my neck. But I don't turn around. I keep my eyes fixed on the drawing, on those empty eyes staring back at me.
The professor's voice fades back in, announcing the end of class. I blink, coming back to myself. How long was I lost in that drawing?
Around me, people are packing up, all you can hear is the scrape of chairs and rustle of papers . I can feel Riggs still behind me, waiting. For what, I'm not sure. Maybe for me to acknowledge him again. Maybe for something more.
I stand up slowly, stretching out the kinks in my back. My hoodie rides up slightly, and I know without looking that Riggs' eyes are fixed on that strip of exposed skin. I take my time gathering my things, hyper-aware of him.
As I turn to leave, I let the folded drawing slip from my fingers. It flutters to the ground, landing just a few feet away from Riggs. I don't look back as I walk away, but I assume he’ll pick up the paper. I wonder what he'll make of it.
Chapter 5
Riggs
Ilean against the kitchen counter, nursing a lukewarm beer and watching the guys roughhouse in the living room. The hockey house is a shithole, but it's the team’s shithole. There's a suspicious stain on the couch that no one wants to investigate too closely.
Martinez sidles up next to me, a shit-eating grin on his face. “Ready to shed that golden boy image, Rhodes?”
I roll my eyes, but there's no heat behind it. “Fuck off, Martinez. You know I'm always ready.”
Johnson appears on my other side, his usual quiet intensity radiating off him in waves now that Halloween is over. “Ready when you are, boys.”
I drain the last of my beer and toss the can in the general direction of the overflowing recycling bin.
I nod, pushing off from the counter. “Let's go.”
We move through the crowd, dodging drunk teammates and eager puck bunnies. I catch a few questioning glances as we head for the door, but no one stops us.
We pile into my truck, the suspension groaning in protest. The leather seats are cracked and worn, but the engine purrsto life with a satisfying rumble. I pull out of the driveway, tires squealing against the pavement.
Martinez leans over. “You know, Riggs, I never would've pegged you for this shit when we first met. All polite and proper, like butter wouldn't even melt in your mouth.”
I grip the steering wheel tighter, my knuckles turning white. “Yeah, well, people change.”
Martinez fiddles with the radio, settling on some hard rock station that matches the thrumming energy in my veins. Johnson's in the back, quiet as always, but I can feel the anticipation rolling off him in waves.
As we speed down the empty streets, leaving the sleepy college town behind, Martinez pipes up again. “So, golden boy, you gonna tell us what's got you so wound up lately? Or do we have to guess?”
I grip the steering wheel tighter, knuckles turning white. “Nothing's got me wound up. Just need to blow off some steam.”
Martinez snorts. “Yeah, right. And I'm the fucking tooth fairy. Come on, man. We've known you too long. Something's eating at you.”
I keep my eyes fixed on the road ahead, watching the darkness swallow up the headlights. “Drop it, Martinez. I'm fine.”
But even as I say it, I know it's bullshit.
I pull up to the warehouse; the headlights cutting through the fog that's settled over the abandoned industrial park. The place looks like shit, but that's part of its charm. No one looks twice at a bunch of college kids hanging around a dump like this because no one fucking comes out here.
We pile out of the truck, our shoes crunching on the gravel. Martinez stretches, his joints popping loud enough to echo in the empty lot.
“Jesus, Rhodes,” he grumbles, eyeing the guys in their SCU Spartan shit. “All this St. Charles green is giving me hives. You sure we're in the right place?”
I snort, knowing he's just running his mouth. “Quit your bitching.”
I lead the way, shouldering past a couple of meatheads arguing over some bullshit near the entrance. The heavy metal door groans as I yank it open, assaulting us with a wave of heat, sweat, and adrenaline.
I scan the crowd, my eyes automatically seeking out familiar faces. And there he is—Declan Reed, the man behind this shit. He's perched on a stack of crates near the ring, surveying his kingdom like a battle-scarred lion. His eyes lock onto mine, and he nods, a slight tilt of his head that speaks volumes.
Declan Reed is one badass fucking fighter. The guy's built like a brick shithouse. I've seen him take down guys twice his size without breaking a sweat. He trains at the gym that straddles the St. Charles campus, the one that looks like it's held together with duct tape and sheer willpower. I've watched him there a few times. He moves like a predator in the animal kingdom.
