The Wicked Trilogy by S. Massery
Caleb
I sulk through classes,unable to pay attention. Two girls try to pass me notes, which Theo intercepts and reads. He does me a solid by answering them in his own crude way, little stick-figure drawings of people fucking doggy-style or upside down. He flashes them at me before flicking them back.
The second-to-last bell rings, and I unfold myself from the desk. Theo follows me out the door and down the hallway, slapping my hand in goodbye. I’ve done my best to keep this part of my life low-key, and my friends know better than to ask questions about my last class of the day.
I walk into the room, and Mr. Jenkins grins at me. I slide onto a stool at the back of the classroom. I’ve been drawing since I was twelve, but only recently he encouraged me to try other mediums.
“You might be surprised,” he had said, winking.
Eh, how could I resist? Playing with paint for an hour soothes the wild anger inside me. It’s either that or beat people to a pulp on the regular. Since my aggression can usually be handled on the lacrosse field, we breathe a bit easier in the spring. The rest of the time? Well, everyone better fucking watch out.
The classroom slowly fills. Art students, I’ve learned, don’t give a shit about the popular kids. It’s a relief not to be considered a fucking royal here, in the brightly lit classroom, surrounded by other disinterested students. It’s like the art department has a mind of its own.
And then Margo Wolfe walks in.
My blood boils before I even comprehend why.
She bites her lip.
My heartbeat thunders in my ears. I’m overcome with the urge to slam her against the wall.
Mr. Jenkins takes forever to talk to her, and she’s lingering there. She doesn’t even know I’m in the room, and it infuriates me.
Look at me, I want to yell. And if she didn’t, I’d go up and wrap my hands around her pretty throat until she had no choice.
My dick hardens in my pants. I shift, but I can’t take my eyes away from her.
Besides, if anyone glances back, they won’t be staring at my pants. It’s the face that’s the money-maker, at least in a school uniform. Naked… whole different story.
Look at me.
She jerks around like I had spoken out loud, her eyes turning big as saucers.
I hate that she became beautiful.
She was a pretty child, a head of dark curls and big green eyes, but she’s prettier without the baby fat. And the haunted look in her eyes?
It’d be better if I knew I was the one who put it there.
“Go sit, Margo,” Mr. Jenkins says, giving her a little push.
She picks the farthest easel from me, and I narrow my eyes. Abruptly, I get up and gather my things, circling the room and dropping into the seat next to her.
“What am I?” I growl. “Chopped liver?”
She blinks at me. I should’ve called her Owl, because she’s always just blinking those big orb eyes.
“Welcome back,” Mr. Jenkins says to the class. “Let’s start on a fresh canvas today, one of the smaller ones.”
He nods to one of the kids, a smaller boy who’s flown under the radar for the most part. Tim? Tom? The kid picks up a stack of six-inch-by-six-inch canvases and passes them around.
“Quick warmup,” Mr. Jenkins says. “Let’s use one color paint, and I want you to depict the mood you’re feeling. Ten minutes, then we’ll move on.”
I open my paint set and squirt black onto my palette. I ignore Margo and dip a thin brush into it, getting to work. It’s easy to sweep the black across the little canvas, to project all of my locked-up feelings onto it.
And when I’m done?
Well, it’s a self-portrait.
A black monster escaping from the closet, its lower half a vortex of black smoke. The teeth are the best: white against its black face. White eyes.
Mr. Jenkins never looks at these. This is our form of therapy before the real work begins. It’s okay, though. I sign my initials at the bottom and put it off to the side to dry.
He claps, calling our attention back to him. “Excellent. We’re going to start our semester-long project. I know a lot of you are intimidated by oil paints.” There are a few snickers and gasps around the room. “Well, don’t be. Oil paints are persnickety things, but once you’ve mastered it… Beauty. And endless possibilities.” His voice is too fucking dreamy to be talking about oil paints.
Although an image flashes in my mind. Margo, covered in paint. Naked.
Hmm. Not a bad idea.
“A lot like life,” Margo says.
“Fuck no,” I snap. I shift on my seat, and the image pops like a balloon.
Mr. Jenkins ignores us and continues, “We’ll be pairing up and doing portraits. I expect you to look past the person’s exterior and bring out their best qualities.”
“Portraits?” Tim or Tom groans. “Like...”
I think he joined this class to work on his comic drawings, but the little shit would never admit such a thing.
“Like da Vinci,” Mr. Jenkins answers, “or Picasso.”
“Wildly different examples,” another student says.
“And I expect you to explore your options before settling on a technique,” Mr. Jenkins responds. “You’ll turn in one painting on the last day of class. It’ll be your entire grade.”
Margo groans. “Is this based at all on skill?”
“Yes and no,” Mr. Jenkins answers. “Whether you start working on that final piece today or a week before it’s due is up to you. Take time to improve upon skills or learn about your partner…” He shrugs. “Turn to the person beside you and introduce yourself. You’re going to get quite familiar with their face.”
I watch Margo look in the opposite direction, but her neighbor has already paired with someone.
I clear my throat, pulling my lips up in the best imitation of a true smile. “Buckle up, love,” I say. “We’re going to get quite… familiar.”
She swallows, and my pants tighten again. Damn her.
This is pure revenge—I’d do well to remember that. Toying with her, baiting her along…
She stares at me, the fear flashing across her eyes. That’s what I want: the fear.
But first…
“Scared?”
She shakes her head. “No.”
“You should be.”
“Please don’t make my life hell in this class,” she whispers.
I lean closer to her, not sure I heard her correctly. She should know better than to ask for favors. It makes me want to give her the opposite, time and again. We could do this all year. She’ll ask and I’ll deny.
Just like she denied me of my dreams seven years ago.
The old fury that I used to keep locked away stirs in my chest. It demands justice. Repentance. Vengeance.
I lean back on my stool, kicking out one leg. Around the room, people are dragging their easels to get a clear line of view of their partner. I just stare at her, trying to resist the urge to drag her out of the room and show her what hell is like.
Instead, I ask, “Why?”
She blinks at me. Owl. “B-because.” She looks away. Toward the teacher.
“What does Mr. Jenkins have to do with anything?”
She turns bright red. It’s fascinating to watch, really. The color crawls up her neck, over her jaw, and devours her face.
“I asked you a question, Sheep,” I say, tilting my head.
“Is this part of the game?”
“Yes.”
She shakes her head, appraising me. “You’re too curious, Caleb. I think that means you lose.”
I laugh. It’s been a while since someone has surprised me. But that’s the thing about Margo: she’s full of fucking surprises.
She doesn’t say anything, and her lips press together.
“Mr. Jenkins.” I draw him closer. “Margo isn’t feeling well. I think I should escort her to the nurse.”
He comes over and puts his hand on her shoulder.
She doesn’t flinch.
She doesn’t even twitch.
My eyebrows hike up, and I look from his hand to his face and back to her.
He leans down. “You okay, hon?”
“Just a little woozy,” she says. “I think the past week is catching up to me.”
He nods, sympathetic.
I want to strangle him. Unusual for me, since I generally like the guy. He’s down to earth and charming, a teacher without being a pain in the ass. People respect him.
But this goes beyond respect.
“Caleb will take you to the nurse. Let me know if you decide to go home, I’ll write a slip.”
She nods and stands.
I take her arm, pinching just above the elbow, and lead her out of the room. Instead of going to the nurse, we veer into the courtyard. There’s a door in the corner that goes to the greenhouse, propped open by a rock.
Students come in here to pass the time. The smell of weed seeps out, but it’s silent as we walk up. I guide her inside and let go, letting my gaze rake her up and down. We’re alone in here. It’s our own private world.
“My, my,” I drawl. I clench my fists in an effort not to do something stupid. “Didn’t think you’d have the guts to bone a teacher, Sheep.”
She blanches. “Excuse me?”
“You and Mr. Jenkins. Mighty close. I can see why you wouldn’t want me to make your life hell.”
She snorts, turning away from me.
I grab the back of her neck, swinging her back at me and pinning her to my chest. I capture both of her wrists behind her back.
Her little body feels good on mine. Like temptation.
“Tell me, how good of a lay is he? Does he have a giant dick? Cuddle you after—”
“He’s my foster dad,” she snarls. She struggling against my hold. “Let me go.”
“No,” I snap, just so I have a second to process. I reappraise her. “Foster dad.”
“Caleb,” she pants. She’s working up a sweat trying to get away from me. It turns me on that she’s such a wreck over being this close to me. I back her into a tree, her spine hitting it hard. Her eyes widen.
I release her wrists and trail my hand up, over the side of her breast, to her red, red cheeks. They’ll be redder when I’m done with her.
“You afraid, love?”
“Stop calling me that.” She tips her head away from me.
“I think you secretly like it.”
“Is this because I said you lost?” She wriggles in my arms.
I shove my hips forward, showing her exactly what I think about that. Her eyes widen, and she goes perfectly still.
“Remember one thing about me.” I lean down into her face. She’s tiny. Fragile. All the easier to break. “I don’t fucking lose.”
