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He has eyes on me. Dani and Misty are irrelevant to him as I work toward keeping his attention by straightening my back and pressing my chest out. I highly doubt Grant is my nameless monster, but the knowledge that SF is potentially watching fills me with a thrilling, nervous energy.
I avert my gaze playfully. “Super busy so far. You?”
He chuckles. “That’s an understatement. This course is going to kick my ass. Where are you girls from?”
“Upstate.”
He leans further into me. “I’m from New York State on a football scholarship. Do you like watching football?”
A football player—typical.
As a child, I dreamt about my future, and I always pictured myself with a football player. But now, the thought of being with someone like Grant is just plain boring.
“Not really,” I reply.
He frowns. “Are you going to the harvest party?” Even his questions are boring. I immediately dismiss the idea that he is the one behind those texts. I’m just not getting the vibe. He seems too nice, even if he can’t stop staring at my tits.
I shrug. “I’m not planning on it.”
Dani elbows me while Misty cranes her neck, trying to hear what’s going on.
“Yes,” Dani says, chewing on her pen. “She is.”
Grant’s gaze drops to my chest again—his eyes are thick and merciless—his tongue grazing his lip.
Ugh. Why?
The lights dim, and Professor Garcia clicks onto the stage with her stilettos. Grant nudges me slightly. “Do you want to meet up sometime? I’d love to show you a good time.”
Dani leans over my seat. “She’d love to.”
Grant pulls his hand from around me and grabs his phone, laying it across my lap. Too close to places his hand shouldn’t be close to. “Here, put your number in.”
I glare at Dani and grab Grant’s phone, inserting my phone number, and immediately, he texts me back so I have his number. “Great.” I feign a smile. “I’ll text you. It will be fun to meet up at the party.”
Perhaps a football player could be useful to have along. I need a certain level of protection from the psychopath.
Thank fuck the party is still over a week away.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
SUMMER
It’s Friday, the last lecture of the week. The last two days have been quiet, with no texts from SF, and I’m still not able to bring myself to write my first weekly reflection, even though it’s due at midnight.
Lincoln is absent today—perhaps he doesn’t need to attend every lecture. I don’t want to question or think about it meaning anything. I can’t assume there is anything unusual about it.
Grant sits next to me again, and Dr. Garcia starts her lecture. All chatter in the room ceases, and I keep waiting for my phone to do something, like buzz. For SF to say something, even though we haven’t communicated since Wednesday. His haunting aura is suffocating me, his presence heavy in the room.
Silence. No text, no message. Nothing to indicate he even exists or cares. I’ve been pretending to flirt with Grant for the last hour as we whisper into each other’s ears and I give him all the wrong signals.
I sit up straight, sensing his eyes on me—the eyes behind that cloth mask. He is here, somewhere, I think. His essence is washing over me.
“Congratulations on completing your first week,” Dr. Garcia says at the end of the hour. “Before I let you leave, I want you to look around. At these walls, the seats you’re in, everything around you, including your peers.” I swallow hard and drift my gaze across the room and everyone else does the same. “Now, I want you to look at the person directly beside you.”
My eyes shift to Grant, who has finally decided to drift his attention to my face.
