Ember X (Death Collectors) - By Jessica Sorensen Page 0,28
dark shadow possesses his expression. “And you’ve already met him?”
“Yeah…” My eyebrows scrunch. “At the party, like I just said.”
He stares at the dashboard, jingling the keys with anxious energy, and then he opens the door and climbs out of the car.
I hop out and meet him around the back. “You said you don’t keep secrets,” I say as we head for the bricked canopy entrance. “But it kind of seems like you are.”
“No, I said secrets were pointless unless they hurt someone.” He picks up the pace and waves over his shoulder. “See you around, Ember.”
The whole female student body watches him swagger up the sidewalk, practically drooling. I roll my eyes and shift directions for the side entrance. By this afternoon, he’ll probably be screwing Mackenzie Baker in the utility closet.
The side entrance is the mellow area of the small school, leading right into where my English class is. I rummage through my bag as I walk down the hall, pull out my cell phone, and text Raven.
Me: U at skool yet?
I wander down the hall decorated with fake spider webs and orange and black confetti, with my head tucked down, waiting for an answer.
Me: Hey, r u ok?
Again, no response. I put my phone back in my bag and decide to check in the art room. Sometimes Raven goes in there for fun, when the Professor doesn’t have a class going, because she says it’s the most serene spot to paint with the mountains right outside, along with the football practice field, where the guys run around with their shirts off.
I poke my head inside, but the only person there is a guy painting in the far corner, so I begin to back out.
“Ember,” the guy calls out.
“Asher?” I step into the classroom. “What are you doing in here?”
He stifles a smile. “Painting.”
“But how are you here… I didn’t know you could start class mid-semester.”
“I’m not,” he replies. “The Professor is my dad’s brother and I stopped by to say hi… one thing lead to another.” He raises the paintbush. “I couldn’t help myself.”
“So you have connections?” I say in a teasing tone. “I see.”
His grin illuminates his slate eyes that are shadowed by strands of his hair. “I guess you could say that.”
I grow flustered with the impulse to walk across the room, run my hands up his lean arms, tangle my fingers through his hair, yank him down, and suck his tongue into my mouth.
“Well, I’ll see you around.” I wave and step back to depart the room.
“Aren’t you curious if I’m any good?” He sets the paintbrush down on the tray and motions me over.
I set my bag on a table and weave through the desks and his eyes never leave me the entire time. By the time I reach him, my skin is sizzling from his gaze and the sexual tension building between us.
He has a black hoodie pulled over his At the Drive-In T-shirt and his faded jeans are stained with little droplets of black paint, the same look Ian often sports. He brushes his black hair out of his eyes and I notice a small scar along his brow line, right beneath his eyebrow piercing.
He gestures at the canvas. “So, what do you think?”
I turn my head and my lips part in surprise. It’s the most stunning painting I’ve ever seen. Flawless strokes of black paint brush the shape of a male Angel with his head tucked down and his dark hair hanging over his eyes. His feet are traced by a black circle, like he’s bound to the lonely spot, and he’s crying. The agony and torment in his expression is so real, I want to reach out and comfort him.
“It’s beautiful,” I breathe in awe. “I can feel his pain and anguish. It’s like it’s killing him, being trapped to that single spot.”
“You understand it like a true artist,” he observes, with a trace of pain in his eyes. “Do you paint?”
I shake my head. “No, my brother does. And Raven. I’m more of an artist with words.”
“So, you’re a writer,” he says, sounding a little unpleased.
I turn to face him and realize he’s standing closer than I thought. Out of habit, I step back, and the heel of my boot collides with the easel. “I want to be one someday.”
He sweeps a strand of my hair back and tucks it behind my ear, a reminder that I don’t have to fear his touch; that his contact only brings