I need this internship.
He can buy his way into any art gallery that he wants, but I can’t. I have to get there with determination and hard work, and I need the help of Stanfield if I’m going to achieve my dreams.
“You really don’t get it, do you? You’re not bad, Abigail.” Quinn reaches out and takes my paintbrush from me, adjusting the part of the painting I was working on. I hold my breath, sure that he’s going to ruin it all on purpose, but he has a light touch and fixes the part I’ve been struggling with. “In fact, some people here may say that you’re quite good. The problem is that only one student can be the best, and that has to be me.”
“It has to be you? What the hell do you mean by that?”
He rolls his eyes and drops my paintbrush onto the table. “I mean, Abigail, that I’ve been bred and groomed for this. You haven’t. That means that you have no idea what’s expected of you, and I do. I can survive in this life, and you can’t. You can’t even write a fucking apology letter correctly the first time.”
“I did write it correctly. You’re an ass, you know that, Quinn?” He’s in between me and my painting, and I’m afraid that if I move towards him he’ll do something drastic, like ruin my work. I can’t have that, so I stand still, my heart fluttering uselessly like a trapped bird.
“No, you wrote what you felt, Abigail, and nobody gives a shit about that. You want to know how you can survive here and in the real world? I’ll show you. I’ll show you what you have to expect and what you have to be able to take if you’re going to make it. Because you may be good, little Abigail, but I’m better, and I’m not going to let you take the fucking internship from me, do you understand?”
He slams his hand down onto the table, making my jar of turpentine rattle. I jump for it, grabbing it before it can fall over, and glare up at him.
“I hate you.”
He laughs, a loud sound that echoes around my workspace. I’m sure that everyone in the art department can hear it, but he doesn’t care, so neither do I. “Sure, hate me, Abigail. Hate me for telling you the truth. You think that you can hack it out in the real world? You think that you can handle the internship? I guaran-fucking-tee that you won’t even be able to survive the rest of the year here.”
“Is that a bet?” The words are out of my mouth before I even know what I’m saying. The last time that I made a bet I fucked up bad. I know it. He knows it.
His eyes widen and he reaches out to stroke my hair. I want to pull away from him, but part of me wants to lean into his touch.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
“You want to make another bet with me?” Chuckling, Quinn leans back away from me and crosses his arms over his chest. “Let me tell you something, Abigail. I don’t make bets with people unless they’ve already paid up on prior bets. So…are you saying that you’re begging me to fuck you? Right here? Right now?”
The blood drains from my face and I reach out for the table for support. “That’s not what I’m saying.” I shake my head. “That’s not what I’m saying at all.”
“Damn shame.” He slides his eyes up and down my body. He’s already seen…well, almost all of me, but it still makes me shiver when he looks at me like that. Like he wants to see what else I have to offer him. “I can’t wait until you’re ready for me. Until you beg me.”
He turns and sweeps away through the curtain, leaving me standing alone in front of my painting.
***
I don’t even realize how late the afternoon is getting before I finally sigh and put down my brush. Everyone else in the class left a long time ago, but I was determined to stay as late as possible so that I could catch up from the weekend.
I may be down, but I’m definitely not out, no matter what Quinn may think. Giving my brushes a quick swish through the turpentine, I cover my oils, take off my smock, and leave my painting. Slipping through the hanging curtains, I pause for a moment, enjoying the smell and the silence of the art department.
This is the first time that I’ve been down here by myself, and it feels surreal to be surrounded by so much talent. It takes all of my control not to peek in on some of the other paintings, but I don’t want to see what other people are working on.
Not yet, anyway. Not until I’ve had more time to work on my painting and I feel a bit more comfortable with how far I’ve come.
There are still lights on in the art department, which is kinda odd since I’m pretty sure that I’m the last one here. Slowly I make my way through the curtains, winding my way to the front of the room where I’m pretty sure I’ve seen the light switches before.
I’m about to duck through the final curtain when I hear talking. The first voice is obviously Quinn’s. I’d know the deep way it thrums through my body anywhere, but I can’t tell who else is talking. Slowly I part the curtain and peek through, but I can’t see them.
They must be by Quinn’s painting. I could leave
