3. Nessa

The first class of the day, art history, is more than just a course to me—it"s a statement. I"m determined to prove that I"m not the failure my family and everyone else expect. While I"m currently undecided about my major, hence my enrollment in general studies, my passion for art has always been a constant. This passion, I believe, fueled my previous commitment to pursuing a career in ballet.

My look, all goth and edgy, usually keeps people at bay. But in this world of art enthusiasts, it seems to attract a particular crowd. Like now, two girls are excitedly inviting me to a party at Delta Sigma. Parties haven't been my scene since juvie, but the idea of letting loose for a night is tempting, and maybe a night of wild sex with a senior would also help.

I'm spared from having to answer as the professor enters the room, and I settle into my seat. I open my laptop and discreetly activate a special program—one of the perks provided by the scholarship administrators. It records the professor's lecture, capturing every word even when she turns away from me. It's a game changer, allowing me to follow along without missing a beat.

The professor, a middle-aged woman with a passion for art that's almost tangible, begins the lecture. "Today, we delve into the Renaissance, a pivotal era that redefined the boundaries of art and thought," she starts, standing in front of her desk.

She talks about the shift from the medieval focus on religious themes to a celebration of human experience and the natural world. "Artists like Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo didn't just create art; they breathed life into it. Their work was revolutionary, showcasing not only skill but an unprecedented understanding of human anatomy, perspective, and emotion."

I watch her intently, lipreading while my laptop diligently records her every word. "Consider the Medici family of Florence," she continues, turning to write on the board. "Their patronage was crucial. They didn't just fund artists; they fostered an environment where creativity and innovation thrived."

The Renaissance comes alive under her narration, a world where art wasn't just seen but felt—where every brushstroke told a story of discovery, of pushing beyond known limits. As the professor speaks, I'm transported to the cobbled streets of Florence, surrounded by the burgeoning spirit of humanism.

I'd never set foot in Florence, or anywhere outside California for that matter until I came to Massachusetts. Yet, as the professor describes it, vivid images of the city spring to life in my mind. I can almost see its bustling streets, lined with the rich legacy of Renaissance art—a vivid tapestry of history and culture.

By the time the lecture ends, I feel oddly energized, my mind buzzing with images of frescoes and sculptures, of a world both ancient and alive in its artistic legacy. As I pack up my things, the girls stop me by the door again, giving me encouraging smiles.

"So, have you thought about it? Will you come?" the shorter one of the two asks, looking at me with expectation.

"You're so cool, so unapologetically you. Please come."

"I'll think about it."

As I walk away, their words echo in my mind. Unapologetically you. It's a strange yet empowering thought. Maybe this party is actually what I need.

Returning to an empty apartment, I find that Poppy is off to work, which seems to be her constant state these days. I pull out my phone and shoot a text to Eva.

Me: Party at Delta Sigma tonight. Wanna come?

Eva: I'd rather gouge my eyes out with a rusty spoon… no offense.

I can't help but chuckle. Eva's always been this perfect blend of sweetness and fierceness. She's protective and caring yet unafraid to speak her mind—a balance I deeply admire.

A small voice inside me whispers, acknowledging that I share that protective streak. I would go to the ends of the earth for them, ready to emasculate the two boys who are making trouble in their lives.

Me: I'm going. Need some action.

Eva: Stay safe!

My eyes drift to the kitchen drawer where I've stashed a box of communal condoms. There's a thin line between love and hate, desire and repulsion, passion and indifference. Poppy's unwittingly treading this line with Ethan, oblivious to the surrounding undercurrents. To be prepared, I've made sure condoms are easily accessible in our apartment, a just-in-case measure I informed both about.

Me: Always am.

I send the text with a sense of resolve. Tonight's about letting loose, maybe finding a bit of fun amid all the chaos. With a final glance at the drawer, I start getting ready, the anticipation of the unknown adding an edge to the evening ahead.

I slip into something that strikes the perfect balance between sexy and edgy. My skirt, a vibrant red, ends mid-thigh, complementing the black corset that's doing wonders for my modest bust, courtesy of a strategically chosen push-up bra. Tonight, my hair cascades freely down my back, a change from my usual style since headphones aren't an option. I hesitate, holding them in my hand, feeling their smooth surface. With a resigned sigh, I set them down. Wearing them would draw too much attention—too many questions.

Lacing up my knee-high boots, I grab my coat and step out into the cool night air. The short walk to the Delta Sigma party is refreshing, a welcome sensation against my skin.

Entering the party feels like walking into a palpable wall of energy. I don't need to hear the sounds to feel them. It's not a superpower but an acute awareness of the vibrations under my feet, the rhythm of the music pulsing through the floor. The sight of students dancing, laughing, and conversing fills the room with a noticeable liveliness. I can almost discern the cacophony of voices and music amid the vibrations, blending with the distinct scents of alcohol, sweat, and that unmistakable party aroma.

Yet, almost immediately, a sense of displacement washes over me. I'd hoped to rediscover the untamed side of Nessa, the one who thrived in these settings. But standing here, among the revelry, I realize it's not that simple anymore. Maybe it's the lack of alcohol dulling my senses, or perhaps it's just me changing. Either way, the wild, carefree version of myself feels just out of reach tonight.

Shrugging off my jacket, I head straight for the drinks table, hoping a strong drink might coax out my dormant wild side, even if just a little. As I reach for a bottle of tequila, pouring myself a generous triple shot, a guy sidles up next to me, uncomfortably close. My hand is on the grapefruit soda when his reaches out, inadvertently resting on mine.

I turn to face him, barely suppressing an eye roll at his obvious ploy for a "chance" encounter. "Hi," he greets me, a smile plastered on his face that's trying too hard to look confident, but his nerves are showing.

"Hi?" I respond, not really in the mood to indulge a fidgeting boy. I came here looking for a more experienced encounter, not a nervous kid.

"You're a goth. That's so cool," he says, trying to sound casual.

I can't help but let out a sigh. Clearly, he's here for the excitement of approaching someone like me. Deciding to have a bit of fun, I flash him a forced smile. "So, how open are you to blood play? What's your blood type? I prefer B positive, but I'm adaptable…"

"Sorry, I have to go," he stutters, backing away quickly.

I snort at his hasty retreat, but my amusement is cut short by a sudden hand on my shoulder. Whipping around, my bag falls, and I narrow my eyes at the sight of Cole Westbrook, Eva's unwanted stalker. The guy who's been making life difficult for Eva, my kind and nurturing roommate. Despite her brave front, I know she's far from okay with his creepy presence.

He smirks at me and I yank my bag from his grasp. I shoot him a glare sharp enough to slice through steel. "Don't touch me," I snap, my voice laced with ice. "I don't remember us being on touching terms, Westbrook."

His expression flickers with surprise, clearly not used to such a direct rebuff, but his grin widens. "Just trying to get your attention. You seemed lost in your own world," he says, trying to look nonchalant.

I fix him with a look that could turn the air around us to frost. "Oh, please. Save your charm for someone who hasn't seen a hundred guys like you. I'm not interested."

His reaction is unexpected. He laughs—a genuine, amused laugh that seems out of place in this confrontation. "I'm just being friendly," he tries again, but I'm not buying it.

"Friendly?" I scoff. "With Eva's friends? Since when? Let's not pretend you care about anyone here except yourself. And I'm telling you right now, whatever you're planning for her and think you can involve me, you're at a loss." I lean in, my voice low and dangerous, "I will never be on your side for anything, and if you try to hurt her"—I flash my pointed black nails at him— "your balls will never recover."

His smirk falters for a moment, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. Good. He should be unsure, and he should be wary. Because if there's one thing I'm certain of, it's that I'll go to any length to protect Eva. And Cole Westbrook had better remember that.

Suddenly, the hot guy from the café appears in my line of vision, and just like that, he becomes my whole focus as he turns toward Cole.

"Is there a problem here, Cole?"

I can't hear his voice, but I don't need to. His body language speaks volumes, exuding confidence and a quiet intensity that's all too appealing. I watch his lips, trying to catch fragments of the conversation he's having with Cole, but it's too chaotic for me to read them accurately.

Cole raises his hands in a gesture that's somewhere between surrender and nonchalance. "No, Liam, no problem at all," Cole replies, smirking as he continues. "Just chatting with Nessa here."

His use of my nickname makes my blood boil. "Nessa? Since when did we become friends?" I retort, my lips curling into a sneer. "It's Vanessa to you." I can't stand him using any familiarity with me; it's like he's tainting my name with his tongue.

Cole, unfazed by my hostility, responds with a mockingly respectful bow. "Of course, Your Highness," he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

As Cole moves away, my attention shifts back to the man from the café, Liam. He's just as captivating as he was then, and a flutter of excitement stirs in my stomach as I take in his profile—from his perfectly styled light-brown hair, the sharp jawline, the straight nose. There's a certain allure about him that's hard to ignore.

He turns to face me, offering a small, genuine smile. "Was Cole bothering you?" he asks.

I shrug, trying to appear nonchalant. "He's an idiot," I reply. The words feel sharp, even to me.

Liam's laughter is soundless to my ears, but I can see it's deep and hearty. There's an urge within me to touch his chest, to feel the laughter reverberate through him and into me.

"He's my roommate," he explains, still smiling. "I can confirm you're right about him, but he's not all bad."

Roommate? My wariness spikes. Birds of a feather flock together, right? But Liam's knowing smile tells me he's already guessed my thoughts.

"I'm Liam Ashford, by the way," he introduces himself. "Certified non-stalker."

"That's exactly what a stalker would say," I quip back.

His laughter follows. "Fair point."

Liam Ashford. Suddenly I realize that I don't regret coming to this party at all. I wanted an adventure, and it seems to have walked right up to me. Did I somehow make this happen? For a brief moment, I allow myself to wish for an eight-inch cock in his pants and a million dollars in my bank account.

"I'm Vanessa Caldwell, but my friends call me Nessa. It's nice to meet you, Liam Ashford."

"I think I'll keep you company, warding off boys."

I want to tell him that I can make boys run away better than he ever could, but I enjoy him being here. I'm not a damsel in distress waiting for her prince—I've never been that girl, but right now, I enjoy pretending.

As I sip my drink, Liam opts for a bottle of water. "You don't drink?" I ask, a touch of curiosity in my tone.

He glances at the bottle, a shrug lifting his shoulders. "Not much, especially during the season," he admits with a slight wince. "I'm boring, sorry."

I don't think there's anything boring about this man—I'm sure there's a wildness under the perfectly curated exterior. I can see it… his eyes show far more.

"Allow me to doubt that."

Our conversation takes on a life of its own, a playful exchange that feels as natural as breathing.

"So, Liam, is ‘certified non-stalker' a self-proclaimed title, or did you have to take a test for that?" I tease, a smirk playing on my lips.

He grins, leaning in slightly, his clove cologne just as intoxicating as the man himself. "Oh, it was a rigorous exam. Had to swear off lurking in the shadows and following people around. Tough, but I managed."

I laugh more genuinely than I expected to tonight. "I'm impressed. Must have been a real sacrifice for you."

He nods solemnly, his green eyes twinkling with humor. "Absolutely. But for the greater good, you know? Can't have people thinking I'm some cliché bad boy."

"Ah, so what are you then, if not the cliché bad boy?" I ask, curious despite myself.

"I like to think of myself as a… reformed bad boy. Now more into saving damsels from tedious conversations and offering safe walks home."

I roll my eyes but can't suppress a smile. "How chivalrous of you. Do you also rescue cats from trees in your spare time?"

He chuckles. "Only on weekends. Weekdays are strictly for being a boring, non-drinking, responsible student."

Our laughter and shared glances create a bubble around us, and for a moment, the rest of the party fades into the background. It's just Liam and me, two people enjoying a genuine connection in the chaos of a college party.

After a while, Liam glances at his watch, a slight frown creasing his brow. "Looks like it's getting late. I should probably head out soon."

My heart sinks a little at the thought of the night ending, but then he offers, "Can I walk you home?"

The offer catches me off guard, but in a good way. "Sure, that would be nice," I reply, a genuine smile touching my lips.

As we prepare to leave, there's a sense of anticipation, a subtle undercurrent of excitement. Maybe the night isn't over just yet. Maybe there's still a bit more adventure left to be had with him.

The night air is cool, carrying with it a sense of calm that contrasts sharply with the party's earlier chaos.

"Do you want to come up for a coffee?" I ask as we reach the door of my building. It's a bold invitation—one that I'd never made before.

He hesitates, his expression thoughtful. "I don't think that would be wise."

I'm quick to clarify, "I'm not actually offering coffee."

His response comes with a tinge of regret. "I know," he says. The familiar sting of rejection hits me, yet it's tinged with a sense of understanding. Rejection is never easy, but his reluctance softens the blow somewhat.

"I wish you a good night, Vanessa," he says, his gaze lingering. Even though I can't hear his voice, I imagine it deep and resonant.

Impulsively, I say, "Call me Nessa." He steps back, still watching me, and his smile holds a hint of sadness, suggesting that this isn't an easy choice for him either.

"I thought ‘Nessa' was reserved for friends," he remarks, a touch of humor on his face.

I return his smile, feeling a connection that transcends the physical. "We'll be friends one day, Liam Ashford. Mark my words."

His smile broadens slightly, a mixture of hope and anticipation in his eyes. "I hope you're right. Good night, Nessa."

As he walks away, I'm left standing there, filled with disappointment and even some relief. Maybe it's for the best. Liam Ashford has the potential to be more than just a fleeting encounter, more than a simple distraction. And that's a dangerous thought because a man like him could easily become an addiction.