3. All Right Now

3

ALL RIGHT NOW

DAISY

PRESENT DAY ― August 20th, 1975

I take deep, steady breaths as I make my way down the long hallways of the Aurelia Academy of the Arts. The halls seem endless, and nerves are swirling around in my gut like an unpleasant soup. The place is crowded, and you can easily distinguish the people who have been here for a while and the ones who have not.

In exactly six minutes, I will see him.

It's my first day at the university.

The school is huge and intimidating, and I let out some curses under my breath before I feel a hand touch my shoulder. "Daisy?"

I turn, meeting eyes with a guy with blond hair and a kind smile. It takes me a second before I recognize him. When I realize he's one of my classmates that I met at orientation a few weeks ago, I smile. "Hey. Jace, right?"

He nods happily. "Yeah. Come on, we need to go upstairs."

I follow him up and it doesn't take long before we find the classroom. We walk through the doorway and I take a seat in the front row. Placing my leather satchel bag on the ground beside the individual wooden table, I pull out the chair and sit down. The tables have at least three feet of space between them, and Jace takes a seat on the table closest to me.

More students enter the room, and at nine o'clock on the dot, there he is…

My heart works in overtime and every single muscle in my body is pulled tight like a rubber band. Shutting the door behind him, he walks over to the front of the class, where he takes place before a dark green chalkboard. He writes his name down as the room turns quiet.

I swallow desperately. My mouth is drier than goddamn cotton.

"Good morning, everyone," he starts, his voice a dangerous mix of intimidating and gentle―low and growly but soft. Just like I remember it.

It makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and goosebumps cover my flesh.

"I'm Lester Gilbert. As you've been told at orientation, I'm your Sculpture professor. Which I will be for every year until you graduate. Aside from this, I teach Painting to the first-year students of the fine arts program―that includes you―and I will do your introductory classes for Art History. Which is what we're going to start with now."

I bite my lip as I try to suppress my broad smile. He looks almost the same as that first time I saw him at the art gallery, only a little more casual. He's wearing mocha-colored slacks and a beige cardigan, along with a creamy-white blouse underneath.

Taking the cardigan off, he hangs it over the chair behind the desk, revealing a muscled chest and biceps that are visible through the thin cotton of his shirt.

I squeeze my legs together underneath the table.

Fuck. Me. Sideways. He's unreal.

"It's nice to see so many new faces," he says as he starts the class by handing out our course materials and first assignment. "What we'll start with this first week is microanalysis, also called ‘formal analysis'. You'll each be given a different art piece to dissect. Questions you will answer about the art include: what is the medium of the object? How big or small is it? You'll do research about the materials used, the region of origin. Find information about the artist―the creator of the artwork."

He writes all those things down on the green chalkboard, making a list. I scribble everything he says down in my notebook.

"You might think an assignment like this is odd or overkill. ‘This golden statue is made of gold,'" he gives as an example. "Who the hell cares? People have eyes, don't they?"

All fifteen students in the room chuckle at that, including me. Each of us was picked out of many applications, making this a huge opportunity that I'm sure each of us intends to make the most out of.

Professor Gilbert continues speaking, and he has the entire class wrapped around his finger. He's funny, charismatic. He speaks like a professor, but at the same time he doesn't. He manages to find a connection with my classmates―with my generation. He's cool without trying to be.

I see him in the light today. Usually, I only watch him from the darkness.

It's fucking exhilarating.

"In these introductory courses, you will sit with an art piece and consider it. That may be hours, even days. Might seem boring to some of you, but the real artists in this classroom will see the use of it. To really look at art on a deeper level causes you to find things you might have never noticed before. You may find out a detail that may change everything, change the trajectory of an entire paper. You may find inspiration for your own artworks; you may find techniques that you're excited to try. Art is meant to be seen by the eye, and sometimes, meant to be seen through a looking glass."

He ends his short lecture, giving us time for the assignment straight off the bat. "Five thousand words by the end of this week. Now walk along with me, and I'll point each one of you to the personal artwork I selected."

He gives us a minute to gather our things, then we follow him like excited puppies as he steps out of the classroom.

He leads us through the long hallways of the school, and when I look up, I'm met with stunning high rib vaults, carved out of stone. Stained glass windows on the sides, letting in warm rays of sunshine. A shiny checkboard floor stretches before us, and the heels of my Mary Janes clack audibly when I walk.

All of us are quiet as we take it in, until we reach the school's museum.

It's a gigantic space with dark marble floors, high, creamy white walls, and crown molding on the ceiling. Paintings that consist of abstract, impressionist, surrealist, modern art, still life― Hell , there are too many different ones. My brain is all scrambled and my eyes nearly hurt from moving side to side so fast.

Then there are the sculptures―which I'm most passionate about. Stone sculptures of bodies, heads. Installations made of different materials such as stone, clay, marble, iron, wood…

"Holy fucking beachball tits," I mutter to myself, causing two of my male classmates, including Jace, to chuckle.

"Take a good look around, everyone. Take it all in," Mr. Gilbert says. When we do, he calls one of the students by name and leads her to her personal artwork.

When four other classmates have been led to their assignments, I finally hear him call my name. "Daisy Burton?"

Panic floods through me as I walk in his direction. I have to play it cool, keep myself in check. But to see him from up close, breathing the same air as him…

It's almost too much to handle.

I make my way over with a broad smile. "This is amazing, Professor." I tilt my chin to meet his eyes. "Everything is so beautiful."

"Yes," he agrees with a smile before he starts walking. "Some pieces are permanent in our gallery, but most of them we rent for studies. They later return to museums or other art academies." I walk along beside him, passing multiple sculptures. "Your last name is Burton, huh? Any relation to Lucille Burton?"

He knows me. He knows me. He knows me! "She's my mother," I reply happily, but play it cool. "You a fan?"

"She's an incredible writer," he answers. "Unique stories, very disturbing."

I nod amusedly. "Yeah. Disturbing is what she does best."

Once he comes to a halt, he signals his hand to a large sculpture of a nude woman. Her hands are folded and held up to cover her eyes. Beautiful long hair is carved out of stone, and the technique that was used makes it seem like she's wearing a very thin dress so that her nipples poke through, the shapes and curves impeccable.

"This is yours for the time being. I remember from reviewing your submitted artwork to this academy that your specialty is sculpture. I thought it would be a good fit for you."

Fuck me sideways. Even after months after my submissions, he remembers it.

Just like I intended.

I suck my lower lip into my mouth to suppress how special that notion makes me feel. I'll be walking on air for the rest of the day.

"How thoughtful of you, Professor. I can't believe you remembered it. You must've had to review so many."

"I remember it because it was dark, with an eye-catching flair of the macabre." He grins. "Now that I know your mother is Lucille Burton, I can see that it runs in the family."

I chuckle. "Yeah."

"Your work caught my attention. It was provocative. Exciting. So different from the usual submissions. I like it when students take risks. Keep it up, Miss Burton. Good luck." When he passes me, he takes hold of my shoulder, giving it a light squeeze in a friendly way.

Fucking hell. I nearly come in my panties. He could put a cigarette out on my tongue and I'd say thank you, sir .

Squeezing my thighs together, I close my eyes as I force the pending horniness away and focus on the gorgeous statue before me, though my heart races in overtime from that tiny touch.

Even with the constant thrill over having Lester close to me, I manage to do my work. Despite my whole plan of getting into this academy to make him notice me, I truly am here to learn, too.

Lester is my first love. Art is my second.

I go to the bathroom to pee after an hour of studying the sculpture, and during my search for the toilet, I pass the classroom we started this day in.

Reaching for the door, I turn the knob. I go inside unsuspiciously and close it behind me. I make my way to Lester's desk and smooth my hands over the wood, trailing my fingertips over his pens and papers. Bending down slightly, I smell his cardigan, which is still hanging over the desk chair. I inhale deeply, taking in his intoxicating scent. It smells like a mix of woody tones―leather, spice, and a hint of tobacco.

I flinch when I hear someone talk outside the door, and without thinking, I grab the cardigan and put it into my satchel bag. Hiding in the corner of the room, I wait for the voices to disappear. When the coast is clear, I quietly open the door and get the hell out.

I'm already losing my marbles.

I took his sweater.

I can turn around and put it back. I should put it back. But I'm almost peeing my panties, so I continue my journey to the bathroom. I look for the nearest one, and when I find it, I get inside the closest stall. The door slams behind me louder than intended before I lock it.

I put my bag down on the floor and pull my corduroy A-line skirt up to my waist. Wiggling out of my underwear, I hover above the toilet seat and let go of my bladder.

I never sit down in public restrooms―that's gross.

My eyes zone in on the caramel-colored bag and I take out the sweater, my heart still pounding in my throat.

Fuck , why did I have to do that? He'll definitely notice it's gone.

Shit, shit, shit.

Those worries evaporate into thin air when I bring the piece of wool to my nose and inhale again. I take a piece of toilet paper with my free hand and wipe, then stand up and lean against the wall.

It aches. I ache.

Each time my arousal takes over, I can do nothing but give in. If I don't, I go insane. It's been that way for as long as I can remember.

Pushing those thoughts out of my head for now, I bring one foot up to the toilet seat, moving the cardigan between my thighs. Tears spill out of my eyes as I take a breath of relief, and a gasp leaves my lips when I start rubbing it against my clit. I roll my hips to apply more pressure, and soon I'm fucking a piece of clothing like a complete wacko.

This is so fucked. I know that.

Yet I don't stop. It feels too good.

I imagine Professor Gilbert punishing me for this. Bending me over the desk before he smacks my ass with a cane. He does it over and over until I'm red and throbbing. Until I'm crying and begging for mercy.

And that's when I let go. A loud gasp leaves me as ecstasy floods my senses, pulling every vein tight as I release. Euphoria overtakes me, and once I ride out my climax, I take the piece of wool from between my thighs.

It has a large wet spot on the soft material from my cum. Guess I have to keep it now.

The ache is finally gone. But I know it won't stay away for long.

It always returns.

I pull my skirt down and smooth my hands over it, put my panties back on, and push the cardigan inside my bag. Unlocking the bathroom stall as if nothing is amiss, I fix myself up in the mirror until I look presentable again. I wipe some of the smudged mascara from beneath my dark brown eyes with a paper towel, and wet my hands. Brushing them through my chocolate brown curls―which I've styled similarly to Farrah Fawcett―I bend over, shaking my head until I'm satisfied with the right amount of fluff.

On the way back to the museum, I pass my locker and drop Professor Gilbert's stolen cardigan inside.

Back to my mission.

Make him see me.

He'll become obsessed. He won't be able to help it.

He'll play right into my hand.

I know exactly who Lester Gilbert is. I know what he likes and doesn't like―how talented and special he is. I know how dark his mind is and how depraved his extracurricular activities are.

I'm his dream girl. His soulmate.

He just doesn't know that yet.