11. Frankie

I'm hiding,and I'm not proud of that fact, but there it is. I'm a fully functioning adult, well, mostly, and I'm hiding from boys. Was I excited at the prospect of lunch with Leo? Yeah, maybe a little, but then the whole thing went down with Matteo, and… here I am, hiding just outside the cove, eating a ham and cheese sandwich. It tastes like disappointment, the bread slightly soggy from being in my bag too long, and the ham a shade of pink that doesn't inspire much confidence.

The sun burns my pale skin, heating me beneath my sweater. My long, pointy nails dig into the bread as I pick at it, trying to find an angle that might make it more appetizing. That's what I get for choosing a vending machine lunch over actual food. The sunlight reflects off the water, creating a glare that almost blinds me, yet I can't bring myself to move.

It's not that I can't afford a better meal, I can. I just don't want to spend the little money I have hidden away. Every penny counts toward a future full of unknowns, a life I'm still trying to piece together from the fragments of my past.

A loud bell chimes through the campus, indicating the start of afternoon classes. I have a couple of hours to kill, so I stand and brush off my hands on my skirt. Crumbs scatter to the sand, and I take the last bit of my sandwich and toss it to the seagulls as I make my way up the hill toward the computer labs.

Guilt tries to weave its way into my stomach, knowing that Leo is more than likely looking for me, but in all reality, he should just forget me and focus on another girl—one who isn't me. Sometimes, it doesn't bother me when someone touches me, then there are days when I can't even stand a handshake, like with Professor Blackwood earlier. Shaking his hand felt like sticking mine into a cold, clammy hole in the ground. The likelihood of something living in said hole is high, and the expectation of getting bit by an unknown creature is even higher.

I don't know what it is about him, but he feels wrong somehow, slimy, and now he's my new advisor alongside his TA, Dorian. All he did was stand there and glare at me as though I am so far beneath him that I shouldn't even exist in his sphere. Asshole.

The computer lab rises before me, close to the science building but far enough away that if they blow themselves up, I'd survive. See? I can be optimistic. The building is the newest on the island, all glass and with a tilted roof that slopes low to the ground. I'm not sure who designed it, but it doesn't match the rest of the buildings on campus, which is just as well.

It's quieter on the east side of the island. Not many students utilize this building, mostly because they all have their own laptops, but then there are the few of us majoring in cybersecurity, something I have only seen at this school. Most other colleges expect you to learn IT or some other generic field, but here, I could focus on what I wanted to from day one.

Opening the door, I step into the highly air-conditioned building. A slight shiver works its way through my body as I head to the unmanned check-in desk and scribble my name into the logbook.

The building has three floors. The first is used most, just a simple computer lab with rows and rows of computers. Then there is the top floor, where there are classrooms. My favorite, however, is the basement. I head for the steps leading down to the supercomputer. Today, it's eerie in here. My footsteps echo off the walls, bouncing all around me. There are a few reasons I personally use the supercomputer—my thesis. Freshman year, I knew I wanted to incorporate puzzles and ancient code.

Cryptographic Alchemy: Unlocking Ancient Wisdom Through Modern Computational Linguistics and Puzzle Theory.

The title was easy, the research, not so much. Using my keycard, I tap it to the little box on the door and wait for the light to turn green before stepping inside. The air hums with a latent charge, like the quiet before a storm, as I flip on the overhead lights. Three fluorescent bulbs buzz to life above in circular light fixtures, set six feet apart over a long oval table with multiple computers sitting at every chair. On the far wall is a giant screen, while on either wall to the left and right are multiple smaller screens.

It's been nearly four months since I stepped into this room, and damn, I missed it. The familiar scent of ozone and cold air greets me like an old friend. Popping my earbuds in, I put on my playlist and find my station. It isn't mine per se, but the one I use every single time, and all my work is saved here and on a little drive in my backpack. Sliding into my seat, I fire up the computer and turn the sound up as loud as I can tolerate it. The vibrant beats of my music create a bubble of privacy, a sanctuary from the world.

As my fingers fly over the keyboard, I think about all the people who made a comment to me regarding my lack of technology. It isn't because I don't want a phone, and it isn't because I'm unwilling to take a few hundred bucks out of my stash to purchase one either.

It's because I don't want to be bothered and because they really are far too easy to hack. I bite back a smile at Professor Blackwood's challenge. I didn't even need my shadows or my brain to learn his password. He was eating chips as he walked into class today, tossing them in the trash then grabbing his phone, punching in his password. The grease made it easy for me. Only two tries, and I was in.

I've found that a lot of hacking is less about knowing the systems, which is, of course, just as important, but it's also about understanding the person. Professor Blackwood's lack of hygiene was a dead giveaway. I also saw more than I wanted to in his photos—ones I silently sent to my secret email I don't access anywhere on campus. Well, one I don't often access anywhere unless I absolutely have to.

It's my blackmail file, which I spend some time on while I research my new advisor.

What I find isn't good.

Professor Blackwood loves his male students. I shudder in disgust. On one hand, we are all grown adults. Well, mostly. Professor Blackwood is over thirty, and a lot of those students are of age. That doesn't make it right or okay, so I'll keep those photos of him and the students for a rainy day because something tells me I'm going to need it.

A hand touches my shoulder, making me jump. My heart rate spikes, and I swear I can feel it pulse in my neck. Yanking my earbuds out of my ears, I spin around, ready to yell at whoever decided to scare the shit out of me, only to come face-to-face with familiar eyes. "Bishop." My earbuds clatter to the floor, but neither of us moves to grab them.

He looks amazing, of course he does. Tall and with a swimmer's build, he wears his signature jeans and white button-down with the first five undone, showing off his muscular physique. His hands are in his pockets, and he rocks on his heels as he stares down at me with ice-blue eyes. Curly ringlets slip over his forehead, and I curl my hands because I remember the way his hair felt between my fingertips. I also remember the way his lips felt on my skin, the ones he is pursing right now.

"Firefly," he murmurs, his voice a soft caress that seems to reverberate through the cold room. His eyes roam over me, and I feel exposed under his gaze. The nickname hits me like a ton of bricks, jolting me out of my reverie.

Fuck him, and fuck his nicknames. I turn around to face my computer screen. It blurs, and I can't see the code I was just working on—not with Bishop fucking Mercer standing over me.

"Why are you here?" I can't even pretend to work because, even though I see the code, I've lost my ability to understand what I was just working on. The moment seems suspended, his presence a tangible force that disrupts the sanctity of my refuge in this technological haven.

He pulls out a chair beside me, sits down casually, and stretches his legs out. The movement is fluid, a dance of muscles under skin, and too close for comfort. I don't look at him. I can't. The last words he said to me still ring in my head, as harsh and unyielding as the clang of a bell. It was the start of summer when we saw each other again, and by the end, he discarded me. I was nothing more than a naive child falling for the senior.

I was new, and he… I swear he just used me, seeing me show up here after all the years we lost, because the last time I saw him before that fateful day was the day I killed our foster father. He saw me do it. The only saving grace I had was him getting adopted by the fucking dean of this school—a fact I only learned about when I showed up here.

He knows all my secrets, both because I told him and because he witnessed them. I thought I got away from him when he graduated, and yet one year later, here he is.

I don't believe in fate. Never have. What the hell did fate ever do for me besides torture me, toss me into shitty scenarios, and abuse me?

No, fuck fate, and fuck Bishop Mercer.

"Come on, firefly," he says in that smooth voice of his.

I want to shove a ball gag in his mouth and shut him up.

"Don't call me that." I grind my teeth.

"Ah, come on, you are still as pale as a ghost, my little firefly," he teases as though he didn't break my heart, which he did. I still have the scars, ones he ripped open. "You probably still glow in the dark."

"Mommy dearest call you back?" I whip my head around to glare at him, even though just looking at him hurts my soul, and yet a part of me remembers how amazing he felt moving above me and inside me, making me crave his touch.

"She did actually." He casually lays his hands over his stomach, turning his head to glance around the lab. "Everything looks the same."

And yet, everything isn't the same.

I turn back to my computer, knowing it's useless to get any work done with Bishop here, so I power down and begin to pack up. I have a class in an hour anyway.

"You're mad." He stops twisting in his chair to face me.

Gritting my teeth, I breathe slowly in and out through my nose before repeating his parting words to me. "Open your eyes, Frankie. You're out of your depth, a nobody trying to play in a league she doesn't even comprehend. You're nothing—weak, ordinary, and utterly forgettable. I can't waste another minute on you."

He doesn't flinch, he doesn't even wince. Instead, he smirks at me and taps the counter. "Can I show you my classroom?"

"No." I grab my backpack and begin shoving all my things inside. I'm being dramatic, I know I am, but when it comes to Bishop, I've never had my head screwed on straight. "Tori is looking for you."

I should have known when she mentioned his name two weeks ago that he was lurking on campus somewhere, and from the mention of a classroom, my guess is he is teaching as he works toward his master's. I only hope that I'm not in any of his classes.

"Hmm, you're really mad," he says, his voice dripping with an unctuous tone that makes it sound like some kind of sick joke.

I regret not having lunch with Leo and Matteo now. Hell, even Dorian would be better than this. With a growl of frustration, I sling my backpack over my shoulder and stomp through the room, each step echoing my anger. My hand is on the doorknob when Bishop grips my skirt and twirls me around, pushing me against the door with a soft thud.

He steps close, so dangerously close that I can smell the tobacco on his breath mixed with the faint, earthy scent of vetiver that wafts off him, sending a confusing cascade of memories and desires flashing through my mind. No, I tell myself firmly. I press against his chest, focusing on breathing through my mouth so I don't have to inhale his intoxicating scent.

"I'm sorry I hurt you," he says, his voice low and surprisingly earnest, startling me.

I don't accept his apology. My arms drop to my sides, heavy and numb. "What do you want?" I ask, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside.

"I just wanted to find you and talk to you, and tell you in person I'm teaching this year." He begins to massage my wrists gently. The familiarity of his touch is disarming, threatening to unravel the walls I've built around my heart.

"Come see my classroom," he presses, his warmth seeping through the fabric of my clothes, making me acutely aware of his proximity.

Rolling my eyes, I try to push him away again. This was the problem we had before—lust, lust, lust. That is all we were. Two bodies moving together, getting each other off and fucking out our stress. It would be so easy to fall right back into that, but the problem was, that's all we had. Even during that one summer we had, I didn't learn a single thing about him or his adoption, and he refused to tell me. Maybe it's better that way.

"Fine, then I have to get to class." I swallow hard, trying to appear unaffected although I know I'm failing.

"Perfect," he says, holding my hand with a firm yet gentle grasp. He tugs me away from the door and leads me back the way we came, his touch scalding yet strangely comforting.

No one is up here still. I don't know why that matters so much to me, but it does. I don't want to be seen with Bishop, at least not anymore. He leads me up to the second floor.

Outside one door, the number reads CSC303 as Bishop leads me into the classroom, the cool air of the room brushing against my skin.

That's when it hits me. "You're my cryptography instructor." The realization washes over me like a cold wave, mixing shock with a tinge of inevitability.