Breaking the Rules (Pushing the Limits, #1.5)(58)

I smooth out my clothes as if that would save me from this weird attention and try to maintain eye contact with Hunter. No threat. There is no threat. Deep breaths, Echo. Stop acting like a sideshow freak.

But still, there’s a room full of people—watching me. Not only are they sitting on the floor, they’re also lounging on stools or standing against the wall, but they’re all staring at me as if I’m twirling flaming batons.

“I get this way sometimes,” I explain, then clear my throat as a girl leans over to whisper in another girl’s ear. They share a glinted look then smile. Blood rushes to my pressure points. They’re probably disgusted by my scars. “I...uh...get lost in the painting.”

“Does it happen every time you paint?” asks Hunter.

“I usually get pulled out pretty quick.” By the school bell or Dad or Noah.

“But you didn’t answer my question.” Hunter weaves through the mass of bodies. His loafers click against the wooden subflooring. Most of the people in the room are young. My age or twenties. Over to the left there are several women with gray in their hair. For kicks there appears to be one or two token older men. “Is this what happens to you when you paint? Do you always become...hypnotized?”

Yes. And only my art teacher and Noah know. It’s something that’s private because...because I’m scared what it means at times. If I lose myself in a painting, what does that imply for my sanity?

Layers of paint cover my hands, and I fist my fingers, understanding that my face might be caked in color, as well. Great. I literally have an audience.

When Hunter reaches me, I ask my own question instead of answering his. “Who...” And I motion to...everyone else. Flustered as I am, “who” will work fine as a question.

“Echo...” A grin spreads across Hunter’s face. Dang. He’s definitely handsome. That is if I were into guys ten years older than me. “...this is everyone. Everyone, this is Echo.”

The greetings blow in like a storm gale. Most are hi’s and hellos along with a few what’s ups. All of them from friendly faces.

“Hi,” I shyly say back then whisper to Hunter, “Not what I meant.”

“I know. Some of them work for me, some study under me full-time and some are taking classes at various universities around the world and are spending the summer with me for credit hours. Summers can mean a full house.”

“And winters,” adds someone from the back.

“I was trying not to scare her,” Hunter responds. “Everyone go find something to do and stop staring at the new girl.”

Why couldn’t Noah see any of this? I pick up the paint brush and begin to clean it. “So I’m not the only person you chase after to paint?”

He laughs. “Actually, you are. Everyone else had to go through a rigorous application process. Paperwork, essays, major portfolio critiques. There are a limited number of spots in my program.”

I angle my back to him as I set the brush down. “Is there an open spot?”

“Not until next year.”

Dang it. Long internal sigh. Because I’m in theory a big girl, I confront him again. “So why allow me to do this?”

“Trial by fire,” he answers. “I wanted to see what you would create if I pushed you, and if you could handle the stress of doing it under pressure.”

“Why?”

His eyes turn deadly serious. “Because I expect a lot from my artists. My program is in top demand, and I want to see if you have talent I can work with. With that said, consider yourself special.”

Hunter inclines his head to my canvas and even I suck in a breath when I notice the horizon before me. I’ve returned to my Impressionist roots. Peace drifts into my soul. When I began painting again after the incident with my mother, I developed an abstract style, and I thought I lost my original love.

It’s nowhere near done. There are so many colors and shadows and problems to be fixed, but a part of me warms at the sight. It’s the sunset and field that belonged to me and Noah. It’s the eve of the night that we made love.

“You’ve got talent,” Hunter says.

A smile bursts onto my face. He said it. Hunter Gray said that I have talent. Wow. Just wow.

“But there’s a problem. A big one I’m not sure I can forgive.”

My entire being plummets to the point that I’m convinced I’ve been incinerated, and my ashes have been thrown to the ground. “I just started. I know it needs work.”

He owns the same hard expression my dad wears when he’s disappointed in me. I shrink from Hunter, reminding me of how I always shrank from my father.

“I asked for the Aires constellation. Not a sunset. Are you capable of doing what you’re told or are you only capable of painting one picture? Lots of artists can do that—paint or draw one solid image over and over again. I want more.”

“I have tons of paintings and drawings I can show you.”

He silences me with his hand, and I consider ripping it off. “I want the Aires constellation. That was our agreement. Are you doing it or not?”

My foot taps the floor. This summer I’ve craved to hear that I possess talent, to know that I have a shot at a career with my art and I’ve reached the goal. Hunter said that I have talent. While part of me considers telling him where to shove his silencing hand gestures, another part of me desires his approval. What forces my foot to move faster is that I don’t understand why.