In the Beginning (Volkov Bratva #1)(8)

A warm, calloused hand covered hers, preventing her from rubbing further. He didn’t shove her away like she was expecting, but merely took the napkins from her.

“It’s not a problem.”

At the accent that colored his words, she finally looked up. It was the boy that was on his Blackberry.

She blinked again getting a better look at him.

A corner of his mouth curled up into a half smile at her embarrassment. A few days worth of facial hair dusted his cheeks and jaw, giving his boyish features a roguish edge. He was several inches taller than her and if she had to guess, he had to be around six foot four.

“Happens to the best of us,” he went on, drawing her out of her thoughts.

She blushed, realizing that she must have just been standing there staring at him.

“I’m really sorry,” she apologized again. “Uh, I can pay you for the shirt?”

He chuckled, waving away her offer. “No worries. I have plenty of these.”

He tossed the wad of napkins she had been using to blot at his shirt into the trash. He didn’t seem angry and he looked like he truly meant what he said.

Still she hesitated. “If you’re sure.”

He turned back to look at her, eyebrows raised. “Positive.”

Not knowing what else to say—or do—she started for the entrance. As she pushed the door open, she glanced back once more and to her surprise, he was standing in the same spot, smiling at her before turning and going back to his seat, returning his attention to his phone.

***

Lauren found her Art History class with little fuss, though she had taken the stairs up to the top floor although her class was only on the second level.

The room was nearly full with the two-hundred or so people that had registered for the course. The auditorium style classroom could fit well over that amount with seats on the floor as well as two balconies where some students sat.

Lauren found a place towards the middle of the room, choosing to sit next to the wall to access the outlet. As she was beginning to place her bag in the seat next to her, she paused at the last second, choosing to lean it against the wall instead.

After her father’s death—especially in such a small town—people always stared, whispering whenever she passed them. If that weren’t enough, there was also the pity in their eyes, or the way they always used that soft tone with her, afraid that she might break if they were to treat her like any other person.

During elementary school, she didn’t understand why people, mainly adults, treated her so differently. As a child, she felt like a freak, but as she got older, maturing and overhearing many a conversation about her as teachers gossiped, she heard the rumors.

What they didn’t understand was that she didn’t remember the night her father was killed. Counselors suggested that she might have repressed the memory, saying that it was too traumatic for her to process, and for a while she was grateful for this. During her own readings, she read about how people couldn’t process the trauma, and that their minds would break.

Back then, Lauren hadn’t wanted to brave the memories, afraid of what it might do, but now, she wished she did know. It seemed that in the last year, she craved more knowledge about that night, and it frustrated her that she was the only one that could provide answers.

No matter how hard she tried to explain her lack of knowledge to the people she was around, they still thought she might suffer a psychotic break, so throughout middle and high school, she withdrew from everyone, finding solace within herself.

But now in a new city, hundreds of miles away from where everyone knew her name, she could start over and make new friends who would know her for her and not for what happened to her family.

Pulling her laptop from her bag, Lauren turned it on, drumming her fingers absently as she opened a new document, ready to take notes. Despite her fear that she might have been late, it seemed like the professor was the one that was running behind schedule.

“This seat taken?” A pretty girl with inky black hair and gray eyes asked as she gestured to the seat next to Lauren.

“No, go right ahead.”

Professor Martin walked in then, hurrying over to his desk at the front of the room near the screen for the projector. He was a middle-aged man with dark stringy hair and wire rimmed glances.

“Sorry, I’m late everyone.” He took a deep breath, digging through his satchel to pull out a stack of papers. He passed half of the pile to one side of the room, and gave the rest to the other side.

“My name is Professor Robert Martin. In case you might be mistaken, this is Art History. If you’re in the wrong class, now’s the time to leave.”

Only a few students left.

“Good. We will not be doing much today, merely reviewing the syllabus and beginning the first section.”

The syllabi reached Lauren and she took a stapled packet, passing the rest to her neighbor. She scanned the main bullets on the front, noting important dates that she would need to add to her calendar.

“If you don’t already have it, I recommend that you buy your textbook as soon as possible. Tests and quizzes in this course will not only cover the lectures, but from the readings in the text as well.”

The class went by quickly, Professor Martin going over the syllabus in its entirety and answering any questions. Their first powerpoint was on Mesopotamian Art, the pictures of crumbling stones with hieroglyphs etched onto them, Pyramid of Giza, and statues of animal headed gods and goddesses holding the class’ attention.