Brutal Obsession (12)

The other one is in front of Greyson Devereux.

He’s already spotted me, and his brows lift.

A silent dare?

Fuck, no.

I take a step toward the seat in the front, but I’m too slow. Someone walks around me and sinks into the chair, their head buried in their phone.

Ugh. What are the chances I can drop this class?

But I can’t do it right now.

I steel myself and walk down the row to the empty desk. I sit gingerly, expecting Greyson to say something. A barb, or gloating.

Instead, he’s silent. I feel his stare burning the back of my head.

The professor arrives and smiles at us. “If you’re not here for Environmental Economics, you’re in the wrong class.” Her gaze sweeps over us, and she nods to herself. “Okay, good. Let’s begin…”

I can barely pay attention. I flip my notebook open and jot down what she writes on the board, but it goes in one ear and out the other. I’ve never done especially well in economics. Or any of the math-focused business classes required for my degree.

But it’s more than that. It’s that I can hear Greyson behind me, and I’m hyper-aware of him. Every breath he takes, every shift. The scratch of his pencil against the paper. It grates in my ears, and I grip my pen hard enough that my knuckles turn white. Before long, my hand cramps.

She concludes her lesson, basically the broad scopes of what we’ll be covering, and opens the door. A clear dismissal.

Greyson stands. His notebook and pencil are the only things he brought with him. No backpack, no jacket. Just a tight gray sweater that flatters him way too well. He pauses beside my desk and taps my half-filled page.

“This is going to be fun,” he says.

I watch him head to the front. He introduces himself to the professor. Shakes her hand. And then he’s on his way out, his gait graceful for a stupid moron.

I want to kill him.

But… he didn’t rub it in my face. He didn’t say anything about the video today.

Did he even post it? Did he send it to someone else who posted it?

I heave a sigh and hurry to collect my things.

“Violet,” the professor calls. “Good to have you back.”

I meet her at the whiteboard. “It’s good to be back.”

“How’s your leg? The dean shared with a few of us that had you in our classes regularly that you were out because of an injury.” She shakes her head. “It can be tough to get back in the swing of things.”

“It’s okay. There was some nerve damage, so I deal with that… but otherwise, I’m feeling fine.”

She smiles. “I won’t hold you up. But I’m glad you’ve returned.”

“Thank you, Professor.”

I hurry outside and lean against the wall. I pull my phone out and ignore the million messages, going straight to the school website. There’s just a huge error sign on the main page. Willow must’ve at least been partially successful.

From there, I check my message thread with her. There’s eight from the last hour.

Willow



I got that godforsaken video taken down.





Bullshit IT guys pretend they know how to do something, then they can’t figure out a password reset to get into THEIR WEBSITE?





It’s fine. I’m going to murder Devereux when I see him, though. Fair warning.





We’re setting some hard rules next time we get drunk in public.





Number one: no Jack. No boys. NO DICKS.





I chuckle. Those are good rules.

Willow



Number two: No boys. Wait, I said that already. But I really mean it.





Knox is friends with that asshat. I’m never fucking him again.





But, bitch, your drunk BJ game is strong.





Great. A blow job I don’t really remember. Video evidence. And a guy who apparently wants to make me… as infamous as him?

I push off the wall and walk slowly back toward the student center. I don’t particularly feel hungry, but it’s almost an acceptable time to have dinner. If anything else, I’m not going to slink away and let Greyson think he’s won.

My phone buzzes, and I check the screen. I expect it to be Jack. Maybe he missed the excitement. Somehow, I doubt that. Which means he’s not reaching out on purpose. It’s Willow, though, telling me she’s outside the student center.

Right on time.

I find her with Jess and a few other dance team girls. They all eye me with mixtures of sympathy and pity.

“Hey, Violet,” Paris says. She wraps her arms around me. “I’m so sorry for what you’re going through. God, I can’t even imagine.”

Right. Like she doesn’t have a JustFans account. But it’s different when it’s posted against your will… publicly. She has paying customers, and I just have humiliation.

A lump forms in my throat, and I gently extricate myself from her grip. I can’t quite get the image of her and Greyson out of my head. Not that anything is going on there, but obviously he had something to do with it. He filmed it. And whether he shared it or posted it himself, he’s at fault.