Page 12 of With This Mask
"Maybe he's intimidated by your powerhouse brain," Josh replies, but he’s barely paying attention. He’s watching some girl across the space. She looks up and smiles at Josh. Good. He hasn’t dated anyone in two years and he could use a good woman to put him in his place every now and then.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in class right now?” I point out.
“Fuck,” Josh curses, scrambling to his feet and darting away without another word.
With irritation, I head to my next class, and force myself to concentrate on anything but Alec fucking Vanderholt. AKA Vice.
But that afternoon, as I climb out of a mid-day shower, my phone chimes with a notification.
It’s a new post from Vice.
My brain races and my blood pounds hard as I stare at the notification.
I shouldn’t look at it. I should unfollow him. I should forget the account exists.
But I can’t help myself when I click on it, and the video opens.
Vice's latest post is a work of provocative art paired with seamless transitions and the perfect sound track. My finger hovers over the screen, part of me wants to close the app, bury my phone under my bed, pretend I haven't been sucked into this digital black hole.
"Fuck," I mutter under my breath, my cheeks burning with a mix of embarrassment and something else—curiosity? No, it's more like... envy. I watch, transfixed, as Vice—Alec, moves with a confidence I've never known. How does it feel to be so free, so unapologetic about your own desires?
A sigh escapes me, and I flop back onto my bed, staring at the ceiling. The thought niggles at the back of my mind, probing and persistent. Could I ever be that bold? To put myself out there, to not feel shame in acting provocative, without giving a damn what anyone thinks? The idea is terrifying—and exhilarating.
I roll onto my side and hold up the screen again. With everything in me, I hate that I can’t stop myself from diving deeper.
There is another post, a series of photos that makes my pulse skitter like a startled rabbit. Alec is there, but not the Alec I know. This version of him is shirtless, the contours of his athletic body captured in perfect lighting, the skull mask obscuring his face. His eyes, though—those are unmistakably his, piercing blue and smoldering right through the screen.
"Damn, Vanderholt," I breathe out, my cheeks heating up despite the coolness of my dorm room. The guy's got audacity, posting pictures like these while walking around campus like he's untouchable. But here he is, laid bare for the world to see.
He’s smart about it. He doesn’t have anything defining about his body, other than it being perfect. He doesn’t have any tattoos. He has no obvious birth marks. He’s just a flawless body on a screen. And he gets away with the anonymity.
My heart kicks against my ribs as I scroll through more photos and videos, each one more provocative than the last. There's an artistry to them that I hadn't expected from Alec. Then again, he’s surprised me with his creativity with our project. His posts, his videos, they're not just thirst traps; they're a silent scream against the gilded cage he lives in. Every image and video whispers secrets and beckons me closer, pulling at something deep inside me that I can't quite name.
"Who knew the ice king could melt camera lenses?" I quip to the empty room.
A twinge of something akin to respect mixes with the heat swirling in my belly. Alec Vanderholt is more than just a pretty face with a trust fund. He's a rebel with a cause, even if that cause is simply to be seen as himself, not the heir, not the legacy, but the man behind the mask.
He's there—half-naked, all hard lines and shadows playing across his muscular form like a monochrome symphony. The mask conceals enough to make you wish you knew the man behind it, but reveals just enough for me to confirm it's him—the sharp cut of his jaw, the unmistakable golden locks tousled just so. And then his hands. Those fucking hands. My heart thuds against my ribs as if vying for an escape, each beat syncing with the flicker of the screen.
"Get a grip," I scold myself, shaking off the fog of desire clouding my thoughts. But it clings, persistent and unyielding, a testament to the effect Alec Vanderholt has on me—masked or not.
My phone buzzes, and I nearly drop my phone, I startle so hard. Heat floods my cheeks, staining them with embarrassment like I’ve been caught doing something naughty, and no one else is even here. It's a reminder—our project deadline looms, and Alec is still being a monumental avoidant ass. Enough is enough.
"Time to end this bullshit," I declare to no one, pushing off the bed. With quick, clipped strides, I make my way onto campus.
Where? Where might Alec Vanderholt be this time of day?
Not classes. It’s too late in the day for that. But not late enough I expect him to be at his apartment.
Following my gut, I cut to the library. I search the stacks. I scan the study tables. And then I take off down the hall to the private rooms.
And there is where I find him.
His figure is silhouetted by the window behind him, the fading sunlight casting him in a golden halo that seems so at odds with his frosty demeanor.
"Hey," I say, my voice steady despite the hammering of my heart. "We need to talk."
Alec turns, his expression unreadable. "What are you doing here, Salem?"