Page 7 of With This Mask
“Fuck,” Alec mutters as he reads it.
I pass on the bag to the next table. The aide follows along, recording names and project subjects.
“This ought to be a blast,” I say flatly as I grip my pen so tight, it’s a miracle it doesn’t snap in two.
The next evening, I march up to the courtyard table where Alec's already sprawled out like he owns the place, course materials forming a neat fortress in front of him. I toss my own notes down with more force than strictly necessary, the papers fluttering like wounded birds.
"Move your empire, Vanderholt. We need space to work," I snap.
He shifts, angling those piercing blue eyes up at me, amusement flickering in them. "Your stuff can fit in the corner, Winters. Wouldn't want it to get lost in the vastness of my... 'empire.'"
"Ha-ha," I deadpan. I plop down next to him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body. Too close. I scoot several inches farther away.
"Let's get this shit show started," I say, flipping open my binder. "We need a plan."
"Already have one," he responds, tapping a finger on a color-coded timeline.
"Great," I mutter, "a plan without any input from half the team. How collaborative."
"Feel free to suggest changes, Salem," he says, that damned smirk tugging at his lips. "If you can improve perfection."
"Challenge accepted." I snatch the timeline, scanning it with a critical eye. "Okay, these deadlines are too loose. We have to speed things up," I assert, eyeing the calendar.
"I've got a lot going on, Salem. Can't rush through everything," Alec defends, his tone slightly annoyed.
"This is our grade,” I prod. “This is our senior year. What could be more important?”
“Oh, I don’t know. The rest of our classes. Family. Work. Personal projects," he replies condescendingly.
I study him for a moment, trying to decipher if he’s actually overwhelmed. It’s easy to lay down judgements, but if I think about it critically for two seconds, he really does probably have a lot on his plate. I mean, he is the heir to the biggest diamond company in the country. Plus, he’s the only student here at Westcroft who can keep up with me. That doesn’t happen with a lax schedule.
Still, I don’t want to have any sympathy for the bastard. "We have to adjust it, at least a little," I insist firmly, pushing for a compromise.
He sighs wearily, tousling his blond hair in frustration, a gesture that annoyingly suits him well. "I could push it a week earlier, but that’s all."
"Wow, compromising. Is that painful for you?" I tease with a smirk, sarcasm lacing my words.
"Absolutely excruciating," he deadpans but there's a spark in his eyes hinting that he’s amused by the banter.
"So, what are your suggestions on selling this muddy shithole we’ve been assigned?” I ask, diving into the meat of it.
And to my great annoyance, he presents the exact same idea I had.
Great minds think alike?
Great minds just might kill each other.
chapter four
The fluorescent lights hum above us, sterile and unforgiving. I tap my pen against my notebook, a rhythmic counterpoint to Alec's silent typing. The library is a graveyard of ambition at this hour, just us and the ghosts of deadlines past. It’s been three weeks since Professor Harlow gave his fateful decree that Alec and I would be partners for the project. We’ve been meeting twice a week ever since to make this thing shine.
"I think we can give a better explanation here," I say, pointing at his screen as I read over his shoulder.
"Only idiots wouldn’t understand,” he retorts, jaw clenching as he leans back in his chair to appraise the offending sentence.
"You’re using too specific of wording. You need to clarify," I insist, meeting his icy gaze with a challenge.
"And what do you suggest?” he growls.