I pull a face. “What? Why?”
He shoots me a toothy grin. “I won, baby, and that makes you my good luck charm.” He picks up the cash and hands it to me. “In fact, you should be the one to take it. You earned it.”
I toss it back. “No way. I’m not taking your dirty money.”
“Then pick a charity.” He shrugs, leaving the stack of money discarded in the console.
“Plenty of good causes out there. Maybe there’s a girl who needs her car fixed up, or I don’t know, the cat shelter even.”
I look at his earnest expression and then down at the money. “You’d really donate it to charity—and by charity I don’t mean me.”
“I know it sounds privileged as hell, Sugar, but I couldn’t care less what happens to that money. I like racing, but I don’t like being forced to do things because my brother is a fucking dickhead.”
I purse my lips at the money, secretly mulling it over. “For someone who doesn’t like being forced to race, you sure looked down with winning one.”
“Winning is the best high I know. Even my brother can’t ruin that.” He smirks. “You know the best thing to do after a win like that?” He waits, obviously wanting me to guess.
I wryly take a shot. “Give your winnings to disadvantaged kittens?”
But he shakes his head. “Get massively fucking laid.”
I roll my eyes. “Is that all you think about?”
“Mostly,” he admits. “I am having a bit of a dry spell, I admit.”
“Well, it looked like there were plenty of willing options congratulating you back there. Maybe you should get a number.”
His eyebrows shoot up his forehead. “Insecure and jealous. I’m learning a lot about you tonight, Sugar Voss.”
“I’m not jealous,” I blandly insist.
He doesn’t look convinced. “Truth be told, I’m all about quality over quantity. But sure, I’d settle for a blow job.” I give his hopeful smirk a blank stare and he sighs. “Fine, hand job it is.”
“Have fun with that.”
“Ouch.” He clutches his chest. “Is my game so rusty that I can’t even land a sad backseat handy? And after buying you a drink and everything.”
We arrive in the campus lot then, Sebastian turning his headlights off before pulling in. The car is quiet and dark when he cuts the ignition, and I’m not sure how Sebastian hounding me to get on his dick has become a surefire tension breaker, but it’s a comfortable sort of silence. His hand is loose on the gear shift and after a ridiculous amount of internal strife, I lay mine on top of his, reluctantly threading our fingers together. He shifts against his leather seat, eyes pointedly fixed on our hands, but for once in his life keeps his mouth shut.
“Look, I know this is moving slow as hell for you,” I say, staring at our hands, idly noting that they look good together like that. Like they fit. “I know you probably want the kind of girl who can jump in the back of your car and just...do shit with you. But...I can’t. Not right now. If that’s a problem, or if you’d rather—”
My words cut sharply off when he lifts our entwined hands to his lips. The kiss he plants on my knuckles is soft and so sweet that it fucking hurts. “Most girls look at me and see a pretty face and ripped body, and hey. They’re not wrong.” His lips tip into a brief, sly grin, but it melts away almost instantly. “But you saw some real shit back there, Sugar, and it’s ugly—I know it’s ugly. There’s a reason I don’t date. That kind of thing would have scared most girls off.” He leans over the seat. “But you’re not like most girls, in more ways than one, and I like that about you. Enough to take it slow.”
I swallow at the feel of my hand in his. “Are you sure?”
He answers, “I’m sure I won’t stop bugging you about it. And I’m sure that at least twice a day, I’ll ask you to touch my dick, but I promise to not get pissy when you inevitably tell me to fuck off and die.”
A chuckle bursts from my throat. “Then I promise not to get insecure or jealous anymore. Not that I am. Or ever was. Or ever would be.”
“Deal,” he says, kissing me in a way that already has me reconsidering getting in the back seat. But I have a feeling that slowing down isn’t going to hurt Bass. It may even help him. Because tonight showed me that although going fast is something he’s good at, it’s not necessarily good for him. Maybe it’ll be the best thing for both of us.
At the end of the club meeting the next day, Mr. Lee holds me back. “Miss Voss, I wanted to talk to you about your photography,” he says, gesturing to my board. Every student gets a board in the studio for their works. They get wiped clean every month, with only the best of the best remaining. Because of that, mine is a lot sparser than others, not having been here long enough to really curate a collection. Most of them are my current monthly stash, plus the photo of Abbadon. Nevertheless, Mr. Less says, “I’m impressed with your submissions so far.”
I stutter out a surprised, “Thank you,” but pride swells in my chest. Actually getting to Preston and having them realize that I wasn’t worth the scholarship has been a nagging, dogged worry of mine. It’s nice to get validation. I confess, “The facilities definitely make it easier to produce better work.”
He shakes his head. “Although I agree that Preston has excellent equipment and resources, that’s not what I’m impressed with.” He points to a photo I’d turned in the week before. It’s from the first car show. The central focus is a burst of fireworks close to the gathered crowd. The overpass looms in the background, pillars of graffitied concrete stretching to the sky. “The juxtaposition of the almost brutalist nature of the bridge set up against the energy of the crowd makes for a compelling topic. Not to mention the legal implications.”
I pause, wondering if my photograph is going to get someone, including myself, in trouble. “I wasn’t participating. It just seemed like an interesting place to take a photograph.”
“I agree,” he says with a small smile. “Part of creating art is taking risks, you know. Within reason.” He produces a folder from his desk. “Every year we have an exhibit for the art department, showcasing students’ work.”
“Like the creative corner?”
“Oh, no, not at all,” he declares, handing me the binder. “This is far more prestigious. A legitimate exhibition. Usually, we manage to browbeat a whole plethora of recruiters into attending, not to mention esteemed alumni. It’s the kind of visibility that the art department only sees here once a year.” He watches me flip through the materials, papers full of specifications and themes. “I’d like for you to participate this year.”
I look up at him, taken aback. “Really?”
“Absolutely. I think you’ve got exactly the kind of fresh voice that we need to see represented in the showcase this year. That is, if you think you’re up to the task.”
I wonder, “What exactly would that entail?”
“It’ll be a lot of work,” he admits. “You’ll have to fill a whole wall. And it’ll be a time crunch, since you’re still a new student here. But feel free to incorporate some of your older pieces.”