Fearless (The Story of Samantha Smith #1) (15 page)

As happy as I was in that moment, I felt twinges of my old pain chewing away at me beneath the surface. Would it ever let go? Or would it pull me back under, back into blackness?

Emo. Goth. Witch. Sorceress…

If it wasn’t for the apple fritter in my hand, I would’ve gone for the ice cream in my freezer.

By Sunday night, I was thinking all about Christos again. I couldn’t get him out of my head. I dreaded waiting an entire week to see him. How was I going to concentrate in class while pining for him?

It turned out I didn’t have to. I bumped into Christos all over campus. We had lunch together almost every day. Madison, Romeo, and Kamiko, or some combination of the three of them, joined us. They all really liked him. He was always cracking jokes, and remembered all sorts of personal details about each of them.

But he remained somewhat of a mystery to all of us, including me. Oh well, he was so damn close to perfect on the outside, he had to at least have one flaw. Nothing wrong with a little mystery, right?

I hoped that was all it was. Books and covers and judgment, and all that. What lay beneath his beautiful exterior was practically a complete unknown. Could be buried treasure, right?

Or Fool’s Gold.

Time would tell.

One thing I did know for sure was that fewer women were hanging all over Christos. I don’t know if it was because he spent so much time with me and the gang, and we were a natural deterrent, or if there was some other reason. I didn’t have a way to find out.

I was rounding the corner of Fillmore Hall on Thursday afternoon when I bumped into Tiffany Kingston-Whitehouse. Literally. She was flanked by two random members from her squadron of interchangeable Fembots.

“Hey! Watch where you’re going, stupid bitch!” Tiffany snarled.

Her minions sneered and gave me a pair of “As if” looks.
 

Great.
 

Tiffany examined her chest. For once, she didn’t seem to be wearing a Delta Pi Delta t-shirt. “You almost made me spill coffee on my sweater, stupid bitch.”
 

“I’m sorry,” I said automatically. But the operative word here was “almost.” Her sweater was spotless.

Chin down, examining herself, she brushed away non-existent coffee droplets. When she was satisfied her sweater was blemish free, she looked up at me. Her eyes widened in recognition, then narrowed just as quickly. “You,” she hissed.

Me? Goodness, she remembered? I was impressed. She still didn’t know my name, but I was okay with that.

“
You’re
the slut.”

What was she talking about? I thought I’d left this bullshit in D.C. I hadn’t even gone out on a date with anyone since I’d moved to San Diego. Other than Christos Mysterios Manos, the only guy I knew on campus was gay. So, how the hell could I have earned a slut reputation?

Tiffany seethed. “I told you to stay away from Adonis.”
 

I suddenly remembered Madison telling me about Christos snubbing Tiffany in the Main Library recently. Was that what this was about? Did she think I was competition? She was wrong, because I wasn’t dating Christos. Christos was my mentor. Nothing more.

Whatever anger or pain Tiffany was dealing with over her discord with “Adonis” wasn’t my problem. I didn’t want to be a bitch, but she wasn’t going to suck me into her personal drama. “Sorry for bumping into you. I’m late for class.” I tried to step around her and her royal guard.

“Don’t walk away from me while I’m talking to you!” she growled and grabbed for my t-shirt.

Her guardswomen gasped, whether at my insolence, or Tiffany losing her cool, I didn’t know.

I dodged, but Tiffany caught a piece of my shirt.
Whoa, this chick is crazy!
I yanked my shirt out of her hand and kept walking. I’d had the impression that Tiffany was the sort of girl who let nothing ruffle her feathers. What had Christos done to her? And how the fuck did I get squished in the middle of it?

“Stupid whore!” Tiffany shouted at my back.

Bitch. Slut. Whore.

I’d trained myself to ignore those words for two years. I wasn’t going to fall apart for some inconsequential speck like Tiffany Queenbitch-Jerkhouse now.

“Come back here!” she shouted.

I never looked back.
 

On Friday night, the day before my next mentoring session with Christos, I couldn’t sleep. I kept imagining spending the day with him. What would we do this time? Would he wipe more hummus off my lips? Lick my fingers? Lick something else? Everything I thought of made me shiver with gleeful anticipation.
 

Unable to sleep, I jumped out of bed and went through my closet, considering outfits for tomorrow. My entire wardrobe covered my bed before I gave up.
 

The best strategy was to wait until the last second tomorrow morning. That way I wouldn’t have more time to waffle on what to wear, thereby further wrinkling everything.

In the morning, I jolted awake. I tried doing homework until it was time to go, but ended up calling Romeo instead. We chatted for awhile. I usually called Madison, but I knew she was out surfing with Jake and his buddies. Again. Those two were turning into a done deal.

It was a tad chilly. It was fall, after all. At the last second, I threw on standard San Diego fall weather wear: a t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. I drove to Christos’ house and arrived a few minutes early.
 

There was a black Mercedes convertible in the driveway. I didn’t recognize it. Christos’ Ducati leaned on its kickstand.

I rang the doorbell. No one answered. I tried again. Nothing. Had I arrived at the wrong time? I checked my phone. Nope. It was five till one. I tried knocking. No answer.

I sat down on the door step and waited. At five after, I got impatient. I can be like that. I paced the driveway. I rang the doorbell. No answer.

At ten after, I considered leaving. But I had looked forward to seeing Christos all week. I wasn’t scaring off that easily.

Maybe you couldn’t hear the doorbell in the whole house? It was pretty big, and not modern enough to have a doorbell wired into every room.

I peered through windows, feeling only vaguely like a Peeping Tammy, But hey, I was supposed to be here.

Most of the windows on the ground floor at the front of the house revealed empty rooms. I didn’t see anybody. Where was Christos? Was Spiridon home? Was the Mercedes his?

I wandered around to the side of the house and found a latched gate.
Should I open it? Why the heck not?

I quietly pressed the thumb latch and opened the gate slowly. Why was I being so quiet? Was I sneaking? No, I was investigating.

I tip-toed down a cement path. I heard voices inside the house. A man and a woman’s. Then male laughter, followed by female giggling.

I saw a small window. I peeked in. I was so bad. I was looking in on a bathroom.

Tiffany Kingston-Whitehouse, Her Royal Bee-yotchness, walked into the bathroom. Completely naked. That girl sure had a killer body. She closed the door behind her.

I ducked down before she could see me. WTF? I thought Christos had blown her off. Her bitchy behavior toward me on campus was proof of that. So why was she at his house? Naked?
 

And why did Christos associate with such a terrific bitch like her? The real question was, why did I care? He was only my mentor, not my boyfriend.
 

I heard the toilet flush through the wall. Had they just had sex? Maybe they had. It didn’t matter to me if he was sleeping with her again. Or back together with her. Or whatever he called his relationships with his flock of floozies.

I didn’t want to think about it anymore. I wanted to get the hell out of there.

I jogged in a crouch toward the gate, like a commando. I was on Mission: Get The Fuck Away From This Man-Whore’s House Before I Do Something I Regret.

I didn’t bother to close the gate behind me. I glared at the Mercedes that I assumed was Tiffany’s. It was as shiny and black and as impressive as Adonis’ stupid motorcycle. The two vehicles in front of me matched the two assholes inside the house. I seriously considered doing something to Tiffany’s car. Did I have time to pee on her front seat?

“Samantha!”
 

I whipped around. Adonis. Shit. There would be no peeing. I wanted to call him a slut and a player at the same time. A Slayer. Because that’s what seeing naked Tiffany in his house had done to me just now. But Slayer reminded me of Buffy. I liked Buffy. Not this jackhole.
 

It had only taken a week for Christos the Nice Guy to be replaced by Adonis the Jackhole. Like Jekyll and Hyde.
 

“Did you just get here?” he asked.

“Ah, yeah, a minute ago,” I stammered.

“What were you doing around the side of the house?”

Caught. “Uhh, I thought I saw a gopher.”

He frowned skeptically. “We don’t get a lot of gophers around here.”

“You can never be too careful. Once they get a foothold,” I shook my head dramatically, “they’re a bitch to get rid of.” Why did it suddenly seem like the gopher metaphor referred to Tiffany? It didn’t make much sense. She didn’t need to dig for gold. She had her daddy’s already.

"Have you been hitting the crack pipe, Samantha?” He raised his eyebrows and grinned at me. He stroked his chin thoughtfully. His forearm muscles serenaded me. Stupid muscles.

“No, no crack.” Yet. I’m sure I could find a guy who could sell me some before dinner. I was going to need it. I hurried toward my car. I was getting the flock out of there.

Tiffany stepped into the doorframe next to Christos. She was fully dressed and held her purse. When she saw me, her smile decayed into a scowl. “What are
you
doing here?”

Great. Now she was cutting off my hasty escape. “I’m, uh, I had a meeting.” Why not say it? Make her squirm. She had already thrown down the silk gauntlet. I wasn’t afraid of her. “With Adonis.”

Tiffany looked at Christos. Her brow creased with bitch-like perfection. “You didn’t tell me
she
was coming over.”

I could totally hear the judgmental italics when she said the word “she,” like I was sewage. I’m sure Tiffany practiced thinly veiled insults in front of the mirror every morning before starting her day.

“I thought you said you had a student?” she asked Christos.

“I do. Her.”

Tiffany’s eyes flicked between me and him. “Oh.”
 

“Time for you to go,” Christos said.

Tiffany scoffed. “Okay already.” She clopped to her car on her ankle-strap wedges and passed a few feet from me. She dished up two scoops of fake smile with a dollop of battery acid on top. After climbing in her car, she blew Christos a kiss and a wave before driving off.

“Sorry, I was running late. You ready to see the studio?” Christos asked me innocently.

“Is that what you were just doing with Tiffany? Showing her the
studio?
” Who was adding bitchy italics to her words now? Was I fourteen, or what?

“Something wrong?”

“I keep forgetting you manage the Bunny Ranch. My mistake.”

He scoffed, but said nothing.

“I should really be going.” I opened the door to my VW.

“I thought we had a mentor session today.”

“Like your mentoring session with Tiffany?”

“Huh? I’m not mentoring Tiffany.”

“Oh, really.” My words dripped with bitchiness. I sounded worse than Tiffany. But I was on a roll. My emotions shifted into overdrive, and my jealousy turbos kicked in. Yes, I was crazy.

Christos smiled innocently. “Am I missing something here?”

“I saw Tiffany in the bathroom. Naked. Is that your idea of mentoring? Do I get naked for my second mentoring session? Or the third?”

He folded his arms across his broad chest, leaned against the doorframe of the house, and smiled at me. “You pick.”

“You’re a dog.” I was furious.
 

He was amused. “You’re a snoop. Gophers?” He arched his brows. “Really?”
 

“Mentoring? Really?” I said snidely.

“I told you, I’m not mentoring Tiffany.”

“That much is obvious. I don’t call it mentoring either. I call it—” I clamped my mouth shut. I didn’t want to say it.

“I think you skipped the jumping part and took a bullet train straight to your misinformed conclusions, Samantha. You wanna see what we were doing?”

“What, did you shoot video?”

“Hardly. Come inside. I’ll show you.”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. “You’re not going to make me take my clothes off, are you?” I growled.

“Only if you want me to.” He smiled and lowered his lashes seductively. Stupid dark lashes.

“You’re not helping.”

“C’mon. I’ll show you.” He turned and walked inside, leaving the front door open.

As much as I seriously considered bailing, my curiosity was piqued. I’d heard what it did to cats, but I wasn’t a cat, so I was pretty sure I would be safe.

Christos stood on the far side of the living room, waiting for me. “This way,” he said.

I followed him through the house to the back. The studio was entirely walled by windows. Even the wall between the studio and the house had windows in it.
 

Christos gestured a hand into the room. “Welcome to the studio.”

It was everything you would expect in an amazing art studio. Easels of various sizes, paintings on the easels and the walls, jars of brushes, those little wooden artist mannequins, cabinets with drawers of paint, blank canvases, supplies galore, art books. It was overwhelming.
 

My anger fizzled and transformed into awe. “Wow, this is
your
studio?”

“It was my grandpa’s, before he stopped painting. He lets me use it now.”

I walked around the room, looking at the paintings on the easels. They were totally different from Spiridon’s landscapes in the living room. Christos’ art was all human figures. Mostly female nudes. Why didn’t that surprise me? I smirked at Christos, who stood beside me as I examined one of his paintings. “You sure like to paint naked women.”

“I love feminine beauty. Does that bother you?”