The artist. From high school. I had no idea he was attending college here, it didn’t occur to ask all those years ago… He swaggered over to me in his loose jeans and button-down shirt –which was only half buttoned showing off the tattoo on his chest– and grabbed my hand. My stomach did a little flutter. ‘This, is yours Matt?’ I asked as I handed it back to him. He nodded, put it into his back pocket and began to lead me upstairs to –what I was assuming— his bedroom. I could hear James saying to Jared, ‘What a shame, that a banging body like hers would be wasted on a scrub like Matt.’ I could only hope that Matt didn’t hear that. God, his eyes were still gorgeous. The room was surprisingly nice. There was a queen sized bed, and that was the only bed there. He had a balcony that had French doors. Matt closed the door to the room behind me, and looked down at me. He pulled me into a hug. I was a little surprised at this, but then softened and hugged him back. He smelled like kerosene. That precious moment cost him the injured groin and snapped ribs. But it had cost me more. We’d connected in a way that scared me more than the fear that this scenario might actually allow real rape. I could still fight that. I might lose, would probably lose, but I could, and would, struggle to the end.But that connection felt too ... something ... to fight. I’d kept men and women at arm’s reach all my adult life. Who knew who my relentless parents might send? Professionals – convincing, perfect, people who could make anyone’s heart skip a beat. Or they would simply buy anyone I connected with. Their kind of money could buy so much. Despite everything, I wasn’t convinced Father and Evelyn had given up on making me The Reinhardt. At the end of the scenario, when he carried me to the infirmary, the magnetism was overwhelming. I caught myself starting to nestle into him, and just managed to turn it into a neck stretch. He’d given me his shirt in a gesture of chivalry, so my arm rested.
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