Angry God (All Saints High 3)

I opened the first door, and when I reached the top of the stairs, I pressed an elbow against the second.

“Secret word?” I growled.

If it was Good Girl, who’d somehow found me, I was going to chain her to her bedpost and have her suck a gallon of my blood as punishment, watching as she squirmed in embarrassment as she did.

“Bugger off,” I heard Edgar Astalis growl from the other side. The secret word we’d agreed on was Michelangelo, but bugger off seemed more fitting.

I’d told the old man he could monitor my work when we’d agreed I’d take this gig. Someone had to make sure I wasn’t going to present a twelve-foot marble dick at Tate Modern six months from now.

I unlocked the second door, motioning for him to come downstairs.

When we stood in front of the sculpture, he frowned.

“I’d like to make one thing clear,” he said, staring at the general shape I’d worked my ass off on all day.

“I know you made things difficult for Lenny in high school. And for the most part, I turned a blind eye to it, because I believe it is our job to pave our own way in life. But if you try to hurt my daughter—or do it unintentionally, for that matter—I will make sure no gallery in Europe will ever work with you. Am I understood?”

“Perfectly.” I shoved my fists into my pockets, all calm. I took his threat in stride—not necessarily because I didn’t plan on hurting her, but because I wasn’t counting on getting work as an artist. I sculpted because I liked doing it. I could work as a roofer and be perfectly content.

He shook his head.

“The heads are disproportionate. The composition feels wrong. You might have to start from scratch.”

“Fuck that.”

“Watch your language. And as I said—you might. This is not up to par with what I’m used to from you. You’ve put your skill into this, but where’s the rest of you? You need to bleed your heart into this piece.”

I don’t have a heart. “Working on it,” I said instead, ignoring the fact that he was right.

I’d gotten sloppy, not because I lacked the talent or technique, but because staring at this statue was hard, and doing it justice was damn near impossible. The air was thinner at the top. The more successful you were, the more suffocating the expectations for your work became—another reason why artists were depressed all around.

His eyes roved the sculpture. It felt like he was ripping my guts open, poking at my organs.

He shook his head. “Work harder. Connect with this piece,” he rumbled, his voice as big as his body. “Professor Fairhurst is looking for you. He is upstairs. Oh, and Vaughn?”

I turned to look at him, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“You cock this sculpture up, you make me regret giving you this internship, and I assure you, Daddy Spencer is not going to save you this time.”

It wasn’t the first time someone had threatened that my last name wouldn’t get me out of trouble.

But it was the first time I’d believed it.

I pushed Harry’s office door open without knocking, leaning against its frame when I realized what I’d walked in on. He had a guy—a student, I bet—bent with his elbows pressed against the windowsill, pants down, his milky-white ass hanging in the air. Harry was inclined, ass on his desk, pants open, stroking himself and enjoying the view.

Bored, I took out my phone and checked the time, whistling the Kill Bill theme song.

“Bollocks,” Harry groaned when he heard me, shoving his half-saggy cock back into his pants unhurriedly, like I’d interrupted his meal or something.

The teenager at the window straightened his back and proceeded to fall on his ass with a surprised yelp.

I yawned. “Please. Not on my account. You look fucking cute together.”

“Truly?” The young guy eyed me with huge, green eyes while standing up and fumbling for his jeans.

My name had been a big deal in this place due to my summer session shenanigans all those years ago, and a sour face like mine was hard to miss. He knew who I was.

“No,” I said impassively, moseying in. “Now get the fuck out and close the door after you.”

He did just that, still shimmying into his denims when he closed the door. I turned to Harry, who settled behind his desk and smoothed his dress shirt, pretending to have an ounce of decorum.

“Nice wheels,” I commented, still standing.

“Pardon?”

“You’re riding that, obviously.” I jerked my thumb over my shoulder, toward the door.

“Oh, that.” He waved a finger at the door, clearing his throat. “He’s a senior. Turned eighteen two weeks ago. I haven’t even touched him—”

“Trust me,” I cut him off. “No part of me cares.”

“Yes. Right. So…” He grabbed a huge file on his desk, flipping through it. He stopped what he was doing, scratching a pink ear, and looked up, opening his mouth, before frowning. “Christ, what happened there?” He motioned to my neck. “Love bite?” He sniffed.