Sweet Little Nothing

And while I hate the dog and pony show of the society I grew up in, I know having something as small as a recommendation letter from Professor Ellison could be potentially game-changing for my academic future.

After passing it twice, I finally find the number I’m looking for. First day jitters hit me full force as I enter the classroom.

Psych 101 is the first step to securing my future as a victim advocate, and I’m willing to do anything, to face anything, to make this dream a reality. Even if that means stepping out of my comfort zone—i.e., sitting in a room full of strangers.

The inside of the classroom is nothing special; it’s your basic setup, with rows of desks on either side of a central walkway. At the front of the room, there’s a podium, as well as a projector screen.

Behind said podium is Professor Ellison himself. He’s thoroughly engrossed in something on his laptop screen, not paying any attention to the students entering the room.

Many of the seats are already filled, but I manage to claim a desk near the center of the room. Close enough to the front to have a good view, and far enough from the back to show I’m no slacker.

At nine on the dot, Professor Ellison strolls over to the door and closes it before returning to the podium. He stares out, his gaze moving over the room like a cool breeze.

He clears his throat and introduces himself. “Welcome to Psych 101. I’m Professor Ellison.” His voice is the kind that commands attention. He nods to a guy in the front row. “You there, pass these out.”

The kid scrambles out of his seat and grabs the stack of papers, handing one to each student before hurriedly returning to his desk.

“Before you is your class syllabus. It covers everything you need to know for this class. Please take a moment to read over it. If you have any questions or concerns, please first ask my TA. If he is unable to assist, you may then email me with an appointment request to discuss it.”

The room falls silent as we all scan over the pages. Only, I never make it past the third section, a name from my nightmares is typed neatly in bold letters that practically jump off of the page.

Teaching Assistant/Coordinator: Sterling Abbot.

I scrub at my eyes with the heels of my hands before blinking and reading the page again. Surely my eyes are playing tricks on me. They have to be. Because, if they’re not, that means my past—the one I’m so desperately trying to escape—is catching up with me before I’ve even had a chance to truly be free.

But when I look down at the page again, his name is still there, mocking me cruelly.

My palms sweat as I clutch the sides of my desktop, debating whether or not I should flee. My breaths come in short pants while my heart hammers in my chest like someone stabbed me with a syringe of adrenaline.

I can feel moisture gathering in the corners of my eyes; I’m about to break down crying in the middle of my first college class.

Central Valley was supposed to be my fresh start, but it’s becoming clear this is nothing more than a long-distance prison—that the freedom was just a carrot to lure me into a trap.

On autopilot, I begin shoving things back into my bag. I can’t... the thought of facing him is pure agony. Maybe I can get transferred to another class?

I sling the strap of the bag around my shoulder and shoot out of my desk, ready to make my escape. I barely make it to the end of the aisle before the door swings open and Sterling waltzes in.

He’s even more imposing up close, with his sharp jaw and hawk-like gray eyes. He’s tall and brooding, and utterly lethal.

The sight of him, up close and personal, has me swaying on my feet. My skin somehow is pebbled with gooseflesh and sweaty at the same time.

Instinctively, I avert my eyes from his, hoping I’ll be able to slip past him without any resistance.

I should have known better.

“Emmalyn Grace Price.” His voice is low, a taunt meant only for me. The sound of it sends shards of ice through me, freezing me from the inside out. “Going somewhere?”

“Um... I, um,” is all I manage to stammer out.

He grins, but it isn’t a kind gesture. In fact, it lacks any warmth whatsoever. It’s cold, detached, and brutal. He steps closer and leans down into my space. “You thought you’d get off scot-free? That you’d run away and hide your sins?”

I shake my head back and forth, adamantly wanting to refute him, but I can’t seem to find the words.

“Not on my watch. You ruined him, his entire life, and now…I’m going to ruin you. I’m going to dismantle everything you’ve ever loved. I’m going to dissect you, take you apart, and scatter the pieces.”