House of Fire (Unraveled Series) (6 page)

“Delaney, you’ll get
there,” June continued. “It just takes time, that’s all. You’re working hard,
doing the right things. They’ll start taking you seriously. You know, most of
these old crotches have been here for so long, it’s hard to see a young,
talented woman such as yourself stir the pot. Just be yourself. Push the edge.”

Delaney’s chest
welled, feeling June’s encouragement soak through her body as she turned to
face June. “It’s harder than I thought it would be.”

“It always is.” June
wrapped her arm around Delaney like a mother consoling her adult daughter after
a bad break-up. “Well, since you don’t need my car tonight, I think I’ll call
it a night. Maybe call Robert for a drink. You up for it? You seem like you could
use a drink.”

“Give me a shout
later. I want to finish some things up here first. Shouldn’t be long,” Delaney
said as she moved back to her easel.

“It better not be,”
June warned as she disappeared to the other side of the cube. The melody of the
saxophone disappeared. Shuffling papers and closing drawers echoed through the
space before Delaney heard the clinking of keys.

“June?” Delaney
called. The noises stopped. “Thanks.”

“Anytime. I’ll call
you in a bit.”

Delaney smiled as she
slid her brush through the yellow, the scenery of wheat fields flooding onto
the canvas. At least she had June, and she was right, it took time to adjust to
life as an adult, a professional. But Delaney hadn’t imagined her adult life
like this, with a murderer breathing down her neck. She inhaled the familiar
smells of the oil into her lungs, the comfort of
Winsor
and Newton
hung in the air.
Just like old times.
All she needed
was a cup of black tea.

Her phone buzzed on
her desk, the Ripon number flashing on her screen.
Randy.

“Randy,” Delaney answered.

“I’m glad you picked
up your phone,” Randy interrupted her. “Not showing up to lessons without
calling me. You can’t do that do that to a guy like me. You had me worried.”

“I’m sorry, Randy.
I’m totally fine. I should have called,” Delaney apologized.

“I’m just glad you’re
okay,” Randy replied.

“I’m glad you called,
though. I won’t be able to make it to lessons anymore, although I think I paid
through two more weeks. The summer is just getting too busy,” Delaney lied.

“I thought you were a
professor at a college? Don’t you have off during the summer?” Randy asked.
Interrogation.
Once a police officer, always a police officer.

“You’re right. I am off, but I
have a lot of art pieces to produce for the summer,” Delaney said. “I wish I
could make it. I really do.”

“Are you okay?”

The pause of silence
was deafening.

“Delaney, I’ve got
four girls. I was a police officer for more than thirty years. I’ve seen a lot
of - ” Randy started.

“I’m fine,” Delany
interrupted.

“Well, you know where
I am if you ever need me,” Randy finally conceded. “In case you’re in a pinch,
if you know what I mean. I’ve got a few things. The world is a dangerous place,
Delaney Jones.”

“I do know what you
mean, Randy. Thank you,” Delaney replied, ending the call. He had urged her to
purchase her own gun on their second lesson. Although the initial idea
intrigued Delaney, she knew Holston would find out about her purchase once she
filled out the paperwork to register the gun. Randy would lend her a gun; he
would do anything to keep her safe, just as if she were one of his daughters.
Delaney twirled her phone in her hand until she let it rest in the palm of her
hand. She drew it up like Randy’s 9mm, her favorite gun of his arsenal. She got
in her stance, relaxing her shoulders, letting her elbows crease with the
slightest bit of bend and aimed at the dark eyes flickering in the flames of
the barn. She took a few shots at the canvas before tossing her phone back on
the desk. She needed some black tea.

Her flats hit the floor
of the hallway as she made her way to the staff lounge with an empty mug in
hand, passing vacant offices on both sides of her. The mug held loosely in her
hand, the letters “StudioDK” rising and falling with each swing of her arm. She
had kept the mug Kandy with a K had painted for her during their last semester
at graduate school. A token of their “studioship” she had said as she handed
the mug stocked full of condoms before winking. Kandy with a K had warm
intentions buried somewhere, deep beneath her crass exterior. Delaney had
learned to love her quirks. She wondered if Kandy had found anything yet and
decided to call her after she had her tea.

The stillness of the
summer had crept into the building, most of the faculty retreating to their
home offices for the next few months or to their backyards to barbeque with
their families. She could almost feel the fluffiness of a toasted marshmallow
on her lips, tinged to tan perfection. The nights of her childhood had been
spent with her family in moments like those, laughing and joking around a
campfire until the night had turned black. She struggled to remember the last
time she had listened to the chirps of the grasshoppers accompanied by the warm
crackle of the white-tipped wood. She missed normalcy.

Delaney took a hard
right into the lounge, sifting through the cabinets for the black tea. The
faculty lounge was dismal; an upholstered mess of 70’s carpet and stained
chairs. The wood trim and cabinets smelled of mold and moisture, as though one
too many spills hadn’t been attended to. The fridge was stocked with remnants
from the semester, the staff having forgotten to clean out their messes before
they’d left for the summer. The cleaning crew obviously hadn’t been through
yet.

She opened the last
cabinet to find the box of Earl Grey. Faculty at Leighton didn’t have a host of
luxuries such as inflated salaries and research stipends like the Ivy League schools,
but complementary tea and coffee were always available. As if the fifteen cent
tea bag would
actually
keep them there. The high-pitched beep of the
microwave signaled the stop of the low electronic hum. As she pulled the mug
from the microwave, she heard the muffled sound of a man’s voice coming from
the other side of the thin walls. She dipped the bag up and down, the grounds
seeping into the water to create a thick glaze of dark grey. The steam rolled
into her face as she turned to go.

“No, I won’t do it,”
a woman’s voice pouted. Delaney’s mind scanned the layout of the building, her eyes
envisioning the hallway and the large corner office at the end.
President Givens’s
office.
His office was tucked deep inside the corner just after his assistant,
Jan’s, small office. The lounge and Givens’s office shared a wall. Delaney
stood unmoving, her breath smothered as she waited for a reply. The hum of the
refrigerator buzzed in her ears.

“Yes, you will,” the
man said, this time louder. The hand of the wall-mounted clock ticked in
Delaney’s ear. The woman let out a high pitch squeal before it was muffled.
His
hand is over her mouth
. Delaney felt her heart crawl through her throat,
the memory of Gunnar’s thick fingers sliding over her lips in the alleyway. She
crept into the still hallway, the closed glass door of the President’s area facing
her. Delaney knew she wouldn’t be able to see in his actual office, but she
crept closer still, until she was just outside the door. She stood against the
wall, waiting as the tea wiggled back and forth in her shaking hand,
threatening to spill over. Delaney grabbed the mug with both hands, trying to
steady her breathing, listening to the struggle. Grunts from the woman carried
through the crack at the bottom of the door. The muffled noises sounded like
the woman was being strangled. Delaney looked down at her mug, she had nothing
but hot tea to ward him off, but it would have to do.

She placed her
fingers on the handle of the door just as the woman’s voice pierced the air,
“I’ll do it. Just let me go!”

Delaney pulled her
hand off the door and careened her body back against the wall. There were
shuffling noises of drawers and cabinets before the man spoke again, his voice
steady and clear now.

“You will, otherwise…”
he warned. Delaney registered the voice,
President Givens.
A bead of
sweat dripped down her back, rolling softly until it dropped onto the tab of
her pants.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” she rattled
off before more shuffling led to silence. Delaney waited, her heart heaving
against her ribs. The low moan of President Givens wallowed in the air, the
disgusting sound crawling into Delaney’s ears. The moan got deeper as Delaney
shoved off the wall, the sound twisting her gut as she moved her feet forward.
The
woman. Was it beet-colored Jan?
It hadn’t sounded like her, the woman’s
voice too raspy and rough to be his assistant. It clearly couldn’t be Mrs.
Givens, his wife of almost forty years, who was a small little thing with a
shrill voice.

Her legs pedaled down
the hall as she held the mug with both hands, the tea sloshing back and forth.
She took a hard left into her office, the scalding tea finally seeping over
onto her right hand. Delaney pulled her hand back, slamming the mug on her desk
as she wafted her hand in the air.
Damn, that dirty bastard.

Delaney fell into her
office chair, patting her raw hand with a paper towel. Her damp t-shirt clung
to the back of the chair as she filtered through the possible scenarios of the situation.
It wasn’t consensual. The woman clearly didn’t
want
to give him a blow
job, but he had threatened her. She must have felt like something was at risk.
Her
life?
President Givens’s body sketched through her mind. Well into his late
sixties, he was a man of academia and power, a leader at the college. Demanding
that women service him, though; Delaney would have never guessed that President
Givens would get head behind his desk.
No one would have guessed it about
President Clinton, either,
she silently chided herself as she clenched the
paper towel in her hand.
Authoritative men
. The world was a disgusting
place. She had to get out of the building; President Givens couldn’t know that
she had been there.

She scattered through
her office, capping the tubes of paint and throwing her brushes in mineral
spirits before grabbing her keys and phone. Her eyes glanced over the room
before she noticed her open laptop; she slammed it shut and turned to walk out
the door when she saw the woman stumble past her office. Delaney froze as the flash
of red appeared, her tank top a stinging cherry color that hung loose from her
skinny body.
A pop of Cherry.
The nickname seared through Delaney’s
head. A short denim skirt with a frayed bottom barely reached her mid-thighs.
Her long red nails swayed like animal claws, clutching a black purse, as scraggly,
blonde hair jerked back and forth. Then she was gone. The click of high heels
registered down the hall until the sound slowly faded, the echo nothing more
than a mere tap.
Definitely not Mrs. Givens or the assistant. Cherry the
prostitute?

Delaney slinked
forward to the door, just steps from the hallway, when her ringtone sounded.
No.
Her hand pressed frantically for the silencing button. The ringing
continued before her finger finally connected to the right button. Silence.
Delaney felt another drop of sweat hit the back of her pants as she held her
breath, waiting. Footsteps pounded closer, becoming faster and louder.
President
Givens.

She yanked her chair
out from her desk and slid in, opening her laptop just as the footsteps stopped
behind her. President Givens cleared his throat.

“Dr. Jones, I’m
surprised to see you here tonight.”

“Oh, President Givens.”
She turned to see him standing in the doorway, his tie hung loosely from his
neck. His gray hair sprouted wildly from his scalp. He held his jacket in his
hand.
Pig. “
I was just finishing up some paperwork for my next display.
I didn’t know you were here. I didn’t think anyone was in the building anymore.”

“Quiet, isn’t it? The
summer months are something to loathe,” he said.

“It’s different
without the student, but it’s easy to get absorbed in work when it’s so still.
I get quite a bit accomplished,” she replied.
As do you.
Delaney felt
his eyes penetrate her, looking first at her face and then following it down to
her sweat soaked t-shirt. She crossed her arms and smiled. President Givens’s
sloppiness became suddenly apparent. He needed his nose hairs trimmed, his
eyebrows shaped. The wiry, silver hair she had once thought as sophisticated
suddenly appeared unclean. He ran his fingers through his disheveled hair,
fixing the gray mop to hang in its usual spot.

“Good, good. Leighton
is glad to have you. My friend Mr. Parker was right about you,” he said.

“Oh, yeah?” Delaney
swallowed hard.
How much does President Givens know?

“Absolutely. I know
your first display had some mediocre reviews, but the transition here takes a
bit of an adjustment. I’m sure your next will be critically acclaimed. I’ve
heard good things about your classroom, and Dean VanHandel seems to like you.”

“Good.” Her chair
squeaked as she swiveled the chair to the right. He needed to go. Now.

“I’d like to get some
of your pieces in Parker Tower. I’m sure Mr. Parker or Mark won’t mind.”
President Givens put on his best-in-show smile. “I’m surprised you already
don’t have work there. Mr. Parker is quite the fan of yours.”

Delaney’s eyes
shifted to the painted barn on the other side of the room before she let her
head fall into a small nod of agreement. “That would be great. I would be
honored,” she lied.

“I’ll see what I can
do.” He threw his jacket over his shoulder.
Confident. Relaxed.
He stood
like a man that had exhausted himself after a long day of closing his next big
business deal.
Disgusting
. Delaney caught his empty finger, his wedding
band removed from his hand.