Mad Valentine: A Bad Boy Romance (Mad Valentine Trilogy Book 1) (2 page)

IV. Victor

On Thursday morning, I arrived a few minutes early to creative writing so that I could have my pick of seats. I wanted to avoid the Gorgeous Guy with the Tattoos, because I was pretty sure he thought I was a privileged, smart-mouthed asshole. I also didn’t want to offend anyone else if I could possibly help it, so I had made a mental note to keep all clever comments to myself.

I chose a seat in the second row a little to the right of center. I was wearing indigo-wash skinny jeans cuffed at the ankles to reveal strappy leather sandals and a plain white boat-neck shirt. A good, sensible outfit for a good, sensible day of school.

As I sipped my coffee, the class filled up. Then, a binder dropped onto the desk next to mine and a tall male figure slid into the seat.

Oh, my god. It’s him.

I took a furtive glance over. Yup, tattoos, and a strong-looking hand that was playing with a pen.

Oh, for crying out loud. I came to class early just to avoid you!

He didn’t look at me or acknowledge me or extend any kind of greeting. I sat there awkwardly, my whole body on the verge of cringing. I breathed a light sigh of relief when the professor started talking. At least this would give me something else to think about.

The assignment from our first day of class had been to bring in a piece of writing we were currently working on. I had brought a profile piece I was writing on a librarian on campus who was 82 years old and had been working at the main stacks for over 50 years. She had been there lending books to the hippies of the ’60s, the aspiring yuppies of the ’80s, and now, to us jaded millennials. She was a fascinating woman with so many insights and I was excited to get the piece published in the autumn issue of the school literary magazine. I was currently in the editing stages with Owen, the king of editorial pricks. Ugh.

“It’s important for any creative piece to have an element of lyricism,” the professor was saying. “Essentially, the piece should not only evoke feelings through its words and meaning, but also through its
sound
. Today, I want you to really hear what you are writing. With a partner, you will close your eyes and have your piece read out loud to you. Don’t just listen to the words—listen to the sounds. What do they evoke? Do they elicit any kind of reaction? Don’t take notes, just listen, and let’s talk about this when we reconvene.”

Hmm
, I thought, looking down at my paper.
This should be interesting.

“Pair up with the person sitting next to you, and spread out.”

What?

“Grab a seat far enough away from others so you can read and listen without distraction. Some of you can spill out into the hall if you like. Go ahead.”

I timidly looked to my right at the girl sitting next to me, but she had already turned away and was chatting with her partner. I even considered looking for Owen, but I waved it off as a worse alternative. I cautiously turned to the guy with the tattoos. He was looking at a paper on top of his binder, and when he felt my eyes on him, he looked at me coolly. He didn’t say anything.

“Uh,” I said. And then I couldn’t think of the next thing to say. So I gave him a weak smile.

He raised an eyebrow at me. He still didn’t say anything.

Are you serious? He is not giving me a single break!

“Do you want to…pair up?” I didn’t know how to act. I just felt so lame.

“Okay,” he said in his deep-soft voice. “Where do you want to go?” He looked around the room, surveying the space.

Geez! At least he’s not going to act like he’s a complete mute.

“How about over there?” I pointed to a relatively empty, sunny corner. He silently got up and moved toward it, then pulled two desks together and sat down in one. I let out a sigh and mentally rolled up my sleeves. I resolved to make the best of the situation.

I slid into the desk facing him, took a moment to steady myself, then looked him right in the eyes.

“I want you to know I’m really sorry for saying those stupid things to you the first day of class. It was insensitive and I regret it. I, um, hope we can start again.”

I didn’t know if it was the right thing to say. It didn’t feel particularly right or wrong. I was simply making an effort to apologize. And to my surprise, he seemed to acknowledge that.

“All right,” he said with a shrug. “Don’t worry about it.” An amused little smile flickered across his face. “I’m Victor.”

Something somewhere inside me bloomed at the sight of his smile and the sound of his name.
His name is Victor.
Suddenly I began to relax, and for reasons I couldn’t explain, I felt happy.

“I’m Ellen,” I said. “But you already know me as ‘asshole.’ Take your pick.”

He looked down and chuckled, and I noticed to my shock and delight that he had a dimple. Just on the left side. He lifted his dark brown eyes to mine again, and under that gaze I suddenly felt fluttery.

“Um, so I brought a profile piece that I wrote. I write creative non-fiction usually. Essays and things like that. That’s what I like to write. Mostly.” I bumbled along, desperately wishing I didn’t feel so silly and aflutter.

“Are you a journalist, Ellen?”

I felt my face heat up at the sound of him saying my name.
Oh, my god. Why am I blushing? Get a grip!

“Something like that. So how about you? What do you like to write?”

There was a slight hesitation before he answered, his voice deep and gruff. “This and that. I read a lot of fiction, but I don’t think I could ever write a story as well as I’d like to.”

“I don’t write
anything
as well as I’d like to,” I admitted. “So you write short stories, then? Or novels? Or maybe plays?”

“I’ve written short stories. But not often.”

“Well, what then? Please don’t tell me you’re a poet,” I said, grinning. “Poets are so cheesy they make me cringe.”

Victor blinked. “Well…I’m a poet.”

In my mind’s eye, my astral body flew up to the heavens and shook its fists at the gods.
Why was I always saying the exact wrong thing to this guy?

“Oh,” I said with a strained smile. “Poets are nice.”

Victor laughed. The sound of it was husky and lit a fire deep inside me.

“Don’t panic, I’m not really a poet. I just write songs. For a band. I don’t know, it’s dumb but I do it because I don’t have time to write much else.”

“You’re in a band?”

“No, I’m not in it,” he said, unperturbed. “I just write the lyrics. I don’t sing.”

“But your voice is so soft and deep and—” I blurted out, and then I felt myself blushing. Again.

“I can’t carry a tune,” he said, and although his face was still placid, a twinkle in his eyes made me think he was enjoying watching me blush.

V. Song

“You’re turning red,” he said, still watching me.

“Am I? Really? Well, it’s sunny in this corner, and I’m pretty warm…”

“Give me your paper,” he said, reaching over and taking my printout. “Close your eyes.”

My heart was pounding in my chest. I didn’t know why. But I swallowed hard and closed my eyes.

Victor began reading, his voice penetrating into unexplored parts of me. I’d never really heard someone read my work out loud before, unless it was to clarify a messy passage or to ask me what something meant. I licked my lips as I softened to the sound of his voice. He read well, and faithfully; he took the assignment seriously. He read with a respect for Ida, the librarian who was profiled. He seemed to get inside the piece and to feel it. I didn’t know if it was him reading well or if I had actually written well, but the piece
was
lyrical, and it evoked poignant feelings in me.

I exhaled when he was done and opened my eyes. He was looking at me intently, studying me almost. I raised my eyebrows.

“Wow,” I said. “You’re a good reader.”

“You’re a better writer,” he replied. My face flushed afresh.

“Okay, it’s your turn,” I said. I opened my hand, palm up. “Fork it over.”

He coolly handed me the paper.

“Close your eyes.” He obeyed. I enjoyed bossing him around a little bit, and I smiled as I looked at his dark lashes. He looked vulnerable like that with his eyes closed, and yet so strong and self-contained.

I looked at the paper. Written on it, in neat handwriting, was something that did indeed look like song lyrics. I took a deep breath before I started. I vaguely got the feeling we were about to do something intimate together.

I blinked when I finished reading, not knowing what to say. I didn’t know how to assess poetry—was it good? I had no way of knowing. All I knew was that it left an indelible impression on me, like a red-hot brand. The twenty lines or so that Victor had written were enigmatic and haunting—it told the story of a man riding the bus. One day, he falls in love with the reflection of the bus driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror. He never sees her whole face, just her eyes, but he falls in love with her. It was strange, and even clever at times. It had a certain cadence that made it seem naturally fit for music.

I knew Victor had opened his eyes and was looking at me, but I couldn’t tear my eyes off the neatly printed words on the page—not quite yet. The song was like an intriguing riddle. It suddenly occurred to me that it was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever read.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yes, why?” I said in a rush.

“You look scared,” he said calmly.

I looked up, startled. “Scared?” I said with a light laugh. “Why would I be scared? It’s an incredible piece. I’m still appreciating it.”

But deep down I
was
scared, and I knew it. Every word of that song had plucked a string in me and the vibrations had resonated and filled all the crevices of my body. It was a beautiful but yearning feeling. Suddenly I wanted to understand Victor, to be near him, to know him better than I knew myself. My heart actually physically ached with the feeling. And I was scared because no man had made me feel like this before.

VI. Rumors

“What’s up, my loves?” Maggie sing-songed as she walked into my house. Well, “house” is a bit grand; it was actually a studio with a microscopic kitchenette that perpetually smelled like boiled potatoes. But it was my senior year and I was done with dorms and shared living situations. I had wanted my own place, so I found the cheapest, dingiest thing I could stomach and spent the last of my college fund that I’d inherited from my grandfather (bless his heart) on my rent. Despite the rusty fire escape and the potato smell, I had tried to make it home, and I thought I’d done well.

Archie and I were sprawled on the white canvas couch. I was flipping through a back issue of
Vanity Fair
and Archie was downloading music.

“Hi, hon,” Archie said.

“Hey, Mags,” I said. We barely looked up.

Maggie dropped her things on the ground and rummaged around the kitchenette, chatting about her day all the while. “Remember I told you Warren’s in my Gender Identity class? Well, I think I saw him hitting on some girl sitting in front of him. I know you don’t care, El, but it still totally weirds me out seeing you guys pick up on other people.”

I gave a half shrug. “I’m not his girlfriend, why would I care?”

“I know, I know,” she replied. “But still. Oh! And I heard something you might be interested in,” she said, biting into an apple.

That looks good. Do I have apples somewhere?
I thought, only half-listening.

“It’s about that mysterious tattooed guy in your writing class.”

I sat up straighter, suddenly very interested. I noticed Archie perk up a little too.

“Victor? What did you hear about him?”

“My, my!” said Maggie, reveling in the attention. “Aren’t we very eager to hear about Mr. Bad Boy!”

I threw a pillow at her. “Maggie! Cut it out! What did you hear?”

“Weeellll…” She tried to drag it out, and it was only when Archie also picked up a pillow that she finally spilled.

“So, apparently this Victor guy is, like, some kind of violent maniac. He was almost expelled last year for beating some guy to a pulp. The administration only let him stay because some teacher stood up for him. But he took the whole year off and just reappeared at school again this year.”

I sat, both figuratively and literally, on the edge of my seat. “Who did he beat up?”

“I don’t know, but I heard the guy was in the hospital for a long time.”

I thought of Victor and the few encounters I’d had with him. Yes, he was big and intimidating, but he didn’t seem like a
bad guy
. In fact, after reading his poetry I was convinced he was sensitive and empathetic. I was struck all over again by the beautiful, yearning feelings his writing had evoked in me, and I tried to shake them off. What was needed here was some practicality and common sense.

“There must be some mistake,” I said. “There are other guys at school with tattoos.”

“Nope,” said Maggie. “It was Victor; the person telling me said his name. And he apparently had that kind of a reputation before he got expelled.”

“Almost expelled,” I corrected quickly. “Well, yeah. I mean, look at the guy. But just because he looks like a thug doesn’t mean he is one. I’ve talked to him, and he seems nice…” I faltered. “In a strange sort of way…”

“A
pulp
, Ellen,” Maggie said, enunciating the words. “He beat someone to ‘a pulp.’ That is fucked up. I don’t care what a nice guy you think he is.”

I couldn’t disagree there.

“Well, maybe he had a good reason to,” said Archie. I jumped on this train of thought.

“Yeah, with an early death of a parent, he might have some anger issues,” I added. “Of course he’d have anger issues.”

“Well, I guess that’s true,” said Maggie. “But just stay away from him, El. He sounds like trouble.”

I appreciated that my friend cared about me and was trying to be protective. And this news about a violent streak was both disturbing and scary. But I couldn’t deny Victor was intriguing. The fact was I didn’t really want to “stay away” from him. So I walked a middle line.

“Thanks, Maggie,” I said. “I won’t do anything you wouldn’t do.”

That seemed to be enough for Maggie, and she launched off in a new direction, proposing both bowling for money and going to a house party for our weekend activities. With her infectious enthusiasm, she gradually drew me into her bright, breezy world and I didn’t think about what she’d said about Victor any more that weekend.