Cult

6: Eighteen Ω

“Actually,” I speak up, despite my nerves. “My mother taught me many things, including that drugs can seriously damage your health,” I tell him, crossing my arms over my chest. I have no idea where my confidence is coming from, but I am not complaining.

The man takes an even longer drag from his joint and laughs huskily, his pale eyes locking on mine momentarily. “Didn't George Washington fight for freedom or some shit? The brochures said this was a free country and if I wanna smoke, I'm gonna smoke,” he hisses calmly. The man's deep voice vibrates eerily in the air between us. 

There is a glossiness to his eyes, as though there is a disconnect between his emotions and his words. I shift in place, rubbing my arm awkwardly before turning away. All I wanted was a little fresh air and a moment to think and possibly a second to cry... No, no, I do not cry. Self-pity is a waste of energy.

The brunette man taps his fingers against his thigh, keeping up with a rhythm in his head. He seems relieved that I am leaving.

“Where are you going, ginger?” he asks randomly, taking a few casual steps toward me. I turn around in slight confusion, ignoring his derogatory term for my hair.

“Fresh air,” I mumble, glaring at his cigarette. “I merely want to get some fresh air.”

“There’s some over there,” he teases, pointing— with his cigarette in his fingers— in the distance.

“Thanks,” I mumble stiffly as I walk in the direction he motioned at. I rub my knees, trying to ease the tension my heels are causing me.

The man laughs hoarsely. “I was kidding, ginger.”

My jaw grits in annoyance. I don’t appreciate his pet names.

The man drops his cigarette and kicks out the flickering orange flame. I ignore the blisters forming on the soles of my feet and raise my chin in distaste before walking back to the studio.

“Wait a minute, ginger,” he calls, quickening his pace to catch up with me. His legs are longer and he reaches me in mere seconds.

I roll my eyes in annoyance and slow my pace, mainly because my feet are throbbing in these heels.

“Yes?” I ask calmly. The man bites his lower lip. He takes a large step forward. The wind slithers around his torso, causing his unbuttoned white shirt to flap against his ink-stained chest. His earring catches the wind, too, making him resemble Captain Jack Sparrow.

He looks down at me from his height advantage. I am quite tall, but this man towers over me and I refuse to allow him the satisfaction of knowing he intimidates me.

His face is calm as he holds my gaze, staring at my features as though he recognizes me but wishes he didn’t.

The man swallows hard and I watch his Adam’s apple bob slightly. He glances at my lips, then back at my eyes as though scrutinizing my features with a careful precision. I hold my breath in anticipation of something I’m not quite sure of.

He steps closer, watching my mouth. “Your," he begins. He moves his hand to my hair and tucks a loose strand behind my ear. "Your earrings don't match,” he chuckles huskily. His deep, teasing laughter echoes in my ears.

My gaze darts downward, slightly embarrassed. I left the studio to escape all the people laughing and criticizing me, but I should have known better than to believe a stranger might be semi-nice to me.

I turn around, having decided the studio is no better than this man’s company. But I turn so quickly that my skirt catches with the wind and flutters upward, revealing most of my thigh.