A weird quiet settles on the group but Sam finally speaks up. “We’ve all been here for over a year.”
I scan the men, all in various states of looking at me or at their empty plates. “All of you?”
Dylan nods. “Yes, your spot just became available.”
“And I’m the only female?”
He nods. “It’s a little untraditional, I guess. I hope you don’t feel uncomfortable.” Not as awkward as walking in and seeing the historic painting on the wall behind me depicting a scene my story.
“I don’t mind. I never got along very well with other people, females in particular.” I don’t count Shannon. That relationship was an anomaly.
“What about you?” Damien asks. “Where are you from?”
“I grew up in Georgia. I lived just outside Atlanta until…”
Bunny frowns, his eyes curious. “Until what?”
“Until University. I mean, I still lived in the state, just in a college town.”
Again, an awkward silence settles over the table. This always happens. I can’t offer much about my childhood. I don’t want to discuss my parents. I’m a clean slate until about four years ago and none of that is very interesting. I could discuss my work but it feels too private.
I determine the break in conversation may be my signal to head back upstairs. I move to stand but Dylan clears his throat and lifts his hand for me to wait.
“I just wanted to say that I think we’re in for an exciting year of study, creativity, and friendship.” He looks at me directly with those intense blue eyes. “The guys and I met before you got here, Morgan. The dean gave us a heads up about there being only one woman in the mansion. We all swore on our honor to respect and take care of you.”
I look at the others and they all nod in agreement. I can’t decide how I feel about the honor thing. They’re very handsome men. Any one of these men seem like a good choice for finally losing my virginity. The random thought makes me blush and I make eye contact with Clinton, of all people. I take it back, any of them but Clinton. No chance.
“I appreciate your sensitivity, but it’s not like I haven’t been on my own for a while. I’m an adult.”
“Of course you are,” Sam says. “But standards needed to be set. You can count on us. All of us. We’re all here to accomplish greatness and it’s in our best interest to have an understanding from the start. ”
I suspect it’s the exhaustion from the day, but their words trigger a wave of emotion. I fight back the sting of tears. “Thank you for being so sweet.”
I stand and they all rise in unison, each man completely different but in this very moment resolved to support me. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt such unconditional approval. No one back home, not Ryan or even Shannon, ever understood my work or even my crazy brain. In just one day, I already feel closer to these men than I thought was possible.
Chapter 6
Sam
After hours of trying to sleep, I finally give up. I stare at the vaulted ceilings and curse. Sleep is elusive. Dark dreams walk on the other side and I know why.
Morgan.
The instant she walked in the house it was like something shifted. I felt her footsteps. Her heartbeat. Her mere presence shot straight to my groin. She’s down the hall, I remind myself, all I have to do is go down there. One thing will lead to the other and this thing, this oppressive energy, will release. Fuck, it doesn’t even have to be me (I would certainly prefer it to be me) but she could screw any of the men in the house and we’d all feel a bit of relief.
I toss the sheets to the side and get out of bed, ignoring the tight constriction between my legs. “Not now, dude,” I tell him. “It’s not happening.”
We all know the rules. Morgan chooses her mates. She must find the right man to release her powerful energy into. It’s just unfortunate that her pheromones drive us wild in the meantime.
I flip the switch on the wall and a series of lights clicks on, buzzing overhead. I walk into my studio—the darkroom is to the left. If there’s one way to kill my libido, it’s coming in here. Photos hang from the wall in various sizes and compositions. The skyline, fountains in the park, portraits of men and women around the city. I look at a scene and set up my shot, but what I see through the viewfinder is chilling.
I look at a photo I took down in Times Square two weeks ago. It had been a lovely spring day, with tourists enjoying the weather and blue sky overhead. That’s what they saw. Me?
The final result hangs with the others. Dark clouds press down behind the buildings. The flashing lights of the billboards are off, replaced with cracked gray screens. The streets are abandoned, other than litter piled against the empty buildings. A dead child lies in the street.
The walls are plastered with similar images. Each one I take turns into this. I can’t control it, but each photo I process has the same result.
I know in my heart that unlike most photos, the images do not represent what has already happened. No, it’s not a sign of what’s here.