Page 6 of Rivals

Trust me, Revna.

I am, aren’t I? I yell in my head. Yep, ok. Bad high. Need to sleep the rest of it off.

I add the purple my brain seems to be so intent on adding, drop the brush in the water, and collect my stuff. I glance at Lachlan’s painting, practically screaming at me from all the way across the room, a solid twenty feet away.

It really bothers me that it has a few similar colors in it. I cautiously walk over to Lachlan’s space. My whole body burns as I stare at the painting that looks way too similar to mine. I don’t know how it’s possible, but it’s infuriating, and I can’t take it. I can’t stand the thought of the possibility of Lachlan winning. I can’t do it. He doesn’t deserve this. The smug asshole always acts like he’s better. Well, he’s not, and it’s time to take him down a notch.

Or ten.

I go back over to my area, grab some paint I mixed, thin it with water a little bit so it’s nice and drippy, and go back to Lachlan’s painting.

The voice isn’t saying a thing, but the rest of me is. I know I shouldn’t do it. But I can’t help myself. He can’t win, and I have to make sure that I cover my tracks. I go back to my area and get rid of the paint I was about to use, using what Lachlan left instead. I mix it with water and then start splashing so it sprinkles evenly across the canvas, ruining it.

Once I’m done, I step back and take a look at my handiwork. My mind is silent, but colors still move around me, like the drugs have some kind of after-effect. Feeling satisfied with what I’ve done, I put everything back like I found it and pack up.

Screw you, Lachlan—your mistake for underestimating me.

I don’t think he underestimated you at all. That’s what scares you the most.

What the actual hell is happening? Am I losing my mind? Those are not my thoughts.

Are they?

Chapter 7

Lachlan

Day of First Round

IfeellikeIgot hit by a truck while being hungover. That crap I took did the trick, but the comedown was rough. I swear I was floating upside down in my room for two hours, and it wasn’t the fun kind of floating. I’ve downed what feels like a gallon of water to flush it from my system, and it still feels like it’s lingering.

I trudge into the shared art space. I want to get one last look at my work before we present in a couple of hours. I’m scared it won’t make it to the next round, but there is also no way I could get something else done in time to present. So, it’s all I have. The most I’ll be able to do is add little things at best.

Sliding my bag off my shoulder, I toss it into the corner and step in front of my painting.

What. The. Hell.

I look around. That’s weird, this isn’t mine. But why would someone switch paintings?Someone touched my painting.My chest feels like a vice is tightening around it, and I take a step back. There is no way, I must be hallucinating. This can’t be real. Maybe OBA is like LSD, where it’s possible to trigger another high even though you didn’t take anything. But when I close my eyes tightly, count to fifteen and open my eyes again, nothing has changed. I look over my shoulder to search the space, but no one is here. Then again, why would the culprit be standing there, waiting for me to catch them? Well, I guess that is possible. Artists can be high and mighty, vindictive bastards.

My body seems to be delaying the emotional reaction to the fact that someone has ruined my painting. Someone has destroyed my chance at the MoMA. It could only be one person. She’s never done it before, but she’s clearly desperate based on the fact her painting looks like it should go with mine. Which tells me she had to have copied it. She had to. It doesn’t matter that she had started hers before I came in.

It was that evil little bitch.

Fiery rage shoots through my veins, and I take the paint I left from last night. I squeeze a bunch more on my palette, mix it, and then walk over to her space.

I’d like to see her win now.

I lift my hand to destroy her work. Stopping short, I stare at it. I have to admit it, it’s good. I can see the filter of emotions from happy to sad to downright dark, yet she uses minimal black in the landscape of her emotions. It would definitely be a top contender. Well, it would have been.

My hand moves before the rest of my brain catches up, and I ruin it all. Once I feel like I’m done, I return to my space, get rid of the evidence, and stare at my ruined work. I don’t know how I am going to get her to pay for this, but losing the contest is simply the beginning. I will make her rue the day she even glanced at me.

The presentation is in twenty minutes. I look over at Revna’s area and she still isn’t here. I was waiting to see the look on her face, but I couldn’t stay any longer. I grab my canvas and walk to the tiny gallery we use to display works. I hang it in the space designated for me and notice Revna’s name is in the next placement over. At least I will have a front-row seat to the beginning of her demise. I know I lost, so really, it eases that pain just enough to know that Revna lost, too.

Chapter 8

Revna

Myheadispoundinglike one of those monkeys with the cymbals is sitting on my back, repeatedly slamming them on my ears. The loud music probably isn’t helping my situation either. I pause it and shove my phone and earbuds into my pocket as I push through the doors into the communal space. I need to hurry up because we are supposed to be set up now before the panel comes in.