Morsel

Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Giant oak trees stretch across the quad, and the outer rim is lined with departmental buildings. A lion’s roar blasts with a gust of wind, the ever-present reminder that the university neighbors the city zoo. I head across the green lawn, past a quiet yoga class, past a guitar player strumming an irritating folk song, and past a survey table. I don’t need a campus guide. I know where she is.

Mona Milk’s office is on the fourth floor of the arts building, in the luxury corner office saved for visiting faculty.

Before I can knock on the double doors, they swing open. A young woman—the edges of her large areolas poking out of her cleavage, too exposed to be a college student—zips past me, rank of perfume. Jasmine. It’s an organic scent, but it’s too strong, covering up a woman’s natural, savory undertones. It isn’t appetizing.

Then Mona catches my eye, and everything else disappears.

A tight, black dress with peek-a-boo cutouts clings to Mona’s body. A portion of her stomach is exposed, her innie belly button like a giant pore waiting to be filled with truffle oil. Her straight, black hair frames her face, and dark makeup circles her eyes. I don’t mind the makeup with Mona. Since we have the same interests, I can let that slide.

She appraises me, her tongue snaking across her bottom lip.

Desire pulses in my fingers. I want to squeeze her soft flesh so fucking bad.

“So you’re hungry for another treat,” she says.

She winks at me, and my jaw strains. Is she mocking me? It’s not like I’m the only one who is into cannibalism roleplay. She is too. She’s the one who put up the ad in the first fucking place.

I start to shake my head, contempt swimming in my head. But Mona steps to the side so I can enter her office, and I force myself to relax. I need to take this one step at a time. I can’t be too careful with Mona.

A floor-to-ceiling window overlooks the quad, and because of the office’s high position, there’s a view between the buildings straight to the lion’s den at the zoo. I squint; I see trees and metal bars, but I can’t see any lions.

In the natural light from the windows, Mona glides toward her desk. Her skin is pale, almost translucent, like a ghost that could evaporate at any moment. Haunting, yet beautiful.

I rub a hand across my jaw. Stubble pricks across my chin—I must’ve missed a spot—and under her eyes, I’m very aware of it.

Despite my flaws, her smile stays. I force my shoulders to loosen. She invited me here, I remind myself. If she doesn’t like the haggard look, then she can go fuck herself.

I take the seat in front of her desk. The office is filled with cameras: vintage models and the newest editions, some of them for pictures and others for recording. She must be constantly cataloging her life.

“You found my personal ad,” she says.

I peer at the zoo’s metal fences off in the distance and guage how to play my cards right. Mona may be testing me again like she did with the wine bath, and that irritates me.

I also know I can’t scare her. I can’t let her know the personal ad was only the beginning of my infatuation with her.

“I did,” I say.

“And my art didn’t anger or scare you?”

I laugh. “Scare me? I’m not scared of art.”

She presses her lips together, reading me. My chest compresses under her scrutinization. Is she fishing for a compliment, then? Is that what she meant when she asked if I was scared of her art?

Her art confused me. Though judging by her fans last night, she probably wouldn’t like hearing that. I can’t risk pissing her off, not when I’m this close to getting what I want.

“Your art intrigued me,” I lie.

Her grin loosens, and she reveals her white teeth, almost the same color as her skin. Even though she’s short, she peers down at me from her chair like she’s a giant. She must have risers under the furniture to give herself a bigger presence, an arrangement created to make her students feel small. To make me feel small. Like prey.

Why does it seem like she’s the one hunting me?

“Cannibalism is more common than we think,” she says. “In the animal world, a mother may eat the weakest infant in the hope that she lives to take care of the other babies. Or perhaps it’s too crowded and the only logical option is to eat whoever is beside you. There’s scavenging too. Some mates even consume each other to increase the chances that they’ll successfully procreate.”

I blink rapidly. I don’t think much about the animal world. At least, not the living ones. I can’t say that out loud though, because while her art doesn’t scare me, I don’t know how she would feel about my animal meat sleeves.

“But humans?” Mona laughs. “Cannibalism is far too taboo for them, but not us.” She leans forward on the desk, her small breasts smashed against the wooden surface, plump and meaty and juicy, begging me to consume them. “What’s your name?”

“Kent.”

“Tell me, Kent”—her voice lowers—“did your mother try to eat you, or do you want to consume me because you’re a predator? Why are you so drawn to eating women?”

Heaviness lurks in my body, my muscles tense. She’s trying to psychoanalyze me. As if my cannibalistic interests can be summed up by a few moments in my childhood. As if it all leads back to my mother.

I drop my gaze to my hands, my fingers fidgeting with energy. I can’t get mad at Mona. She’s the only woman I’ve ever met who may actually like this as much as I do. I have to play along.

“It’s not my mother,” I say calmly. “It’s always been about eating a beautiful woman.” I lift my eyes, meeting Mona’s. “Like you.”

Then I stare down at my hands again.

My mother wasn’t beautiful. She was lifeless.

Mona is different from her. Mona is like the darkness at the end of a tunnel. Like hope. And at the same time, she’s worse. A bittersweet poison.

Even if my instincts say she’s dangerous, I have to do this.

She smirks. “You’re perfect, and you don’t even know it.”

I pull back slightly, a blood vessel on my eyelid twitching. I’m perfect? What does that mean? What is she hiding? It’s like she’s inviting me into a game. Like she’s confident she can successfully execute an ambush. Like she knows she’ll eventually kill me.

Mona’s delighted coo fills the air, causing my mind to go blank.

“There’s a private screening I’d like for you to attend,” she says. “I put together a film collage. I think you’ll like it.”

She licks her lips, and I salivate at the thought of that flickering muscle. It’s not big enough to match the beef tongue in the offal pit, and yet it’s meaty, like a medallion of steak. Her tongue would work well in a taco, seasoned with oregano and marjoram.

“A movie?” I ask. “You filmed it?”

“It’s a work-in-progress for my next exhibition.” She scans me with a vacant expression. “You’re in my art criticism and theory lecture, aren’t you?”

She recognizes me then, even if it’s only been one class. After I figured out who she was in the personal ad, I sat in the back of her lecture and listened to her speak, hoping that a clue might slip out of her mouth and reveal the true nature of her desires. A sign that she wasn’t faking it like everyone else.

“Auditing,” I say.

“I always like a curious student.”

Before I can get pissed off at being at the bottom end of the teacher/student power dynamic, she places a large stack of papers in front of me. The stark white papers contrast against the dark wood. I stop on the title of the first page: Non-Disclosure Agreement.

“An NDA just to see a movie you’re working on?” I ask.

“It’s more than that,” she says. “I have a reputation to protect. You understand, of course?”

Stiffness rolls through me. I’ve never liked contracts. Legal forms tend to lead back to the government, and I avoid them as much as I can. That way, it’s easier for everyone.

Mona looks down at me. A pale vein dances down the fleshy column of her neck. The rhythm of her blood thumping through that vessel captivates me, a clock ticking its way back to the top, marking the final beats of a dying heart.

Everything about her is hypnotizing.

“I’ll have to think about it,” I say. I shuffle through the papers and try to read quickly, but there’s more than forty pages, and after a few seconds, the words blend together. “I need to go through this.”

“Good.” She clasps her hands together, then stands. “Read it thoroughly. Every last page, love. Don’t miss a thing. Please keep in mind the private screening starts this evening at five, not a second later.”

I flip through the pages again, adrenaline smothering my chest. “I have work today.”

“Where do you work?”

“At the chicken processing plant.”

“How lovely. An intellectual worker,” she says.

I furrow my brows, unsure of what she means by that. Is it an insult?

“I’m afraid the offer ends once the screening begins,” she continues. “After that, I’ll move on to another subject. You know how the muses control an artist.” She tilts her head. “For now, I have to prepare for my next appointment, but remember, love: five o’clock. I’ll be waiting for you.”

Before I can say another word, she pushes me out of her office. The double doors close behind me, and the metal lock clicks shut.

I glare at the papers. My nostrils flare, and I swear I can still smell the sweat coming off of her skin, that salty need oozing out of her pores and yearning for me.

I need to think, and I can’t think here. Not with her right behind the doors.