Blondie Wannabe: A Billy Hargrove Fanfic

I Don't Hate You

The rest of the school day I felt flustered, on edge, and couldn't help but look over my shoulder, overflowing with paranoia. And when last period finally rolled around, I had to force myself to sit at my desk and not pace like a cornered gazelle, but my I could not control the bouncing of my knee.

Billy came in late, his whole body tense. Maybe it was just because I was overly familiar with the way his body moved, but I could tell that this wasn't just his normal imposing masculinity, it was a thinly-veiled rage. It was worlds away from the way he leaned against the wall with his aviators on after our first class together. His fists were clenched, shoulders tight, jaw locked, and his gaze he purposefully kept his gaze off me. When I joined him so he could work on his painting of me, I was genuinely worried he'd reach right across the table to throttle me.

"Have you said anything?" he asked, gripping his pencil so tight, I was worried it might snap. He wasn't following the advice I'd given him to hold the implement farther back, which, for some reason, made me very sad. 

"No, of course not."

He made a few details, but I could tell he was having a hard time concentrating. "Good, cause if I even hear a whisper about it, I swear to God-"

"Billy!" I snapped, glancing around to make sure no one had heard me. "If I've done anything to make you think I'm the kind of person who would do something so cruel in a deliberate attempt to humiliate you, I'm sorry, because that's not who I am, and I would never do that."

"Even though you hate me?"

I sighed, putting my face in my hands. After two deep breaths, I looked back up at him. "I don't hate you."

 He looked at me, his gaze traveling from one eye to the other, and he seemed to decide I was telling the truth. His face relaxed, his body visibly deflating. To my shock, he actually set down his pencil to pressed a hand to his forehead and, when he thought I couldn't see, wiped away something from his eye. 

"Are you having trouble getting the proportions right?" I asked regarding his portrait of me, hoping to bring him back to the present.

"Ugh, no, I just- I'm just not ready to start painting yet."

"Well, just keep in mind you need to have it done by the end of the semester."

"I know," he said, voice level, not sighing in exasperation, nor snapping with agitation. "This is harder than I thought it would be."

I couldn't tell if he was talking about painting, working with me, art in general, or something else altogether, but I didn't quite know what to say or how to help. I didn't even know if he wanted my assistance, let alone if I was capable of giving it to him. So I just sat there, trying not to move, despite the fact that Billy had barely added anything to his outline.

When the bell finally rang, I nearly jumped out of my seat. Billy, on the other hand, looked strangely calm, almost like he was planning something.

"Well, see you tomorrow then," I said, pulling on my jacket. 

"Actually, would you mind talking to Mrs. Mueller with me about the painting, it's nothing bad, I'd just like you to be there."

I shrugged and followed him to the front of the class where Daisy was packing up her things, but I couldn't ignore the chill that ran up my arms, made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. What did he want?

"Hello Mrs. Mueller," Billy said, the epitome of politeness. "I've been having trouble moving past the outline phase of my work. For the past few days, I had no idea why, but I think I may have figured out the problem. I was speaking with some of my fellow classmates, and many of them said they felt more comfortable completing their projects in the privacy of their own home, where they don't have to worry about judgment before it's completed." He wouldn't fucking dare. "I know that Miss Harrington isn't a student and therefore isn't required to assist me with my project outside of school hours, but I can't help but feel that that's the only way I can work effectively."

That slimy son of a bitch. Right when I thought I'd gotten through to him, that I'd made him think twice about acting so entitled and rude, he went and did this. He showed his true colors, and Daisy went and ate it right up.

"I'm inclined to agree with you, Mr. Hargrove, but in the end, it's up to Miss Harrington." 

The two of them looked at me, their expressions making it clear it was not a decision, that I had to do what he wanted. Except I didn't have to, did I? I was being paid to help around the classroom (and not very much) and he wasn't entitled to have me go over to his house and help him with his stupid fucking painting. And if Daisy knew what he was, how he treated people, she wouldn't force me to; she wouldn't even suggest it.

"My apologies Billy, Mrs. Mueller, but I do have a life outside of teaching, and I'm not in the place to pose for a portrait in my spare time. I'm already doing more than I was prepared to do by allowing myself to be painted at all. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get home."

Before either of them could say anything, I stormed out of the room, practically running back to the car so I could hyperventilate in private.

         

This chapter's a bit short, but there's going to be another one up pretty soon that'll be longer and follow up on what's been introduced in the past two parts. Thanks to everyone for reading!!!