Eight years ago . . .
“Would you hurry up, Gavin?” Karen says, dragging me along the sidewalk that leads to the quad.
Why the hell did I agree to help her and her sorority sisters at freshman orientation again? Oh, right, I remember. Because I could very well end up with a fresh list of eighteen-year-olds’ phone numbers burning a hole in my pocket.
“Jesus, Karen, it’s not like the banquet is going anywhere,” I say, trying unsuccessfully to slow our pace. “If you were that worried about being late, why didn’t we leave fifteen minutes ago?”
She throws me a look like I’m stupid. “Angie’s hair wasn’t done yet. We couldn’t possibly have left one minute sooner.” She smiles over at her friend mumbling something to her about men being incapable of understanding.
Karen and her sorority sisters. Sometimes I don’t know why I put up with them. Oh, right, it all goes back to the phone numbers of the aforementioned eighteen-year-olds. Being in a sorority might suit my friend’s pretentious upbringing, but it also benefits my own penchant for a different flavor every week. That’s me. Just call me Baskin Robbins . . . only with far more than thirty-one flavors. I can’t be faulted for my philandering ways. I blame it all on my father. I came to the conclusion all on my own. No need for high-priced shrinks.
He and Karen are like two peas in a fucking pod. Sometimes I think she’s his long-lost love child. I love my father. Well, maybe love is too strong a word. But like most politicians, he can be a downright prick sometimes. To me, anyway. To everyone else he is Congressman McBride, loveable former judge and family man. I’m not sure how my mom has put up with him for more than twenty years. He’s got his head stuck so far up the asses of so many government officials that I’m not sure where he ends and they begin. And although my dad convinced me to major in Political Science, I refuse to jump on board with his brown-nosing antics. Most of the time. Well, when I’m not around him. Or his colleagues. Or his friends. Okay, so I pretty much fake who I am all the time, too. But, only because I learned from the best.
He will not, however, dictate who I date. Karen. That’s who he wants me to date. Of course he does, she is the daughter of his friend and fellow narcissist, Joel Thompson, whose family owns one of the largest oil fields in East Texas. The Thompsons are a very influential family and my dad would just love it if I married into that. Which is, of course, why I won’t. Karen and I have always been friends, ever since my parents moved into the house next to hers in Fort Worth when I was five years old. And by houses, I mean mansions on neighboring acreages. As in, when we wanted to play, one of our nannies would have to drive us to the other’s yard.
But she is the reason my dad ultimately allowed me to attend UNC instead of some Ivy League school. Fortunately for me, Karen’s dad, with all his millions, wasn’t wealthy enough to buy her way into Harvard or Yale, but had enough connections here at UNC to get her accepted with her less-than-stellar grades. Fine by me. Plus, we have a way better men’s soccer team here than any of those high-priced schools. Not like my dad would ever thank me for earning a scholarship or anything. That would be beneath him.
“Gavin, would you quit eyeing all the freshman girls? There’ll be enough time for that later,” Karen says, continuing to pull me along by my elbow.
I hadn’t even realized I was doing it. I guess it’s an unconscious habit for me now. Watching girls. Picking out my next one-night-stand. Karen likes to tease me about it a lot, but underneath it all I think she’s jealous. I think that deep down, she wants me, but would never admit it to me for fear of my rejecting her. She’s smart about that, anyway. I like her, but I don’t want her. I’ve never wanted her. She’s got the rockin’ body and face of a model, and I’d totally screw her if she weren’t my friend, but she’s not girlfriend material. Not that I know what that is exactly, since I’ve never met a girl I’d label as such, but I know it’s not Karen.
We come flying around the corner of Murphey Hall and I smack right into a girl, causing her to fall as everything spews out of her backpack all over the sidewalk and bushes.
“Oh, shit,” I say. “I’m really sorry. Are you okay?” I look down at the stunned girl. She’s looking up at me with these luminous eyes that are brown or blue, or maybe green, I can’t really tell in this light. Her caramel-brown hair is pulled up into a ponytail with strands sticking out every which way like she wasn’t even looking in a mirror when she did it.
“Walk much?” she says up at me.
“Gavin, we’re already late,” Karen squeals back at me, walking ahead and not bothering to give little Miss Chameleon-eyes a second look.
“You go on ahead,” I say. “I’m just going to help, uh . . .” I look down at the girl who is still sprawled out on the ground beneath me. Normally, this might cause my pants to get tight, seeing a beautiful specimen literally lying at my feet. But there’s something about her, and I don’t even consider her a conquest. I have this nagging urge to protect her.
“Baylor,” she says.
I cock my head and draw my brows at her. “Huh?” I ask.
“My name. It’s Baylor,” she says in a soft melodious voice that resonates somewhere in my chest.
I turn back to Karen. “I’m just going to help Baylor here clean up her things. I’ll be right behind you,” I say.
Karen stands, arms crossed in front of her, staring at me from across the grass where she stopped. She looks at Baylor and rolls her eyes. “Whatever,” she says. Then she turns to catch up to her sorority friends.
“So, Baylor,” I say, noticing how I like the way her name rolls off my tongue. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m okay,” she says, crawling around on her hands and knees to gather her things.
I join her on the ground and start handing her the stuff within my reach. I pass her a hairbrush and a notebook. Then I see it just lying there next to me and I wonder how I’m supposed to handle this. I could ignore it and get up, but then it would be so obvious right there in the middle of the sidewalk and I don’t want to cause her any embarrassment. I quickly grab the tampon and lean over to stuff it into her bag. She follows my motion with those incredible eyes and sees what I’m holding. The most adorable blush creeps up her suntanned face. She averts her eyes from mine and says, “Uh . . . thanks.”
“Gavin,” I say.
“What?” she asks, clearly still flustered from the tampon thing.
“My name’s Gavin.” I extend my hand to her.
She appraises it for a second before taking it into her own. When my large athletic hand touches her soft petite one, I swear to God a bolt of electricity goes straight to my dick.
Jesus Christ, where did that come from? It’s not like she’s flaunting her cleavage or swinging her ass at me. I mean, she’s wearing yoga pants and a t-shirt that says ‘Thing 2.’ I’m not even sure she’s wearing makeup. But, still, she has this natural flawless beauty. And by the way she’s staring down at the sidewalk, she has no fucking idea how gorgeous she is.
“Nice to meet you, Gavin,” she says.
I belatedly notice we are still on the ground, so before I release her hand, I help her up. Then I reluctantly pull my hand away and reach down for a textbook by my feet. I hold it out to her. “Journalism, huh?”
“Yup,” she replies. “It’s my major.”
“Ahhh, far more interesting than mine.” I make a slight gagging noise when I say, “Poli Sci.”
She looks me square in the eyes. “Why would you major in something that’s not even interesting to you?”
Shit. I’ve known this girl all of two seconds and she’s managed to literally bring me to my knees and has me questioning my entire future.
“Baylor! You alright?” I hear someone call out behind me. I don’t even have to turn around to know that I will hate whomever the voice belongs to. I can tell from his tone that he cares about her.
“I’m fine, Chris,” she says, brushing off the pieces of gravel that collected on her pants when she was on the ground.
The guy comes up beside her and places a possessive arm around her shoulders. Damn . . . boyfriend.
“Chris, this is Gavin,” she says. “He was helping me pick up my things.”
“Well, I should hope so,” he says. “Considering he was the reason you fell. I saw it from all the way over there.” He looks at me with no concern that I’ve got at least five inches and thirty pounds on him. “This isn’t the soccer field, you know.”
I shoot him my ‘WTF’ look. But, I get it. He’s not exactly a big person, and here I stand, a taller, more muscular guy. A guy he obviously knows is on the soccer team. A guy who was touching his girl. He’s marking his territory. I would do the same thing.
Wait . . . would I?
I never give a shit about the girls I date—or, more accurately—hookup with. So, why does this one girl, who has a goddamn boyfriend, have me thinking about marking her as mine?
“Yeah, sorry about that.” I try to shake away my thoughts. “I wasn’t really paying attention to where I was walking.”
“Baylor, we should get going. We don’t want to be late,” Chris says, pulling her away without even bothering to acknowledge the introduction she was trying to facilitate.
She doesn’t say goodbye. But as they walk away, she turns slightly giving me the sweetest look. An apology for her boyfriend’s rude behavior? A recognition of the electric touch we shared? I watch them walk out of sight and then I lean against the hard brick building behind me wondering what the hell just happened here.
As I stare at the ground, something shimmering in the sunlight catches my eye. I walk over to the edge of the bushes and pick it up. An empty keychain. It must be Baylor’s. It’s silver and is engraved with the picture of a zebra. I turn it over and read the inscription.
Be what nobody else can ever be . . . yourself
I stick it in my pocket.