Mayhem

Chapter Twenty-Two

THE NEXT MORNING, I wake in Adam’s arms—which is nice and does all sorts of butterfly things to my stomach until I realize that all of our studying is about to be for nothing because we are running royally freaking late.

“TEN FORTY?!” I launch myself out of bed so fast that my feet get tangled in the covers, and then I’m tripping and hopping and nearly eating floor. “No wonder you’re always late!” When Adam just lies there staring at me, I throw the covers off of him—not caring that he’s only in his boxers—and grab his hand, yanking him to his feet.

He smiles at me as I rant about how he needs to get dressed faster than he’s ever gotten dressed before because I didn’t bust my ass tutoring him all weekend just for fun. With one hand waving frantically in the air and the other clinging to the silky, oversized gym shorts I borrowed from him to wear to bed last night, I’m sure I look insane.

The shorts nearly drop from my waist as I usher Adam toward his closet and then rush out of the bedroom. I sprint to my suitcase in the living room, hastily unzip it, and grab a wrinkled pair of jeans. There’s no sign of Joel or Shawn as I rush to the bathroom and dive into my pants. Adam’s apartment is over ten minutes away from school. Between that and the time it will take to walk to class, we’re barely going to make it. And if he’s late one more time . . .

When I rush out of the bathroom, Adam is fully dressed in long black jeans and a charcoal-gray V-necked T-shirt. His wrists are decorated with bands and string bracelets that he never takes off, and he’s pulling a mug from the kitchen cabinet. There’s a full pot of coffee warming—I’m guessing Shawn made it—but we have time for coffee like we have time to fry up some eggs and bacon and toast and, hell, bake a freaking three-tiered cake while we’re at it.

“No, no, no,” I say, swiping the mug from Adam’s hand and setting it on the counter.

He pouts, eyeing the mug like it contains the secret to immortal life. “Seriously?”

“I’ll get you a coffee after the test!” I insist, circling behind him so I can push him toward the door.

He chuckles and lets me nudge him step by step. At the door, I throw my backpack over my shoulder, and then I grab his hand and drag him into the hall. When I let go, he slips his palm back into mine and grips it tight.

“Guess we better hurry,” he says with a playful smile, and then he pulls me into a run. Hand in hand, we race past the elevator, down all four flights of stairs, and across the parking lot. Adam jumps behind the wheel of his Camaro and starts the engine, throwing his arm behind my headrest.

“You’re going to need to run faster than that if you want to make it to class on time,” I huff.

He flashes me a white smile and then whips the car out of the spot. But we don’t get two full blocks before the worst happens. Orange cones. A burly woman in a yellow vest. A big orange sign that says DETOUR.

I lean forward in my seat, watching Adam’s graduation go up in smoke. “No,” I sigh.

Adam pulls up next to the woman. “Any way we can go around?”

“Is it an emergency?” she asks.

“Yes!” I shout, and her eyes dart to me.

“What kind of emergency?”

“My . . . dog . . . is in the hospital.” When she eyes me doubtfully, her face full of deepened lines, I say, “He got hit . . . by a train.”

Trying to look grave, Adam gazes up at her and says, “It was a very small train. The kind that wouldn’t immediately flatten and kill a poor little Chihuahua like Tinker Bell.”

Thirty seconds later, we’re racing down the detour road, and I’m yelling, “A Chihuahua?!”

“A train?!” Adam laughs.

Dear God, we suck. We are the worst Bonnie and Clyde ever. I’m surprised that woman didn’t bitch-slap us with her handheld stop sign.

My fingers claw into the seat as Adam guns the car through a yellow light. The next one flashes red seconds before we cross it, but he doesn’t slow down. I sink lower in the seat, hoping we don’t get a ticket . . . or, you know . . . die.

When we’re on the last stretch of road that leads to the campus entrance, I’m chewing my nails into stubs. Three minutes left. We’re never going to make it. It’s a physical impossibility. Adam is going to fail and—

He jerks the wheel left, and his car dips into a ditch before roaring up onto the perfectly manicured campus lawn. We coast over the lush green grass until we pull directly up to Jackson Hall.

“You can’t park here!” I protest as Adam pulls to a stop.

“I have to park here.” He shuts the car off and pulls his keys from the ignition.

What the hell is he thinking? They’ll tow his car! Or kick him out of school! “You . . . you . . . oh my God,” I stutter, holding out my hand. “Give me your keys.”

“No way,” he says, shaking his head. “I don’t want to make you late.”

I’m panicking now because every second Adam argues with me means one second closer to us both being late. “Dr. Pullman loves me,” I snap, gripping his shoulders, “but he HATES you, so just give me your damn keys, Adam!”

He hesitates, but then he hands them over. He stares at me for a moment longer and then leans in, planting a quick kiss against my cheek before jumping out of the car and running into the building. There are students everywhere staring at me as I climb over the center console and tumble into the driver’s seat, pulling it all the way up and adjusting the wheel. I turn the keys in the ignition and Adam’s convertible roars to life. Thank God I know how to drive stick, or this would be a whole hell of a lot more interesting. I do a wide U-turn and pull back onto the road, bypassing the main entrance and sneaking into the back entrance of the parking garage just in case security has been called.