CHAPTER EIGHT
INDY
The following day, I switch off my cell and turn to study. I avoid the morning lecture, thankful that it’s streamed online.
You won’t be able to avoid him forever.
The thing is, I don’t want to. I wanted that kiss as much as he did, wanted it to never end, but there can be no relationship between us, not when I’m trying to keep a low profile. Hooking up with Abbotsleigh’s golden boy would be a quick end to that.
And other things…
I wish everything could go back to the way it was, that I’d still be back in my tiny New York apartment with the couple next door engaging in overly loud sex and the guy upstairs calling for them to ‘shut the hell up.’
It might be good for you, but you’re not even going to give it a chance?
And then what? Hanging off the arm of the hottest property here is going to deliver the kind of attention I don’t need, the kind of attention I cannot have.
“I ordered a bourbon, babe, not a whiskey.”
I apologize to the Josh Groban lookalike in front of me and take his glass — empty, surprise, surprise. I’m so distracted I almost pour the whiskey over his hand.
Lucy appears, eyebrows crossed together in concern. “You alright?”
“Boy issues,” she says with a nod, when I don’t immediately reply. “I can smell that shit a mile away. Who is it? Come on.”
“Cayden Beckett,” I confess.
She slams her hand down on the bar. “Holy shit on a stick. You went there?”
“I haven’t gone anywhere yet.”
“So why does it look like you just killed a clown?”
I place my hands on the bar for support, wishing it didn’t sound like a stadium concert in here. “I kissed him, but…”
“But?” Lucy pushes.
“I don’t know. I ran.”
“Smart move.”
Was it? It’s all I’ve been thinking about, that kiss.
“Look,” says Lucy, “everyone knows Cayden Beckett and his eighth wonder of the world are only good for one thing—getting off, guilt-free. He hits it and he quits it, which is fine for most of the bimbos here looking for a college tale to tell, but I can see you’re different.” She placers her forefinger against my head. “I’m kind of guessing there’s something resembling a brain up in there instead of a little home theater showing Dance Moms reruns, which is why you should know better. Cayden Beckett is not commitment material. Heck, he’s not even boyfriend material.”
“How many girlfriends has he had?”
Lucy throws her head back in laughter. “Girlfriends? Ze-ro. But fuck buddies? Cum chums? Pelvic affiliates? I don’t know. Hundreds. Thousands.”
I exhale long and deep. Maybe she’s right? I am smarter than this. I’m studying to be a freakin’ lawyer for crying out loud.
So why do you want him so bad? Why are you wet right now thinking about him, his lips and what they could do? The way they could make your back arch and all your worries be poofed away with orgasm after orgasm after orgasm…
Lucy knocks on the bar. “Now, head out of the cock clouds and stop serving up whiskey to the bar runner. That shit’s expensive.”
*
I turn on my cell heading home, ignoring the thirty-odd calls and texts from Cayden and skipping down to a number I dread seeing. What the hell does he want?
Naomi’s up, as always, when I arrive, her hair pulled up into a tight updo, the smattering of freckles on her skin even more pronounced following a shower. She turns from her desk. “Are you still in the dumps?”
I sling my bag onto the bed and collapse face-forward, speaking muffled into my Nintendo game controller pillow. “Afraid so.”
“You did the right thing.”
I sit up. “What do you mean?”
“With Cayden Beckett.”
“How’d you work that out?”
She clears her throat. “Like I said, word gets around.”
“Does it?” I find it odd he’d mention it to anyone given that spiel. After all, nothing came of it. That’s not the kind of legend status you want spreading, that the great and almighty Damage couldn’t get a simple girl like me across the line.
“Look,” says Naomi, sounding an awful lot like Lucy right now, “that guy is no good. You can’t see it because you’re inside it, but I can. Head down. Study, remember? That is why you’re here, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” But I don’t like the lecture. I’ve never liked anyone telling me what to do, not my aunty, not the foster parents who followed, not the loan officer, not the… I stop my thoughts right there, don’t want to head down that thorny path tonight.
I get up. I’ve had enough, but I’m not going to say so. I have to live with Naomi.
“Where are you going?” she asks, only pissing me off more. ‘You’re not my mother,’ I want to scream, but I hold my tongue.
I smile. “I just need some air.”
She picks up her cell. “Okay.”
“You’re not to ask me to text when I’m coming home?” I mean for it to come out as a joke, but it sounds like I’m scalding her.
“Indy, come on…”
I pull on my jacket and open the door. “I’ll be back later. Don’t wait up.”
*
It’s surprisingly cold outside. If I had balls — god forbid — I’m sure they’d be tucked up in my throat somewhere. This is New York kinds of cold. So much for southern weather.
Like you had a choice.
The party elements are out tonight, the frat boys still deep into Hell Week. A group passes me by, roped together. They shout out the house rules boot camp style while a fellow brother holds up a copy of Playboy like he’s a tourist leader.
I almost laugh at that.
I don’t know where I’m going. For a moment I think about heading to The Lab, but I’ve spent enough time there already tonight watching the door, expecting Cayden to arrive at any moment.
He never showed.
It’s game night tomorrow, the Trojans taking on the Stanford Cardinals. I was actually considering going, seeing what this football fascination was all about, until ‘The Incident,’ as it forever shall be known.
I head diagonally away from the campus square, down the older part of the college with its whitewashed brickwork and turrets. It’s like something out of Harry Potter, at odds with the swampy surrounds.
I hear them before I see them—a rabble.
“If it isn’t Bar Girl.”
I turn and find the creep who almost assaulted me in the bar approaching with a group of jersey-clad clones. They’re drinking, which I thought was forbidden in the open, but it seems the Trojans make the rules around here.
I pivot on my heel to walk in the opposite direction, but they’ve closed in around me, the creep, with his disgusting long hair, eyeing me up. He spits to the ground. “Why you playing so hard to get, girl?”
My pulse is jumping ahead of my heart, but I remind myself to stay calm. You’re in the middle of campus. He wouldn’t try anything.
And then I recall the bar.
He reaches out to touch my hair. I flinch away and jam my hand into my pocket. “Don’t make me use this.”
I’m bluffing, but he backs up a little, looking down to my hidden hand.
“What you got in there, sweetheart?”
He reaches for my hand, but I pull away.
“I’m Dwayne, by the way,” he says. “Dwayne Bell—Trojans quarterback.”
Gotcha. “I thought Cayden Beckett was the Trojans quarterback?”
The other guys laugh.
“Burn!” one of them bellows.
Dwayne smirks, nodding. “Nice, but how about you put that pretty mouth to better use, service me and my friends here?”
One of the other guys steps in. “Dwayne, man. Come on. Leave her alone.”
Dwayne shoves him away, asserting himself as the alpha. “No, we’re going to have some fun. Fucking Trojans, right?”
There’s a lackluster “Trojans” in turn, an automatic call and response.
Dwayne takes a step closer to me, reaching for my jacket zipper. “Question is, which one of us are you going to suck off first?”
“Hey! What’s going on here?”
The group parts. A golf cart parks ahead, a man with a flashlight raised stepping out.
I read ‘Campus Security’ on the roof. The thing’s even got flashing lights.
Dwayne puts his hands up. “We were just talking to the lady, Drew. No harm in that.”
I rush forward to stand near the cart, thankful for its sudden appearance.
“Beat it,” says the security guard, “before I wake the Dean up and get the real shit-show started”.
Dwayne smirks again and tips an invisible hat. “Yes, sir.”
They skulk off, whooping and shouting.
The security guard turns to me when they’ve gone. “You alright?”
I nod.
“I’m Drew, by the way.”
“Indy,” I reply.
“Well, hop into my chariot, Indy. I’ll give you a lift back to your dorm, and a word of warning: Stay the fuck away from those assholes.”