CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

COLTON

I’m sitting on the sofa staring at a blank TV and a shadowy interpretation of myself.

And there he is, the brooding bad boy. Back again.

The conversation with Cayden came as a surprise, but at least there’s hope now. I can finally pack up and kiss this snow-covered shithole of a town goodbye.

And Harper.

I once knew this girl from school. She used to call us ‘puck buddies,’ because we could only go as far as kissing given her ultra-conservative Christian values. I changed that ‘P’ to an ‘F’ and she was ripped from my life so fast I could barely remember her name. I get that same feeling as I sit here, the deep pit of loss that has opened up in my stomach. I pushed the limits, tasted the forbidden apple, but this time the consequences haven’t come.

And it has to stay that way, I remind myself.

I run my hands through my hair. Try as I might, I can’t shake Harper out of my head. She’s come to mean more to me than I expected. I see further now than our next fuck session. I’m seeing a future, the kind of girl I could settle down with. Mason and Cayden, two guys I never thought would commit to one woman, have both trod down that path and become infinitely happier for it. I see it in their faces when I visit, in the way they speak and act. There is meaning and significance there that’s always been missing from my life, and while you shouldn’t really require another person to make you happy, I know my heart would be fuller with Harper in my life.

“Enough with the soppy shit,” I tell myself. “You’re going soft on me, aren’t you?”

The bad boy is quiet. He knows his days are numbered.

I turn my thoughts back to the conversation with Cayden. There was one disclaimer: I have to finish out the semester here at Branton before heading home—no slacking off, no failed classes.

A semester.

I think I can handle that provided I focus on anything other than the girl who’s got my heart in her hands.

FIVE WEEKS LATER

Ricky’s shaking his head when I return to the table. He slides a beer across to me, a Moosehead. This would have been a sin of the highest order at the start of this semester, but I think I’ve become accustomed to these Canadian brews and customs. The cold? Not so much, though it certainly helps you hustle across campus in the morning.

I watch Andy take the stage, all of us bracing for his usual, ear-ruining rendition of Uptown Funk.

It’s been a crazy couple of weeks. I promised Cayden I wouldn’t slack off. So far I’ve kept my word, even hitting the library from time to time for actual research, some of my textbooks actually losing their store-new luster. I never understood the phrase ‘hitting the books hard’ until I woke up one morning face down on the redundantly titled American Cultural Studies: An Introduction to American Culture, a strand of drool running from the corner of my mouth.

But if I’ve been hitting the books hard, I’ve been damn near destroying the ice, getting up for extra practice each day at the ass crack of dawn, doubling up on gym sessions and drills. I’ve done everything I can to keep my mind off Harper, and it’s working. I see her in the lecture hall, of course, but she makes no attempt to acknowledge me or single me out. I’m just another student. It’s best that way, for both of us… or at least that’s the medicine I force myself to swallow every time I take in her sweet curves and smile, the delicate area under her chin that always forced her lips apart when I pressed my own upon it.

The following morning, I’m horny as fuck, but once again I channel it into training, hammering through drill after drill and begging Coach for more.

He waves me over to the barrier. “I think that will do, son.”

“Come on, Coach,” I beg. “I’ve still got breakouts and quick hinges to go, that short track flim-flam shit you love to torture us with.”

“I want you to play, Colt, not taken out of here on a stretcher.”

I seem to recall a similar clause coming from his lips earlier this semester. “I can handle it.”

“I’m sure you can, but I said that’s enough. Besides, they want you up at the admin building.”

I pull off my helmet, cradling it under my arm. “They what?”

“You, up at the admin building. The Head of Cultural Studies just called me.”

My mind races. What the hell does the Head of Cultural Studies want with me? My grades are up, though I can’t imagine she’s looking to pin a gold star on my shirt.

“Go on,” Coach says. “The torture session you’re so keen on will be waiting when you come back.”

I shower as quick as I can and head over to the admin building, the woman at the front desk directing me to the third floor—Harper’s floor.

I enter the office described. It’s bigger than Harper’s, a veritable Taj Mahal compared to her closet.

I read the name on the desk: Professor Marion Lewis, Head of Cultural Studies. She’s in her fifties, at least, a bob cut and pitch-black blouse all spelling ‘serious.’ She looks up from her papers. “Mr. Beckett,” I presume. “Take a seat. Please.”

There’s only one, but I take it, memories of going to see Dean Smith with my brothers flooding back, though this time I’m alone, my wingmen absent. Something tells me, however, that even the famous Beckett charm would be lost on the creature before me. I could flop my dick onto her desk and she’d barely bat an eyelid.

“I’ll get straight to it,” the professor starts, tenting her hands just like Dean Smith used to. Monty Burns mannerisms are big with these people. “Allegations have been made you were in a relationship with a staff member here, Ms. Harper Dunham.”

I was hoping this would be about the transfer, but deep down I knew what the subject matter would be.

“What do you know about that, Mr. Beckett?”

She’s got a great game face. I’ll give her that. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“I wish, Mr. Beckett, you’d come to me first so we could have avoided this… discourse, but I can understand why you’d be reluctant given your position here.”

Where’s she going with this? In any case, I can’t let Harper take the fall. She said ‘allegations.’ They probably don’t have any hard evidence. Still, I have to give her something, a token. I lean forward. “Ms. Dunham’s class has been difficult for me, I’ll admit.”

Martha’s features tighten.

“I was struggling,” I confess, “really having a hard time with it, but Ms. Dunham took a personal interest in my situation, offering me additional tutoring to lift my grades. Put simply, Professor, she’s an excellent teacher, and a credit to Branton. I’m not sure where these ‘allegations’ have come from, but they are entirely baseless.”

You shit. You can still turn it on when you want to, can’t you?

Poor Martha’s a little stunned by my measured response. No doubt she was expecting Colton Beckett the bad ass, the womanizer, but that Colton’s gone home for the holidays.

“I see.” She checks her watch. “Well, the administration cannot force you to admit you had a relationship with a teacher, as I’m sure you’re aware. However, should you feel the need to come to me with any additional information, my door is open. You are dismissed, Mr. Beckett.”

I stand. “Thank you, Professor.”

I close the door behind myself.

“So, how does it feel?”

I spin to find James standing in the middle of the hall, his hands deep in his pockets and a look of such smug satisfaction on his face I’d go to hell and back just to wipe it away. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Professor.”

He continues to smile. “Let me clarify, Mr. Beckett. How does it feel to have ruined Harper’s career, probably her life, because you couldn’t keep that grimy cock of yours in your pants?

I’ve had it with this prick. He’s not even worth the reply. I start to walk away.

“Yes, keep walking,” he says to my back. “I’ll be balls deep in that tight little snatch of hers soon enough. Don’t you worry.”

I take the bait, turning back. “You’re not going anywhere near her.”

He steps up to me. “Maybe I’ll fuck her in the ass, too, like the dirty whore she is.”

I lash out, but at least I’m smart enough not to swing for his head, instead driving a hard right deep into his solar plexus.

He folds in half, mouth wide. I take him by the scruff of his collar, whispering into his ear. “You call her that again and you won’t draw another breath.”

I push him away, look down the hall, but there are no witnesses.

I open the door to Martha’s office.

She looks up, surprised. “Mr. Beckett?”

I can’t control the rage in my voice. “If you want somewhere to look for inappropriate relationships, why don’t you start with James fucking Marks. You know, the tenured Women’s Studies professor. I think him and Ms. Dunham might have a previous relationship worth looking into.”

The words are out before I can stuff them away, the Professor’s mouth dropping, further still when James himself pushes past me into the office clutching his chest. “Martha, this is crazy talk. This boy, this student, just assaulted me, right now in the hall.”

She looks him up and down, can’t see any visible suggestion of such an altercation. “What’s he saying, James?”

“Nothing. He’s a nobody, an outc—”

I step forward. “I’m saying this guy,” I point, “has been putting professional pressure on Ms. Dunham to have sex with him ever since he broke it off. Maybe Branton should think a bit more before they offer an asshole like this tenure.”

Now both their mouths are agape. It’s almost enjoyable bringing the chaos again.

James has his hands on Martha’s desk. “Martha, please…”

She picks up her phone. “…Yes, I need to see the Dean, now.” A pause. “I don’t care. Have her come up right away.” She places down the phone, looking to me. “What proof, if any, do you have of such a relationship, Mr. Beckett?”

James looks sheet white, completely terrified as he watches me. It’s so fucking satisfying to see him falling apart, for finally taking some accountability for the way he treated Harper. I shake my head, addressing Martha. “Come on now, Professor, anyone with a pair of eyes and the ability to give a shit can see it if they look hard enough.”

If her mouth dropped before, you could run a jumbo jet into it now.

“If this is the sort of institution Branton is,” I continue, “I can’t say I care to be a student of it.”

Before she can reply, I turn and storm out of there, being sure to really slam the door on my way out, shake this whole shitty place around. Because my chances of going back to the Ivy League just went up in smoke, but god damn did it feel good to build the fire.