by Stacey Lewis
My eyes beg Wyatt to stop this, but he ignores me, placing one hand on the small of Peyton’s back and gesturing for me to walk farther away from the altercation on the dance floor. We don’t get very far before Clay’s fist hits the side of WTT’s face, snapping it to the side and causing spit and blood to fly out of his mouth. He makes a taunting gesture, his hands pointing to himself, practically begging the handsy guy to take a swing back. The guy does, but Clay is faster, his head snapping back. The guy misses. I’m mesmerized by the show, watching them beat on each other while Clay … what? Protects my honor? I’m not sure, but it’s hot as hell.
Wait. What the hell? Shut up, Kat! It’s not hot. It’s Neanderthal. I back away slowly as they continue to beat on each other, my heart racing and my hands clammy. We make it back to the table, and I’m even more surprised to see that no one is paying attention to what’s happening on the dance floor.
Max and Liam talk animatedly while Livvie and Emmett have their heads close together, both their faces somber. Two of the other guys suck face with random girls completely oblivious to the brawl, while another is tapping away on his phone. I want to scream at them, to point out that Clay is kicking some guy’s ass while they are engrossed in their dull little worlds.
Before I can say anything, or get anyone’s attention, Clay storms up beside me, and I face forward, reluctant to look up at him. Grabbing me by the arm, he jerks me around so we’re face-to-face. He towers over me, his chest heaving, sweat rolling down the side of his face as he gets closer to mine. His eyes are so dark they’re almost black, and he’s pissed. “What the fuck were you doing out there, Kat?” My name sounds like a curse word on his lips, and all I can do is gape at him. He seems to get angrier when I don’t reply. Gripping both my arms, he gives me a little shake like he’s trying to get my attention; not realizing I can’t look away from him.
“W-w-w-what?” I stutter, unsure what he’s asking.
His next words are a growl. “You fucking froze. Do you know what happens to little girls that freeze up when some asshole puts their hands on them?” Wait … What? He’s mad … at me? I don’t understand. I didn’t do anything wrong. I know I didn’t. Did I?
Wyatt says something in a low voice, trying to calm Clay down, but Clay’s eyes never leave mine. We stare into each other’s eyes, not even blinking. Suddenly he jerks away from me, turning in the opposite direction, and gripping his hair with his hands.
He takes deep breaths, visibly trying to calm himself down before he faces me again. When he turns back to me, his expression is no less volatile than it had been before, but his chest is no longer heaving. I brace myself, thinking he’s going to yell at me some more, tell me what an idiot I am, but he doesn’t speak. After glaring at me for several beats, he finally shakes his head and stalks off, leaving me to stare in shock at his back as he walks away.
He doesn’t even slow down when he reaches Meghan, who’s standing at the end of the dance floor, biting her lip, and watching him warily. He takes her hand, dragging her behind him until they’re swallowed by the crowd.
Meanwhile, Max finally notices something is going on and comes to stand next to me. His leaner body is nothing like his brother’s and his musky cologne is almost overpowering next to the clean scent of Clay’s. “What the hell happened? Clay looks like he just left fight club or something.”
I shake my head in disbelief and confusion. “I have no idea.” I don’t understand what just happened at all. One second he’s yelling at me, and the next he just leaves?
Three
Two days after the night at the club and the trouble Kat caused, I still feel hung over. Even the almost freezing weather and the fact that it’s three in the afternoon doesn’t help. It’s thirty degrees colder today than it was yesterday, so you’d think I’d be wide-the-fuck awake. Of course, it didn’t help that my 8:30 class was International Accounting. It’s not the type I’ll be able to sleep through and fake it, that’s for sure.
Now, if I could have History of Rock first thing, I wouldn’t have any trouble staying awake. But am I that lucky? Nope. Instead, it’s the last one of the day. Oh well, at least I’ll end it happy. When I finally stroll in the room is filling up. Not a surprise since the majority of my classes are in the business building and this one is across campus in one of two arts buildings. I find a spot near the back and sit down. Some teachers still believe in assigned seats, and if I’m running late, I don’t want to have to head to the front to find my seat. I like attention, but not that kind.
Just before class begins, the seat next to me fills at the same time my phone pings with a text.
Liam: Marcus saw u fight Saturday.
Wants to talk ASAP.
His number is just below. Marcus? I have to think for a minute. The name is familiar, but I don’t—oh, wait. Marcus is the guy who runs bets for fights that take place just off campus at the gym some of us use in the off-season to leave the campus machines available for other athletes. Nashville U is too small a college to warrant separate weight rooms for each team, and it gets pretty crowded with the basketball and baseball players trying to use them too.
I send Liam a reply, letting him know I’ll contact Marcus later, not paying much attention to the person who drops into the seat beside me. I vaguely register the familiar scent of cotton candy, but before I can turn, the redhead sitting on my left hands me a stack of stapled together papers. The syllabus for this class isn’t large, only two pages, but there’s a lot of information on the pages. Distracted by words like “film” and “punk”, I pass the papers on without looking at my neighbor. Just by the units we’re going to be studying, I know this is going to be a fucking awesome class: Fifties Rock, Punk, British Rock … it’s a cake class. Add to it the fact that it’s my last class of the day, and it’s on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and I’m a happy guy.
“Good afternoon, class,” a loud voice booms from the front of the room. “I’m Professor George, but please feel free to call me “Charlie.” We’re going to be spending quite a bit of time together for the next few months, and unlike most of the classes you’re taking, this is a fun one.” I look up to see a man who looks like he’s in his late 20’s or early 30’s with blocky black glasses and a goatee. His blonde hair is unruly and nearly touches his collar. He looks like a cross between a nerd and a hipster with his button up collared shirt and baggy carpenter pants. I wouldn’t be surprised to see a pocket protector, but there isn’t one. He steps out from behind the podium and now I can see he’s even wearing brown sandals. It’s January, and cold, yet this guy is wearing sandals while the rest of us are carrying jackets, hats, and there are even a few sets of gloves sitting on desks or peeking out of bags or pockets.
The unladylike snort from beside me should clue me in to who my seat mate is, but I’m still surprised when I look out of the corner of my eye to see Kat beside me, her pert nose still red from the cold air and her thick brown hair tumbling down past her shoulders, tangled from the wind, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She’s not looking at me. Her focus is on the syllabus in front of her. She has a highlighter in one hand, using it to organize the topics into upcoming tasks and things to remember. I start to speak, but the professor cuts me off with his next words.
“This class may be fun, but it’s not a game.” My head swivels back around at his tone. He’s back behind the podium, his fingers folded together as he leans forward to look at all of us, his eyes focused. “Look at the person to your right. That person will be your partner this semester for the project you’ll be doing on one aspect of Rock ’n Roll. We’ll get into that further in the coming weeks, but for now, introduce yourself to your partner and exchange contact details.” He continues to talk, but all I can concentrate on is the fact that the person to my right is Kat, and there’s no one on hers since she’s at the end of the aisle. I’m going to have to spend the entire semester working on a project with her? We’re going to kill each other by the end of the year. So much for gra
duating.
I lean towards her and say, “Looks like we’re going to have to pretend to get along … unless you’d rather do the project alone and put my name on it.” On second thought, that sounds like a fantastic option. I get the credit, she does all the work, and we don’t have to spend any time together. Win-win.
Four
Me do all the work? I don’t think so. I finally look up at him to see his blue eyes sparkle with mischief. He’s enjoying this entirely too much. “I’m not working with you.” Why would he think I would even consider it? Clay Mitchell has been making my life miserable since I was fourteen. I’m not tempted in the least to work alongside him. There has to be something I can do. “I’ll talk to Professor George after class and explain the situation to him. I’m sure he’ll work with us.” I sound a hundred times more confident than I am, but surely he’ll understand. He won’t force us to work together, right?
Clay laughs outright, clearly enjoying my discomfort, and I worry he’ll tell the professor he’s fine working with me just to make me uncomfortable. Jerk. I look away, unable to meet his laughing eyes, not wanting him to see just how much his presence is affecting me. I feel like I’m about to crawl out of my skin, I’m sitting stiff in my seat and trying my damnedest not to react to him. It’s just so hard. With Clay, it’s like he just knows exactly what to do or say to push every single button I have. My sister Anna thinks it’s hilarious, but, she would. She’s like the female equivalent to Max’s big brother. Loud, crass, and unapologetic.
The rest of class passes uneventfully and as soon as everyone begins to file out of the room, I pack up my stuff and head to the front where Professor George gathers papers and mutters to himself. Close up he looks even more odd than he did from the back of the room. He doesn’t notice me when I walk up beside him, and when I call his name, he jumps visibly. Clay snickers from behind me, and I close my eyes in frustration. I was hoping he would just leave like everyone else. It’s after four, so surely he has something better to do.
“Yes?” Professor George asks, looking between the two of us curiously. “What can I help you with?” He pauses and looks over at me expectantly.
I realize he’s waiting for me to give my name, but before I can, Clay speaks up. “Clay Mitchell,” he says, holding out a hand for the teacher to shake before gesturing to me. “And this is Katrina Fletcher.” My mouth drops open. I didn’t even realize he paid enough attention to know my last name. God knows he’s never used it.
“Professor George,” I start again, but he cuts me off with a smile.
“Call me Charlie, dear.”
I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from rolling my eyes at the condescending tone. He sounds like a grandfather instead of the not-much-older-than-his-class professor. “Right. Charlie. Well, Charlie, I know it’s only the first day of class and I don’t want to ask for any special treatment, but I need …” the last few words are rushed out “to change my partner for the project.” I mentally sigh in relief that I got them out without Clay interrupting, but he’s just grinning beside me, not a care in the world.
“Oh,” Professor George looks like he’s trying to figure out what to say. “Unfortunately, if I make an exception for you, I’ll have to make exceptions for everyone else as well. I just don’t have that kind of time. There would have to be an extremely good reason for requesting a change.” He looks at me expectantly. I know I don’t have a decent excuse. Saying I don’t want to partner with a lazy manwhore who will make me do ninety percent of the work isn’t going to be enough. I’m going to be stuck working with Clay all semester.
Stepping in front of me, Clay lowers his voice like he’s trying to save me from embarrassment and interrupts. “You see, sir,” he starts, his tone perfectly respectful, something I’ve never heard before. “Kat here has an enormous crush on me, and she’s just not sure she can handle us working so closely together without acting on her feelings.” He chuckles, and the professor laughs with him, but his laugh is far from comfortable. He almost sounds like he’s choking.
I literally see red, but I can’t act on my rage with the teacher here. No witnesses and all that. I couldn’t even if I wanted to because Professor George is responding and I have to step closer to hear him, so close I’m almost touching Clay’s back. “Yes, well, I see.” He won’t meet my eyes at all now.
Stepping forward and raising my voice so my point is clear, I add, “You know what, Professor, err, Charlie? I think Clay and I will be just fine. Don’t worry about it.” I smile at him, and he looks at my lips, not in a creepy, teacher/student romance novel way, but in an “I don’t want to embarrass her by looking her in the eye” way. Clay’s back stiffens as my smile widens. He doesn’t want to work with me any more than I want to work with him. He just doesn’t want to admit it. Bastard.
The professor looks back and forth between us, not sure what to say. I can tell he’s thinking, do I let them work together? Or, should I switch partners just in case? Clay clears his throat before agreeing with me. His voice is rough, like it hasn’t been used in a while, but he steps back so he’s beside me again and when he looks over at me, his eyes are full of all sorts of promises I don’t want to think about. This is so not going to end well.
“Okay, if you’re both sure,” Professor George says. “But,” he cautions, “I won’t give you another chance to change partners. It’s like marriage. Speak now or forever hold your peace. Once the project starts you won’t be able to switch.” We both nod and say we understand, but what I really want is to change my answer. I can’t though. I won’t give Clay that kind of satisfaction.
The professor turns away from us to finish packing his things, dismissing us both easily. Clay gestures for me to walk in front of him, and I’m almost afraid to. I wouldn’t put it past him to act like a twelve-year-old and put a “kick me” sign on my back. Although, with him, it would probably say something like “will give blowjobs for spare change” or “closet lesbian.” His sense of humor leaves a lot to be desired.
I walk fast, making sure I stay far enough ahead of him that he has no chance to touch me or smack one of the aforementioned signs on my back and almost trip down the steps leaving the building to look for Max. He doesn’t have a late class on Mondays, so he said he’d pick me up and we could go get dinner after my class. I wonder briefly if he knew his brother was going to be in my class, but dismiss the idea. If Max had known, he would have warned me.
When I get to the curb, Max is nowhere to be found. I pull my phone out of my pocket, but there are no texts, no missed calls, not even a chat message from him. Where is he? I know I’m not out here too early, especially after talking to Professor George. He should already be here. I look up and down the driveway between the building and the parking area where there are plenty of cars parked waiting for or dropping people off, but Max’s bright-orange Camaro isn’t among them. Surely, he didn’t forget me.
After a quick call that he doesn’t answer, I resign myself to the fact I’m going to have to walk back to my dorm and either get Becca to take me to his apartment or wait for him to realize he didn’t pick me up and come groveling for forgiveness. I smile a little at that thought, because he’ll feel awful and I’ll get a free dinner out of the deal, so it’s not all bad.
“Little brother forgot about you?” Hearing his voice again makes me grit my teeth in annoyance. I stare straight ahead, shoving my phone back into my pocket and crossing my arms over my chest. I refuse to give him any attention after what just happened. When he realizes I’m not going to respond, he sighs. “C’mon, let me give you a ride. Max probably just fell asleep or something.”
He reaches for my elbow, and I jerk out of his reach. “No, that’s okay. I’ll just go back to my room and wait for him. He’ll probably be there by the time I get there.”
Clay makes a noise in his throat, but I’m not sure if he’s agreeing with me or not. “Or, you could just come with me and yell at him sooner.” “You know you want to,�
�� he continues to cajole me. “Just think how bad he’s going to feel knowing you had to bum a ride from me. When you finally forgive him, he’ll be ready to promise you anything. Hell, that assmunch will probably give you his car if you want it.” He bumps shoulders with me, a hopeful grin on his face.
I can’t stop the answering grin that crosses mine. “Please, like anyone would want the Great Pumpkin.” My face flames as soon as the words leave my mouth. I clap my hands over it like it’s enough to bring them back, but it’s too late. Ohmigod! I’ve never told anyone my secret name for Max’s car. He’s going to kill me if he finds out.
Clay doubles over laughing, muttering, “Great Pumpkin. Holy shit, that’s funny. Great Pumpkin!” I’ve never seen him laugh so hard. He’s almost in tears. Once he calms himself down, he looks over at me, a huge smile on his face. “That’s classic. I can’t wait to see his face when I tell him what you call his precious baby.”
“No!” I shriek, dropping my hands from my mouth and holding them out towards him. “Clay. Seriously. You can’t tell him! He’d be so mad. You have to promise. Please! I’ll do anything!” Shit! I didn’t mean to say that.
Clay looks over at me, his grin even wider. I didn’t think it could get bigger than it already was. “Anything? Hmm, that could be interesting.”
He looks like he’s considering his options, so I hurry to clarify, “Anything that isn’t sexual, illegal or immoral.” Clay’s face falls, and swear to God, he pouts.
“Well, you’re no fun.”
I roll my eyes. “No, I’m just not stupid and I don’t want to end up expelled or in jail or the health clinic because you gave me the Clap.”
“The Clap?!” Clay puts a hand over his heart, gasping like he’s wounded. “I can’t believe you’d think that of me, Kitty Kat. I always, always wrap my guy. No STD’s here.” He runs his hand down his stomach, resting it on the button of his jeans as he leers at me. “Don’t be shy, little kitten. If you want to see, you just have to ask.”
