Nothing But Trouble (Malibu University Series)

by P. Dangelico

  Reagan turns off the engine and plants his forehead on the steering wheel in between his hands, the knuckles pale. “I shouldn’t have taken you. It was stupid and selfish of me.”

  “Stop that. I made the decision to come along and I’m glad I did. Your brother is sweet.”

  He snorts. “Yeah, real sweet.”

  “How did it happen? The cut. God, it looked awful and painful.”

  “They couldn’t give him any painkillers while they stitched him up because he’s a known substance abusers,” he tells me, his voice dull and distant. “A lot of them will injure themselves to get drugs.” A shiver runs up my back. “He was trying to stop some guys from raping a girl he knows. That’s how he got cut.”

  The air gets caught in my lungs, pain and sympathy pool in my gut. “Oh my God. Poor Brian. And the girl, is she okay?”

  “For now. He was anxious to get back to her. That’s why I signed him out.”

  I nod absently while the question I’m dying to ask hangs on my lips. “Do you think he’ll show up at the clinic on Thursday?”

  He still won’t look at me. His breathing gets harsh. He sucks in deep breaths of air and expels them loudly. It’s then I realize he’s trying not to cry. With the heel of his palm, he starts pounding on the steering wheel, slams his body against the back of his seat, and tips his chin up to stare blindly into the cloudy night sky.

  “I don’t know,” he croaks. “Honestly? No. I don’t think he will.” The truth comes out slowly, painfully. His throat works. The muscle along the sharp cut of his jaw twitches.

  I reach over, slide my hand up his shoulder, grip his neck, hot to the touch, alive under my fingertips, and bring him into my arms. He comes easily, hiding his face and sorrow on my shoulder, his arms banding around me in a crushing grip.

  I pet his back and let him ride it out on the curve of my neck, all that anguish he’s packed down over the years surging up at once. It’s not fair. He shouldn’t be carrying all the responsibility of his brother’s welfare by himself. His parents are assholes. That goes without saying.

  The cotton of my long sleeve shirt is damp when he pulls away. Then in one smooth motion, before I can see it coming, he cups my face between his large rough hands and leans down. His warm lips touch mine. It’s soft and gentle, a question instead of a command. And when I don’t object, he kisses me again with more conviction. With urgency that speaks of a stolen moment that may never come around again.

  I’m in shock. I’m lost in him. I’m thrilled. My joy climbs so high it is destined to end with a brutally hard landing. I know this. I do. But I want it so badly that I willingly ignore the voice in the back of my mind telling me that he’s hurting and alone. That it’s only natural to want to celebrate life, to feel something good, something tangible that connects us to another living being when we’re faced with our own fragility. That voice urges me to pull away, to stop him. But I don’t get the chance because he does it for me.

  “I’m sorry. Fuck. I’m sorry, Alice.” For a moment his lips hover over mine, unsure whether to stay or go.

  Stay. Please stay.

  How do I tell him that I’m not sorry? That I want his sweet, soft kisses again and again. That I want kisses that are not so sweet too. All that and so much more from him.

  He sits back in his seat and rubs his face. His lashes, still wet, glisten in the flood of light from the overhead streetlamp. “Please tell me we’re okay. I can’t lose you. Did I fuck this up again?”

  “It’s okay. You’re upset…” I reassure, giving him the cover that his pained expression and voice are asking of me. “It was just…”

  For the first time since we left the hospital, he turns to squarely meet my eyes. “A mistake,” he finishes for me, consequently driving a stake through my heart.

  “Right…” I get out of the Jeep. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  I’m halfway to the door when I hear, “Alice.” I turn and find him chewing on his bottom lip. “Thank you”

  “No need for that.”

  “You are…” He gives me a funny, frustrated look, shakes his head. “Sorry. Thank you.”

  Big Deal: a nude beach?

  By now, these random texts are no longer cryptic.

  Me: Do I have to go full-on nude, or can I start topless and ease into it?

  Big Deal: …

  Big Deal: …

  Big Deal: you can ease into it.

  Me: Then, yeah, why not.

  Big Deal: you’re full of surprises.

  Me: Good ones?

  Big Deal: great ones.

  In the days that follow, our friendship is back on track. Even though there’s a marked carefulness in the way he treats me that did not exist before. We both seemed to have recovered from the kiss without injury. Well, at least I pretend to have recovered. In reality, I’m living in a constant state of frustration and longing for more.

  I had a friend in high school who liked to enter sweepstake contests. Anything that had a prize attached, she would enter. She won once. An all-expense-paid trip to London which included a first-class plane ticket and a four-night stay at a five-star hotel.

  Her mother was a single parent who worked in a department store. Not only was it her first time out of the country, but it was also her first time out of the state. When she returned I asked her how it went. I expected her to be over the moon, regaling me with details sure to turn me gecko green with envy. Instead, she said it was terrible and depressing, that winning the trip was the worst thing that had ever happened to her. Up until that point, she’d been happy with vacations at the Jersey shore. Her life had been complete, fulfilling. The trip showed her what she was missing out on. She said she wished she’d never gone.

  That’s what kissing Reagan is to me. My imagination didn’t even begin to do the reality of it justice. And now I’m stuck knowing two things. The first is that nothing and no one will ever compare, and the second is that he’ll never be interested in me as anything other than a friend. I was a mistake, a lapse in judgment because he was feeling vulnerable.

  Chapter 20

  Alice

  “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?” Reagan asks as soon as I answer my phone. It’s the third time he’s asked me this same question in the last two weeks. I’m seriously tempted to say I’m busy even though I’m lying in bed, staring aimlessly out the window into a cloudless blue sky.

  I couldn’t afford to go home and Aunt Peg and Wheels hit the road. They’re in Vegas. I declined their invitation to go with them. He knows this. He also knows I turned down Dora’s invitation to go to San Diego and have Thanksgiving with her family. He knows Zoe’s in Cabo with her mother, and Blake went to New York to visit her sister. He knows all those things because we spend way too much time together. Neither of us voices out loud that two people who aren’t dating shouldn’t be spending every spare minute together but he hasn’t brought it up, so why should I.

  “Reading.”

  “Good. You’re coming with.”

  “Where?”

  “To my parents’ for Thanksgiving dinner.”

  He said he wasn’t sure whether he was going. He didn’t want to deal with his father riding him about bailing Brian out again. Apparently the hospital had contacted his parents that night and they had refused to get involved. Nice, right?

  Brian never did show up the following Thursday at the clinic. Even worse, Reagan didn’t seem at all surprised or upset by it. He said he’s been disappointed so many times it doesn’t even smart anymore.

  “No––”

  “I’m picking you up in twenty minutes,” he says, speaking over me.

  There is no way I’m going to Dr. and Dr. Reynolds’s house of horrors in Beverly Hills. No way. I don’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out it’ll turn into a disaster. “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “Reagan––”

  “Alice––”

  I fight the smile pulling my lips apart. “I’m really in
to this book.”

  That’s a lie. A stone-cold lie. I’m really not. Not even a little bit. My mind has been wandering for hours. Turning onto my side, I stare at the contents of my open closet with trepidation. There’s nothing in there even remotely appropriate. “And I don’t feel like getting dressed.”

  And that’s the truth. The God’s honest truth. The last thing I want to do is attend a fancy dinner with Reagan’s uptight parents. “I was going to order Chinese takeout and watch Elf.”

  “Great fucking movie.”

  “Twinsies. You can watch it with me.” My voice ends on a high note, hoping that he’ll drop it. My hope is thin, however. I’ve learned the hard way that Reagan has the tenacity of my cousin Marie’s rescue Chihuahua, Liberace. You can’t play fetch with that dog ’cause he––like Reagan––won’t let the damn bone go.

  “After we get back from my parents’.”

  Deep, heavy sigh. I can already see the writing on the wall. “I don’t have anything to wear and your parents will hate me.” Jumping out of bed, I tuck the phone between my shoulder and ear and rifle through all three possible options. All of which are black.

  “They won’t hate you.” I don’t fail to notice that he says nothing else to assure me of a warm welcome. “I can’t deal with them right now. Not alone. I just…” Trailing off, he takes a deep breath. His exhaustion is so palpable it’s coming through the phone and it pains me. I can’t even fathom dreading spending time with my parents. “…can’t. I need you. I’m asking you as my friend.”

  Straight to the heart. His words hit me straight in the heart muscle. That sweet voice asking me to be there for him spells game over for me. I’m a goner. I can’t say no to him. Not now and, I suspect, not ever––a fact he never needs to know.

  “Give me thirty minutes.” My voice dies on the last vowel. I sound like a total downer. I know I do, and yet it can’t be helped. I’ve heard enough about his parents to be legit terrified of those people.

  They gave up on their son, wrote him off like he was a bad investment they needed to dump. Who does that? Who gives up on their son when he’s battling an addiction? And two doctors, no less. I think of all the times my parents have bent over backwards to help me when they had nothing to give, and it leaves me cold and so very grateful. If those people have no sympathy for their own son, what could they possibly think of me?

  “I’ll text when I’m outside,” he answers, suddenly perky.

  “Yeah. Fine.”

  Reagan

  It’s not fair to ask Alice to play buffer between me and my parents. I know it’s not, but what happened with Brian is still weighing heavily on me and I’m in no shape to fend off my father today. Two, possibly three uninterrupted hours of him trying to bully me into choosing surgery are coming my way and I don’t want this to be the day he finally pushes me over the edge. She keeps me centered, makes me feel like everything isn’t spinning out of control. Even when it is.

  I texted Alice a minute ago and didn’t get a reply. I’m about to jump out of the Jeep and knock on her door when she steps out.

  Ho-ly-shit.

  I push my shades up to the top of my head to get a better look while Alice wraps one arm across her body and grips the opposite elbow––something she does when she’s nervous, I’ve noticed. She rolls her eyes and the pale skin on her cheeks turns pink.

  “Looking good, Jersey.”

  Her dress is not really showing any skin. Sexy isn’t the way I’d describe it. It’s black and sleeveless and falls right above her knees. But it grips her curves the way I’d like to grip her…

  Better not go there. Maybe this was a bad idea. I’m full of them lately. Like that godforsaken kiss. Probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. It even tops letting Dallas talk me and the rest of the team into posing nude for a calendar that raised funds for an animal shelter he supports. I spent thousands of dollars trying to scrub that picture off the Internet. I’ll never forget that phone call from my father.

  “Why am I staring at a picture of your hairless balls?”

  No greeting. Straight for the throat. He’d caught one of the nurses on his floor looking at it on her phone. It would’ve gone over real well with medical school admissions officers too. This is much worse than that.

  Imagining kissing Alice is one thing. Actually knowing what her soft, pillowy lips feel like is another. Way to torture myself. Every night since then I’ve fallen asleep with my dick in my hand and thoughts of those lips everywhere else. And that one kiss is going to have to suffice because she didn’t seem to be affected at all. Took it all in stride, telling me it only happened because I was upset.

  Bullshit.

  I knew exactly what I was doing. And screwed everything up in the process. All that one kiss did was whet my appetite. I want more now, so much more, and I don’t know how to get out of the box I put myself in.

  Pushing her chin-length dark hair behind her ear, she gives me a shy smile that speaks directly to my balls. They draw up tight. Then my dick gets involved, trying to wave back. Thank God these pants have pleats.

  After adjusting my khakis, I jump out of the driver’s seat and go to open her door. My father might be an asshole, but he’s an asshole with manners and he forced those manners on both my brother and me. She gets in and buckles up while I slide behind the wheel without once taking my eyes off of her.

  “Is this okay?” she asks as she tugs on the hem of the dress.

  It’s pretty obvious she’s uncomfortable so I make it a point to check out the dress, the hair, the shoes. She’s wearing flats. “Perfect.”

  She smirks and looks ahead.

  Alice isn’t my usual type. I date girls that like to do what I do. Hang out at the beach, surf, play beach volleyball. I date beach bunnies and athletes. Not girls that prefer to be indoors and hide from the sun.

  But damn if she hasn’t changed what my type is.

  Alice

  Wearing a crisp white dress shirt, tapered navy slacks, and driving loafers, Reagan looks like he stepped out of an IG male model feed. He’s so jaw-dropping handsome I’m trying not to stare. Or drop a jaw. And especially extra mortifying, I’m pretty sure I look concussed.

  I take circumspect inventory of what I’m wearing and suddenly determine I look like I’m wearing a Halloween costume. My black sleeveless jersey dress and my black ballerinas have always been my go-to outfit when I’m in New York and need to go somewhere that requires something other than my ripped skinny jeans. I thought I was okay. I thought I looked good…I don’t think that any more.

  “Are you sure this outfit is okay?” I tug on the high neckline, which is presently feeling like a noose around my neck.

  “It’s great,” he says, smiling.

  “Great if I were trying to look like Wednesday Adams? That kind of great, or just great in general?”

  Am I fishing for a compliment? Maybe. My ego is going to need the boost if I have to stand next to him all day.

  Reagan’s green smiling eyes meet my worry-filled ones. “Just great.” He reaches over and squeezes my thigh. It happens so quickly had anyone else done it I probably wouldn’t have noticed.

  Except––it’s Reagan.

  Which means the feeling is exponentially more meaningful. To me, that is. I’ll probably spend the next hour dissecting this action ad nauseum whereas he couldn’t be more oblivious to it. He must’ve sensed me stiffen because he side-eyes me briefly. The look on his face tells me he’s wondering why I’m acting so strangely.

  “Who will be at your parents’ house?” I inquire, anything to distract him from this growing awkwardness between us.

  “Some family friends. Maybe the Richardsons…I’m not sure––” He glances my way again and a frown forms on his face. “Is that okay?”

  Before I can put a stop to it, the truth inadvertently spills out. “I’m always okay when I’m with you.” And the second I realize how it sounds, I flush red-hot, embarrassment crawling all over me at
the prospect of being found out.

  On the edge of my vision, I see Reagan’s head come around. Stare locked on to my profile, expression indecipherable. In the meantime, I do everything to avoid eye contact. And being the good guy that he is, he doesn’t press me on the matter.

  Chapter 21

  Reagan

  This was selfish of me. The closer we get to my parents’ house on Roxbury Dr. the more I realize it, the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach growing stronger as the miles shrink.

  We pull in the driveway of the restored 1930s Spanish-style house I grew up in and glance over in time to catch Alice’s eyes widen and her lips part as she takes it all in.

  “Wow,” she whispers.

  A massive explosion of bougainvillea vines in every shade of pink and coral carpet the front of the house, covering the white stucco all the way to the red tiled roof.

  “It took them years to fix it up.”

  “I wish I’d brought my camera.”

  Eyeing the Jaguar parked next to the detached six-car garage, I say, “My parents’ friends are here. I used to date their daughter in high school.”

  Alice examines my face. “Oh, okay…right,” she begins awkwardly. It’s then I realize my mistake. “Are you uncomfortable having me here with them?”

  “No!” bursts out of me. “Jesus. No. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable if they bring Jordan’s name up. Both our parents were pushing for more and they have a tendency to harp on about it.”

  “Rea, the only people that can make me feel uncomfortable or hurt my feelings are the ones I care about.” She gives me a pointed look, no doubt referring to my dick move in front of the shady guy. “I’ll be fine.”