Give You Up (Dumas University Book 1)

by Ashlyn Mathews

  Our friends, Gwen, Arie, and Ever have lovingly nicknamed us Yin and Yang, though Arie Kim’s hair is as dark as Riley Lee’s.

  “What if our friendship with her goes south and she decides to send her brothers after us?”

  Why am I concerned? The guy I hang out with might have committed a horrible crime, though for the life of him, he cannot remember that godawful night.

  “Are you thinking it will?”

  “No,” I concede. “We made a pact freshman year. We ride together. We die together.”

  Riley smiles. Bites down on her lower lip. “God, that’s the dumbest line, but it sounds so cool when the dirty trio says it.”

  The “dirty trio” would be Xander Brody, Zeke Harrington and Galley Rutherford, three of the hottest rugby players.

  “Isn’t that the truth.”

  “Anywho”—Riley hands me my latte—“Gwen’s brothers’ troubles have nothing to do with my bet with her. I made it to see who spends more time with you. Obviously, Gwen does.”

  I would tell Riley she is more than welcome to hang out with me more, but I understand the reason she doesn’t. It has to do with a guy she has history with dating back to when they were teenagers.

  Where my friend Dare is—which is with me for the majority of his time—his cousin, Midnight, is guaranteed to be close by.

  Riley rings up my purchase. “Her brothers are scum of the earth, but Gwen has a heart of gold.”

  She does. Gwen keeps my cupboard well-stocked with her family’s yummy lavender tea and doesn’t ask for a dime, though I’ve offered to pay her good money I don’t have much of. Instead, we came to a compromise. Tea in exchange for piano lessons. Someday, the lessons will come in handy for my sweet friend.

  Riley hands me the romance paperback that has seen good reading days. The pages are generously earmarked, and there are coffee stains on the pages when I flip through them. God, I hope those are coffee stains. I stick the book inside my backpack.

  “Forget what I said. And don’t you dare tell her I questioned you speaking with her. She’s my friend, too, and I don’t want her feelings hurt.”

  Gwen, like Riley, is sensitive when it comes to talking about her family. It’s something we have in common.

  “You have to admit gray eyes and white hair isn’t a common mix.”

  I lean into the counter and bat my mascara-laden eyelashes. “Look close enough and you’ll see they’re bluish-gray.”

  Riley narrows her eyes. “Are you coming on to me, Syn? You know I like dick, right?”

  “Yeah, Midnight’s.” I give her a sly grin.

  She makes a rude noise under her breath.

  “Fess up. You have a thing for His Royal Hotness.”

  Midnight is a year older. Riley won’t go into the details of life growing up in the town of Cambridge with Midnight other than he failed his senior year of high school on purpose so that he could graduate with Riley. If that’s not true love or a bad case of obsession, I don’t know what is.

  That juicy tidbit got me all sorts of curious, but I kept my mouth shut. The topic of Midnight is sensitive, and I understand the need to avoid sensitive topics such as our hearts and the guys who have broken them. Or bring up guys who have the status and the money to ruin our lives with.

  Midnight is that kind of guy. He and his family are beyond rich and are also one of the original founding families of Dumas.

  Who names their kid Midnight? Or Dare? Apparently the Sterlings do.

  But who am I to judge? My mother named me Syn, pronounced like the word sin but with a “y.”

  “He’s not royalty,” Riley grumbles.

  “His Highness of Dumas. Prince Midnight Sterling. And next in line to the throne is his hot-as-sin cousin, Prince Dare Sterling.” I step back from the counter and roll my arm, giving Riley a huge grin.

  She shakes her head and smiles back.

  “Syn, I love you.”

  “And here you thought you dig dick.”

  “I do. Just not Midnight’s.”

  The girl is in denial.

  “Can I ask you another question before you head to class?”

  “Sure.” It’s the first day of school.

  “Did it hurt when you got your piercings? What’s it like kissing a guy when you have a lip ring? Do guys like it?”

  “Heck yeah it did. Better than without one. Never bothered asking. That’s three questions.”

  “Syn.”

  “Are you thinking of getting one?” I run the tip of my tongue over the seafoam green ring hugging the middle of my bottom lip.

  “I am. Why’d you do it? Did you get them done at the same time? I mean, when we met freshman year, you had all your piercings.”

  Dainty silver nose ring. Right brow piercing, the two balls a metallic deep purple, my favorite color.

  “Freedom. Rebellion. I got the piercings at separate times. Lip first, then my nose and brow.”

  “Bottom to top.”

  “Yep.” I hand her a five-dollar bill for the book and my latte.

  Riley doesn’t take my money. She grasps my hand and skims her fingertips over my rings. “And these? Do they mean something?”

  “Why would you think that?” I slip my hand out of hers and set the bill on the counter.

  “If the piercings do, then the rings do too.”

  “One listen. One chance. One wish.”

  There is no harm in telling her. The rings began as a way of defusing a certain someone’s temper.

  “If I give someone all three rings at once, that person can ask for anything and I won’t refuse.”

  “Have you ever done that?”

  “Yes,” I admit.

  “Who?”

  “I’m not telling, Riley.”

  “When?”

  “When I was seventeen, okay?” God, she can be so persistent.

  The door behind me opens, and the bell above it rings. I glance over my shoulder. The only other customer in Lee’s Used Bookstore has left the building. One of these days, Riley will have to admit defeat and close her absentee mom’s shop. Or change up the dying business in order to stay open.

  Ringing. Bell. I glance at the clock on the wall. Ten minutes to nine. Crap.

  “I gotta go, Riley.”

  I am to the door when the pleading in Riley’s voice stops me.

  “Syn, are you still doing that favor for me tonight? I understand if you say no. I know how you feel about jocks.”

  I am not a fan, and there will be a lot of them at Galley’s welcome-to-the-college-grind party. Galley and his themed party. I can imagine what will be happening after the alcohol flows and the clothes come off. Galley “filthy-mouthed” Rutherford doesn’t just throw the wildest parties. He is also hot, filthy rich, and has the sex drive of a rabbit in heat, minus the incest.

  “Of course I’m good for the favor,” I tell her.

  “Someday you’ll get tired of helping me out. Or you’ll tell me to stop.”

  “It’s not happening. If I did, you’d go into a funk and I’d have to encourage you to pick up the habit again. To avoid that, I’ll continue doing you a solid.”

  Doing you a solid? Good god, I have been hanging around Dare for too long.

  “Thanks, Syn. What will you do if you get caught?”

  “I’ll say I’m returning Riot’s jersey. That he gave it to me on loan.”

  Riot O’Sullivan. Six foot one. Lean, athletic build. Pitch-black hair. Intense green eyes. Washboard abs he likes to show off to anyone who wants to admire them, which is ninety-nine percent of the female student body.

  Riley’s brows pinch together. “Riot doesn’t live there. Only Zeke and Xander live with Galley.”

  “Crap, I forgot you burglarized the wrong house.” Curious, I ask, “What point were you trying to make this time?”

  “That Riot has leftover feelings for Arie. I went through his closet to find a memento. Instead—”

  “You realized too late you were at the wrong
house but had to take something anyway.”

  She hangs her head. “Caught.”

  She won’t talk about how she got this compulsion for thievery other than it’s something left over from her past.

  “Whose jersey am I returning?”

  “Zeke’s. Are you sure, Syn? If you have second thoughts, I’m more than capable of doing it myself.”

  “And have you miss out on your shift at Shades? Uh-uh. I’ve got this, okay? I have your back, always.”

  It’s about more than Riley missing work and making a decent wage. Every time Riley steals, she is remorseful. When she returns the items, she is more remorseful and will mope for days.

  A moping Riley is not fun to be around. Riley moping gets Midnight grouchy. A grouchy Midnight is not great to work for. This snowball effect is the reason I return the items for her. Less drama for all involved.

  I hurry to class, waving to Riley as I bump the door open with my butt. Riley and Dare would make a great couple if she weren’t hung up on Midnight. Being hung up on a guy is the story of my life too.

  Not being able to address those feelings head-on? It’s another thing I have in common with Riley.

  4

  Syn

  My breaths come out in spurts. A sheen of sweat coats my forehead. I yank open the door and hurry inside the lecture hall.

  Every seat is taken except for one. Just my luck, the seat epitomizes the word middle. Middle of the room. Middle row. Situated smack dab in the middle of two hulking jocks. They are wearing their football jerseys.

  I make my way down the middle aisle and stop in front of the row of seats. For an elective, this class is full. Holding my backpack to my chest, I sidestep my way to the empty seat.

  This is the reason I dislike showing up to class late, but chatting it up with my friend is worth it.

  “Excuse me. Pardon me.”

  I keep my voice low, but my words rise above the professor’s lecture. She gives me the stink-eye, and I have to hand it to her. She doesn’t miss a beat in her lecture about the mating habits of beetles.

  If it were me up there, I would not be able to keep a straight face. Yep, I signed up for an elective class called “The Reproductive Health of Living Creatures.”

  As I scoot my way over, my face heats knowing the students behind me have a view of my butt and sweat-dampened sweatshirt. Beads of sweat roll down my neck and back. I up my pace.

  It is difficult to do when I’m avoiding the other students’ feet while clutching my backpack with one hand and holding the coffee cup with the other.

  Not to mention I have this urge to swipe at the pieces of hair falling over my eye. I am also discreetly sniffing myself, having forgotten to put on deodorant. When I woke up this morning, I was optimistic I would find a great used romance book and I would not be making a sweat-inducing mad dash to my first class.

  Wishful thinking.

  Almost there.

  I pass one of the football players and am near the seat when he sticks out his foot and trips me. I recognize him instantly by the color of his hair. Bleach blond and the spiky tips dyed black. Has no one informed Terrance Hardin he resembles a beached killer whale? They haven’t because Terrance is a jock, and jocks are gods around here.

  Everything happens in slow motion. Falling sideways, I twist my body. I’m not sure why. My butt is facing the empty seat. All I have to do is fall into it.

  Instead, I do this twisting motion. It unseats the cup from my grip. The cup goes flying and hits the guy sitting on the other side of the empty seat. The lid comes off. Coffee splatters the front of his football jersey. I want to cover my eyes, but the sharp glint in his challenges me to acknowledge his presence in Dumas.

  God, could my last year of college get off to a worse start? And why did I run my mouth off to the shaved ice lady that I go to DU? Oh, it’s because I didn’t think the universe was out to get me, putting my ex in earshot of my conversation.

  Damn him for transferring to DU and upending my life, starting with having the same elective.

  “I’m sorry.” I drop my backpack on the floor and sit, and yanking off my sweatshirt, I dab at his jersey.

  He edges away from me. “I’ve got this. Thanks.”

  He is casual, almost apologetic, when I’m the one who spilled coffee on a symbol of his status at DU? His demeanor toward me is confusing. With how I left him four years ago—shocked, hurt, and pissed—I am expecting Taron to be terse.

  Giving me a slow perusal, from my skin-tight blue jeans to my royal-blue tank top, Taron rises from his seat, grabs his backpack and the coffee cup, and walks out of the classroom.

  The girl next to him follows him out. I slouch in my seat and cross my arms, refusing to fan my face from his intense checking out of my body. Or shield my face from the other students’ stares.

  Since arriving at DU, I have done my best to construct a drama-free, predictable, and structured life for myself. The over-planning and avoiding drama are my way of dealing with my mom’s end-of-life surprises. In a nutshell, our life, my life, was built on lies. Then she died and I was left with more questions than answers. Her leaving me permanently also left me feeling hurt and angry and without closure.

  That must be what Taron felt when I left Mossy Rock without an explanation. But he cannot be in Dumas strictly for me.

  5

  Taron

  “Taron, Taron, wait up.”

  I face the girl who started latching on to me the moment I asked if I could rest my arm on the armrest between us. I am a big guy and take up a lot of space. Any arm room and leg room are prime real estate.

  “What can I do you for?” I yank the coffee-stained jersey off and stuff it in my backpack. Straightening, I find her staring at my chest.

  She licks her lips. “Um, are you going to Galley Rutherford’s party tonight?”

  “Yeah, my roommates and I will be there.”

  “That’s great. Hopefully, we can find somewhere quiet to get to know one another.”

  Getting to know her beyond the party and class isn’t in the books, but I don’t tell her that.

  “That’s a plan. Cool. See you . . .” I wait for her to give me her name again. She doesn’t disappoint.

  “Lily.”

  “See you tonight, Lily.”

  She smiles big and hurries back inside the classroom. I hitch my backpack higher on my shoulder and jog over to my pickup truck. The girls ogle my torso. I smile but don’t do much else, like stopping for their number or an invite to their place for a quickie. I am not here for them.

  One girl has never left my mind, and damn it, Syn is looking mighty fine. Badass, too, with her piercings. I also dig her short haircut. It’s what my mom would lovingly call a pixie cut.

  Her changed appearance is different from the wholesome, shy girl who stomped on my heart before leaving town without a word to me. Syn leaving me in pieces changed me for the worst.

  Dad’s been harping on me to clean up my act. I will when he is good for his word. And Mom? She looks at me with sad eyes after hearing of my latest fuck-up.

  She doesn’t understand why I get into fights on and off the field. Or why I cannot commit for shit to a girl. If I did, I would have to give up a girl’s secret as well as my dad’s, and their secrets are not mine to tell.

  At my truck, I hit the unlock button on my key fob, open the door, and toss my backpack on the seat before climbing inside.

  On the drive over to the house for a replacement shirt, I mull over what happened in class. I expected to run into Syn on campus sooner rather than later, but I never thought we would have a class together. Or that our first contact since Bayside would be her spilling coffee on me.

  Had the stain come from a different coed, I would have trashed the jersey, but from Syn? The jersey will have a dedicated spot on the wall across from my bed.

  It will be the first and last thing I see every morning and night, a harsh reminder of why I gave up everything in the name of closur
e.

  6

  Syn

  After I am done with my classes for the day, I rush to the school library, ready to start my shift.

  “Wait, what do you mean my position was given to someone else? Is that possible? How come I’m hearing of this now? Why didn’t you get ahold of me sooner? I can’t believe I’ll be working with the football team.”

  I slump in the seat across from my boss.

  “Syn, it’s not the end of the world.”

  Easy for her to say. She is not the one who will be in proximity to her ex. “Grr.”

  “Syn?”

  I blow out a breath. “I don’t understand. Am I being punked? Or did you get me into a secret audition for an episode of the Twilight Zone?”

  I tip forward, and resting my elbows on her desk, I prop my chin on the heels of my palms and implore her with my eyes to please explain how I am in this mess. I get decent grades, I’m an exemplary employee, and I’m not a habitual partier. God, I am boring.

  Cindy does not lose her poker face.

  “Syn, I’m sorry, dear. Please make your way to the team’s practice.”

  “Where would that be?”

  “Um, the stadium.”

  “Where is that? I’ve never set foot in the place.”

  “Never?” Her poker face slips, and her expression can only be described as aghast.

  I rest back against my chair and stretch out my short legs, and with my hands clasped over my chest, I mutter, “I hate football.”

  “Oh, dear, I am so sorry to hear that.”

  You would think with all the “oh, dears,” Cindy is older. She’s not. She is a divorcee in her early thirties. No children. One pet, a corgi. I corgi-sit when Cindy spends the weekends with her grandmother in Alexandria, a city two hours from Dumas.

  “What will you do with Primrose—” Primie is what I call her— “if I have to travel with the team?”

  That’s my guess. A guess that is giving me hives. They are erupting on my neck, chest, and arms. I rummage in my backpack for the bottle of antihistamines. Finding it, I pop a pill in my mouth and follow it with a big swallow of water from the water bottle I keep in the side pocket.