Redemption (Cambria University #2)

by Sadie T. Williams

  “Like I need that,” he huffs as he opens his book. “Except with you.”

  His admission sends the butterflies in my stomach into a frenzy. Has he really thought about what it would take to get me into bed? He’s really only ever talked to me about tutoring him. Those stupid butterflies really want me to strip him down and trace that treasure trail with my tongue.

  Holy crapsticks, what is happening? I’ve never thought this way before, and it’s hard to fight the urge to just throw myself at him as he sprawls out on his bed again.

  Even though Donovan is rude and projects an intimidating façade, there is more to him. He’s deeply scarred like I am. I can sense it and I can hear it in his words and see it in his actions. He pushes people away so they don’t see what’s really inside.

  Now, I need to know more.

  Chapter 18: Donovan

  Maisy starts explaining F. Scott Fitzgerald’s masterpiece in great detail. She goes into every nuance of the stupid book and why it was important to literature. If her voice wasn’t so alluring, I would be bored out of my fucking mind. It has a sexy, raspy tone to it.

  Maisy’s phone keeps pinging and she keeps looking at it.

  “I’m sorry,” she repeats every time it goes off.

  “Is that your boyfriend?” I finally ask. Maybe that’s why she is hesitant to go out with me.

  “No,” she replies with no further explanation.

  “Can you please tell him to stop, so I can concentrate? I’m paying for this, remember?” I feign annoyance.

  “I did,” she retorts. “He doesn’t listen.” At least she confirmed it’s a dude texting her.

  By the time her phone pings for the hundredth time, I’m actually fed up. I grab it from her hand after she unlocks it.

  “Hey!” She tries to reach for it. My arms are way longer and she gives up when she realizes her efforts are futile.

  Some guy named Bates is repeatedly texting her that he misses her and can’t stop thinking about their night on the beach. Fuck me. The thought of Maisy naked on the beach makes me hard. These stupid sport shorts aren’t going to hide that, so I grab a pillow to cover myself.

  She didn’t lie. Her response to all of his bullshit is “can’t talk now,” “working,” “stop, I need to focus,” “I will call you later.”

  I type and Maisy’s face looks nervous. I hit send and hand her the phone back. She looks at the message and snorts.

  “This is Maisy’s job. I’m 6’2” and currently raging from the constant interruptions. Stop texting her until she’s done working or I will come there and break your fucking fingers so you are unable to text or jerk off ever again.”

  Her snort makes me start laughing. Which makes her start laughing harder. I laugh so hard my stomach starts to hurt. I don’t know the last time I laughed so hard.

  “Stop now,” she says as she catches her breath from laughing.

  “That should shut lover boy up, yeah?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  By the time we get to (spoiler alert) Gatsby’s death, it’s almost one in the morning. That actually was less painful than I thought. We laughed a lot and in between discussing the book we talked. Like really talked. She’s so funny, and so very smart, and I enjoyed hanging out with her. Get a fucking grip, Blake.

  Maisy stretches and yawns. Her t-shirt tightens and outlines her tits as she does it and I can’t help but stare at them.

  “Well, Donovan, I think you’ve got Gatsby down. Not so bad, right?”

  “I guess. Not sure why he was so pussy-whipped over Daisy. She’s a cunt.” I shrug.

  “Please, don’t use either of those words in your essay.” She laughs again.

  “So, Maisy, tell me about yourself. Where you are from and all that shit?” I make a desperate attempt to keep her here longer. We’ve been talking all night and having fun, but it was nothing of substance. I want to know more. Dig deeper. She’s a bet, you moron. But, I’m just taking Rhodes' advice and getting to know her, I tell myself. Sure you are.

  “I’m from California,” is all she replies.

  “Did you transfer from like USC or something?”

  “Sort of. I’m actually eighteen. I just graduated in May.”

  WHAT?? She’s a freshman? “So, how are you in the upper-level lit class?”

  “Cuz I’m a genius.” She smiles.

  “No shit. Well I picked the right tutor.” I lean up on my elbows, flexing my biceps. She glances at them. There is hope.

  “So, next time we’ll start Pride and Prejudice. That one may take more than one night. It’s much more complicated than Gatsby.”

  “Sounds wonderful,” I deadpan. I’m actually looking forward to the next session though. “But really, you’re eighteen?”

  “Yeah, I took my junior and senior year at UCLA. I had a lot of credits transfer.” She shrugs like it isn’t a big deal.

  “So, tell me more. Like who is the douche boots who kept texting you during my session?” I say as I lean back on my pillows and tuck my arms behind my head. I catch her checking out my biceps again. I flex them and she quickly darts her gaze away. She’s giving me more and more flashes that maybe I’m her type after all.

  “Bates is one of my best friends from back home,” she says as an explanation for his texts, but the content suggests otherwise. I let it go for now, but I plan to revisit this Bates business. “I had a close-knit group of friends and I love them, but I miss the ocean more,” she continues.

  “You surf?”

  “Yeah.” That explains her smoking hot body. “I love the ocean. It’s so peaceful. I would be out there every day that I could, surfing or just floating. It was my happy place.”

  Her sapphire eyes sparkle as she talks about the water and the freedom of being on her surfboard. She’s amazing and I’m hanging on every word she speaks, even though I’m exhausted from practice. She’s so different from the Manhattan girls and the fucking jersey chasers who are interested in money, sex, money, drugs, and money. In that order. Maisy is simple, chill and happy. I’m actually enjoying this. I’m enjoying this? Oh hell no.

  “How did you end up here?”

  “Well, I interned for a lawyer in L.A. and he had connections here. It’s a great school and I received a pretty solid academic scholarship. So, what about you, Donovan?” she asks and cocks her head to the side like a puppy. It’s fucking adorable. “What’s your story?”

  “Well, what you see is what you get with me,” I reply. Total lie, but she doesn’t know that I grew up lonely as fuck. Empty house save the help. I was a popular dickhead, but people only liked me because I was rich, they wanted to fuck me, or they feared me. Not many true friendships there. Pity party for one.

  “I doubt that very much,” she says with a cocked eyebrow.

  “Why is that?”

  “I don’t think you’re as mean and nasty as you project. You did defend my honor,” she says, calling me on my shit.

  “I am. Total asshole. Grew up a spoiled rich prick in Manhattan. Silver spoon and all that shit, so I’m a cocky fuck.” I shrug. Which is true. I’ve never had consequences for anything I’ve done in my life. The “consequences” I was given didn’t really affect me. They were more of a formality. I kind of like that she’s calling me out. She’s observant, because most people don’t see below the surface of the cocky rich kid. They just assume I have a great life.

  She stares at me, shocked by my honesty maybe. It’s like her eyes are reaching into my soul to find the real person behind this intimidating façade. I might as well be honest about something since I can’t tell her what actually led us to this point.

  “Stop that, Owl,” I command. She’s making me uncomfortable with her probing eyes.

  “Stop what? Why do you call me Owl?” she asks.

  “You’re studying me like a science project.”

  “It’s kinda what I do. I watch, observe and learn. Trick of the trade my dad taught me.”

  “What did he d
o? Psychologist or something?”

  She snorts. “Umm, no. Not even close. What do your parents do?”

  “My dad is a developer and my mom is a designer,” I reply. “You make your own clothes right? I could send some shit to my mom for a critique or something.” If I knew where she was or when she would be coming back to NYC.

  “I do love designing clothes. It’s my dream job, but I can’t ask you to do that. I’m not even pursuing design. I’m going into education. I appreciate the offer though,” she replies with a sheepish smile. Interesting. She’s talented. I saw her dress at the Pi Kappa party.

  “Wait, is your mom Eleanor Huntington Blake?” she asks after a tick, like a lightbulb went off and she connected the dots by our last name.

  “Yeah, know her stuff?”

  “Do I know her stuff? Heck yes I do! She’s one of the designers who has inspired my designs, although I can’t afford to shop where her clothes are sold.”

  “So why education if you love designing clothes? I saw the way the Bella and her kitties were drooling over your dress.” I was drooling too, but for other reasons. She was smoking hot in that white lace thing.

  “Job security,” she replies with a shrug.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, in L.A. schools, they’re always looking for teachers. The turnover is high in the inner city. I should be able to graduate and get a job when I move back home. Start saving and paying off my debt.”

  “But that isn’t your dream. And if you’re here on scholarship, why will you have debt?” I don’t understand why she wouldn’t pursue her dream.

  “It can’t always be about what we want. Sometimes it has to be about what makes sense, what’s practical. My chances of making it as a designer are slim. Very, very slim. It’s a hard industry if you don’t have contacts or money,” she answers without making eye contact. “I don’t have either.” She seems embarrassed, maybe because of my earlier offer she declined.

  “I have connections and money, Owl,” I offer again. Now I feel like a douchebag for bragging about my Manhattan upbringing. She’s obviously worked hard to get here, and I just take this shit for granted.

  She shakes her head and changes the subject to answer my other question. “My scholarship doesn’t cover room and board. Plus, I’ll need somewhere to live when I move back to L.A.” Fuck, I didn’t think about her moving back west after graduation. That’s a long ways from Manhattan, where I’ll probably end up. Wait, what? Why am I thinking about shit with Maisy two years from now? After Halloween, she’ll be nothing but a won or lost bet. She won’t want shit to do with me after that, so I don’t have years to be with her. I have a week. A weird feeling settles over me thinking that our connection, our contact, our time together is on borrowed time.

  She continues, “I have a little saved, but not a ton. So I’ll have some debt when I’m done with school.” Trying to live in L.A. and pay off her debt on a public school teacher’s salary? She’ll be paying that off for a long ass time.

  I’m starting to wonder if she was brought into my life for me to help her. Get her on the right path with my connections. I could get her in touch with someone on my mom’s team. I want to do this for her. I shake my head thinking about it. I won’t have time to do that. This is ending, and ending soon.

  “You’re on a football scholarship?”

  I nod.

  “I figured. I’ve never seen anyone get hit that hard before.” Her comment makes me laugh.

  “You should see me box then,” I reply and flex my biceps again. Her cheeks flush pink as she tries not to stare at my flexed muscles.

  “Oh no, thanks. Fighting isn’t my thing. I saw Adam’s face,” she replies, trying to act calm, but I can see her eyes, still fixated on my arms, tracing my tattoos.

  “Neither is football, and I got you to a game.” I’m finally starting to get to her. I don’t box anymore because of my scholarship and football career.

  “Touché,” she laughs and it makes me laugh too.

  “So, you’re a genius from Cali. Your rents must be proud. What do they do?” As soon as those words leave my mouth, Maisy’s easygoing demeanor fades and she clams up. What the fuck?

  “You know, it’s almost one-thirty. You have practice tomorrow and I have class and have to work too. I’m going to head out.”

  “Okay, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’ll drive you home.”

  “No, I’m good. Thanks though,” she replies and begins to pack her bag. She can’t get away from me fast enough. What did I say? We were having a great conversation. Laughing, joking, and getting to know each other. She was actually taking an interest in me. Not my money, not football, not my dick. Just me.

  “Okay, well, thanks for tonight.” I grab my wallet and give her a hundred bucks.

  “That’s too much,” she says and hands me half back.

  “You were here for four hours,” I protest. If she’s tutoring me, here on scholarship and working at Holy Sip! then she needs this more than I do. And the fact that she hasn’t asked anything of me, including lowering her price as my tutor, really makes me want to help her out. I know there are things that she isn’t telling me, but I don’t care.

  “We were chatting for half that time. I’m not taking it.”

  I rub both my hands over my hair.

  “You are so fucking stubborn it drives me insane and turns me on at the same time,” I sigh in exasperation. Her eyes grow wide and she stares at me for a second while those words I just let tumble out sink in.

  “Fine, I’m not going to fight with you,” I concede.

  “That’s a first,” she smiles.

  “If you’re working two jobs, you need this more than I do.”

  “It’s fine.” She smiles, accepts the fifty of the hundred dollars I was offering, and yawns. No, it really isn’t. I could fucking pay off her loans and buy her an apartment in L.A. with the money Grammy left me. I could set her up for life. Stop thinking like that, asshat!

  She collects her stuff and I walk her to the door. Rhodes and Jax are sleeping already, and Bateman is at Blaire’s, so it’s finally quiet in the house.

  I stand there awkwardly while she gets her shoes on. I don’t know what to say. Walking her to the door is the first time I’ve done that with a chick.

  “Well, thanks for your help. I really appreciate it,” I say.

  “You’re welcome. You’re smart, Donovan. This shouldn’t be a problem for you,” she offers and smiles at me. The smile that makes my heart flutter and my palms start to sweat. She thinks I’m smart. I’m complimented a lot, but never for my intellect. I really love hearing it, especially from her.

  I’m standing in the doorway as she walks through the door and I peer out into the street. “Wait, where is your car?” There aren’t any vehicles parked nearby except mine, my roommates and our neighbors.

  “I don’t have one. There’s a bus stop a few blocks away, and the bus will be here in about fifteen minutes.”

  Oh. Fuck. No. I’m not letting her sit at bus stop in the middle of the night alone. Not a fucking chance. Plus walk back to her dorm alone? Nope. Not happening. Yeah, that’s the reason. I just want to make sure she’s safe.

  “Do you want to just sleep here?” I blurt out. My brain and mouth have disconnected. What the fuck are you doing? Just offer to drive her home dumbass! You can’t have a chick sleep in your bed. Especially not a chick that you’re going fuck to win a bet. Offering her a ride home was what my brain was going to say before my mouth spit that out.

  Her eyes dart to mine and I can see her breath hitch. Her reaction tells me she wants to have a sleepover, but she’s too skeptical of our whole situation and of me in general. Slow down, Blake.

  “There’s no chance you are going to a bus stop at this time of night,” I provide as an excuse for my offer. She wasn’t privy to my inner monologue before my outburst, so my offer to have a sleepover came out of fucking nowhere. “I’ll drive you home and w
alk you to your dorm if you really want to leave, but I’d rather just go to bed, with you. I’m wiped.”

  “I’m really tired too, but I can’t stay. I don’t expect you to leave. I’ll be fine, I swear,” she replies as she presses the heel of her hands into her eyes.

  “Why? Strict morals?” I jest, but judging from her lack of laughter I don’t think she found that amusing.

  “No, I just—” She frowns and thinks carefully about her next words— “don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea. Including you.”

  “I won’t try to have sex with you, Owl. You have my word.” Unless you want me to, which in that case, game fucking on. She turns to look down the street toward the bus stop. She’s wavering, so I continue, “Remember, we have rules, and if anyone gives you shit, they’ll end up in worse shape than Barker. My bed is huge. You can have half and I swear on my Grammy’s grave I won’t touch you.” I’m practically begging now. The more I think about it, the more I don’t want her to leave. Not just for safety, but just because I want her here, with me.

  She looks a bit deflated, but nods. My heart bursts a little when she agrees to stay, but I kind of want to kick my own ass for inviting her into my bed.

  We walk back upstairs and I head over to my dresser to get her something to wear for pajamas. I pull out a CU football t-shirt and toss it to her. “You can have this. I have my own bathroom you can use. No one will even know you’re here.” I nod toward the door to my private bathroom.

  She nods and heads into the bathroom. After a few minutes she returns in my t-shirt, which hangs down to her knees. She stands, leans against my dresser and crosses her arms over her chest. I gaze at her, taking all of her in. She’s flawless in my t-shirt. Her perfect, perky tits I immediately want to touch, trim waist, toned legs, black hair hanging long over her shoulders, golden skin glowing and her ocean eyes pleading with me to touch her. Her eyes. My cock twitches and I’m starting to get hard.

  I start thinking of anything to tamper my hard-on. Baseball. Michael Scott. Dwight Schrute. Squirrels. Santa. It’s not working. Down boy! All I can think of is being next to her and feeling the warmth of her body next to mine. Fuck it.