“Come right in,” I say. “Make yourselves at home, but I’m going downstairs to eat.”
“What’s with you?” Tristan says.
“I’m hungry?”
“Not hungry enough to show up for dinner.” Tristan and George follow me and Tristan pulls my door closed behind us, thank fuck. I run down the back stairs to the kitchen before my stomach sues me for neglect.
“What do you want?” I say to the pair of them when I reach the bottom and slide around the bottom bannister into the kitchen.
Tristan says, “George has a video clip he wants to show you.”
“Tristan won’t let me share it on social media until I run it by you, the dick.”
I take the phone from him as I sit at the table where Majik gives me a large bowl of beef stew with dumplings and a glass of milk. Picking up my fork, I look at the clip of me and Joni running through the dance floor, somewhat obscured, with a few shots of George’s shoes and the ceiling mixed in. I put my fork back down and my gut churns.
“Amazing,” I say. “You got a great shot of the chandelier.” I shove the phone back at him. “Delete it. Don’t post it anywhere and don’t show it to anyone else.”
His face falls. Tristan elbows him in the ribs, a disgusted look on his face.
“Tell him,” Tris says.
“I shared it with a few people—via text. Not many.”
“Fuck. You know what happens to vids of me in this place.” I shove my hands through my hair and think through the implications. Tris pulls out a chair and sits with me. George stands with his arms folded across his chest.
Tristan says. “Something you want to talk about, Jack? Something going on with you and Joni?” His words are firm and sure and compassionate. He puts a hand on my arm, everything a priest in confessional should be and it’s so tempting to pour the whole bucket of shit that is the secrets of my life on his head. Things started out bright at SPU. Money was covered with my overpaid summer job, classes were great, football was stupendous, and no one here knew a damn thing about my family or that I came from poor. No one cared.
Now, when I’m so close to winning it all, to being free, things are unraveling. Joni is the biggest reason. If not the only one, she’s my biggest threat.
“No, man. It’s okay. I saw her at the reception for a few minutes. She didn’t feel well. I took her outside for air. No big deal.” I sigh. “Doesn’t mean others won’t make a big fucking deal.”
“She ready for that?” Tris says. I know this is his way to let me know I should call her. I glare at George, who’s fiddling with his fucking phone.
“Did you delete it yet?”
“Yeah, asshole. I’m telling people not to post it or else.”
“How’s that working?” I don’t have much hope. People around this campus are quick with their social media trigger fingers. Maybe it’s the same everywhere. Normally I handle the notoriety. My friends are good about respecting my brand. Except dickhead George. This isn’t his first lapse.
“I’m not sure,” he says. “Fuck, how was I supposed to know you were going to be sensitive about your new girl?”
“Because she’s not my new girl, dickhead. Like I mentioned. You know how to listen, right?”
“Nah, man.” He gives me his full attention, which is unusual for him. “Why bother? You don’t tell the truth.” He walks away.
Majik clashes a pan and slams a cabinet as if to reinforce George’s words. Tristan leans on his elbows.
“Don’t mind him. He doesn’t know the meaning of ‘personal and confidential.’ To him there’s no such thing as TMI.”
I nod, but I know the truth and the bull’s-eye strike of George’s words.
“You gonna eat that food?” Majik says from over my shoulder. I nod and dig in, but the comfort of her comfort food falls short tonight.
When I get back to my room, I collapse onto my mattress and, even though I should, I can’t drum up the energy to call Joni tonight. Not even when I open the envelope with the name of the student I’ve been assigned to tutor. And find out it’s Joni Dowd.
Fucking A.
Chapter 8
Joni
My first Calculus quiz is tomorrow and it feels more like a final exam weighing on me. Thank God I’m meeting with the tutor tonight. I hope she doesn’t mind staying late. Approaching the math department conference room, a small room next to Professor Greenleaf’s office in the otherwise quiet building, I find it empty. I take a seat at the table and take my iPad from my bag. It’s only six-fifty-eight. I bring up the Calculus textbook and look over the review problems, intermittently staring at the door for five minutes. Then ten minutes pass and I huff out a breath, my chest squeezing with dread. She’s not going to show. But I don’t move, willing someone to walk through the door.
When the wall clock says twenty-two past seven, the door finally swings open and I’m about to launch myself into the arms of my calculus savior, when it registers who just walked in. Jack Hunter.
Shooting up from my chair, I say, “What are you doing here? Are you stalking me?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. You know I’m here to tutor your sweet ass in calculus.” He moves toward me, his wavy hair wet, the ends curling up, his sea-blue eyes steady on mine and no smile on his sinful mouth.
“How would I know that?” My heart pounds, nerves bouncing, suspending me between my image of a math tutor and the reality of Jack fricking Hunter.
He pulls a folded paper from his pocket and hands it to me. I snatch it from him and skim it, my heart speeding up even faster as dread sinks my gut. He’s not lying. Shoving the paper back at him, I want no part of this. Or at least the rational part of me doesn’t. Until I pick up my iPad to stow it and realize I can’t decipher the first practice problem staring at me.
“We okay?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I’ll find another tutor,” I say bravely, knowing that would be impossible to do before my quiz tomorrow. I turn to him, my head churning to solve this unsolvable mess—kind of like a calc problem.
“Why would you want to tutor math? I don’t get it. Aren’t you busy enough with football and your own classes?” I’m standing, tense and ready to flee, except he’s between me and the door. He moves subtly closer.
“I’m a do-gooder. Didn’t you know? Let’s get out of here. I’m starved. We can do the math back at my house.”
“We will not.”
“Hey, you’re the one that’s going to flunk calc, sweetheart, not me.”
“Tell me why you’re really doing this?” I hold my breath, a big part of me convinced it’s some kind of plot to humiliate me.
He takes a deep breath and steps closer, reaches out, but grabs my iPad and not me. I need to control my paranoia.
“Fine. I’ll tell you. What’s one more secret between enemies?” He pauses and stares me down and I don’t breathe. He has another secret?
“I’ve been sentenced to community service for punching Posen the other night. Satisfied?”
“But that was in self-defense. Why should you be punished?” I’m distracted now, so much that this injustice causes a slip in my defenses against Jack.
“You’ll have to ask Dean Lassiter that question. Are we done here? Let’s go because, as I mentioned, I’m starving.”
“You’re trusting me with all your secrets, Jack. You better watch out.” I shouldn’t mock him but I don’t want to let my outrage on his behalf, that he’s being treated unfairly, take hold. I don’t want to soften.
Then again, I need to be mindful of the fact that he’s smart in math and he can help me. If I trust him.
“It’s almost seven thirty. Doesn’t the dining hall close soon?”
“Maybe. But I’m not eating at the dining hall. The BMOC house cook is saving dinner for me and we can eat by ourselves in the kitchen in peace if we leave now.”
“Isn’t it against your house rules to bring a woman in for dinner?”
“We have no rules. Besides, the guys wil
l assume you’re my latest conquest.”
“That’s not how I want to be known.”
“And how do you want to be known?” He shoves my iPad into my backpack and takes me by the hand, sporting a one-sided dimple and a disgustingly provocative smirk making me think of the devil and sin. And then I stop thinking as we flee the conference room.
“What’s the hurry?”
“I told you. I’m hungry.” The growl in his voice suggests a different kind of hunger than his cook is serving up, but instead of slowing me down, I feel the sense of urgency infusing me as if his hand holding mine has its own sensual communication. I suppose it does.
His truck is parked out front of the building and he opens my door when we reach it. I give him a neutral look, or as neutral as I can make my face, not willing to part with my feelings voluntarily, not sure what they’re all about except a churning deep in my gut and a heat swirling and touching all those places that should be forbidden to the likes of Jack Hunter. My tormenter from the past and sworn enemy. And now my calculus savior?
After a quick silent drive, he brings me in the back door where we step into a massive, well-equipped if battered-looking kitchen.
“Hey, Majik,” he says to a large woman who appears to be cleaning up. “Sorry I’m late to dinner. What did you save for me?” The woman nods without smiling or speaking as she looks past him at me. He’s still holding onto my hand and I’m starting to feel like his prisoner, his kidnap victim. His property. His woman. A warm flush burst through me and I tug my hand from his.
“This is my student. I’m tutoring her in calc.” The woman he calls Majik grunts. I step forward.
“Nice to meet you Majik. I’m Joni Dowd.” I put out a hand and she wipe her large hand on her once-clean chef’s apron. It looks like professional grade. She shakes my hand with surprising warmth.
“Have a seat. I’ll scrounge up a couple of plates.”
“Oh, that’s okay. I don’t … I’m not hungry.” The last thing my jittery stomach can handle right now is food.
“Suit yourself.” She turns away and Jack pulls a chair away from the small battered wooden table. It looks like something off the set of Little House on the Prairie with its worn rough-hewn design. I take a seat and Jack throws our respective backpacks on the table, pulling a thick red-and-black calculus book and pad of paper from his. He hands me a pencil.
“We’re doing this the old-fashioned way,” he says.
“Any reason for that?”
“Yeah. I don’t have an iPad.” He eyes mine and I slide it aside, nodding.
“Fine. I have nothing against pencil and paper.”
“Not worried about the trees?” He aims his satanically charming blue-green eyes at me and adds a dimpled smirk. In that moment, the visceral tug allows me to understand, at least a little, what drives Izzy’s obsession. His riveted attention is like gold flakes pouring from heaven and covering me, turning me into a special golden girl. Like drinking a gallon of whiskey that tastes like honey, feeling buzzed and sweet. Like swimming in a pool of creamy chocolate and not caring if I drown.
“Trees?”
He grins. “Never mind. What page is your assignment on?”
I turn away from him to consult my iPad and take the pencil in hand. “Chapter one. Functions. Whatever they are.”
From that moment he’s all business, patient and brilliant about explaining and demonstrating how to do the problems. He doesn’t mock my thick-headedness, doesn’t roll his eyes or even treat me to that devilish smirk. Which is a shame. When Majik places the plate of food at his left elbow, he ignores it and continues until we get to the most difficult group of problems. The dreaded word problems.
“This is the part I hate.”
“This is the most fun of all,” he says. “But I’ll give you a break and eat while you practice a couple of the other problems.”
“That’s kind of you.” I smile, more genuine than sarcastic.
He eats a few forkfuls as he watches me work through a problem and it should make me uncomfortable, but it doesn’t. His watchful eyes comfort me, make me feel like he’s a safety net and he’ll catch me if I make a mistake and he’ll make it right. And it won’t hurt at all or feel like a reprimand.
“Great job. How about a bite to shore yourself up for the tough stuff?” He doesn’t wait for an answer as he moves the fork with a hunk of beef on it to my lips.
“Hey, what if I’m vegan?” I smile.
“You’re not,” he says, certain and surprisingly correct. He touches the beef to my lips and I open my mouth.
“I promise you’ll love it. No one can resist the culinary prowess of Cook Majik.”
“Oh my God, this is so good.” I flash a glance at Majik and smile, but she doesn’t pay attention.
“Too bad that’s all you’re getting,” Jack says as he finishes what I think is beef stew although that’s too pedestrian a name for the magnificent-tasting dish. I finish another problem, feeling more confident about my chances of passing my quiz.
“I’m ready to tackle the word problems if you are,” I say as Jack clatters his fork in the empty dish. He gives me a Big Bad Wolf grin and my body tenses in the most traitorously delicious way, but before my blush reaches my cheeks, two guys crash down the stairs into the kitchen.
“And who do we have here?” the shorter one says, eyes lit up and roving over me as he practically drools.
“Hello there. Joni, is it?” the second adorable guy with a more polite level of interest says.
“Joni, this is George and Tristan. They were just passing through. The lady has a quiz she needs to pass tomorrow, guys.” Jack gives them each a pointed stare with no humor at all, not even any friendliness.
“Yes, sir. Whatever you say.” George salutes with a smirk. Tristan grins and winks at me and shoves his friend in the direction of the back door, where they disappear.
“Your friends?” I say, because I’m not sure if they are.
“Teammates. Friends too.”
“Teammates first?” Why it should matter to me I don’t know, but the idea makes me sad.
He nods and gets back to the business of tutoring. It doesn’t take long for us to finish the problems because Jack is like a machine, focused and all work.
“I’m not sure if I can do the word problems on my own,” I admit as he pushes back from the table.
“You’ll pass the quiz. I’m done for the night.”
I nod. He’s clearly beat. It occurs to me he had practice this afternoon and might still have his own studying to do.
“Sure. I’ll be fine. Until next session.”
He’s about to say something, but the cook—Majik—interrupts, banging a cabinet closed and pulling her apron off.
“Jack, I’m outta here. Your mother called again. Asked you to call her back.” She stands poised to leave, waiting for his response. He turns to look at her and they have a stare-down for a few beats. I have no idea what to make of it. I know Jack has issues with his mother, but I have no idea if the cook has a clue. I hold my breath. We’re alone in the room and it’s quiet.
“I’ll call her after the game on Saturday,” he says.
“Could be too late. How do you know she’s not in jail and needs bail money now?” The ballsy cook keeps her eyes on Jack and he stares back at her, too many emotions crowding his expression for me to decipher. I can’t tell if he’s surprised or angry or annoyed or indifferent. That’s how confused he is. Or how confused I am.
“If she were in serious trouble, you’d tell me.” His voice is flat and he turns away from her, ending the stare-off. The cook nods, picks up a weathered leather bag, and leaves through the back door. I’m in awe of the woman. I could only dream of being so cool in the face of so much passion, so much power.
That’s what Jack has. Power. Personal, human power. The power of a strong mind. I shudder as I stare at the page in front of me where parabolic functions are scattered in hasty pencil marks across half
the page.
He pushes his plate aside and says. “Let’s go up to my room if you want to work on the word problems.”
Once again, I’m struck at the sexual innuendo and wondering why he changed his mind and what he’s planning, almost hoping he wants to seduce me—until the churning excitement turns to fear.
“I think we should stay in the kitchen.”
“Lesson’s over then. Because I need to change and get ready for bed.”
“Fine. Lesson’s over. You’ve put in more than your obligatory hour.” I stand, unwilling to admit that the last example makes my brain ache trying to catch the elusive concept, trying to hold onto the slippery understanding of limits. Now who has secrets?
Picking up my things, I put them into my bag fast and he stands next to me. Then he reaches out and pushes the hair back off my face where it had hung, hiding me from scrutiny.
“Don’t worry, Joni. You’ll get this.” He breathes in a sigh. “What are you doing at six a.m. tomorrow?”
Shock must be apparent on my face because he flashes a tired smile.
“It’s the only time I have to fit you in my schedule. We have a big game coming up this weekend.”
“Army,” I say, knowing because everyone around campus is talking about it, texting about it, posting on social media about it.
“You going to be there?”
My face falls. I promised myself I wouldn’t go to his games.
But then again, I promised myself I’d have nothing to do with him, that I’d avoid him completely for the rest of the semester, for the rest of the year. For the rest of my life.
And yet here I am, now facing time with him every week, his intimate, undivided attention for an hour two days a week. Exposure to his charisma is taking its toll already because I nod.
Apparently, I will be going to Jack’s football game on Saturday.
Chapter 9
Jack
Waiting for the marching band to file off the field and the announcer to call the team out, I stand at the mouth of the tunnel, staring out at the filled-to-overflowing stadium. The noise drowns out everything except the buzz of anticipation in my head. The clear blue day is warm but with a touch of autumn in the air, and I breathe it in, trying to hold onto the moment.
Big Man on Campus: an Enemies to Lovers College Romance (Big Men on Campus Book 1) Page 11
