by Ella James
I catch the gazes of my clients and begin subtly steering them into the bathroom or the conference rooms. Milasy is playing announcer, so she definitely doesn’t notice. I don’t think anyone else does, either. Sometimes I feel stares from the guys, but that’s normal, I tell myself. I’m wearing jeans that make my ass look awesome, and I’m newly single too.
I take care of Jordan, Elizabeth, Julie, Forrest, Kelsey, Chloe, Ricci, Sarah, Molly, other Molly, Joanna, Anna Maria, Solena, Christy, and Neda, all in various conference rooms, before Lora and I go into the ladies’ room—not because the conference rooms are a bad place to do this, but because both she and I need to pee.
“You making bank, girl?” she asks from the other side of a stall wall.
“You know it,” I say.
“You little twat.”
“You are. Jealous,” I tack on.
She snorts. “I don’t need that money.”
True. Lora’s dad is a lumber tycoon, and on the school’s board of trustees.
“You wish you were buying yourself Louboutins for Christmas like I am.”
“I’ll steal my mom’s.” She giggles.
“Or steal mine.”
When Lora and I have washed our hands with the school’s citrus-scented soap and I’ve got her money added to the growing wad in the inside pocket of my bag, we latch arms and walk back out to cakewalk central.
“Win a cake for me,” I tell her.
“Good luck with your shit, girlie.”
I watch blonde-haired, pixie-small Lora walk across the crowded room toward Harrison—a tall, dark-haired hottie who plays soccer for our school and has a complete, pervert obsession with taking pics of Lora’s ass and putting them on Tumblr.
Harrison and I are still cool, I think, but I’ve noticed he doesn’t talk to me much since Brennan and I split, and when Lora hangs out with him, I’m never invited. I guess it makes sense, since I’d be a third wheel without Brennan... but it’s still kind of sad.
I spot Megan by a window that overlooks the quad, chatting in a group of junior and senior Sig Alphas. I walk up behind her, smack her butt, and hiss into her ear: “Room one-A in five.”
She giggles as she walks through the door seven minutes later. “I feel like I’m on a covert mission!”
I smile. “You are.”
She gets her weed, I get my money, and then I have to talk down her nerves for a full two minutes.
“There’re so many people here! Next time I want you to drop it off at my room again like last time....”
I slip out a minute after her and repeat my covert message to Katy, who wraps her arm around my waist and tells me I look hot in my jeans.
“I’m not waiting five. I’ll go with you now, sistah.”
So she does, and takes her Mason jar without a lot of fuss, probably owing to her status as the provost’s daughter. Also, Katy’s older sister, Belle, was expelled from school last spring semester for trying to bribe a professor with a blow job, so I think Katy figures nothing she does could top that.
The last person I have to slip away with is Foster. I forgot her earlier, but I always bring an extra Mason jar for that very reason. I text Foster to meet me in conference room 1B. I slip into the small room, filled with faux wood tables, and sink down into one of the plastic chairs surrounding them. I pull open the ‘notes’ feature on my iPhone and confirm that I’ve gotten everyone but Amber, Hannah, and Lindsey, all of whom I can catch on the walk back to the house.
The bit with Foster is... not fast. She hangs around forever telling me about how much weight she’s gained since she started smoking pot again. She pulls a can of Sprite out of her purse and holds it out to me like it’s a poisonous snake.
“It’s my weakness. Take it! It’ll go straight to my thighs.”
I laugh, but take it. “Foster, it’s a beverage.”
“One with corn syrup!”
I shrug and pop the top as she elbows her way out the door. In the quiet of the little room, I take a minute for myself: to sip the Sprite and thumb through my overnight bag.
One minute, I’m peering into one of my remaining Mason jars, wondering if I over-measured. The next, I’m blinking into the dark.
“Ummm... huh?”
When the room remains pitch-black, I slide my arm into the straps of my bag and stand up slowly. Must be a power-outage. “Shit.”
I walk slowly toward the door, and when I’m almost there, my face bounces off of something hard.
The lights flick on, shocking my eyes so I can’t see at first. I blink a few times—and find myself staring at a wide, male chest.
ONE STEP BACK, AND the chest becomes a full-fledged male. Not just any male, but Kellan fucking Walsh.
Motherfucker.
Fuck shit.
Shit fuck.
This is bad, like really, really bad.
Kellan Walsh is the Lex Luthor of Cleoland—as well as the golden boy of Chattahoochee College.
He drives a jet black Escalade. He has a Crest-white smile. He dyes his hair with gold dust. Okay, maybe not really, but it looks that way, especially in the sun. When he walks, he swaggers. When he touches a girl’s arm at a party or a bar, he puts a spell on her. I’ve seen it happen with my own two eyes.
Take Katy, for example. First weekend back-to-school, at a party, she was being her normal self—in Katy’s case, this meant guzzling her second “goldfish bowl” martini, swinging her hips around like Elvis, swaying her wide, swimmer’s shoulders to a Lady Gaga dance remix, and singing off-key. Then Kellan Walsh showed up.
He was dressed to the nines, because that’s the only way Kellan Walsh dresses. I think that night he was wearing slacks and an expensive-looking button-up, with the sleeves rolled up to show off his muscular forearms. He looked like some kind of... lion, or tiger. Maybe a rare yellow leopard. He tipped his head at Katy, and in five minutes—FIVE MINUTES FLAT, I’m telling you—she’d climbed into the Sexcalade with him.
He took her to a hotel. Not to his room at the frat house, but a hotel, as if she was a hooker.
That alone wouldn’t be cause for concern, just revulsion. But, in addition to being campus playboy and soccer player extraordinaire, Kellan Walsh is also our school’s SGA president. Which means he has a lot of influence over my fate as a student here.
Sound like a tough spot? He’s also a champion of our campus’ zero tolerance drug policy.
Yeahhhh.
As my eyes adjust to the light he’s just flipped on, I take another small step back and run my gaze up and down him. Perfectly put together. Of course. Navy slacks and a pale pink Polo hug his body like... clothes draped over the world’s most flawless body. I’m a back and shoulders girl, and shit, he’s wide. I usually don’t get this close to him but... gawd. His soft cotton shirt is stretching to fit across the width of him. My eyes trail down his ripped chest and gawk at the width difference between his shoulders and his hips. His hips are... square and sharp and delectable. I know from seeing him in soccer shorts that behind them, there’s a nice, taut ass. Underneath his slacks are muscled thighs. And in between his legs... At games, when he runs...
I swallow and tug my gaze up to his face. His blue eyes demand my attention first. They’re gorgeous—the color of deep ocean water. Looking at me, they seem to see everything; they’re the eyes of a demigod, peering into my soul. I take in the rest of his face: the faintly feline shape of his high cheekbones; his heavenly lips, which beg to be bitten; the smooth line of his jaw; his healthy tan. He definitely looks angelic. Like an angel who would rip your panties with the strength of his immortal hands.
Oh, God.
My eyes flit up again, needing to get away from that face of his, and run into his wavy-messy blond hair.
I grit my teeth and step away.
His eyes, on mine, are shrewd. They track me as I move. My pulse quickens—and quickens more, and What the hell is wrong with you Cleo!?
I lift my bag up my shoulder and try to make my face
like Mandy, a sophomore Tri Gam who is the most cliché sorority girl I’ve ever known: wide-eyed and wondering, just an innocent girl startled by Kellan’s male antics. He sneaked into the room when I wasn’t paying attention! He flipped the light switch and I was like OMGz!
But did he sneak in? I didn’t hear the door open or close. Was he in here the whole time?
My pulse kicks up a notch.
He seems too close. I take another step back. Then I glare at him for good measure.
You’re doing nothing wrong, Cleo! You’re a liberator. Fight big pharma... Weed is medicine! A more relaxed student population is good for everyone! Rah rah rah!
I wrap my fingers around the thin straps of my bag and give him skeptical frown. What the hell is he doing in here?
“Were you spying on me?” I look him over once more, this time focusing more on his clothes than his delectable body. The slacks look tailor-made. The pink dress shirt is definitely straining across his shoulders.
As if he can read my lustful thoughts and wants to taunt me, he steps closer. His gaze hardens. Another step, and I can see the sexy stubble on his face. A third step, and he’s close enough for me to smell his cinnamony breath. He folds his arms over his chest and breaks the silence with a voice like low thunder. “I think a better question is, what are you doing in here, Miss Whatley?”
I blink a few times, mostly because that voice is seriously panty-melting. No need for him to know I think so, though, so I toss my long, brown hair over my shoulder and fix him with a perfectly peeved stare. “What does it look like? I was taking a break in here, minding my own business and you popped up! Were you spying on me? Cause that’s creepy.”
“Minding your business, huh?” He tucks his lips down into a scowly, frowny, judgy look. He arches his brows. “Mind if I take a look in that bag?”
My heart forgets its rhythm. “What?” I swallow. “Is that a joke?”
He shakes his head. “No joke, Cleo.”
I take a step back and try to think fast. To look outraged. To treat him like the creep he clearly is. “Of course I’m not letting you look in my purse.” I shift my shoulder so the purse is more behind me. “I can’t believe you would even ask.”
I look him up and down, hoping to find him lacking in some way—but he’s flawless. Long legs with strong thighs evident through the fabric of his pants, abs so flat I could bounce a penny off them; shoulders that seem three times as wide as mine. And his face. I could look at it all day. Scratch that, I could glare at it all day.
“This whole thing is totally creeping me out, Walsh.”
His face is tight and serious. His voice is a menacing purr. “There’s a reason that I’m asking, Whatley.”
“What’s that?” I hold my head up high and pull out a look I used a lot in high school: the you-can-talk-shit-about-me-but-I-don’t-care-because-I’m-better-than-you special. Behind the look, my head is spinning. I watch his lips move, focusing more on them than on his words.
“I’m asking, Cleo, because I was told you were dealing drugs on campus.”
I could let those words sink in. Let them freak me out. I choose not to. Instead, I shove his words away and let my mouth move.
“Psshhh! Is that a joke?” An awkward laugh tumbles out of my mouth, and my head shakes frantically, like I’m starring in a reproduction of The Exorcist. “Me? Dealing drugs? I’d get kicked out of Triple Gam so fast my head would spin! Drugs are for losers.”
I shut my mouth and reel a little. For losers? God, I’m such an idiot! I loosen my shoulders and try to pull myself out of this. “Look, Kellan—Kellar? Walsh. I know your last name is Walsh, so that’s what I’m calling you. Walsh, I understand your stance on drugs. I’ve read your columns in The Bobcat.”
He writes a monthly column for the student newspaper. I hate his politics, which is one of the reasons I sometimes read his weekly column in the student paper—just to wave my fist at him. The other: his mug shot. It’s 2D amazingness.
He smirks, like he knows what I’m thinking.
“Yeah. I know how straight-laced you are. Except when you’re abducting my friends from bars.”
His brows shoot up. Every one of his features, from his flaring nostrils to his electric blue eyes, screams warning.
“Not abducting,” I quickly correct. “I mean... I guess they go with you.” My gaze, trained on his face, loses its footing and flits down over his chest. I jerk it back up.
“Here’s the thing, Kellan: It’s pretty shitty to accuse a random student of doing something that could get her expelled. Do you have some evidence you’d like to show me? Or are you just going on hearsay? And who made you the—”
He takes a smooth step toward me, and his nearness makes my legs forget their mission. Move, Cleo, move! But I’m too late. His hand has closed around the straps of my bag.
I try to side-step him, but his grip is strong. He snatches it off my shoulder.
“No!”
I lunge for him, but he thrusts the bag up over his head. As I jump up and down, cursing him and hitting his muscular arms and chest, the motherfucker has the nerve to laugh at me.
It’s a low laugh, the kind of laugh that settles in between your legs in other circumstances.
Not right now because he’s digging through my bag! He’s holding up a Mason jar! MotherFUCK! He frowns at it. This one has a light blue top. It’s for a Tri Gam.
His long arm holds it way above my reach and shakes it slightly.
“What’s in here?”
“GIVE IT BACK, right now! It’s mine!” I’m straight-up yelling, but he doesn’t even spare me a glance.
He shakes the jar again, and the round, half-dollar-sized buds inside the baggie bump against the glass. I clench my teeth.
He brings the jar down, and I make a grab for it. Instead of getting it, I get a fistful of his muscular shoulder. He laughs again.
“Cleo... Calm down.” He opens the lid and I freeze. My heart stops. My blood runs cold. “I assume you have an explanation for this... what do the kids call it? Weed?”
I drag a deep breath into my lungs. I blink frantically, frowning. Then I widen my eyes. Innocence. “Yes. Of course I do. It isn’t weed.” The words just roll out. Like a boulder someone pushed off a hill, once I’ve got my story moving, there’s no stopping me.
He arches a brow, and I grab the Mason jar from him. I hold it out in front of me and shake my head. “This isn’t weed.”
Arched brows. Pursed lips. “No?”
I shake the jar, causing the heady-sour scent of marijuana to waft up into my face. “You see... there’s actually a story here. An impressive story, about this... stuff. Not a story for the newspaper kind of story,” I babble. “More a fun times around the campfire sort of story. But trust me, this is definitely not weed.”
“No?”
“Nope.” I grin maniacally and open the baggie. I pinch off a piece of one of the buds with sweaty, trembling fingertips and hold it over my head, as if it’s a prize. “I made it in organic chemistry lab. It’s a project. That’s my major.” It’s not, but how would he know? “To catch criminals. It looks like marijuana, and it smells like marijuana...” I seal the baggie. Toss it up and catch it. “But it’s not. You want to experience my product in a hands-on way?”
I hold it out to him and find his face expressionless. He takes the bag. Unzips it. Inhales.
I’m counting on him to not recognize marijuana. I’m counting on him to be the bastion of morality he seems to be.
I’m counting on him to be gullible.
I’m not counting on that knowing smile. A wolfish smile. I’m not counting on the shrewdness of his eyes, or the subtle way he leans in.
His smile broadens, revealing sharp, white teeth. Another deep breath into the baggie; his wide shoulders rise, then relax. “You’re right. It does smell just like marijuana.”
I nod. “Got an ‘A’ on my project with it. Can I have it back now?”
He blinks. “I’m s
ure you did.”
I reach for the bud, but he draws it back.
“So what is it, exactly?”
“It’s an oregano-based herb. Kind of like, you know, oregano on steroids.”
He holds it up in the fluorescent light. The crystals on the buds glitter a little—promises of fun times for someone else, and cash for me.
“Wonder if it tastes like weed,” he muses.
“It doesn’t,” I say quickly. “So I’ve been told.”
He bites off a small piece. Frowns. Chews a few times on his front teeth. I swear to God, I almost faint. His eyes find mine. “It tastes like marijuana.”
“Like you would know.” I shoot him a ridiculing look—a sure sign that I’m all out of moves.
He holds up what remains of the piece he bit, then reaches into his pocket and retrieves a shiny Zippo. His mouth flattens and his brows scrunch in concentration. “I wonder if it burns like weed.”
I pluck it from his fingers. “NO! What’s wrong with you? You’ll set off the smoke alarms!”
He looks again into the bag then smirks at me. But it’s not a smirk; it’s like... a smug, aggressive look. One that says, “Got ya.”
“Cleo. You have four jars of this. Why?”
I lock my jaw and debate not answering. His hard eyes force me. “For class,” I breathe.
“I don’t believe you.”
“That’s not my fault.” I loosen my shoulders and recover some of my cool. I wonder if this would be easier if he weren’t so damn hot. A guy with a patchy goatee, or a guy with really bad acne, him I’d be schooling in privacy and all sorts of noble-sounding principles. “I’m sure someone like you could never see the point in creating a good synthetic. Pretty soon, this stuff will transform the drug market. Cops will use it all the time. My professor thinks it’s incredible.”
He laughs again, and I’m ready. I jump and snatch my overnight bag from his careless hand. The jars clink together as I whirl on my heel and dash toward the door, desperate to get away from him. Desperate to hide in my room for the rest of fall semester, curled in the fetal position, waiting for the hammer to fall.
I’m almost to the door when strong fingers close around my arm. He tugs me, so I’m forced to turn around. Holds me in place, so I have no choice but to look up, into his eyes.
