by Morgan Black
I look once more at the digital clock on my desk, then grab my Kate Spade overnight bag—the one that looks like a big, straw purse—and toss a tube of toothpaste and some PJ pants out of it. I grab the PJ pants and put them back in, because I just remembered these dumb jars always clank together. I add a sleeveless shirt and some running shorts to the bag, to keep the Bell Jars from bumping each other. Then I race out of my room, into the shared living area. It’s empty, except for our leather couch and chair, the fluffy rug, the round coffee table. Because everyone else is already downstairs at chapter.
Oops.
I amble down the stairs, moving from the top story of our four-columned antebellum house to the large parlor on the first story. I know it’s weird, but I’ve found that when I’m late, moving fast makes me feel more stressed out. So I pretend that I’m right on time and just focus on the motion of my feet.
When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I hear Mila’s drawl from around the corner and confirm that the meeting has already started. I move through the foyer, through the small, square doorway, built at a time when no one gave a damn about an open floor plan, and get a straight-line view of Mila and Steph, sitting on one of the antique sofas—back pencil-straight, ankles crossed. I stand at the back of the crowd of Tri Gams and try to paste an interested—or at least neutral—expression on my face. Mila talks about our grades. Steph talks (again) about drinking alcohol from plastic cups instead of beer bottles or cans.
When it’s my turn to talk, I square my shoulders and project my voice, and tell the room full of Tri Gams that they only have another week to pay first semester dues. After that, I sink back down into myself and allow my mind to wander. Which it does, right back to my current read: a novella called Follow, by one of my favorite romance authors, J.A. Huss. Mmmmm.
I remain in la-la land until Lora elbows me. I jump, and apparently gasp, too, because a few girls in front of us turn around to see what’s up. When everyone has settled down again and I’ve had a few minutes to get over my embarrassing outburst, Lora leans over and whispers, “What’s in your bag? Cake?” She wiggles her brows and grins.
She knows just what’s in here, but her comment reminds me: We’ve got a cake walk right after this in the student center. Shit!
How am I supposed to hand out my bud at an organized event? One where I’ll need to oversee the three sophomores who’ll be handling the cash boxes.
That’s really annoying. I can’t believe I forgot. I rub my head. I didn’t even bring a cake.
After the meeting winds down—all the low-fat snacks have been eaten, all the lemonade lite guzzled down—I chat with Mila, Stephanie, and Cassie, a fellow senior and our sorority’s secretary. Nothing interesting. Just the usual business stuff that sometimes makes me wonder why I even joined a sorority. I’m reminded almost instantly, when I join some of my pot posse as we walk across campus, toward the William Harrison Memorial Student Center.
On the long trek there, as we migrate across brick walkways and under giant oak trees, I manage to drop three Bell Jars into three oversized purses, and receive three payments. In the chaos of everybody walking into the building, a two-story brick eyesore from the seventies, I dole out two more jars and get two more wads of cash.
By the time we all push through the glass doors on the front of the building, I’m already trying to decide the best way to dole out the rest of my illicit goods. Then I step into the carpeted rec room and forget what I was thinking.
There are guys here. Like…a lot of guys.
I glance at my friend Laura, a Tri Gam junior, and she smiles. “You didn’t remember, we’re doing this with Kappa Alpha?”
I smile back at her. “Of course I did. I’m the treasurer, and this is a fundraiser. I remember all.”
Despite this first-floor open area being the most logical place to hold a cake-walk, Mila couldn’t book it. I can’t remember why, but the point is, the cake walk will take place in a large study hall on the second floor. If I remember correctly, it’s near some bathrooms, plus a lot of little conference rooms, which works out perfectly for me.
I take the stairs slowly, chatting with Laura and a few of the other junior girls about the effectiveness of the Diva Cup. Our group breaks up, ending our somewhat gross conversation, when we get upstairs. I make a beeline for the girls who’ll be working the cash boxes, and give them specific instructions for how I want them to keep track of everything.
As soon as I can, I disappear to the bathroom with two clients to kill a few minutes. I emerge with fresh lipstick, and chat with Steph about her disastrous calculus exam while the guys set everything up for us. Once the cake walk starts happening, I slip into the growing crowd. I catch the gazes of my clients and begin subtly steering them, one by one, into the bathroom or the conference room. Mila 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 enough, I tell myself. I’m wearing jeans that make my ass look awesome.
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. When I’ve got her money added to the growing wad in the inside pocket of my bag, I walk up behind Megan and hiss into her ear: “Room 1A in five.” I’ll repeat my covert message to Lora and Katy, then take care of Amber, Hannah, and Lindsey on the walk back to the house. All three of them live there, just like I do.
I’ve finally dealt to Katy, who stayed in the conference room forever telling me about how much weight she’s gained since she started smoking pot again, when I find myself alone for the first time tonight, sipping on a Sprite and thumbing through my overnight bag.
One minute, I’m peering into one of my Bell Jars, wondering if I over-measured. The next, I’m blinking into the dark.
“Ummm…huh?”
I turn a slow circle, and my face bumps into something hard.
The lights flick on, and I find myself staring at a wide, male chest.
Chapter 2
CLEO
One frenzied step back, and the chest becomes a full-fledged male.
Not just any male. The one attractive male on this entire campus I really don’t want to see right now.
Kellan Walsh.
Who is Kellan Walsh, you might be thinking? And if he has such a nice, wide, lust-worthy chest, why wouldn’t I want to see him in a dark room in the presence of a mind-altering substance?
Let me tell you why: Because he’s the last person on this campus who would understand why I’m doing what I’m doing. Bonus oh-fuck points: He’s SGA president, so he has at least some influence over my fate as a student here. If he knew about my lazy girl’s way of raking in big bucks, I’d probably get suspended or expelled.
As my eyes adjust to the light, I take a step back and run my gaze up and down him. Perfection. Of course. Kellan Walsh is our school’s golden boy. His buff, swoon-worthy body is tanned golden brown, and he’s rocking beautiful, wavy-messy blond hair. Along with being SGA president—which means he dresses like a male model every day, in order to keep up his professional appearance—he wears a soccer uniform on game nights, and one of those hot white Polo shirts and khakis when he’s sitting at the table with the other Interfraternity Council officers. If I’m not mistaken—and I’m not—he also writes a political column for the student paper.
I hate his politics, which is one of the reasons I always read his columns. The other: his mug shot. Two-D amazingness.
I’ve never been so close to him in person, so at first, I just stand there, staring at him dumbly.
As I look into his hard-jawed, perfect-lipped, smooth-cheeked pretty boy’s face, I have a startling memory. One time last year, at some charity banquet I had to attend in Mila’s place, he got behind the podium and gave this
long speech about the benefits of a good zero-tolerance policy on a college campus.
I clutch my bag closer to my shoulder and try to make my face look smooth and surprised, like I’m just an innocent girl who just got scared by his dumb antics. Turning off the light, and then turning it back on? How fifth grade is that?
There are only about two feet of space between us. I step back another time. 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 straps of my bag and give him skeptical frown. What the heck is doing, popping up in here with me?
“What are you doing?” I look him over once more, this time focusing more on his clothes than his delectable body. I’m not surprised to find he’s wearing navy blue slacks and a pink dress shirt. He must really think he’s a model. How ridiculous.
As if he can read my thoughts, and he knows I’m scoffing at him, he steps closer to me. His blue gaze hardens. When we’re basically facing off, and he’s close enough that I can smell his minty breath, he folds his arms over his chest and shakes the silence with a low, sexy voice. “I think a better question is, what are you doing, Miss Whatley?”
I blink a few times, mostly because his voice is seriously panty-melting. I don’t need him to know that, though, so I toss my long, brown hair over my shoulder and give him a peeved look. “What does it seem like I’m doing? I’m standing here, minding my own business until you walked in and started messing with the lights.”
“Minding your business.” He tucks his lips down into a scowly, frowny, judgy look. Then arches his brows. “Mind if I take a look in that bag?”
My heart forgets its rhythm. “Is that a joke?”
He shakes his head. “Not a joke.”
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 a little, 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, a trim waist, broad shoulders. And his face. I could look at it all day. Scratch that: I could frown at it all day.
“This whole thing is kind of creeping me out, Walsh.”
His face, smooth and slack as he assessed my face, goes tight and serious—and when he speaks, his low voice is the auditory equivalent of a punch. “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 going light and spinny. 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 get to me. I choose not to. Instead, I shove his words away and let my mouth start moving. Let the lies start flowing.
“Psshhh! Is that a joke?” An awkward laugh shoots 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 Gamma so fast my head would spin! Besides, drugs are for losers.”
I shut my mouth and reel a little. Laying it on thick much, Cleo? God, I’m such an idiot! I loosen my shoulders a little 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 drug. I’ve read your columns in the newspaper.”
He smirks.
“Yeah. That’s right. I read the newspaper. I’m surprised they let you in it, but whatever. You’re Kellan Walsh, SGA President. You’re looking out for the good of humanity. Our campus specifically. That’s all well and good.” My gaze, trained on his face, loses its footing and flits down, over his legs and chest. I jerk it back up, and try hard to get my hot face to cool down.
“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?”
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 leather straps of my bag.
I wrap my arm around the bottom of the bag and try to side-step him, but his grip is strong. He snatches it off my shoulder, and the world fragments.
“NO!”
I lunge for him, but he evades. He holds the bag over his head, and as I jump up and down, cursing him and hitting his muscular arms, the motherfucker has the nerve to start laughing.
It’s a low laugh, the kind of laugh that settles in between your legs, but I don’t care about that.
All I care about is that he’s holding up a Bell Jar. Frowning up above him at my Bell Jar. This one has a green top. It’s for a Kappa Delta. It’s mine!
His long arm holds it way out of my reach and shakes it slightly.
“What’s this?”
“GIVE IT BACK! IT’S MINE!”
Still frowning up at my weed, he shakes it around. The half-dollar-sized, round buds inside the baggie bump around inside the jar. I forget how to breathe.
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 a little.
“Cleo… Calm down.” He opens the lid on the jar, while I freeze in place. My heart has stopped. My blood is cold. Any second now, I’m going to die. “I assume you have an explanation for this…what do the kids call it? Weed?”
I drag a deep breath into my lungs and kick my brain into a higher gear. 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 they’re out, there’s no grabbing hold of them. No taking them back.
He arches a brow, and I grab the Bell Jar. I hold it out in front of me and shake my head. “This here… It isn’t weed.”
Arched brows, pursed lips. “No?”
I shake the bag around. “You see…there’s actually an impressive story here. About this non-marijuana. Not a story for the newspaper kind of story. More a fun-times around the campfire sort of story. But trust me, it’s definitely not weed.”
“No?”
“Nope.” I grin, and pinch off a piece of one of the buds. I hold it up, as if I’m proud of it. “I made it in organic chemistry lab. It’s a phony. It’s a prototype of something cops can deal. It looks like weed, and it smells like weed…” I toss the baggie 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 him smirking. I’m not sure why, and I don’t care. He takes the bag. Brings it up to his nose. 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 not counting on that knowing smile. A wolfish smile. I’m not counting on the sharp look in his eyes, or the subtle step he takes to be a little closer to me. It’s a threatening step. A step that says I’ll get you.
His smile broadens, revealing sharp, white teeth I can’t see very well, because he’s still got the bud up in front of his nose. Another inhalation. “This smells very good, Cleo. You’re right. It does smell just like marijuana.”
I nod. “Got an ‘A’ on my project with it. Can I have it back?”
He smirks. “I’m sure.”
I reach for the bud, but he draws it back. He holds it up in the fluorescent light. The little crystals on the bud glitter a little—promises of fun times. Or so I assume.
“Wonder if it tastes like weed,” he muses.
“It doesn’t,” I say quickly. “So
I’ve been told.”
He bites a piece off. Frowns. Chews and frowns some more. I swear to God, I almost faint. “Hmm, that’s weird. It tastes like it to me.”
“Like you would know.” I shoot him a ridiculing look—a sure sign that I’m out of moves.
He holds up what remains of the piece he bit, then reaches into his pocket and comes out with a shiny Zippo. His mouth twists and his brows come down low over his eyes. “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 pulls open the bag still dangling from my shoulder and smirks into it. Then steps away and smirks at me. It’s not really a smirk. It’s like…a smug, aggressive look. One that says I’ll get you.
“Cleo. You have four jars of this. Why four?”
I lock my jaw and debate not answering. But his eyes are cutting into me, forcing an answer. “I needed them for class.”
His lips tighten. “I don’t believe you.”
“That’s not my fault,” I say. I loosen my shoulders and recover some of my cool. “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,” I say.
I whirl on my heel and stalk toward the door, desperate to get away from him. Desperate to get rid of the evidence. Desperate to hide in my room for the rest of the semester, curled in the fetal position.
I’m almost to the door when strong fingers close around my arm. He tugs me toward him, so I’m forced to turn around.
