The Campus Jock: A College Bad Boy Romance

by Serena Silver

  “What are you doing, little girl?” he hissed. Lilah tried to pull back, but his grip was surprisingly forceful. Her hunger forgotten, she tried to summon her inner strength to detach herself from this seemingly violent man. Shockingly, she could not break free.

  “I apologize,” she breathed, her eyes wide. “I thought you were someone with whom I was acquainted.”

  The man turned and rose easily to his feet, his hand still firmly around her slim wrist.

  “Is that right?” he snarled, pulling her toward him. Lilah’s mind raced. If she had not waited so long to feast, she would have had the strength to escape the clutches of this apparently superhuman beast, but she was momentarily defeated.

  “Yes,” she whispered. An undercurrent coursed between them, a pulse which seemed to throb as he kept her firmly entangled in his grasp.

  “Do you often roam the streets of Toronto at 4 a.m., touching strange men?” he challenged. He set her back to drink her in, and she shifted her eyes away from his suspicious glare. Staring at his gleaming steel-toed boots, she realized he wore all black, and she gazed back up at him, a stunning thought occurring to her, one she had not had in many years.

  “I am sorry,” she told him again. She held his line of sight, building up the nerve to speak her mind. Finally, she blurted out a word in Alashi, a simple acknowledgment to gage his reaction. She had studied the language in her travels. A mere word would identify him immediately. Lilah held her breath. A look of deep puzzlement crossed over the dark stranger’s face, and he released her wrist as if he was suddenly repelled by the slight woman.

  “What?” he asked. “What language is that?”

  Lilah exhaled slowly, rubbing her throbbing arm and shook her head.

  “I simply apologized,” she lied, backing away. Before he could respond, she spun on her heel and vanished up Queen Street, leaving Brone staring after her. You foolish, foolish girl, Lilah chided herself as she slunk into the now deserted subway station. Why would you think that he was immortal too?

  Chapter Two

  “Brone, wake the fuck up!”

  Someone was kicking his leg, and he sat up instantly. His roommate stood above the sofa, arms folded over his chest almost hyperventilating in his anger.

  “Get up! I’ve had enough of this shit!” Scotty yelled again, whipping a blood-soaked towel at Brone’s head. Slowly, Brone threw his legs over the side of the sofa and peered at the gangly man, unsure of what had inspired his latest panic attack.

  “May I ask why you are having a nervous breakdown?” Brone asked casually, leaning back against the leather cushions, calm now that he accepted his surroundings.

  “I don’t know what the fuck you do every night except get drunk and come home soaked in blood, but I am sick and tired of cleaning up after you! I can’t do this anymore!”

  Brone shrugged and stretched, waiting for the brunt of Scotty’s fury to subside.

  “Just look at your face! Were you hit by a truck? Nevermind, don’t answer. I don’t want to know what you were doing last night!” Brone had no intention of answering Scotty regardless. He settled into the cushions. He was not going anywhere for a while, not while his roommate was on a rampage.

  “And another thing! The landlord was here asking where rent was! I gave you my share two days before the first. It’s the eighth today. You’re going to get us evicted!”

  Brone almost laughed, but he knew Scotty’s dramatics were not a joking matter. The two had been roommates for two years, and the first half of their tenancy together had been exceptionally trying for them both. Brone had answered an ad on Craigslist and from the first day it had seemed that the arrangement was a match made in hell. Scotty was highly emotional and prone to bouts of manic highs and depressive lows. Brone was much more reserved, cocky and able to keep his emotions in check. He had found Scotty’s endless tirades and nitpicking irritating and almost as soon as he had moved into the two-bedroom apartment, he had begun seeking other arrangements, but he had already paid his first and last month’s rent. Scotty had not been diagnosed with bipolar disorder until six months after they began living together and Brone had felt trapped in the residency at that point. Brone was no angel himself, however, a fact which Scotty liked to drive home at every opportunity. When Scotty was in manic screaming mode, Brone would be bombarded with a list of his deficient qualities, something Scotty spout forth to deflect whatever wrong doing he had committed. It was easy to tell when Scotty’s guilty conscience was troubling him as he turned into a self-righteous son of a bitch. Yet Brone recognized that they were both outcasts and that fact alone drew them together. Brone had grown up in the foster care system, estranged from his foster family and Scotty’s family had disowned him after years of being betrayed by his unpredictability. Scotty was apt to steal, lie and sleep with anything which had a faint heartbeat. While some of the traits were a direct result of the chemical imbalance in his brain, a bigger part was that Scotty was naturally manipulative. The final straw for Scotty’s devoutly religious family had come when he had bed his own cousin at a family reunion in Texas. He and his cousin had essentially been exiled from the family and Scotty had moved to Toronto with his tail between his legs, considering their ire a minor setback. Ten years later, he had yet to hear from any of his family members. It was probably for the best as Scotty did not leave his shady habits back in Austin. Brone felt an affinity toward Scotty for some perverse reason he could never quite identify. Possibly it was because he had seen much worse during his years in the system but Brone also secretly admired his roommate’s “don’t give a fuck” attitude. He did what he wanted when he wanted, and he had reached such a point of sociopathic apathy that the repercussions did not appear to affect him in the slightest. Brone could not claim the same for himself. Throughout his life, he had been told he was intimidating to others with his piercing blue eyes and tall, stately stature. He was not lumbering by any means but his lean body was well muscled, and his arms could pack an impressive punch. Anyone who had been on the receiving end of such an assault would be the first to attest to that fact once they regained consciousness. Brone was no stranger to fights, and while he truly believed he was a pacifist by nature, it seemed that people were always looking for the hard end of his fist. It did not make him feel good to hurt others. He did not wish harm upon anyone. Or at least he had not until very recently. Not until he had seen Ben in St. Lawrence Market three weeks prior. After that, it seemed he could not kill fast enough.

  As Scotty continued his soliloquy, Brone patiently waited, his thoughts wandering to the previous night. When the girl had approached him at St. Michael’s church, he had initially thought she was a cop hot on his tail from Molly’s Pub. He had barely been seated on the park bench when she had touched him. He had reacted impulsively, almost prepared to snap her neck when he had seen her face. There was an expression in her eyes, one filled with longing and desire and as he grabbed her, a strange electricity had flowed through him. He felt a jolt of surprise as he stared at her lovely face, his guard faltering slightly. She’s a girl! He thought with surprise. A young, beautiful girl. What the hell is she doing out here at this time of night? Brone pulled her close, trying to smell alcohol on her breath but she did not seem drunk, only desperate somehow. Desperate and…needy? As Brone locked gazes with her, his eyes searching her green orbs, he realized he was clutching her too tightly. She’s just a working girl, Brone. Let her go. She stared searchingly at his face as if she knew him, but could not place him, and Brone was overcome with incomprehensible confusion. Before he could drop his hand, she spoke a word. It chilled him to his core even though he did not recognize the language. His blue eyes narrowing, he released her. He remembered he had said something to her, and she had responded, but he could not recall the words as if after they had lost physical contact, his memory faded completely. There was a flash of darkness, and she was gone. And suddenly Scotty was kicking him in the leg back in their small apartment on McCaul Street. Did I dream
that girl? He wondered as Scotty gestured frantically around him, his intense eyes shining with animation. He glanced down at his outfit and saw that he was still in the same clothes as he had worn the previous night. On closer inspection, he saw where Spencer’s blood had soaked into the dark material on his button-down shirt. I was definitely at Molly’s Pub last night. He zoned back into Scotty, and spoke, cutting his housemate off in mid-sentence.

  “What time did I get home last night?” he asked. Scotty’s brown eyes widened in a fury.

  “What time did – have you been listening to a fucking word I’ve been saying?” he screamed, hurling a Coke can at Brone’s head. He slammed his balled fists onto their cheap coffee table for effect, but Brone was unmoved by the display of anger. It was nothing he hadn’t seen dozens, if not hundreds of times before.

  “Of course!” Brone protested, ducking but the half empty tin ricocheted off his temple anyway, spraying him with the warm, sticky liquid inside.

  “God fucking dammit! Now I have to clean that up too!” Scotty howled. Brone shot Scotty his best beseeching look, attempting to disarm him.

  “I am just trying to remember what happened after I got in! I blacked out!”

  “Of course you did! You were wrecked as usual. It was probably four thirty. Jesus Christ, Brone, it’s almost two o’clock now. Get up and go find a job! I can’t do this shit anymore! I am not your goddamn wife. I am sick of covering your half of the rent!”

  Brone nodded calmly at his friend and rose from the couch.

  “You’re right,” he agreed. “I have to get up and find work.”

  Yes, I have work to do, Brone told himself. Unfortunately, those bastards aren’t going to kill themselves.

  ***

  “You haven’t eaten.” It was not a question. Tariq already knew the answer. He could tell by Lilah’s complexion that she was starving. Lilah stared straight up at the ceiling, unresponsive.

  “Why haven’t you eaten?” he growled, seizing his sister by the shoulders and shaking her. A slight recognition seemed to slip into her eyes, but she continued to focus on the roof above her head. Tariq slapped her pale face and a spark of electricity coursed through her veins. Tariq pulled her from the sleek, black coffin and lay her on the floor. Again, he slapped her tender face, hoping to instill a reaction. When Lilah did not respond, he rolled up the sleeve on his V-neck shirt, exposing his tan, muscular forearm.

  “You cannot continue to do this to yourself,” he snapped, jamming his wrist into her mouth. She pushed his arm away in protest, but he forcefully kept his forearm in place until she could no longer resist, her shiny white fangs elongating to jab into his flesh.

  Eagerly, she suckled on his blood until the haze of hunger seeped from her, and she was coherent once more. Tariq ripped his appendage from her lips, droplets of blood painting the gleaming mahogany floor. Drawing back, she sighed heavily and looked up gratefully at her brother.

  “Where did you go, if not to feast last eve?” he demanded furiously. Lilah shifted her gaze. In her haste, after her chance encounter with the stranger, she had fled for home, forsaking her insatiable hunger. As she flew through the Yonge Street line, up the lonely subway tracks, she tried to understand what had occurred. He touched you and you were frozen. You could not move. He had a hold on you…and your heart began to pound as if you were mortal again. The realization was shocking for several reasons. Aside from her supernatural strength, Lilah had not felt the element of surprise for many decades. It possibly has been a century since my last breath of sharp air, she thought, recalling the man’s bizarre, iridescent eyes. While Tariq could sometimes catch her off guard with his forceful energy, no one had ever been able to start her pulse in such a manner for many years.

  “Answer me!” Tariq’s voice jarred her from her memory, and she gave him a sidelong glance.

  “I need not answer to you, Tariq,” she muttered, rising to her feet. He pushed her back, and she landed on the floor unceremoniously.

  “You have developed a false sense of security. We are not untouchable, despite our stature,” he warned, looming above her. Again, Lilah felt a thrill as he stared down at her, his broad shoulders melding into the black walls of the room. She lowered her long-lashed eyelids and displayed contrition she was not feeling. It was simply easier to allow him to believe she was compliant.

  “Yes, Tariq,” she conceded.

  “When the sun sets, we will go out hunting together,” he told her.

  “No!” She immediately cried. She did not want him with her that evening. A whisper in her mind told her she might again chance upon the mysterious stranger from the churchyard the previous night. She did not know why the desire to see him was overwhelming, but Lilah sensed she needed to connect with him again. Tariq glared at her, his fists placed upon his hips, prepared to unleash an outburst of fury upon her. Lilah forced a smile onto her trembling mouth and looked pleadingly up at him.

  “I cannot have you forever hunting in my place. You are constantly telling me how I must learn to do it on my own,” she rushed on. Tariq regarded her skeptically and then offered her a hand from the pristine floor.

  “Lilah, this depression you are experiencing is going to get you killed,” he told her as she stood. She brushed off her jeans and waited for Tariq to kiss her. After he had pulled away, he stared at her and for a fleeting moment, Lilah saw something in his eyes she had never seen previously, but it was gone before she could properly place it. Was that longing? Did I see a yearning in his eyes? Can he be feeling as I? No, he does not see our immortality the same way as me. He is content with the finality of our situation.

  It had not always been this way between the siblings. When they were young, they barely knew one another. Tariq was the oldest of the nine children in their family, Lilah the second youngest. There were thirteen long years between the two. Many days would pass where brother and sister barely saw one another, Lilah sewing clothes with her mother and Tariq moving from town to town, cobbling shoes. Lilah had spent more time in the company of Tariq’s wife and children than that of her brother. If had not been for the fateful night when the soldiers took Zalongo by storm, they would have likely died in the same fashion in which they lived; almost oblivious to one another. They had lived in the exclusive security of the Thesprotia Mountains, generations in the sanctuary of the Souloite Confederacy, never suspecting the bloodshed which would ensue on that eve of December 1803. The uneasy truce between the Souloites and the Ottoman Empire had ended. Their people had lost their false sense of security they had grown to accept under the Confederacy, and the villages were in turmoil. Many had retreated to the solitude of Zalongo under the treaty enacted between the Souli and Ali Pasha, but the Pasha had other plans for them. Upon receiving the necessary signatures, he immediately sent troops to seize the remaining Souloites, despite his promises to allow them to live free under his rule. Under brutal orders, the Turks seized the mountainous range, showing no mercy as men were impaled, women raped and children enslaved.

  “You must run with me!” Lilah’s mother hissed as mayhem exploded in Zalongo. She grabbed her hands and the hand of the youngest sibling, Ercan, rushing from their modest home. Ottoman soldiers flooded the dirt streets, slashing mercilessly at the Souli people, laughing as the Souli cried for their families. The screams were defeating, and Lilah did not know which way to run.

  “This way, Lilah! Hurry!” She had no choice but to obey her mother, following the dark hair through a dizzying array of flailing arms and bloodied faces. Her legs trembling in fear as she found her way to her mother and young brother on the cliffs. Dozens of women had already congregated in the spot, most carrying babies in their arms. Almost instantly, a wall of Ottoman soldiers drew toward the Souli women, swords drawn, prepared to attack. Yet the women had another idea, and Lilah watched in horror as they began to grin in their maddening fear. Slowly, their feet began to rhythmically move to the beat of an unheard drum. Closer to the edge they danced, their steps that
of the syrtos. As if rehearsed in some horrific thespian theater, they began to sing a low, melancholy wail which would haunt Lilah for centuries.

  “No!” she screamed as her mother joined the freakish display, suddenly understanding what they intended to do. She looked back toward the village but the warriors drew closer, and there was nowhere to run. She watched in dread as her mother scooped up Ercan and disappeared off the side of the jagged rocks, her face serene while her small brother screamed in protest, his eyes giant saucers of fear.