The Campus Jock: A College Bad Boy Romance

by Serena Silver

  “No!” Without thinking, Lilah flew toward them, flying off the cliff into the unforgiving Ionian Sea.

  When she had opened her eyes again, she had been ravaged by pain in every area of her body. Screaming for mercy, she jerked her body in agonizing spasms, her eyes burning until suddenly she saw Tariq hovering above her. He seemed to float like an apparition above her and Lilah was certain she had died.

  “Shh, Lilah,” he whispered, collecting her in his arms. “You are safe, you are safe.”

  His face drew near, and she recalled how surreal his eyes seemed against the night as if they were floating orbs in themselves. Both subliminally and consciously, she became aware of a metaphysical occurrence overtaking her fragile, broken body. Abruptly there was a stabbing pain in her throat, and she fell into darkness once more.

  As Lilah stared at her brother, she was brought back to that moment, the moment he had taken her mortality from her without giving her a choice.

  “Get myself killed?” Lilah snorted. “I would love for nothing more.”

  Tariq grabbed her roughly and drew her toward him.

  “Is that what this is about? You are vying for death? You would rather be composting in the cold ground than experiencing the world?” he snarled. “You are still harboring resentment toward me for saving you? I believe your bitterness is becoming tiresome, Lilah.”

  Lilah yanked her arm back and glared at him, swallowing the bile in her windpipe.

  “Is that what we have been doing for two centuries, Tariq? Experiencing? I cannot speak for you, but I am cold constantly. Would it be much different if I spend my days decaying above the ground or below?”

  Fury lit Tariq’s eyes, but to Lilah’s surprise, he maintained his temper. He released her arms and laughed forcibly.

  “Well, darling sister, I despise that I am the one to inform you of this yet again, but you are destined to rot away above the earth for eternity just as I am,” Lilah responded by walking from the room, but in her mind, she had other thoughts. Not if I were to become human again.

  Chapter Three

  Regent Park was alive with its normal array of drug dealers and pimps, the Toronto Housing Community on Oak Street, a dazzling display of police cars and addicted prostitutes lining the lobby. Brone casually waited in the entranceway for a tenant to leave before slipping in, uninvited. No one paid him any mind. He was no odder than a woman high on meth or screaming couple assaulting one another in front of a uniformed cop and their toddler. He was only a dark figure passing in the night, no cause for any sort of concern or deserving of any attention. He forsook the idea of taking the elevator, lest there were cameras in the lifts, although he highly doubted the probability. The area was, without a doubt one of the sleazier parts of the metropolis and the government housing was simply the icing on the scum-ridden cake. As Brone stole up the urine soaked stairwells toward the fourth floor, he stepped over two semi-conscious bodies and averted his eyes from several others who were jabbing needles into their veins. He opened the door to the fourth floor and stepped into the dimly lit hallway. A large family of Syrian immigrants was waiting for the needlessly slow elevator to arrive, the children playfully chasing one another through the corridor, calling out cheerfully to each other. They abruptly froze in their tracks at the sight of Brone as if his waxen face and piercing eyes paralyzed them in their shoes. The children could not board the hoist fast enough as it arrived, still casting furtive looks in his direction as the chipped doors closed behind them. They will never notify the authorities. They are already too afraid here as refugees, Brone thought with confidence, making his way to apartment 410. He tried the doorknob in his hand, and it gave way easily in his grasp. Cautiously, he pushed open the door and eased his way into the short front hall. He could hear a television blaring from inside the apartment, and he made out the shadowy outline of a woman in the kitchen on his right. As if warned by an internal sense, she jerked her head up, and a gasp escaped her parted lips. Brone brought his fingers to his lips in a gesture of silence, pulling a long, shiny knife from the depth of his black jacket. It was the same one he had used to end Spence’s life the night before, washed and prepared for a new life. Her dark eyes widened with fear.

  “Please, take whatever you want!” she begged, waving her hands before he as if to ward him away. “Don’t hurt my baby!”

  “Who are you squawking to? I’m trying to watch t.v. in here!” a man yelled from the neighboring room. Swiftly, Brone advanced into the living room where he faced a brawny, drunk man. He looked exactly as Brone remembered him.

  “What the fu -?”

  Before he could finish, Brone was atop his bony frame, arm drawn back to plunge the knife into his chest. A child’s cry froze him in mid-gesture and as if in a daze, Brone turned his head to look in the hallway. A child of no more than four stood screaming, his huge eyes wrought with fear at the scene which he was witnessing. Shocked at the sight of the boy, Brone released his father and backed away, momentarily at a loss of which way to go.

  “Brone?” the man choked. “Is that you?”

  Suddenly terrified at being recognized, he whirled, knocking the boy down in his haste to escape. The screams of the woman and her son followed him down the steps and echoed in his head well after he had turned onto Gerrard Street, collapsing against the bank building. He was appalled to discover that he had tears in his eyes. Shit, he recognized me. What will he do? I have to go back and finish the job, or he’ll rat me out to the cops…or will he? I have no idea how a mind like that works. I never did apparently. Brone made a decision. He would wait for Feldman to leave his unit and kill him in Regent Park. People died there every day, and no one cared. Only the vermin of society resided in that area. Feldman’s death would go down as an unsolved homicide, another degenerate removed from the streets. There would be no investigation, only some minor formalities before Feldman became yet another Toronto cold case. Quickly brushing away the tears burning his eye lids, he continued down the street, stealing away in the shadows, oblivious to the glowing green eyes following his every move.

  ***

  Lilah knew she must feed before she perished. Not that Tariq would allow for that to occur, she thought with resentment. She was surviving from the boost which he had given her, but that would not sustain her long enough. She needed fresh blood and plenty of it. Tonight, she would go to the slums of Toronto where her kill would not be noticed by anyone. She found herself in the bowels of Regent Park, searching for a lone target. It was still early enough in the evening that junkies bound together and police were slowly making their presence known, but she knew in time, she would be left alone with a sprinkling of enfeebled bodies, ripe for the taking. The authorities would merely flitter off to more brightly lit parts of the city, only to return when someone overdosed, or a drug deal went awry. She simply needed to bide her time. Surprisingly, the young, delicious blonde in their midst heeded no acknowledgment, and she walked leisurely as if she was invisible. It was one of her natural abilities, the capacity to assimilate in any surrounding. While her fair radiance would stand out in any environment, she was virtually disregarded amongst the vagrants and lost causes. They were too involved in their own misery and hell-bent on self-destruction to look up from their crack pipes. Soon, she found herself before the government housing apartment complex on Oak Street. Two armed policemen were apprehending a huge black man who was almost frothing at the mouth as he fought against their restraints, cursing incomprehensibly at anything and everyone. She casually stepped aside, allowing for the constables to hustle the man into a waiting cruiser. As they exited the building, Lilah entered through the glass doors. The building was one which Lilah had visited several times to feast, but it was not the temptation of nourishment which drove her into the doors that night. As if driven by some inexplicable force, she found herself climbing through the perilous stairwell, a strange longing guiding her toward something she could not identify. It was not until she entered the hall of the four
th floor did she understand why she had been called to the location. As her heeled boots touched the worn carpeting, she saw a dark form disappear into an apartment at the far end of the hall. Intrinsically she knew who it was, but she could not understand why she was following in his wake. Never had she found herself seeking out a mortal, not even in the prey of a kill. Instead of questioning the phenomenon, Lilah instead decided to tail the mysterious man into the apartment. He had not fully closed the door, and Lilah gently eased it open, watching him interacting with someone as he pressed his finger to his lips and flew further into the unit. She drew inside, wrapping her sweater about her body, overcome by a sudden burst of cold. Something she did not comprehend was about to transpire, and she was torn between wanting to watch and flee. She did not move, hearing the screams reverberate in her ears. A small boy ran from a back room toward the commotion she was suddenly reverted to the cliffs of Zalongo, watching Ercan’s face as he disappeared over the edge in her mother’s arms.

  “Brone? Is that you?” she heard a man gasp. Lilah sensed an immediate change in the air. The feel of impending death was seeping out of the confined space. He is not going to end the man’s life. Brone. His name is Brone. Inhaling sharply, Lilah stepped out of the dwelling. She could sense Brone’s apprehension and recognized his intent to flee. Sliding stealthily back into the stairwell, she descended the steps and waited outside the building for him to depart. A moment later, he ran from the doors, his wan face aghast and she followed him, watching his expression. He is disturbed, troubled. He is not merely a cold-blooded murderer. He was there for a purpose, and he failed. Lilah kept a safe distance, contemplating her next move. When Brone stopped, she paused, willing him to return and finish what it was he had started. She could not understand why but she knew the man he had designed to kill was deserving of his fate. How she had come to that conclusion was as much a mystery as Brone himself, but she was certain of the fact. He finally collected himself, and she watched as he peered back toward River Street, where the complex stood tall against the night. He seemed to be considering his next move. She was surprised to see him carry on away from the building. Torn for a moment, Lilah whipped around in the opposite direction, allowing him to disappear from her view. Back toward the Toronto Housing Community she flew, fierce determination in her veins. Fifteen minutes later, she walked down Gerrard, wiping the taste of the man, woman, and boy from her mouth. As she ran her tongue over her teeth, she tasted the syrupy aftermath of alcohol, its diluted contents running through her own veins. She was slightly intoxicated from feasting on the man. She had not killed the boy, something Tariq would be furious to know if she were to disclose the information. Feasting upon children was something only to be done in dire circumstances, and this was not such a scenario. New life had filtered through Lilah, and she roamed the streets, her instincts on high alert. She needed to find Brone.

  Brone stood in front of the house, a black garbage bag in his hands. The place was not unappealing. It had freshly painted shutters and a blue door. Maybe this will actually be home, he told himself optimistically. Maybe this will be the last place they’ll send me. But his thoughts were overshadowed by doubt. This would be his fifth home since being removed from his mother’s care five years earlier. Still, Brone figured any place had to be better than the house of a schizophrenic hoarder who believed bed bugs were the only GMO-free form of nourishment.

  A boy roughly the same age as he sat on the front steps of the lovely house, pouring over a schoolbook intently.

  “Hey, you the new kid?” he called out, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose and peering inquisitively at Brone. The case worker shoved Brone’s shoulder roughly, and he shuffled forward, trying to smile.

  “Yeah,” Brone answered. “Brone Matthews.”

  “I’m Brandon Spencer. Everyone calls me Spence though.”

  Awkwardly, the teenagers stared at one another. Again, Mrs. Gallo pushed on Brone’s back, trying to hurry him into the house. The front door opened and a middle-aged woman opened the door, smiling kindly at the newcomer.

  “Oh, Brone! How wonderful you’re here!” she declared, hurrying forward. She stopped before him.

  “I’m Carla McKinnon. My husband Ben and I are your foster parents.” She extended a hand tentatively, and Brone accepted it quickly before drawing back.

  “Ben works during the day, but he is really looking forward to meeting you tonight when he gets home. Welcome to our home. I hope you’ll be very comfortable here.” She seems so nice. She’s exactly the opposite of Ken and Barbie at the last house, Brone thought. His former foster parents had been health freaks with borderline abusive dietary restrictions. Brone had lost ten pounds in the six months he had stayed with them, but he still preferred the quinoa and kale to the vermin his mother had fed him if only barely. Still, he would have stayed with Ken and Barbie but their cut-off for fosters was fourteen, and he had just had a birthday. His heart began to pick up with excitement. Could this really be home until I’m eighteen? I better not jump to conclusions until I see what’s in their fridge. If there’s kelp, I’m out of here.

  “I can take it from here, Mrs. Gallo,” Carla told the case worker. Mrs. Gallo looked relieved at the out and immediately headed toward her nondescript sedan.

  “Call if you need anything, Carla,” she called without addressing her charge before driving away. Carla smiled kindly at Brone who had been expecting her pleasant demeanor to fade with the exhaust fumes of Mrs. Gallo’s car. His third foster parents were like that, the ones before Ken and Barbie; all smiles until the case worker vanished. Then it was back to the chores and errands which included cleaning out eaves troughs and purchasing cigarettes. The other kids called them Hitler and Eva.

  “This is Spence. He’s been with us…what, two years now, Spence?” The boy on the steps nodded, again adjusting his glasses and returning to his book as if the sudden appearance of the house mother had caused his vocal cords to freeze. He allowed for his light brown hair to fall over his eyes to shield his face.

  “Come in, Brone. I will show you to your room.” Inside, he was led up a gleaming hardwood staircase toward a bedroom at the end of the hall. The door opened, and he was facing another fourteen or fifteen-year-old boy. He peered up at them, a scowl on his face.

  “Don’t you knock?” he snapped, but Carla ignored him, gesturing for Brone to enter.

  “Jason, this is Brone. He will be bunking with you,” Carla informed the surly boy. Jason’s eyebrows rose with interest. He placed his Batman comic onto the bedspread and leaned back cockily on his arms.

  “Oh yeah?” he asked. “Do you like porno?”

  “Jason is just kidding,” Carla interjected smoothly, but she gave Brone’s new roommate a scathing look. Brone was not surprised by Jason’s question. It was designed to instill shock and gage a reaction from Brone. Brone had known enough kids in the system to recognize the offense mechanism. Brone smiled easily and shook his head in reply.

  “Not really,” he answered.

  “Too bad. I know where there’s a stash right here in this house,” Jason taunted, staring directly at Carla who blushed crimson.

  “That isn’t true, Jason,” she snapped. He shrugged his shoulders and appeared to lose interest in them both, returning to his comic book.

  “Jason, I hope you’re finished your homework,” Carla told him gently. “You know Ben is going to check when he gets home tonight.”

  “I don’t give a shit what Ben does,” Jason retorted. “You should be the one concerned with what your idiot husband does.”

  Carla sighed as if she was defeated and gestured for Brone to put his bag onto the twin bed by the window.

  “Do you need some time to get freshened up or would you like to come and have something to eat?” she asked. Brone glanced furtively at Jason who was making a gesture for Carla to leave from behind the house mother’s back. I should probably take the time to get to know my new foster family, Brone reasoned even though
he was starving. He had barely eaten two spoons of cereal at Children’s Aid that morning, waiting for transport from Hamilton to Toronto as it had quickly become apparent that the milk had spoiled.

  “I’m just going to get changed,” he told Carla. “But I’ll be down in a few minutes.” She smiled, and Brone thought he detected some nervousness in her face.

  “Of course, Brone. Whatever you wish. I will be in the kitchen wrangling you up a sandwich. Is chicken salad okay?”

  He nodded gratefully that she had meat in the house and waited for her to leave. He noticed that she did not bother to close the door. Jason jumped up and slammed it shut, the shudder reverberating through the house. Brone cringed slightly but smiled at Jason anyway. The boy leered at him, crossing beefy arms over a chubby stomach, his dark eyes narrowing suspiciously.

  “You gay?” he asked. Brone shook his head, brow furrowed.

  “No,” he answered. “Why?”

  “I don’t bunk with fags,” Jason snapped, eyeing him. He seemed content that the pale boy was straight and relaxed his terse pose.

  Jason’s smile was broad and toothy now, and he extended his hand at Brone, but Brone was no longer sure he wanted to befriend the surly teen.

  “I’m Jason Feldman. And if you aren’t gay, just wait for the boner you’re gonna get when you meet our new sister!”

  ***

  This has already gone too far, Brone told himself, wiping sweat from his brow. He had returned to St. Michael’s Cathedral for some unknown reason as if the sanctuary of the shady courtyard was calling out to him. Sanctuary. That is what I need, to claim asylum. Or I need an asylum. He wiped his face with his palms as if to wipe grit from eyes but he was not clear headed as if a fog had overcome him. You can’t go back for Feldman. You must get the hell out of Toronto. Tonight. Right now, before the cops hunt you down. You almost killed him in front of his kid. He isn’t going to let you get away with that. But Brone could not release the idea of Feldman’s blood on his hands. You owe it to Lilyanna. The air seemed to shift, grow colder and his head jerked up instinctively. He was staring into a set of turquoise eyes, but this time he did not feel guarded. She did not touch him, but instead, the two gazed upon each other’s faces as if suspended in time.