Collide Series Box Set

by J. C. Hannigan

  He winced at my words, wounded by them. "I'm sorry, Harlow. I should’ve never done that...given what you were going through."

  I opened my mouth, about to tell him he shouldn't have done it because I was with someone else, but before I could respond, Crimson was bouncing outside. She grabbed my arms with excitement, her eyes dancing happily.

  "He said if you vouched for me, the job was as good as mine! Thank you so much, Harlow!" she squealed, completely unaware at what she'd just walked into.

  "No problem, of course I'll vouch for you..." I trailed off, awkwardly glancing from Crimson to Iain.

  Crimson finally took notice of the man standing in front of me."Oh! Sorry, I didn't realize you were..." She tilted her head as if she could taste the strange heaviness between Iain and me.

  "I'm not. I was just leaving," I murmured, avoiding the particular way Iain was studying me. "Sorry, Iain. I really do need to go. I'm late for class..."

  "Yeah, of course," Iain said grimly, nodding once. The pain that still remained behind those blue eyes made my heart hurt, but I couldn't do anything about it. I couldn't even tell him about Jax—not with Crimson standing there. I didn't want to have to explain the complicated history.

  Crimson and I took off down the street, and I couldn't help but glance once over my shoulder. Iain remained standing outside of The Bean, watching me with a broken, wistful expression on his face. I had to turn away.

  "Tell me, what's the scoop with that stunning man?" Crimson asked, peering back over her shoulder for a third time despite my previous warnings not to.

  "An ex," I responded, my brow furrowing.

  "God, Harlow." Crimson's jaw dropped. "Where do you find these guys?"

  In classroom settings, I wanted to reply. Instead, I bit back a smile and said, "You have no idea."

  My last class of the day was Creative Writing. I sat in the lecture hall, trying to calm my frazzled nerves after seeing Iain. It was going to take a lot of concentration to ease my thoughts away from wondering what Iain wanted.

  Out of all of this semester’s classes, this one was my favourite because it gave me an excuse to write. The professor was forever assigning us the kind of homework I actually didn’t mind doing. We had to dissect books that landed on the bestsellers list and write why we thought they made it, as well as the multiple writing projects he assigned. Most recently, he’d had us all write out a novel outline using a variation of different methods.

  Despite how captivated I was by the subject matter, the professor intimidated me. He was an attractive man in his early thirties named Professor Sharpe. He had dark wavy hair cut close to his head, and a thick beard he kept in pristine condition. He was the personification of lumber-sexual, with nary a hair out of place on his head or beard.

  Most of the girls in the room had a difficult time putting their pouty, flirtatious lips away long enough to focus on the things he said, which was a shame because he was very intelligent. A self-published author of six novels, four of which hit the bestsellers list—he could certainly open doors for anyone, and he’d mentioned that at the beginning of the term when he told us to take his assignments seriously.

  He was nice enough, but I still kept my distance, choosing to sit towards the back of the room. I kept my head down, even if everything Professor Sharpe said interested me. I couldn’t help but be wary of him. And myself. While I thought he was attractive, it was merely a passing reflection on his appearance; I didn’t harbor any feelings of attraction towards him, but I still hid in his classes. He was the only attractive male teacher I had since high school. Naturally, that made my mind reflect back to Iain, even without my consent.

  Professor Sharpe cleared his throat, capturing our attention. He was standing before the podium, his black eyes sweeping over each of us carefully, as if gauging whether enough of us were listening.

  Although there were nearly two-hundred students in this particular class, Professor Sharpe always seemed to pierce each and every one of us with his intelligent eyes. “Some writers write by the seat of their pants,” he explained with a serious edge to his husky voice. “But it takes discipline to sit out and write an entire outline—to know the direction things are going to go before you get there. Now that’s not to say you won’t get surprises along the way, of course. But this will also help me get a feel for the kind of writers you are, and to see how far you’ve come from the outline to the first draft.”

  Murmurs exploded from those students who were surprised by the mention of a first draft. If they’d read their itinerary, they would have seen that Professor Sharpe intended for us to write a novel. The first draft was due towards the end of the semester. Once he read through them, he’d hand them back out to us—only we wouldn’t get our first drafts back, we’d get someone else’s and we’d have to edit their novel in order to get a complete grade.

  I was excited for it. Writing my outline had been easy, and I’d already started on the manuscript.

  Professor Sharpe cleared his throat again, this time in a subtle attempt of getting the class to fall silent. “There were a lot of interesting outlines. I am incredibly excited to see them turn into novels, but I’m especially excited for one in particular.” Professor Sharpe glanced towards the area where I was sitting and winked with a grin before quickly turning his gaze to the other side of the room. I couldn’t be sure that he’d been winking at me, but I still sat a little lower in my seat.

  The girl sitting beside me sat up straighter, thrusting her chest out proudly. “I bet he’s talking about mine,” she whispered, a seductive smile on her lips as she stared hungrily at him. A moment later, she looked at me with an inquisitive gaze, as if wondering why I hadn’t seconded her sentiments.

  “Yeah, maybe.” I shrugged, feeling a little twitchy and annoyed. I didn’t know which one of us he was looking at, and frankly, I found her remark a little pretentious. Her appearance was almost exotic; she had beautiful olive skin, hazel eyes and coffee coloured hair. I wasn’t sure what her ethnic makeup was, but she was stunning and she was one of those girls that just knew it. She was also intelligent, haughty and sophisticated, and it was obvious from the way she focused 100% of her attention on Professor Sharpe that she was striving to be his next prodigy.

  “My name is Delilah,” she said, thrusting her slender hand towards me.

  “Um…Harlow,” I muttered, taking her hand and awkwardly shaking it. I wasn’t even aware that introductions required handshakes anymore—at least not with our generation.

  “What happened to your face?” Delilah asked, her eyes honing in on the scar on my cheek with mild surprise. I guess it was the first time she actually looked at me long enough to notice it.

  I pulled my hand away from hers as if her touched burned me. “What happened to your manners?” I retorted.

  Delilah laughed as if my answer pleased her. “I’m sorry, you’re right. That was rude. I’m just very curious. Blame it on my journalistic tendencies,” she apologized, but her voice held no remorse. She was still assessing me like I was a puzzle she was trying to piece together. I didn’t like it. I bristled, my eyes narrowing at her.

  That moment, Professor Sharpe started to speak again. Delilah’s mouth clamped shut and she turned to face the front of the room, her chest thrusting out again like a bloody peacock. I shook my head in wonderment, barely catching the tail end of Professor Sharpe’s lecture.

  “Your marks will be posted on the student portal by eight o’clock this evening.” The rustling of papers and feet roused me to stand as well, joining my classmates in their preparation to leave.

  Delilah packed up delicately, placing all of her books in her shiny L.L. Bean bag, and gave me another one of her calculating smiles. “What’s your novel going to be about?” she asked, watching as I swept my things into my beat up messenger bag.

  I straightened, brushing my hair back from my face. “Um…” I frowned. I didn’t feel comfortable sharing my novel idea with anyone else, especially someone l
ike Delilah.

  She assessed me quietly for a moment, her eyes full of intelligence. “Ah, I see. You’re like me—very possessive of your ideas. Don’t worry, I won’t steal yours, but I get it if you don’t want to share,” she said, shrugging. “I’m mostly making conversation.”

  “Why?” I blurted out, my brow creasing as I met her gaze.

  “I don’t know,” Delilah said thoughtfully, tilting her head. “You seem…interesting. I like interesting people.”

  I bit back my reply that she didn’t seem interesting at all; there was a vast difference between interesting and lofty. Her egotistic air made me not want to be around her at all, and she was kind of rude. Instead, I forced a tight smile and shrugged. “Interesting is one way to describe me.”

  We began to walk down the stairs, towards the exit doors to the lecture hall. We were nearly there when Professor Sharpe’s voice rang out. “Harlow, could I speak to you for a moment?” he asked.

  I froze, turning around slowly. I tried to keep my expression open and neutral. Professor Sharpe had a gentle smile on his face. He was standing in front of the desk at the head of the classroom. He motioned for me to come closer, and I did. I could feel Delilah’s eyes boring a hole into my back. “See you next week, Miss. Moreno,” he added, glancing over my shoulder at Delilah while she stood watching by the doors. I heard the door close, and the sudden silence overwhelmed me.

  “Yes?” I came to a stop before him, waiting expectantly as I kept as much distance between us as possible.

  “I was completely blown away by your outline.” Professor Sharpe’s dark eyes sparkled, and an impressed smile lifted his thin lips. “It has true potential and I can’t wait to see where you take it.”

  “Thanks…” I brushed a strand of hair out of my eyes, discomfort rolling off me in waves.

  “I strongly suggest that you attempt to publish this book when it’s completed.” Professor Sharpe leaned casually against the desk where his laptop and an assortment of papers rested. His hands gripped the desk on either side of his body, the muscles taunt. His eyes were focused intently on me, watching my reaction. “I could help you edit it, and I know many people in the industry. Or, if you choose to go the self-publishing route, I could help you along the way.”

  “Oh.” I cleared my throat, searching for something to say as my heart raced out of control. “Thank you,” I finally finished weakly, giving him a tiny smile.

  “It’s my pleasure. I know a bestseller when I read it.” He winked. “This already feels like a bestseller. Have you started writing it yet?”

  “Yes, I have,” I answered, dropping my gaze. I was uncomfortable with the fact that my nerves were on edge.

  Truthfully, this is how it had been since the whole Iain thing. Each time a teacher pulled me aside to talk to me about my assignments, I shot back like a boomerang to that day in English class, Iain’s words washing over me as if he stood before me instead of Professor Sharpe. Only the desire, the need to connect was gone. In its place was hesitation and wariness.

  ”I wanted to tell you that you write beautifully and articulately. You have a real talent and I'm looking forward to reading more of your work. Have you thought about a career in writing?"

  “I’m sorry, what was that?” I asked, paling. Professor Sharpe was looking at me with curious concern, his mouth agape as he awaited my return from my trip down memory lane.

  “I said if you ever want any extra pointers, or if you want me to just take a look at it if you’re stuck, please let me know. I’d be happy to meet with you to discuss it.” Professor Sharpe’s smile seemed a little too gentle, as if he was aware of my discomfort. His head was tilted slightly, and I knew he was studying each and every one of my movements with a calculating eye.

  “Thank you,” I muttered, beginning to back up. “I’m going to be late for my next class…”

  Professor Sharpe nodded. “See you next week, Harlow.”

  I didn’t have another class. I just needed to get out of there. My chest was constricting; it was getting harder to breathe.

  Seeing Delilah waiting in the hallway outside of the classroom, I came to a sudden stop. She had a pinched look about her face. “What was that about?” she asked; I could tell she was straining to keep the animosity from her voice.

  “Nothing,” I answered, blowing past her and bullying my way through the students crowding the halls. The last thing I wanted to do was talk to her.

  The sharp bite of winter air invaded my lungs as I pushed open the doors and stepped outside, but I welcomed it. I drew in strangled breaths, adjusting to the bitter cold and trying to steady the erratic thumping of my heart and organize my thoughts.

  It took nearly fifteen minutes for my heart rate to recover to a normal speed. As soon as I could breathe without choking, I made my way to the gym. I needed a workout like I needed food and water; the workout would drive out the panic, the memories, and the feelings from that encounter with Professor Sharpe.

  Professor Sharpe hadn’t done anything wrong at all—he often reached out to students he felt had potential. It was a known fact within the English department. Last year, he helped a student named Brimley Stevenson with his novel. Brimley became a bestseller too, because of Mr. Sharpe’s suggestions and connections.

  It wasn’t Professor Sharpe’s fault that I was haunted by my past and my own decisions. My reaction to him was completely my fault.

  Jax worked part time as a personal trainer at the same gym I'd been frequenting a lot lately, and I knew he had a client to see before me. Still, I headed to the gym early. I’d slept so well the night before and with Jax in my bed, I certainly hadn’t wanted to go in the morning.

  I wanted to get in a good warm up before seeing Jax for my mixed martial arts lesson. It would be an added bonus to work out some of the frustration and guilt I felt over briefly seeing Iain and the way it profoundly affected me.

  Changing into my workout clothes and tying up my Nike Freeze shoes, I fished my shattered iPhone out of my jacket pocket. I swore, studying the several cracks splayed about the screen. I'd completely forgotten it had cracked when it fell to the sidewalk. After seeing Iain, I walked through the remainder of a day in a conflicted haze, my thoughts racing around from Jax inviting me to move in with him to seeing Iain again. I kept wondering what it was that Iain wanted to tell me, as he hadn't gotten around to saying it. Then I had feel an intense wave of guilt for even caring about what it was that Iain wanted to tell me.

  I shouldn't care what my ex-boyfriend had to say when I was with someone else.

  I started fiddling with it and by some stroke of magic, my music icon was between two of the many cracks and I was able to click on it. The only thing I couldn't do was scroll to select music. I'd have to let whatever wanted to play, play.

  Satisfied that I wouldn't be completely without music, I left the locker room and started my regular stretching exercises. I ignored the people around me, blasting the volume on my shattered iPhone.

  Once I stretched thoroughly, I approached a few of my favourite machines. I worked the muscles in my legs and thighs on one, then my shoulders and biceps on another until all my muscles burned with exertion. I listened to my music loudly, losing myself completely in it while I did my best to sweat away my guilt and confusion.

  I was lifting weights when I felt his presence. The air became denser, my heart rate jumped. It was as if my body was so completely wired to him that I could sense him before I even saw him. I raised my eyes to the mirror, seeing Jax exiting the private training room with a client. I couldn't fight the annoying jealousy that rose up when his client brushed her fingers against his arm…especially when I saw who his client was.

  It was Delilah Moreno from my creative writing class. The same girl that I’d fled from a few hours beforehand. And gauging by the way she flirtatiously batted her thick lashes at Jax, she wasn't just here to get in shape. She had a thing for him—it was obvious in the way she bit her lower lip and gazed up at
him through heavy lids.

  My eyes narrowed as I watched them in the mirror. As if he could feel the daggers I was aiming at them, Jax's head lifted up. His eyes found me as if drawn to me like a magnet to metal and he grinned. He removed his arm from her touch for a second time, muttered a goodbye and sauntered over to me. His eyes held my gaze in the mirror; his smile warmed every cold part of my heart.

  I knew I had nothing to worry about where Jax was concerned. He wasn't flirtatious, his eyes always sought out mine, and I knew it wasn't his fault that the majority of his clients were females that really wanted a different kind of workout than the one he offered.

  Jealousy is a twisted, crazy bitch, and no matter how many times I told myself that Jax was mine, I still couldn't completely make those feelings go away. Still, I forced the displeased look from my face as he approached. If I couldn't make the jealous feelings go away, I could at least hide them from him.

  "You ready?" Jax asked, pausing several feet behind me. He crossed his muscular arms, his eyes still fixated on mine in the mirror. The entire gym was lined with mirrors from the ceiling to the floor; muscle heads loved watching themselves. I avoided the mirror at all costs…unless I was looking at Jax in it.

  “Yeah, give me a minute.” I finished my reps and put away the weights, grabbing my water bottle before I turned to approach him.

  Twice a week, Jax taught me mixed martial arts in the private training room at the gym where he would soon be hosting the same class for troubled youth. My heart swelled with pride every time I thought about Jax’s class. I knew the kids would benefit from it; I certainly had.

  Now if someone attacked me in my own home, I'd at least be able to do some serious damage.

  Jax grinned at me, those thick lips widening to reveal white teeth that flashed against his copper skin. "Come on then." He nodded, placing his hand on the small of my back and leading me towards the private training room.

  Delilah was still in the gym, her gaze focused on Jax and me. I narrowed my eyes at her. She had the decency to finally look away and I smirked.