I shouldn’t really be encouraging any ideas she’s got floating around her head, but I’m damn near close to reclaiming my virginity here. Might as well transfer over to our football team at this point.
Me: Yep. Come on over.
Christie: OMW ;)
Tossing my phone on the pillow beside me, I slide open my nightstand drawer to check my condom supply. Looks as though I’ll be putting the bass to use after all.
TAP, TAP, TIP-TAP, TAP, WHOOOP.
It’s like Chinese fucking water torture. Deep breaths, Dahlia. Deep breaths. Inhale and—
Ping!
Jiminy freaking Cricket. I’m three seconds away from ripping his phone straight from his hands and smashing it against the wall. Why Professor Cormac never says anything is beyond me. Maybe we’re too far back for him to hear or even give a damn, but if this had been my class, I would have booted this guy’s ass out in ten seconds flat. But alas, it is not. And so I sit, having listened to that infernal tapping sound for the past three hours.
During the twenty minutes of the quiz, there was a heavenly pause from any and all pings and taps. I’d be completely surprised if he isn’t close to failing this class with how often he seems to be on his phone as opposed to taking notes and actually paying attention.
With a robotic “See you next week,” and assigning an obscenely tedious paper to write on criminal profiling, our professor dismisses us. As I stand from my desk with my books and laptop in hand, a sense of unbridled brashness comes over me and I turn to face Mr. Popularity.
I successfully grab his attention by addressing him as such while he stuffs his books carelessly into a black Jansport bag.
“Do me a favor and silence your phone before you get here,” I say, my voice almost a growl.
Mouth agape and wide-eyed, he remains silent, allowing me to continue my tirade.
“If you don’t give a shit about passing this class, fine, but show some common courtesy and turn off the sound before I throw your phone out the window.”
His only response is a barely noticeable cinch of his eyebrows. Like he has no idea what just happened. Hell, neither do I.
Without another word from me and none at all from him, I shift my things into the crook of my arm and head for the door, along with the strange sense of deep blue eyes tracking me. I guess I rendered Mr. Popularity speechless for once.
“SHE ACTUALLY SAID THAT TO you?” Keith cackles, showcasing a mouthful of half-masticated hot dog.
“Yep.” I nod, picking up my chili dog from a newspaper-lined basket. “Scolded me like a mother catching her kid with a hand in the cookie jar.”
“Ah, that is rich.” He picks up his drink and loudly slurps every last drop of soda before shaking the ice-filled cup and frowning as he sets it back on the table. “She may just be my new favorite person. Tell me the name of this goddess.”
That stops me mid-chew. My eyes cast down to the table as if the laminate will somehow magically provide me with the answer. Shit, what is her name? Claudia? Sylvia, maybe?
“Dunno,” I casually reply, as if the need for the right answer isn’t burning a hole through my brain.
Keith tosses his crumpled napkin into a now-empty basket. “Well, what did she look like?”
Man, he’s more invested than I thought. Pondering, I try to recount her features as she chastised me out of nowhere. With my forearms on the table, my eyes roll up toward my eyebrows in thought. “About 5’7” with long, dark auburn hair. Piercing blue eyes.”
My mind fixates on that particular distinction. It wasn’t just the color of her irises, brilliant as they were, but the shape of them. Almond-shaped and slightly hooded, they gave her a sultry look even through her biting glare.
“Piercing, eh? What are you, a fucking poet? Who the fuck even says piercing, you ass jockey?”
I pick up the little plastic knife beside my basket and point it at him. “Like I should pierce your fucking eyeball if you don’t shut your fucking hole.”
“Just saying, Z, no dude has ever uttered the word piercing in his life.”
I smirk. “So no wooing the ladies with your whimsical prose, huh?”
“Whimsical prose, man, are you high?” He leans in over the table, a phony concerned look plastered on his face. “Did somebody give you a brownie that tasted funny today?”
I toss a wadded napkin at him, and he laughs. “Shut up, man.” Hoping he doesn’t catch my momentary fascination with this girl, I lean back in the metal chair, crossing an ankle over my knee. “But if looks could kill, I’d have been skewered on the wall this morning.”
He eyes me pointedly, clearly on to my deflection. Keith has been my best friend since first grade, ever since he bloodied up Max Cramer’s nose during recess for pushing me off a tire swing. I may be 6’2” and in good shape now—thanks to maturity and countless hours spent in the gym and on the ice—but as a kid, I sort of grew out before I grew up. I was the butt of everyone’s joke, but once Keith came into my life, that shit ended as quickly as it had begun.
From that point on, we’ve always had each other’s backs. A true bromance spanning fifteen wild years and I’m not ashamed to say it. He knows me better than my own brother.
“So you gonna ditch the phone next Tuesday or turn up the sound and hope she bends you over the desk and gives you a spanking?”
My hand flies to my mouth a second too late as cherry cola dribbles into my lap. But his idiotic phrasing gets me thinking. I know she wants me to silence my phone. But sheer curiosity has me wondering if she’ll be bold enough to make good on her promise to throw it out the window. Riling that little spitfire up may be worth the new phone I may have to buy.
Yeah, you can bet your sweet ass I’ll be leaving the volume on.
MY HANDS REACH FOR THE plastic-lined trash can beside my bed, as has been their compulsion over the last couple of days. Hell, I can’t remember the last time I was this sick. Doctor Patel claimed it was either food poisoning or the flu and that there was nothing to do but wait until it passes. If whatever it is doesn’t pass by the weekend, hospitalization it is. Just the information everyone wants to hear when they feel as if their insides are trying to force themselves outward.
God, my body aches so badly. Just sitting up to reach the water glass beside my bed takes a painful amount of effort—one that’s almost always in vain the moment the liquid hits my stomach.
My bedroom door creaks open, and Christos’s sister, Helen, walks in holding a steaming bowl of avgolemono soup. The lemony fragrance alone sends bile creeping up the back of my throat.
Christos insisted on taking care of me yesterday as he rushed back and forth to my bedside throughout the day, but sadly, had to return to the studio this morning An added blow was that this was the week I was due to begin teaching my own classes. I haven't been able to stand up for more than two minutes, let alone demonstrate the basics of various martial arts.
To add even more shit to the already heaping pile, I've missed classes and just thinking about missing work makes my eye twitch. I’ll have to text Lexi and see if she’ll grab some of my assignments. Knowing Lexi, germaphobe that she is, she’ll walk in with my homework while wearing a hazmat suit.
After placing the bowl on my nightstand, Helen places a hand on my forehead. “Pós eísai?”
“Terrible.”
With a conciliatory smile, she tells me to rest up and to call her if I need anything else. I nod, my throat too raw to voice my thanks.
My phone buzzes where it rests against my thigh, a text momentarily lighting up the screen. Lexi. Perfect timing.
Lexi: How are u feeling? Still knocking on death’s door?
Me: Feels like I’ve got one foot in the door way.
Lexi: I take it you aren’t coming to the sorority fundraiser tonight?
Me: Yeah, not happening.
Considering I’d refused even before I came down with the plague, I have to resist the urge to reply with a resounding “hell no.” A fundr
aiser is all well and good, but it’s typically in the form of a party. As a junior in college, I have yet to attend a frat or sorority bash, and I don’t plan on breaking that streak. At least this time I have a different excuse besides being swamped with homework or training.
Speaking of homework.
Me: Hey, do you think you can run into my classes and grab the lesson plans and assignments?
Lexi: Why didn’t you just email your profs?
Shit, my flu-addled brain hadn’t even thought of that. I tell her as much followed by a “nvm.”
Lexi: Don’t worry about it, I’m just at the dining hall. I’ll head into ur building and grab what you need.
Me: you’re the best, Lex
Lexi: you’re damn right I am. I’ll stop by later tonight. And btw, u better be wearing one of those face masks. If u get me sick I’m shoving ur ass through death’s door.
Wincing when I chuckle, I tap out a quick “thank you and see you later.” I scoot back down, turn onto my side, and curl into the fetal position. The soup grows cold as I drift off.
A WAVE OF ANTICIPATION HAS my already long stride picking up faster. For the first time since the semester began, I’m antsy as hell to get to criminal psychology for no other reason than to see those glaring aqua eyes and hear that feisty mouth, again. She just happened to unknowingly incite an interesting game of cat and mouse. And this cat wants to play.
When I cross the threshold of the classroom doorway, my gaze immediately goes to the seat directly in front of mine. I expect to see a mane of Auburn hair, but instead, my eyes are met with an empty seat.
Shit.
I’m always one of the last students to walk in before Cormac begins his weekly rambling. Every week when my alarm goes off, I tell myself I’m not going to hit the snooze button, only to end up hitting it at least four times.
Racking my brain, I try to recall all of the times I’ve rushed into class and plopped my ass in my seat. From what I manage to remember, the seat in front of mine has always been occupied by the time I got there.
Fuck, looks like the little tyrant either isn’t coming or she pulled a Keith and slept straight through her alarm.
Slumping into my seat with disappointment, I retrieve my phone from my back pocket, my thumb hovering over the sound button. After switching it to vibrate, I place it on the corner of my desk so if she happens to walk in, it’ll be at the ready for when I turn the sound back on. I want to look as though I’m conceding to her demands and witness the burning fury in her eyes when she realizes I’m not. Call me a sadist, but I’m dying to poke this particular blue-eyed bull and taunt her a bit. There’s nothing I love more than playing a good game, and I’m out to win.
I cross my arms and lock my eyes on the doorway as Cormac rises from his chair and moves to the whiteboard.
Maybe she was so annoyed that she dropped the class. Or maybe she’s too embarrassed to face me after her chewing my ass out.
What the fuck could have happened to her? And more importantly, why do I give a shit?
I’ve been cussed out by girls before. One of them went so far as to snatch my laptop off my desk and smash it on the floor. That certainly made for an embarrassing phone call with my father as I tried—and failed—to covertly explain why I needed a new computer.
The difference between those girls and the one who has been occupying my mind far too often for comfort is that I earned those girls’ anger. Well, except the laptop murderer. That was uncalled for . . . I mean, really?
This is a girl I’ve never even spoken to, let alone bedded and jetted, as Keith so artfully describes it. And I’ll be damned if my dick didn’t twitch at the bold look on her face and annoyance in her tone.
That still doesn’t explain my sick fascination with her.
My head snaps up when someone steps through the entryway, a jolt of undeniable excitement rushing through me. The hand holding my phone flexes with the hope that it’s her, only to be met with yet another disappointment. The newcomer is a girl with cotton-candy-colored hair and a fashion sense that paints a picture of her sitting in a circle on the campus lawn with some dude who reeks of patchouli incense and singing “Kumbaya.”
Shoulders sagging, I flip open my computer, not giving a rat’s ass about the girl or why she’s here. That is, until I overhear her talking to our professor.
“Here to pick up any assignments,” she explains to him.
Swiveling my head back and forth for my own attendance check, I see that the only person who isn’t present is the occupant of the seat in front of mine and, lately, of my thoughts as well.
Cormac flips open a binder, a hand running a pen up and down the page as though he’s scouring for something. “Name?”
“Dahlia Anastas.”
Dahlia . . . her name is Dahlia! What the fuck did I think her name was? Sylvia? Guess I was kind of close. Pretty sad that I’m mentally patting myself on the back for almost remembering a girl’s name. Especially one I’ve no association with, save being on the receiving end of her temper.
With virtually no explanation besides a temporary bout of insanity, I stand and approach Cormac and the girl who is obviously one of Dahlia’s friends.
“Can I help you, Mr. Graves?” Cormac inquires as I step up to the front of the desk.
“Uh, just that I’d be happy to bring Ms. Anastas her assignments.”
Now they’re staring at me. Hippie girl’s wearing an expression of intense bewilderment, while Cormac’s face remains as sullen as ever. I swear to God, I’ve seen statues with a wider variety of facial expressions.
“I see, and what might your association with Ms. Anastas be?” Cormac asks in a suspicious tone.
Holy hell, this is starting to get embarrassing. I can see the headlines in the college newspaper now: From Hockey Star to Stalker Boy.
This conversation has already taken a turn for the worse, and I find myself scrambling to come up with a believable reason. “Uhh, just trying to help out one of my classmates?”
I don’t intend for it come out as a question. Smooth, Zack. No wonder the ladies are crazy for you. Can’t argue with that kind of wit.
With his brow cocked in confusion, Cormac waves me away. “Please return to your seat, Mr. Graves.”
Yeah, this is one of the downright dumbest fucking ideas I’ve ever had. I seriously need a lesson in self-control.
Embarrassed, I scratch the back of my neck and turn my attention to hippie girl. “Sorry to interrupt your conversation.”
Making my way back to my desk, I make a mental note to check myself before acting on another stupid compulsion like that.
Hippie girl’s voice sounds from behind me. “No problem, Chester Chatterbox.”
When I jerk my head over my shoulder to look back, her face is alight with amusement. She was obviously teasing me.
Chester Chatterbox? Where in the ever-loving fuck did that come from?
I FINALLY FEEL AS THOUGH I can stomach something to eat. Sitting up, I reach for the plastic sleeve of crackers resting next to the untouched bowl of soup from hours before. Christos came home an hour ago and brought a shopping bag of saltines, ginger tea, and ibuprofen, for which I proclaimed him a saint.
Munching on something solid for the first time in days, I grab the television remote and load up the latest episode of MasterChef. Unlike my best friend, I don’t have a fetish for older men, but Gordon Ramsay is an exception. The way that man works a steak has got to be the sexiest sight on the planet.
My bedroom door flies open just as the mystery box challenge is about to be unveiled, and Lexi walks in.
“Hey! How’s the sickie?” she recites, doing her best to imitate a grandpa’s voice while walking toward me with a load of books and papers in her arm.
Laughing, I pause the show. “Princess Bride, Lex? Really? Doesn’t everyone quote that enough as it is?”
Dismissing my question with a pfft sound, she adds, “Inconceivable! Besides, most people just quote Inig
o’s speech or Westley’s, ‘As you wish.’ How was I supposed to pass up the opportunity to say that line while carrying books to someone who is actually sick?”
Well, she’s got me there.
Relenting, I take the books and papers when she hands them to me. Hopefully I didn’t miss much. I hate falling behind on anything. It drives my anxiety through the roof.
“So!” she starts, plopping herself on the edge of my seashell-patterned bedspread with a bounce. “Had a funny little incident when I went to your crim psych class.”
She uses a cautionary tone that, knowing Lexi, could mean anything. I raise my brows, urging her to continue as I reach into the bag for another blessed cracker.
She lifts herself a little, crossing her legs. “So I went in to ask your prof—who looks scarily similar to Michael Sheen by the way. I don’t know why you never told me—”
“Lexi!” I shout, immediately regretting raising my voice. Now my throat feels like that of a sideshow sword swallower with a bad case of the shakes. “Get on with it, please.”
She clears her throat. “Anyway, I’m getting your assignments from Michael—I mean, your professor—and Zack fucking Graves walks up and offers to take them to you himself.”
My fingers holding a saltine come to a stop inches from my mouth.
Ummm . . . what?
My expression must say as much because Lexi looks at me with wide eyes and replies with, “I know, right?!?” Then she helps herself to a handful of my precious saltines. Little thief. “Why didn’t you tell me Zack Graves is in your class? Hot damn is that man gorgeous. Talented as all hell too.”
My face scrunching, I sit up a little straighter with my back resting on the wooden headboard, and I flash her a look. “Um, are we talking about the same Zack Graves? Because the Zack Graves who sits behind me is a nuisance.”
Sweet Insanity (Sweet Series Book 1) Page 2
