by Andy Gallo
“We?” Billy looked at Seth and then back at Darren.
Be better. “I’d let you borrow my car, but I need to stop at the ATM to get money.” He wiped the sweat from his forehead. From soccer.
From nerves.
Seth noticed the move and frowned.
Darren hurriedly said, “I really need a shower.”
“Why?” Seth asked.
“I just got in from soccer practice.”
“No . . . why are you offering to help us?”
Thank you, Harper, for turning me into a big dickhead. He met their skeptical gazes. “Because we’re brothers and you need help.”
They cocked their heads simultaneously, and Darren busied himself making sure his bank card was in his wallet. “I mean, if you don’t want me along, we can stop by the ATM, I’ll get the money, and you bring me back before you go to the tow lot.”
“No, we’re cool with you coming,” Seth said. “I’ll pay you back as soon as my loan check clears.”
Darren stuffed his wallet in his waistband. His soccer shorts didn’t have pockets. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I can’t take your money.” The protest came with another hint of hesitation.
How to reply without sounding like a privileged asshole? “It’s not a problem, I don’t need it.”
He hid a wince. Not exactly the definition of nailing it.
“On one condition,” Seth said after a long moment. “Stop by our room later. My mom sent me back with a whole box of food. Her triple-chocolate caramel cookies are awesome.”
He paused at the unexpected offer of friendship.
Thank fuck his phone ringing stopped him from blurting something awkwardly sentimental. He plucked his phone from the bed. He expected Mom to flash on screen, rearing to pimp him out to Max, but the number on the display was a university extension.
He held his finger up at Seth and Billy—just a minute.
“Hello?”
“Darren? This is President Jenkins.”
The university president was calling him? Directly? “President Jenkins. Hello, sir.”
“I need you to come to my office as soon as you can. We need to discuss the Gage Scholar Program.”
Why would the president call him about that? “I’m taking a . . . friend to get his car. Can I come by after that?”
Silence met his question. Clearly, that had been the wrong answer.
“As I said, this is important.”
He hadn’t said that, but it couldn’t be so important he had to drop everything. After all, this was Darren’s family’s endowment to the school. “I understand, but my friend has no other way to get to the tow lot besides me. Can I come around five?”
More silence followed. “Six. I have another meeting at four that will take me past five.”
They ended the call as abruptly as it began. What the hell was that all about?
He twisted to find Seth staring at him, wide-eyed. “Was that the university president?”
“What’d he want?” Billy asked.
“Not sure,” Darren said. “Something about the family endowment.” Something felt off about the call. His father ran the trust, and Darren knew nothing about it other than he was supposed to be the Gage Scholar this year. “C’mon.”
“Seriously. Thank you,” Seth said. “You’re awesome.”
If only he could make his dad see that.
Darren was supposed to drop Seth off with the money and leave, but . . . he lingered in his car at the curb. He’d drive off when he saw Seth exiting the lot in his wheels.
Jesus, what was taking them so long? It was five minutes to three thirty.
He stared out the windshield at the three short rows of towed vehicles to the left of the gas station. Something wasn’t right. Seth and Billy had gone in twenty minutes ago.
Darren slipped out of his car and entered the air-conditioned office. He choked on a cold breath tasting of oil, rust, and frustration.
Billy stood scowling at a guy in overalls, who watched him and Seth with a bored expression. Seth was pacing in front of the desk, voice barely suppressing his panic. “It’s a blue Toyota Corolla with a small dent in the bumper,” he said. “If you just let me show you—”
“I told ye, ’lright. We’re searching. You shoulda come with enough time for finding your baby.”
“But I only have two fifty. I can’t pay double.”
“Shoulda thought ’bout that when you double-parked, aye?” Overalls Guy glanced at the clock on the wall that ticked closer to three thirty. “My man will find it in a few minutes, I’m sure.”
The smug quirk of his lips told Darren everything. Stupid fuckwit at the impound lot seemed to think torturing Seth was good sport.
Darren cursed himself for waiting so long outside. He should have known the crew would play games so close to the deadline.
He strode up to the desk. He’d have this situation handled within half a minute. Reaching out a hand, he caught the guy’s eye. “Darren Gage V. My great-great-grandfather started MAS Oil.”
The guy straightened in his swivel chair and shook his hand, glancing out the window at the MAS Oil sign in front of the gas station.
He recognized the name, then. “Thank you for helping my man out with his car, here,” Darren said, withdrawing his hand and clamping it on Seth’s shoulder.
“Yeah, yeah, we’re helping,” the guy said.
Darren felt sick at the dude’s sudden eagerness to please. He slicked on a smile. “Great. Sure you guys are organized enough that he’ll drive out of here within the minute, right?”
Overalls Guy shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, well . . . we have a rule if it goes past three thirty—”
“Rules! Meant to be bent, no? I remember this one time—funny story—MAS Oil’s legal team crawled up the ass of this gas station owner who tried to charge this old lady for work they didn’t do. Pretty sure the guy lost his franchise. All for less than five hundred dollars. I think we can all agree, the dude wished he’d been more flexible.”
Seth’s surprised gaze heated one side of Darren’s face, and Billy’s the other.
Overalls Guy frowned, like he wasn’t sure what his next move was meant to be. How much did Darren have to spell it out?
He drew out his phone. “Hang on, let me call my dad.”
He scrolled to his dad’s number.
It might have gone beautifully, if he hadn’t hesitated with his finger on the call button. Fucker behind the desk saw it and called his bluff, lounging into his chair once more.
Fuck.
He shouldn’t have paused like that. But seeing Dad on the screen had his throat seizing. He hadn’t called Dad directly since he’d come out.
Before that, he and Dad called regularly. Once a week at least. Never, in his memory, could he remember a time when Dad’s phone had gone more than three rings before he picked up.
He was . . . nervous to try.
But it was his dad. Disappointed or not, he’d pick up his call, right?
Yeah. He would.
Darren hit dial.
One ring.
Two.
He swallowed.
Three.
So. Maybe Dad was just busy? Really, really busy.
But . . . he’d always put business on hold, even if it was to tell Darren he had to call him back.
Four.
He threw the Overalls Guy a smirk that he hoped didn’t look as stiff as it felt.
Five.
Six.
He pushed down the sting in his eyes.
Dad’s voice burst in his ear, loud enough that the guy stirred.
Darren stared back at him. “Hey, Dad. It’s me. You’ll never guess where I am right now . . .”
Overalls Guy jerked up a walkie-talkie and spoke into it. “Found your car,” he said to Seth. “Just in time.”
Darren nodded coolly at him and took his “call” outside, slipping into a wall of heat just as his dad’s answering machine b
uzzed for him to leave a message.
Chapter Three
Darren
“As you can probably appreciate, Darren, this is . . . a rather awkward situation.”
Darren blinked at the university president, momentarily speechless. A host of different feelings gnarled inside him, but awkward wasn’t one of them.
He shifted stiffly on the leather couch in Theodore H. Jenkins’s office. The president himself sat opposite, a bearded man with small rounded frames perched on the end of his thin nose. Cheeses and grapes sat on a polished table between them, along with chilled sparkling water, honeyed nuts, and a freight-load of tension.
“Let me get this straight,” Darren said, forcing himself to keep his tone neutral. “The program—the one endowed by my great-great-grandfather Darren J. Gage, the program every Gage has participated in for decades—is now something I have to compete for?”
“We never intended for you to compete for it, but the board of the national accreditations agency is reviewing how the Gage Scholar Program is run.” Jenkins pursed his lips. “You can thank the disgruntled student who made the allegation this university treats students on scholarship unfairly.”
Darren wasn’t going to lie—as entitled as it sounded, he’d counted on the program being his. Not a Gage who attended Harrison in the last sixty years had missed taking the Gage program. It was family tradition. You were a Gage and you went to school here; you did the program.
He’d debated with his dad and granddad about it once. Said it seemed unnecessary to take the scholarship from someone who needed it, when Dad could find him a job somewhere in the company. But his dad had said they donated extra money to the university during years the Gage program was used by a Gage. And that Darren—or any other Gage—wasn’t expected to be handed a job. He had to earn it. Had to fulfill all the requirements any other applicant would. Albeit, without competition.
And he would. He needed to.
Before coming out, his dad had teased him mercilessly about how great the year would be. How much more time they’d get to spend together working on MAS Oil business.
Darren had joked with him about needing a program to do that, and Dad had given him a look. Where’s your sense of Harrison spirit? You’ll be representing your alma mater when you enter the company. It is as much for the benefit of the college as it is a Gage rite of passage. My father did the same before me, and now you will, too. It makes me proud knowing you’re following in my footsteps.
Dad had never smiled so bright.
Darren swallowed, the weight of his phone and the ghost of his unanswered call to Dad heavy in his pocket.
Yeah, he’d counted on the program being his, all right.
He wanted to be angry at the change of rules. Wanted to be as mad as Jenkins clearly was that disgruntled students had filed complaints to the agency that oversaw Harrison’s academic status.
And he was frustrated, and worried about having to compete for the program, but in the same breath, he got it.
He’d just spent the afternoon at the impound lot dealing with a prime example of bias toward people with the “right” last names. Like his.
Jenkins smiled grimly, and Darren disliked him for all his apologies. Disliked him for being put out by what was a fair-enough accusation.
His great-great-grandfather may have intended for his heirs to get first dibs on the trust, but that wasn’t how it was written. To be honest, this couldn’t be the first time someone complained about the program being suspended while a Gage attended the university.
Guess it was the first time someone was smart enough to complain to the right channels. Good on him. Or her. Whoever it was.
“As I said, it’s unfortunate it came to this, but the running of the Gage Scholar Program is under review . . .”
So Jenkins needed to make it look like no such thing as entitled bias existed.
Darren suppressed a snort.
Jenkin’s mistook his expression, because he nodded. “I understand how you feel. Instead of being grateful for the opportunity to attend Harrison—and on scholarship—these students feel they are owed more.”
These students?
The fuck?
Jenkin’s continued, “We’ve given them an incredible opportunity. We pay for their quality education, and they get to make connections that will serve them well for a lifetime. And it’s never enough.”
“But they’re right. The university treats them different from those of us who come from money.”
Jenkins’s eyes narrowed, and he squeezed the arm of his leather chair. “This university treats everyone the same.”
Darren didn’t try to hide his contempt this time. “Everyone knows the university will shit-can anyone who causes a wealthy parent to complain—or worse, withhold a check. Even professors. But since you pay them well above the standard pay for a school this size, they know not to bite the gilded hand that feeds them.”
“I think this conversation is over.” Jenkins stood and kept his gaze on Darren.
Darren rose to his feet, voice tight. “I think that’s the first right thing you’ve said.”
Isaiah
By the time Isaiah was due for his meeting with President Jenkins, he was bursting with nerves. His foot tapped against the marble floor, and he forced himself to stop when the assistant delivered him a tight look over her glasses.
It was just . . . he hadn’t expected to create this much of a ruckus. What if his complaint got him thrown out of Harrison? How would he finish school? Or worse, be able to help his mother?
He hauled in a deep breath and let it out slowly.
No, he’d done the right thing.
He’d go in there. He’d be polite, and he’d be insistent.
He pushed off the velvet-cushioned bench and strolled around the opulent waiting room.
He’d never been anyplace this classy before. Even in his suit he felt underdressed.
He clasped his hands behind his back and took in the array of plaques, trophies, and awards celebrating Harrison University. Dozens of pictures studded the walls, almost all of President Jenkins shaking hands with distinguished politicians and other people of importance. Dominating the wall opposite the fireplace was an enormous portrait of a man in early twentieth century clothing. Moving closer, he read the inscription: Darren Josiah Gage.
He reached out and ran his fingers lightly over the heavily carved frame.
A burst of air signaled a door opening. Isaiah glanced across the room, and froze. Time froze, too.
That was not the president.
The guy was his age, and tall. Nicely pressed khaki shorts stretched across a pair of lean hips, and his pale blue oxford showcased perfectly sculpted shoulders and a tapered frame. His collar had flicked up on one side as if he’d been in a rush to dress, the corner teasing the column of his throat. His square jaw had an angry line to it, like the guy was biting back a curse or three. His thinly pressed lips and the blaze in his eyes confirmed it.
Holy shit.
The guy’s presence thickened the air.
Isaiah’s fingers twitched against the frame, knocking the painting askew.
The motion caught the guy’s attention, and his eyes snapped toward him.
Some funky sound wobbled up Isaiah’s throat.
The guy’s startled expression flickered over Isaiah. His anger softened, but it didn’t stop the electricity bursting out of him.
Suddenly, Isaiah was met with a hesitant grin, perfect teeth peeking between dark pink lips. In four measured steps, the guy closed the gap between them. Soulful brown eyes glittered like he found something amusing.
Isaiah followed his darting gaze to the painting. Oh, that. “Crap.”
The guy grinned harder. Oh Christ. He had dimples.
The soft scent of soap washed over Isaiah as the guy leaned toward him.
For a moment, Isaiah thought he meant to sweep in and kiss him, like this was some bizarre—and totally welcome—dream, but he
reached for the painting instead.
Long fingers gripped the edges of the frame, and wood scraped against the wall as he righted it gently.
Isaiah had opened his mouth to say something when the assistant reappeared from where she’d been hunched over a drawer of files, and he sobered. This wasn’t the time or place for flirting.
He could not meet the university president sporting wood.
The guy dropped his lingering gaze, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and backed toward the exit.
Thank him. Something. Oh God, where were his words? He jerked a thumb at the painting. “Didn’t mean to move it.”
Those dimples reappeared, and they slammed Isaiah with goosebumps. “Great-Great-Grandpa was straight,” he said with cheek. “Think he prefers to stay that way.”
He disappeared into the hallway.
Isaiah looked at the painting again, his smile waning. “Wait. Great-Great-Grandpa?”
That meant the guy was . . . “Oh, fuck.”
The guy was the last person he should be flirting with.
Darren Gage.
That was Darren fucking Gage.
Isaiah put his head in his hands and groaned. How fucked-up was his life right now?
A buzz came from the assistant’s desk. She picked up the phone and mumbled an acknowledgment. A second later, she put the receiver down and looked at Isaiah.
“President Jenkins will be with you shortly, Mr. Nettles.” She got up and entered the office.
He forced himself to focus. His education, and—by extension—his entire life, were hanging in the balance. He’d keep his mind on the prize.
The door opened and the assistant stepped through, leaving it ajar. “President Jenkins is ready to see you.”
Isaiah pushed himself to his feet, and his stomach tightened so much he nearly threw up.
He sucked in a lungful of stuffy office and exhaled. He wasn’t going to be expelled. This was one of the formal requirements of the application.
