by Ella James
“What’s that?” I hold my head up high and pull out a look I used a lot in high school: the you-can-talk-shit-about-me-but-I-don’t-care-because-I’m-better-than-you special. Behind the look, my head is spinning. I watch his lips move, focusing more on them than on his words.
“I’m asking, Cleo, because I was told you were dealing drugs on campus.”
I could let those words sink in. Let them freak me out. I choose not to. Instead, I shove his words away and let my mouth move.
“Psshhh! Is that a joke?” An awkward laugh tumbles out of my mouth, and my head shakes frantically, like I’m starring in a reproduction of The Exorcist. “Me? Dealing drugs? I’d get kicked out of Triple Gam so fast my head would spin! Drugs are for losers.”
I shut my mouth and reel a little. For losers? God, I’m such an idiot! I loosen my shoulders and try to pull myself out of this. “Look, Kellan—Kellar? Walsh. I know your last name is Walsh, so that’s what I’m calling you. Walsh, I understand your stance on drugs. I’ve read your columns in The Bobcat.”
He writes a monthly column for the student newspaper. I hate his politics, which is one of the reasons I sometimes read his weekly column in the student paper—just to wave my fist at him. The other: his mug shot. It’s 2D amazingness.
He smirks, like he knows what I’m thinking.
“Yeah. I know how straight-laced you are. Except when you’re abducting my friends from bars.”
His brows shoot up. Every one of his features, from his flaring nostrils to his electric blue eyes, screams warning.
“Not abducting,” I quickly correct. “I mean...I guess they go with you.” My gaze, trained on his face, loses its footing and flits down over his chest. I jerk it back up.
“Here’s the thing, Kellan: It’s pretty shitty to accuse a random student of doing something that could get her expelled. Do you have some evidence you’d like to show me? Or are you just going on hearsay? And who made you the—”
He takes a smooth step toward me, and his nearness makes my legs forget their mission. Move, Cleo, move! But I’m too late. His hand has closed around the straps of my bag.
I try to side-step him, but his grip is strong. He snatches it off my shoulder.
“No!”
I lunge for him, but he thrusts the bag over his head. As I jump up and down, cursing him and hitting his muscular arms and chest, the motherfucker has the nerve to laugh at me.
It’s a low laugh, the kind of laugh that settles in between your legs in other circumstances.
Not right now because he’s digging through my bag! He’s holding up a Mason jar! MotherFUCK!
He frowns at it. This one has a light blue top. It’s for a Tri Gam.
His long arm holds it way above my reach and shakes it slightly.
“What’s in here?”
“GIVE IT BACK, right now! It’s mine!” I’m straight-up yelling, but he doesn’t even spare me a glance.
He shakes the jar again, and the round, half-dollar-sized buds inside the baggie bump against the glass. I clench my teeth.
He brings the jar down, and I make a grab for it. Instead of getting it, I get a fistful of his muscular shoulder. He laughs again.
“Cleo...calm down.” He opens the lid and I freeze. My heart stops. My blood runs cold. “I assume you have an explanation for this...what do the kids call it? Weed?”
I drag a deep breath into my lungs. I blink frantically, frowning. Then I widen my eyes. Innocence. “Yes. Of course I do. It isn’t weed.” The words just roll out. Like a boulder someone pushed off a hill, once I’ve got my story moving, there’s no stopping me.
He arches a brow, and I grab the Mason jar from him. I hold it out in front of me and shake my head. “This isn’t weed.”
Arched brows. Pursed lips. “No?”
I shake the jar, causing the heady-sour scent of marijuana to waft up into my face. “You see...there’s actually a story here. An impressive story, about this...stuff. Not a story for the newspaper kind of story,” I babble, “more a fun times around the campfire sort of story. But trust me, this is definitely not weed.”
“No?”
“Nope.” I grin maniacally and open the baggie. I pinch off a piece of one of the buds with sweaty, trembling fingertips and hold it over my head, as if it’s a prize. “I made it in organic chemistry lab. It’s a project. That’s my major.” It’s not, but how would he know? “To catch criminals. It looks like marijuana, and it smells like marijuana...” I seal the baggie. Toss it up and catch it. “But it’s not. You want to experience my product in a hands-on way?”
I hold it out to him and find his face expressionless. He takes the bag. Unzips it. Inhales.
I’m counting on him to not recognize marijuana. I’m counting on him to be the bastion of morality he seems to be.
I’m counting on him to be gullible.
I’m not counting on that knowing smile. A wolfish smile. I’m not counting on the shrewdness of his eyes, or the subtle way he leans in.
His smile broadens, revealing sharp, white teeth. Another deep breath into the baggie; his wide shoulders rise, then relax. “You’re right. It smells like marijuana.”
I nod. “Got an ‘A’ on my project with it. Can I have it back now?”
He blinks. “I’m sure you did.”
I reach for the bud, but he draws it back.
“So what is it, exactly?”
“It’s an oregano-based herb. Kind of like, you know, oregano on steroids.”
He holds it up in the fluorescent light. The crystals on the buds glitter a little—promises of fun times for someone else, and cash for me.
“Wonder if it tastes like weed,” he muses.
“It doesn’t,” I say quickly. “So I’ve been told.”
He bites off a small piece. Frowns. Chews a few times on his front teeth. I swear to God, I almost faint. His eyes find mine. “It tastes like marijuana.”
“Like you would know.” I shoot him a ridiculing look—a sure sign I’m out of moves.
He holds up what remains of the piece he bit, then reaches into his pocket and retrieves a shiny Zippo. His mouth flattens and his brows scrunch. “I wonder if it burns like weed.”
I pluck it from his fingers. “NO! What’s wrong with you? You’ll set off the smoke alarms!”
He looks again into the bag, and then smirks at me. But it’s not a smirk; it’s like...a smug, aggressive look. One that says, “Got ya.”
“Cleo. You have four jars of this. Why?”
I lock my jaw and debate not answering. His hard eyes force me. “For class,” I breathe.
“I don’t believe you.”
“That’s not my fault.” I loosen my shoulders and recover some of my cool. I wonder if this would be easier if he weren’t so damn hot. A guy with a patchy goatee, or a guy with really bad acne, him I’d be schooling in privacy and all sorts of noble-sounding principles. “I’m sure someone like you could never see the point in creating a good synthetic. Pretty soon, this stuff will transform the drug market. Cops will use it all the time. My professor thinks it’s incredible.”
He laughs again, and I’m ready. I jump and snatch my overnight bag from his careless hand. The jars clink together as I whirl on my heel and dash toward the door, desperate to get away from him. Desperate to hide in my room for the rest of fall semester, curled in the fetal position, waiting for the hammer to fall.
I’m almost to the door when strong fingers close around my arm. He tugs me, so I’m forced to turn around. Holds me in place, so I have no choice but to look up, into his eyes.
“We both know this shit is real. Tell me who you got it from, and maybe I’ll forget this happened.”
Blood roars in my head. “Is that a joke? I got it from class, because it’s a class project, like I said.” I throw his hand off my arm.
He grabs my upper arm again. His eyes are wide and blue. “Like I said, I don’t believe you.” His face hardens. “If I catch you dealing on campus again, I’
ll make sure you get expelled.” He stares into my eyes. “Do I make myself clear?”
I nod mutely.
He looks me up and down, from my pink sweater to my ass-hugging jeans. “I’d never have guessed. Someone like you...” He rubs his forehead, appearing thoughtful. “You know you need to empty that bag before you leave.”
“Yeah, right!”
“Maybe I ought to talk to Milasy. Let her know what kind of person is managing her chapter’s books.”
I’m outraged, but there’s nothing I can do. Stupid Mr. Perfect could never understand this. Why I would do it. Why I can’t just have Daddy buy me a fifty-thousand dollar SUV. All he knows is his stupid rules.
I open the bag, and he points to the nearest table.
I can feel my heart flutter in my throat as I place the first jar atop the faux wood. I line them up in a neat row, and then I stare at them in disbelief. I can’t leave them here. I think of the money, and I kind of want to screech.
My gaze finds Kellan, standing with his arms folded. His model-perfect face is cold, as if I’ve wronged him.
“So...” I want to leave, just want to leave, but I can’t. I look into his eyes, then at my jars. Then back at him, with hesitation—because I don’t want to see his traitorous face. I don’t want to know what he’s thinking, though I have to ask. “Um, you’re not really going to tell anybody, are you?”
His wicked lips curve up on one side. It’s not a smile, but something derisive and mean. “Get out of here,” he says.
I tuck tail and go.
THREE
Cleo
I’m sorry to report, it’s been This Week Vs. My Self-Esteem.
What happened Wednesday night with Kellan Walsh...sucked. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit it shook me up. The loss of product, the hawk-like way he just made off with it. I keep blaming myself for not pressing the issue more—for not insisting it was fake marijuana and fleeing the scene or something—but deep down, I know I didn’t really have that option.
Obviously, he’s an uptight, rule-following prick who would have told Milasy everything he knew. And Milasy would have looked into the situation to keep Tri Gam’s good name intact. Honestly, I’m pretty sure Milasy already knows I deal, but she looks the other way because I keep it discreet. Or I did.
It bugs the hell out of me that, since that moment, I’ve done nothing but worry he’ll tell Milasy. What would Milasy do? Would she kick me out? She would have to, wouldn’t she? And what about Kellan Asshole Walsh? Is he like, BFF with our college’s president, Dr. Walker? Could Kellan go to some administrator and just get me expelled like BAM?
All day Thursday, I’m haunted by these questions. And by my rapidly dwindling stash. Kellan jacked so much of my shit, I’m almost out, and when I call Kennard Thursday afternoon (almost in tears, though he doesn’t know that) he tells me he can’t get me more on such short notice.
Perfect.
I spend some time pacing my room, fanaticizing about kicking Kellan Walsh between the legs. I bet it would be easy to make my mark because the size of the target would be...
My face burns.
Why does he do this to me? Why am I so aware of his body when I know he’s a first-rate bastard? Perfect Kellan has no idea what it’s like to need money so badly you’d go to the blood bank and sell your platelets. I bet he never saw the back of his mom’s legs bruised from sitting on the same un-cushioned wooden bench for thirteen hours at a time, with just two bathroom breaks per day. He’s never felt hunger cramps, or forced himself to eat something he hated because the need for calories meant more than the food’s taste.
Aside from his obvious case of silver-spoon syndrome, he’s also an idiot, with no understanding of societal shifts. If he was smarter, he would know marijuana is no big deal. It’s going to be legal everywhere soon. It isn’t a real drug. It’s just some stupid herb. I don’t even smoke it. Too boring. It just makes me fall asleep.
These are the thoughts clanging around my head Thursday night as I study for a calculus test and worry about how many customers I’ll lose because of my dry spell. I’m chewing on the tip of my ‘I Sloth You’ pen when I get a text from Steph.
‘Break into my room n get my birth control! Nitestand drawer!!! Double d8 going gr8! Bring to La Femme. Gonna need it 2nite. Please x10!!!’
Who can resist an SOS like that? Not this bro. So I throw on my unwashed blue jeans and a red Fall Ball t-shirt and drive down to the little French place on the river. I pull my hair into a clip and start the sandy trek from the parking area to the restaurant’s wraparound deck. Dave Matthews Band strums through the humid river air. Moss dangles from the oaks over my head. Between tree branches, I can see the placid river: wide and shallow here, reflecting moon glow. The night feels saccharine and strange, a perfect picture from the book of someone else’s life.
As I step over the tree roots that are famous for tripping drunk La Femme patrons, I promise myself I’ll get in and out of here. No lingering, even if I see someone I know. I’m in a weird mood, and besides, I have studying to do.
I’m scolding myself for being too withdrawn post-Brennan, for not being as close to Lora as I once was, or as tight with Milasy and Steph as I was last year, while I cross the crowd-packed deck. A cute guy with an eyebrow piercing pushes the restaurant’s back door open for me, and I step into the atrium dining area—the one with glass walls and ceilings.
As soon as I’m fully inside the candle-lit, plant-filled atrium, I spot Neda at a two-seater table. Across from her is...Brennan?
Holy hell, that’s totally him. Brennan is tall and lean, with burnt copper hair he wears all shaggy, down around his ears. I’d know the back of his head and his bony shoulders anywhere, including at a candle-lit table across from Neda.
That bitch!
What do I care, I ask myself as I stride through the glass room. I don’t want Brennan. He’s a douchebag. I want more than Brennan. And if there’s nothing more than Brennan, I want no one.
I take three stairs up to the glossy, mahogany bar/band stand area of La Femme and text Steph to meet me in the bathroom. I’m leaning against the sinks when she bustles through the door, lipsticked, earringed, and wearing a black skirt-shirt set with stylish boots. I give her a low whistle. She throws her arms around me.
“Thank you, honey.”
I sniff her blonde curls. “Are you drunk, Steph?”
She pulls back and grins. “Am I?” Her eyes trail down my face. She licks her lips, still beaming like a fool.
I laugh. “Hell yes, you are—Miss Twelve Hours.” Steph is only taking twelve class hours this semester (so, four classes, all of which are easy) and I love teasing her about it.
She slaps my cheek lightly. “You’re bust—” She giggles. “You’re just bitter, Cleo. Bitter...” She waves the birth control packet. “But you got my lady stuff. I’m happy.”
I help Steph take one of the little pills with sink water, and then I point her in the direction where I think her date is waiting.
“Laters, baby,” I call out behind her.
She rolls her head around at me. She grins, wide and glassy-eyed, as she saunters off. Steph is a major Fifty Shades of Grey fan. She even got me a signed paperback to share the love.
I came in through the back entrance of the restaurant, but because of Neda and Brennan making googly eyes in the atrium, I decide I’ll leave via the front doors. I stifle a yawn with my palm and make my way through the crowd swarming the bar. La Femme is a high-end restaurant, but we’re still in a college town—so the bar will never be anything but a college hangout. Especially on a Thursday night.
I make it past a thick swarm of Kappa Alphas, sipping whiskey and chugging Bud Lite, and talking about the rodeo next weekend. Someone’s stray hand brushes my ass, but I’m too tired to care. Too wrapped up in analyzing how I feel about seeing Neda and Brennan on a date. I’m lost in thought, wondering if I never settle on another boyfriend, can I be a goldfish lady instead of a cat lady�
��when I pass the reservations podium.
And there he is: fucking Kellan. Perfect Kellan, with his stubble-shadowed jaw, his stunning eyes, his luscious lips. And that hair. I mean, Jesus, is it blond enough? Soft enough? What is he, a Ken doll? He’s wearing a navy blazer over a white dress shirt, with straight-front khakis, a leather belt, and expensive-looking, low-top leather boots.
The blazer must have been tailored for his big shoulders, because it makes him look Red Carpet-ready. The khakis look designer, too—wrinkle-proof and perfectly fitted. My gaze lingers on his powerful-looking thighs before I jerk it back up to his face. He’s leaning over the podium now, looking at the schedule book, clearly overstepping his bounds. No waiter is manning the podium. Who crowned Kellan Walsh king?
The sight of him here, dressed like the deity of some minor kingdom, sniffing around the podium like he owns La Femme, sends my heartbeat kicking up into my sinuses.
Maybe he can hear it, because at that moment, he lifts his eyes to mine. They burn through me, damning, even as his lips pull into a tight smile. But it’s not a smile—at all. It’s an un-smile, every bit as condemning as his gemstone eyes.
And for a second, I feel shame.
As soon as it rises, it collapses. I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of, at least not anything he can peg me with. Irritation turns to anger, which, like always, makes me brave.
I smile back: a big, shit-eating grin. “Hi, Walsh,” I chirp as I brush past him.
“Whatley.”
Even his smooth, crisp, California voice is flawless, I think as I cut through the wait line and push out the doors. I stand on the porch for a moment, searching the parking lot for his Sexcalade. Almost immediately, I tell myself I don’t care how he got here.
I skirt the building, choosing a trek that takes me right past the dumpster, where I narrowly avoid stepping on a stray eggshell. I cut between two palm trees, find the worn grass path to the outer parking lot, and race through the grove of big oak trees along the river’s shore.
