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Am I supposed to be doing reference checks at the door to my bedroom?
“Nah, that sounds like a myth. Like Narnia.”
I have very few regrets in life, and all of them involve her.
Well… I moved on. There was more looking back than I care to admit.
"Long story short, we dated for almost all of freshman year. Rumor has it, he turned into a complete fuckboy after that. I guess I broke him."
Like the email states, the two of us have some of the highest GPAs in the program. Top ten, if not top five. Still, it feels a little like Jules and I are being punished for that by having our ranked choices completely ignored.
It's a lie. There's a huge problem. Seventy-six inches of problem. Two hundred and twenty sculpted pounds of problem. A four-letter problem. Nash.
“Hey.” His voice is flat, expression to match. He seems wholly unimpressed with being stuck together; wholly unimpressed with me in general, like I have zero effect on him whatsoever.
Worry ghosts through my mind, even though he’s not mine to worry about anymore.
Her face is familiar yet foreign. It’s a face I’ve spent two years trying to forget, even though I know I never will.
Beneath that deceptively innocent exterior, those big doe eyes and tight little body, Violet is a dirty talking goddess. She’s also kinky. I’m talking, we-had-a-safe word, kind of kinky.
“Listen, fuckers.” All eyes in the room fall to me. “All any of you need to know is that Violet is one hundred percent out-of-bounds. If any of you even think about touching her, it’ll be a career-ending move. Because I will end you. Immediately.”
I want those goddamn butterflies—and only Mr. Wrong has ever given them to me.
But broken people break things, and I leave behind a path of destruction in my wake.
“Because I need you, and you know it.”
“Taping this is like putting a band-aid on a bullet hole,” she murmurs.
“Three options, Vi. Either I drive you home”— he holds up three fingers to illustrate, ticking them off one by one—"you get campus Safewalk to come escort you, or I walk you to the train and wait with you. Take your pick.”
“I thought you said we couldn’t be friends,” I blurt, stepping off the curb to cross a utility road. His gaze slides over to me. “We can’t.” “Then why do you care what happens to me?” We slow to a stop under a yellow-tinted streetlamp. It casts half of his face in shadows, making him even more difficult to read than usual. “Same reason I can’t be your friend.”
It’s like the universe is conspiring to make this situation look as sketchy as possible.
“Auntie!” Lincoln and Willow squeal in
Whenever I start to become too cynical about love—which is fairly often, because I’m a college student in today’s Tinder-riddled society—I look at my parents, and I know that it can happen for some people.
In my world, butterflies are on the endangered species list. Experienced with precisely one person, never to be found again.
Rage flickers inside me me and I grit my teeth, shoving it down. Despite that, something about my reaction must give me away, because triumph registers across Eriksen’s face. No big surprise there; Violet is my kryptonite.
I’m not especially interested in Devin, but even if I was, it would be impossible to flirt when there’s a furious giant shooting daggers at us with his eyes from afar. Which is Nash’s intention, I’m sure.
“Fuck off, Henderson.” Nash slides an arm around my waist, sending a rush through my body that I want to call irritation but might be something else.
“You’re an asshole.” “Never said I wasn’t.”
“Trust me, I have zero interest in dating any of your teammates. But like I was saying, it isn’t your place to scare guys off. We’re ancient history.”
“Hardly.” Taking another step, he comes to stand directly above me, the warmth of his skin heating mine. “We were too many things to ever be ancient history.”
“It is absolutely my business.” His voice deepens, turning gruff. “If Devin roofies your drink—which he’s known for doing—I’m the one who will be taking care of you later because you’re sure as fuck not leaving with him.”
“Why, because I don’t stay up to date on all the varsity gossip? Did it ever occur to you that might be intentional? I’ve been trying to avoid all the stories about you sleeping with half of the girls in our school.”
“Between this and that murder trap of a transit station,” he says slowly, “I’m not sure how you survived, either.” I set my glass on the bar, tucking an errant strand of hair behind my ear. “Now you’re just being dramatic.”
“Taking the train is reckless, now?” I stroll over to where she’s seated. “When you’re the size of Tinker Bell?” Stepping around the desk, I come to a halt less than an arm’s length away, peering down at her. “Yes.”
There’s a pecking order inside this vehicle, and stray puppies trump asshole ex-boyfriends.
Realistically, I know all we can do is try to find him the best home possible. Preferably one that will allow me visitation rights, because I’m already attached.
“You’re pulling out the Biscuit card so soon? I thought you’d hold onto that one for a while and save it for something good.” I’m trying to be playful but his mouth sets in a stern line, unwilling to bite.
Biscuit is many things; low maintenance is not one of them.
“Keep searching, fucker, because Biscuit chewed up my new shoes this morning.”
The good part of this internship situation is, I see Nash all the time. The bad part is, I see Nash all the time.
“Ouch,” he hisses, leaning away. “How are you so tiny, yet so violent?”
“Is that supposed to make me feel special?” My throat tightens, and I swallow it down. “I don’t know, does it?”
“Great.” Nash’s smile is rueful. “Since I’ve brought him home, he’s only destroyed three shoes, one iPhone cord, and chewed half a Finance textbook. You should come visit him.”
“You’re so hard-headed, you barely need a helmet.”
“I’m really short. Or you’re really tall, depending how you look at it.” This quote from the night we met slips out before I can stop myself. Though, he probably doesn’t even remember.
“You didn’t interrupt, because you were never here,” Nash tells him, a lethal calmness to his tone.
How can he be Mr. Wrong when he’s the only one who’s ever made me feel this way?
Kissing Violet was either the stupidest or smartest thing I’ve ever done. Problem is, I’m not sure which.
“Kind of,” I admit. “I don’t want to be Doug version two-point-zero.”
Nothing like following your therapy session with a call from the person who sent you there in the first place. For fuck’s sake. His timing is nothing short of impeccable.
“What do you think?” My cheeks burn hotter than a fireplace, and I bury my face in my palms. “Of course, I did. It’s Nash. He’s my own personal brand of heroin.”
“We were in the middle of something, Richards.” “It’s almost like that’s the point, huh?” Nash smirks, but there’s malice behind it.
