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“I have to talk to you. ”
“I’m not in a talking mood right now, Caro. ”
My head is clearing. Nobody’s getting bent over anything.
This is all just hormones. Adrenaline. It’s got to be. West is biologically driven to want to rut with something after his testosterone-fueled display of masculinity, and I’m … I guess I’m biologically driven to be rutted on.
But I’m strong. I can rise above my biology.
I think.
“Too bad,” I say, “because that’s why I was looking for you. So we could converse like civilized beings. ”
West just levels that stare at me.
“Not rutting beasts,” I add.
“I’m a beast,” he says slowly. “And we’re rutting?”
He doesn’t like the word rutting. He spits it out like he’s disgusted with it.
Author: Robin York
“What would you call it?”
“I don’t know what to call it. Maybe you should tell me what you’re chasing me around for. ”
“I’m not chasing you. I just—”
A pissed-off male voice says, “Shh. ”
Fourth floor. Shit.
When I open my mouth again, my thoughts have scattered like marbles, and I can hardly even look at West. He’s crossed his arms. His split knuckles are wrapped around his biceps. It looks hard.
Everything about West is hard.
Talk, Caroline, my brain urges. Words. Sentences. Go.
“I wanted to, um … About earlier. See, I heard from Bridget that—”
“Shhhhh. ”
The same irritated voice again. I lose my words, flustered and ready to bail on this whole thing.
West says, very calmly, “There’s three other floors, buddy. Pick one or shut the fuck up. ”
“This is the quiet floor,” the invisible guy complains.
“Show me where it says that. ”
“Everybody knows. ”
West shakes his head. “I’m not everybody. ”
There’s silence for a moment, then the resonant sound of a chair being pushed back. A backpack zipper. Footsteps announce the approach—a student glares at West with angry eyes—but he keeps going, and I hear the stairwell door opening.
A beat later, just before the door slams shut, the words stupid slut drift through it.
