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Max shrugs as we fall into line to order our food. “He was just asking some questions about the homework in Professor King’s class, that’s all,” she says, but there’s a hint of a smile under her words.
Yeah, there’s definitely something else going on here.
“That’s all, huh?” I raise an eyebrow, smirking. “You s
ure about that?”
A faint blush tinges her cheeks, and I know I hit the nail on the head.
“Yes! That’s really it,” she insists. Then she bites her bottom lip. “But I will admit it was a little strange. I’ve seen Aaron in class, and he’s doing better than I am. I mean, I’m decent with the material, but it’s not like I can really help him out.”
“Sounds like he just wanted an excuse to talk to you.” I shoot her a sidelong glance, trying to gauge her reaction to my words. “Has he asked you for help with that class before?”
“Yeah, but I’m sure as fuck not interested,” Max says, her voice hardening a little bit. “You know I hate the Saints even more than the Sinners… stupid fucking names too. Cliff is a creepy asshole, and anyone who’s friends with him isn’t the kind of person I could ever be interested in.”
I nod, glad to hear Max say that—not so much for myself, but for her. Who the hell knows what brought the Saints together or why they’re all friends, but after the way Cliff has treated me, I don’t trust any of his little buddies any farther than I can throw them.
We grab our food and eat, talking about our plans for the weekend and bitching about the homework load on our first week back. Once we’re done, we split up to head to different sides of campus.
As I near the building my next class is held in, my phone buzzes in my pocket. The number isn’t one I have in my contacts, and I wrinkle my nose as I swipe to answer it.
“Hello? This is Sophie Wright,” I say, balancing my phone on my shoulder as I stuff my wallet back into my bag.
“Hi, Sophie,” a pleasant, female voice says on the other line. “My name is Gloria Jean. I’m with the L.A. Modern Art Gallery, and I just wanted to let you know that after much consideration, our staff has decided that we would love to welcome you aboard as an intern.”
I pull the phone away from my ear and glance at the screen, as if it’ll explain something, but it doesn’t.
“I’m sorry,” I say slowly, “but I didn’t apply for any internship.”
“Hmm.” I hear a rustling of papers in the background. “Well, I’ve got your application right here in front of me. And as I said, we’re very interested. We could even offer you a paid internship instead of our standard unpaid, as well as housing.”
For a split second, my heart does a little skip.
It all sounds good, almost too good.
But I didn’t apply for this internship. It’s not the kind of thing I would forget about doing, and the only recent memory gap I have is from the night of the party.
A chill washes over my skin, and I stop walking.
“Ms. Jean,” I say, my voice stiff. “Why are you calling me?”
There’s a beat, and then her too-pleasant voice comes through the line again. “I told you. We received your application and we—”
“I didn’t submit an application. So why are you calling me?”
This time, the beat turns into a prolonged silence. Then she clears her throat, some of the cheerfulness bleeding from her voice as she speaks again. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“I want you to answer my question,” I say evenly. “Why are you calling me? Who told you to give me this offer?”
“I can assure you that—”
“Who?”
She hesitates again, and as the seconds stretch out, I realize I don’t even need to hear her say the name. I already know.
“The Eastwood family requested that we consider you for the internship,” she says finally.
My grip on the phone tightens. Of course.
