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I blink a few times, mostly because that voice is seriously panty-melting. No need for him to know I think so, though, so I toss my long, brown hair over my shoulder and fix him with a perfectly peeved stare. “What does it look like? I was taking a break in here, minding my own business and you popped up! Were you spying on me? Cause that’s creepy.”
“Minding your business, huh?” He tucks his lips down into a scowly, frowny, judgy look. He arches his brows. “Mind if I take a look in that bag?”
My heart forgets its rhythm. “What?” I swallow. “Is that a joke?”
He shakes his head. “No joke, Cleo.”
I take a step back and try to think fast. To look outraged. To treat him like the creep he clearly is. “Of course I’m not letting you look in my purse.” I shift my shoulder so the purse is more behind me. “I can’t believe you would even ask.”
I look him up and down, hoping to find him lacking in some way—but he’s flawless. Long legs with strong thighs evident through the fabric of his pants, abs so flat I could bounce a penny off them; shoulders that seem three times as wide as mine. And his face. I could look at it all day. Scratch that, I could glare at it all day.
“This whole thing is totally creeping me out, Walsh.”
His face is tight and serious. His voice is a menacing purr. “There’s a reason that I’m asking, Whatley.”
“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 up 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.
