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Like Willow and Ma—yeah, no. Not going there.
“Figured it was time to spread my wings a little,” she finishes, explaining how she chose to go to a school thousands of miles away from her home in New York. “Plus, California? The sun, the sea, the hot boys . . .” She fans herself with the menu, blowing out a breath. “What’s not to love?”
Letting out a chuckle, I lean back in my chair. “I’ll take you on the sun and the sea, but the boys, not so much. I had a pretty shitty experience with an ex, so I’m not so good on that front.”
“He bad in the sack?” she asks before popping her straw in her mouth and taking a sip of her soda.
“Yeah, something like that,” I mumble, already wondering why I said anything. There’s something easy about being with Maisie, that pouring my heart out, even after knowing her for a short while, doesn’t seem quite so bad. But that little tidbit is all I can let slip.
“That’s a goddamn travesty, which means we need to get you back on the horse,” she tells me before flagging down a waiter.
We order our food, sharing a large chicken supreme, and a couple more drinks. The waiter leaves, though not before sliding his number on a business card over to Maisie.
“What just happened?” I ask, flabbergasted, my eyes wide as I flick between her and where the waiter was standing.
Maisie laughs, winking at me. “The magic of sneaky looks across the room. You, my friend, just weren’t paying attention. But don’t worry, I’ve got you. By the end of this year, you’re going to have long forgotten about that shitty ex of yours, mark my words.”
If only that were a remote possibility, but instead of telling her that, I force a smile onto my face and grab my drink, distracting myself with the sweet nectar as it slides down my throat.
After dropping Maisie off at her dorm with the promise we’ll get together tomorrow and go shopping, I slide into a parking space and switch the engine off.
The campus is quiet as I wander over the asphalt toward the dorm, the afternoon sun beaming down on me.
Now that I’m alone again, a weird sense of dread takes over my body. My eyes move over the parking lot slowly as the hair at the nape of my neck stands to attention, my back straightening. I find nothing, but the feeling of being watched doesn’t leave.
Not when I push into the foyer, or even as I make my way up the stairs, my fingers gripping the strap of my bag. By the time I reach my door, I’ve mostly convinced myself I’m being paranoid, but still the sensations linger.
My fingers tremble as I try to force the key into the lock. It takes me a few tries, and my frustration grows the longer I stand there. When it finally connects, I turn the key and let out a relieved sigh. The door swings open under the weight of my palm, but instead of calm and quiet when I step through, panic overloads my senses.
The suitcases I’d left in the corner are strewn open, the clothes I’d carefully packed into them, stuffed neatly into cubes, are nowhere to be found. My eyes wander over the space, looking for anything else amiss, but there’s no sign of anyone being here. Nothing beyond the missing contents of my luggage.
Though when I walk into the bedroom and my eyes lock on the red words staining my wall, nausea kicks in and a scream bubbles from my throat.
Don’t get too comfortable . . . you won’t be staying.
Maverick
Beatrice’s scream echoes through the hall, even with the heavy wooden door separating us. Doors creak open, heads popping past the frames to follow the commotion.
Red paint stains my hands, but still, it’s not enough.
The moment I saw her park in the lot, everything shifted.
The rage I thought I was learning to control came back tenfold. The urge to drag her away from here—to force her to leave—coursed through me.
When she stepped out, long, tanned legs coming into view, my heart jolted in my chest. Dressed in denim shorts and a baggy gray tee, paired with white Chucks, memories of our days as kids came flooding back.
As she drew closer to where I hid, her red hair tossed over one shoulder in a messy braid, her face bare of any makeup, my breath halted.
It’s been two years since I’ve seen that girl, yet the moment my eyes landed on her, my body wanted to go to her. Time has been kind to her, not that it needed to be. She always was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen, and that hasn’t changed.
But her body has.
Long gone is the young, awkward teen girl, and in her place a gorgeous woman with ample curves and legs that go on for days despite her short stature. Not that it matters what she looks like.
How can it with a core as rotten as hers.
My body, though, doesn’t seem to get the message my brain is trying to circulate. Instead, my dick stays hard in my pants, unwilling to go down despite who she is and what she did.
