Page 13 of Notorious Man on Campus

“Nah,” I say, opening the door and jumping to the ground as the Jeep pulls to a stop. “That’s a job specially tailored for Dooley. N’est-ce pas?”

“Quit it with the French.” Roman gripes.

“I need the practice. I plan to get an A.” I don’t tell him I recently found out my mother was French. Dad let it slip after a couple of beers one night this summer. I signed up for my first class this semester. I’m pathetic enough that I checked flights to Paris and googled her maiden name. He said her relatives still live there, which explains why we never knew them. It also explains why I have a faint memory of her singing a French song at bedtime. Some lullaby. I figure if my dad won’t talk about her, I’ll find her family in France and ask them who she was, what she was like.

And I’ll ask how the fuck she ended up in Pennsylvania with my dad, Joe Blanick the tire man.

“I’ll talk to Dooley,” I say.

“Okay then,” Dylan says. “It’s a plan. I’ll spread it around. Better yet, I’ll have Allie spread the word.”

“I’ll talk to the linemen,” Roman says.

Raising my hands over my head, I give each of the guys high fives as we enter the front door of BMOC House. Their loyalty and confidence buffer me against the immediate and unfamiliar onslaught of emotions as we walk through to the kitchen and I come face-to-face again with Nyla.

I’d forgotten for a short time while I was in crisis-solving mode that she was here. Forgot to gird my loins against the power she has over me with her beauty, secrets, and shared shame. Dooley’s already worked his transformative powers on her. Even with the apron covering her outfit the striped crop top is an improvement over the worn T-shirt, and the short skirt beats the hell out of her baggy jeans. Then there’s her face. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen Nyla wearing makeup like this before. Fuck. Her dramatic dark eyes were always compelling, but now it’s like pulling two magnets apart to tear my eyes off hers.

Nyla is French. The thought pops into my head with the power of an explosion, leaving a mess of confusion.

“Hey Nyla,” Roman says, heading straight for her. “Did you have a good day?”

“Great. Spent time with Dooley and he’s more fun than a box of toys. Plus he’s super kind.”

“Kind? Dooley?” Dylan says as he wanders into the kitchen. There’s all kinds of smells beckoning, but I stay in the doorway. Nyla pulls a plate of brownies out from under some foil like a magician and presents them. My knees almost buckle with the wafting scent but my legs move me forward.

“Dooley is the best. He walked me to class and introduced me to the professor and a few of the students in the cakes and pastries class.”

“He knew the students in your class?” Dylan is surprised. I’m barely registering her words, too busy trying not to stare at her ridiculous sunshiny smile while I grab two brownies.

“No. That’s the thing. He asked them who they were and then told them that I was a special protégé of Majik’s and to treat me like gold because I was at least that precious. The guy is nervy and funny. I’m baking him a chocolate soufflé as a thank-you.”

“What do I need to do to get a soufflé?” Roman gives her a smile almost as goofy as his line. For some reason, his flirtation snaps me from my fog of what I grudgingly admit to myself is admiration, not to mention her mad baking skills. Which is dumb. She’s nothing more than a beautiful vessel for poison. French or not. Good cook or not. Never mind.

“Get me out of here.” I mutter the words as I push past Nyla and her fan club to the back stairs, trying not to let the smell of chocolate nauseate me because I now associate it with Nyla and poison. I normally like the smells of the kitchen, at least since Dad hired Nyla to cook for our family years ago.

Before that, not so much. As I trudge up the stairs my mind reaches back before I can stop the natural progression and hits on the one incident I thought I’d banished forever. The incident that led to his first divorce. Shuddering, I head to my room and shut the door. And shut out the memory that tightens my chest in a death grip before it spreads to my gut like it did so long ago.

Fuck. Nyla is like poison if she’s reminding me of that incident. I pick up the football and start tossing it, knowing I should get in some homework before dinner but needing the activity to keep me in the present.

When my phone vibrates in my pocket I think about ignoring it, but I can’t. The flood of things I need to do, of my responsibilities, comes rushing in. I slip it out and see that it’s Dooley calling.

“Dools, just the guy I need to talk to. I have another assignment for you.”

“You have very expensive needs, Mr. Brick. Any more assignments are going to cost you double.” I laugh. The guy loves to play games. “Don’t you even want to know how it went today?”

“It went swell, according to Nyla. You are about to be the recipient of her very special chocolate soufflé.”

“Don’t fuck with me—for real?”

“No joke. I think it’s in the oven now.”

“I’ll be over later.”

“Anything special to report? How are people treating Nyla?” I ask because it’s my responsibility, not because I care. But I’m curious too.

“Not really. The usual. I used Majik’s name to pave the way since I knew you’d have a shit fit if I used yours—”

“Damn straight. Do not use my name in conjunction with Nyla. Ever.”