Page 8 of Notorious Man on Campus

She raises her middle finger at me. “We agreed to admit that I dated Jimmy. Besides, that was four years and another lifetime ago. Get over yourself.”

I nod. Her scolding should outrage me, but it doesn’t. It makes me want to laugh, but I don’t because I’m self-disciplined enough to hold back. I blink while she watches me, her perfect lush lips taunting, not quite smiling. Her defiant eyes twinkle, but she knows no matter how much time passes, what happened between us will still be there, the scar burned deep and irrevocably into our souls.

“What are you so worried about, Brick?” Her words are genuine, her voice concerned, real, spoken like a true friend, like someone I’ve always known, who knows me. I back up a step as if to get away from the reach of her emotional net. How could I forget how empathetic she is, how easy it is to talk to her, to reveal all? And how fruitless.

“I’m not worried. But we need to keep to our understanding that not one word about … our involvement is to be discussed. Don’t talk about our past even casually, not even to Majik. The less said, the better.”

“Hiding things is unhealthy,” she says, and my chest tightens to the point I’m worried about having a seizure. Blood roars in my veins, running scared.

“I don’t want anything to get back to Jimmy and my dad.” There’s no way to stop the pleading in my voice or the panic in my eyes. She may as well have me down on my knees.

“What are you talking about? They already know everything—”

“No. They don’t.” She stares at me, understanding finally dawning that I never came clean about that night, that I blamed everything on her. She slowly nods.

“I see.” She doesn’t. She thinks she knows what’s inside me, but I can’t let her in, not even a fraction because that would only lead to the worst that could happen, the final destruction of my family. Jimmy and my dad would never forgive me.

“You can’t talk about our past and we need to be nothing but casual acquaintances. That’s all we are anyway. Little more than strangers.”

“You can tell yourself that if you want, but lying to yourself isn’t healthy.”

Losing my grip, I shout, “What the fuck do you care about my health? You hate me as much as I hate you.”

“I thought I did. Maybe I should.”

“You definitely should.”

“I thought you were indifferent?”

“I should be,” I admit because it’s useless not to. “I’m working on it.” I can’t help the smirk and she, of all things, laughs.

“You’re a piece of work, Brick. God help me, but I don’t know how I’m going to live with you and be the least bit indifferent.”

“Try. Hard.” I look at the door and give her a dismissive stare. She heaves a deep breath and I can’t keep my eyes from the rise in her chest, her perfect breasts, large and proud. Shutting down my memory of how they feel, how they taste, of the way her nipples showed through her flimsy tank top last night isn’t easy, so I turn away as she lets herself out of my room.

* * *

At breakfast, I face her again. The bracing cold shower I took helps. My head is clear and rational. She’s bringing food and coffee into the dining room as we sit down to eat. If I let my nerves fray with her presence every day, in my orbit where I can see her, smell her and feel her fucking sunny smile and face, it will either kill me or drive me insane.

Her living here is a good test of my toughness, my ability to not feel anything for a woman. No matter how much I want to. No matter how much everything about her calls to every cell of my body.

Roman sits at my right and says, “Can I hitch a ride with you to Kace and Glory’s wedding, man? It’s a long fucking drive.”

“Sure. I’m driving the Brickmobile. Majik will be riding with us too. No problem.”

Nyla nearly drops the platter of French toast she’s holding at the other end of table. I look up at her. Dylan picks up the toast that fell off the platter and puts it on his plate.

“You okay?” he asks her. I look away but listen for her answer.

“No worries,” she says. “Morning clumsiness, I guess. The excitement of SPU has me up at night.” I smirk at her veiled reference to our midnight visit. But I know that voice, hear the edge of worry. Fuck. I don’t care, but Majik cares and expects me to deal with Nyla, so I glance at her. Instead of heading back to the kitchen, she walks down to my end of the table, and as she passes me, she bends and whispers under the noise of hungry guys eating, scraping plates, and talking.

“We need to talk. In the kitchen when you’re finished,” she says.

I say nothing and she doesn’t linger, stopping to say something to Trey on her way around the table, asking here and there what the guys think about the new French toast recipe. From my periphery, I watch her as she makes her way back to the kitchen door, taking a deep breath when she’s gone. Fuck.

Downing my coffee, I head for the front door. No way do I want to talk to Nyla right now. Or any time.

Dylan puts a hand on my arm and says, “Don’t you need to see Nyla in the kitchen?” Of course he overheard her. Everyone at the table looks up. Luckily there’s only a handful of guys at breakfast this early. He smirks. I want to punch him. I don’t say a word. With all eyes on me, I grab my duffel and head back through the kitchen. Why? I don’t know. Fuck. That’s a lie. Majik. And her fucking assignment. And my fucking, apparently inescapable sense of responsibility.