The Cruelest Stranger

by Winter Renshaw

  Sure I’ve had a boyfriend or two along the way, but hooking up for the sake of hooking up isn’t my style. But more power to the girls who can rock that walk of shame like no one’s business, racoon eyes and sex hair and a satisfied flush on their rosy cheeks.

  Yanking my pristine rose-gold notebook from my messenger bag, I flip to the first page before readying my favorite gel pen with the bronze-colored ink. Drowning in an ocean of open MacBook Airs with gleaming retina displays, I prefer to take notes the old-fashioned way. Swimming away from the current is kind of my thing.

  I scan the room of baby-faced Pacific Valley University freshmen and check the clock. Three more minutes until class starts. Last semester, my advisor informed me I needed one more general elective to satisfy my graduation requirements and she gave me the choice between Anthro 101 … and Philosophy of Logic.

  It was a no-brainer for me.

  People have always fascinated me, especially when observed from a distance. And in this case, you can’t get more distant than a couple hundred centuries or tens of thousands of years.

  In the front of the lecture hall, a silver-haired professor in a kitschy Hawaiian shirt and wrinkled cargo shorts messes with a finicky projector, and to my left, two girls discuss weekend party plans as their overpowering perfumes compete for the oxygen I’m attempting to breathe.

  Two rows up, a couple of scrawny guys are hitting on a lilac-haired wallflower who clearly wants nothing to do with them. She has my full sympathies, and I’d intervene if I were closer.

  Oh, freshmen.

  Out of nowhere a second later, a crumpled paper soars through the air, landing at my feet. I kick it away before glancing over and spotting a couple of guys at the end of the row hiding their snickering faces.

  Four more months and I’ll be out of here forever.

  “Holy shit,” one of the girls beside me whispers, nudging her friend. “Isn’t that Talon Gold?”

  The other girl gasps, fanning herself and bouncing in her seat as she leans in and mumbles “dibs.”

  I’m midway through jotting today’s date on the upper righthand corner of my paper when I glance up to find none other than Pacific Valley University’s star quarterback and ladies’ man extraordinaire climbing the steps two at a time … making a beeline to the back row—to my row.

  The girls beside me are giggling now, whispering about all the dirty things they want to do with him. The brunette on the left tightens and fluffs her top knot and the sandy blonde next to her casually dips her hand into her bag to retrieve a rollerball of pink lip gloss.

  “Um, I’m sorry. Would you mind scooting down one spot?” The girl with the top knot leans across her friend’s lap, tapping me on the knee.

  “Oh my God, Kaitlynnnn, don’t be rude,” her friend scoffs at her before massaging her juicy-wet lips together. She turns to me. “Ignore her. She thinks she actually has a chance with Talon Gold.”

  I want to tell them to stop acting like he’s some demigod, to stop referring to him by his entire name like he’s some iconic celebrity, because he’s just a guy.

  A mere mortal.

  An arrogant asshole well aware of his disgustingly unfair good looks and propensity for scoring touchdowns—and hot chicks—in record-shattering numbers.

  A man with zero shame and zero fucks to give.

  Though I guess if the one girl prefers guys who are “dicks” it would make sense that she’d be fawning over this one.

  Talon Gold is the King of Dicks.

  “I can’t believe this,” Kaitlyn grabs her phone, firing off a text. “Monica is going to freak when I tell her he’s in my class.”

  Her friend sits stunned and speechless as he gets closer. I don’t even know that she’s blinked since she spotted him.

  “God, he’s beautiful, isn’t he?” Kaitlyn releases the dreamiest of sighs. “The bleached hair, the dark roots. I just want to run my hands through it, mess it up a little more. And that bronze skin. What do you think he tastes like?”

  Southern California is practically a factory that mass produces guys exactly like him—the silver spooned, privileged kind whose multi-millionaire daddies write fat checks to the best athletic trainers in the world so their kids can become star college athletes and have all-you-can-eat buffets of college pussy while professors grade them on favorable curves so their report cards reflect the kind of grades they should be getting.

  “Down girl,” her friend says before swatting at her. “Okay, shut up now. He’s almost here. Be cool.”

  I don’t have to look up to feel his gaze pointed in my direction as he makes his way to the center of our row. A second later, he takes the lone empty chair next to mine.

  “Irie, right?” Talon’s long legs stretch wide, pushing into my space, his expensive sneaker stopping two inches from my knock-off Golden Goose sneakers.

  Cute.

  He’s pretending like he might not know my name. He’s pretending like he hasn’t been trying to hook up with me since the fall semester of our freshmen year when I got roped into attending a party at some beer-scented three-story on frat house row and he cornered me the way a mountain lion corners prey, carefully stalking me first from all angles then making smooth and deliberate moves until he positions himself to go in for the kill.

  Fortunately for me, his hunting skills were still in need of some fine-tuning back then.

  I got away.

  And I’ve gotten away every time since.

  The auditorium hums with small talk. My body hums with electric amusement. Over the years, this has become a sort of game between us. Cat and mouse. Offense and defense. He’s tried every strategy in the book, but I’ve managed to stick to the one that always works—cold, coy, aloof, and uninterested.

  “All right, dudes and dudettes,” the professor rests his hands on his hips, rocking back and forth on his heels as he scans the room. “I’m Dr. Longmire, but you can call me Rich if you want.”

  The girl to my left giggles to her friend. “He’s not a regular professor, he’s a cool professor.”

  “Welcome to Anthro 101.” Dr. Longmire—Rich—twists the shark tooth necklace that hangs on a leather cord down his tanned chest as he paces the room. “We meet Mondays and Wednesdays from eight to nine with recitation on Fridays with my TA. You should have received your syllabus in your email over the weekend. If you need a paper copy, I’ve got a few on the desk up here. That said, I’ve been asked to remind you all that PVU is striving to become a paperless university. Please only print things when absolutely necessary.”

  One student gathers his things in a hurry and dashes out the side door. He’s probably in the wrong classroom. It happens and it’s no big deal, but it doesn’t stop a group of meatheads in the corner from finding it hilarious and yelling out, “Loser!” just before the door swings shut.

  Talon exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose.

  Professor Longmire cracks a joke about how he doesn’t usually scare people off until after he goes through his entire pitch.

  No one laughs.

  “You have a good winter break?” Talon asks me, leaning close and keeping his voice low. He’s trying to feign intimacy, trying to act like we’re more than the acquaintances we’ve only ever been. Smooth. But I see through it.

  “The best,” I lie, sparing him the details before pointing at the front of the room. “If you don’t mind …”

  His heavy stare weighs on me, and a blanket of heat covers my skin in the seconds before the steady trot of my heart turns into an all-out gallop.

  This happens every time—the ongoing war between my mind and body every time he comes around.

  I’d be lying if I said his attention didn’t flatter the hell out of me. I mean, come on. I’m only human—a mere mortal myself. I just happen to have a hell of a lot more self-control than the average SoCal blondie strutting PVU’s seaside campus. I appreciate the attention, but by no means am I naïve enough to think there’s anything special about it.

/>   Talon wants to screw me.

  And he only wants to screw me because he can’t.

  Nothing more, nothing less.

  “Hey. You have a spare pen?” Talon asks with zero shame, his cinnamon-scented whisper tickling my eardrum.

  Dipping down into my bag, I retrieve a hot pink gel pen—color choice unintentional—and hand it over without so much as making eye contact.

  From my periphery, I watch as he examines it for a second before his full lips mouth a quick thank you. The garish color doesn’t seem to faze him, doesn’t so much as threaten his jock itch masculinity.

  He flips to a clean page in his notebook—which is interesting since I’ve always taken him for a laptop kind of guy—and concentrates on the screen ahead.

  “Now, I’ve been teaching here for over thirty years,” Professor Longmire prattles on as he paces the front of the room. “I’ve been around long enough to know that these 8 AM Monday classes are a pain in the you-know-what. I know not everyone is going to go to every single class. I know that there’ll be times you’re hung over or you over-sleep or what have you. Don’t email me. Don’t send me your sob story or made up excuses. I don’t want to hear it. Now some of the younger professors, they post lecture notes on the class website. But I don’t have time for that. So here’s what you’re going to do. Everyone’s going to have an accountability buddy.”

  “A what?” someone asks from the row before me.

  “How old are we again?” one of the girls scoffs.

  “I want you each to turn to someone next to you,” he says. “That person is going to be your go-to when you need a copy of lecture notes. That person is also going to be your study partner. Their success is your success and vice-versa. Just because this is Anthro 101 doesn’t mean it’s an easy class. In fact, a quarter of you will drop out before the end of the semester, and the majority of you probably won’t walk out of here with A’s.”

  Two people—a guy and a girl from opposite ends of the room—gather their bags and show themselves out, heads tucked.

  “Aaaand there we go. That’s when I usually scare them away.” Longmire laughs at his own joke before scanning the audience. “Anyway, I’ll give you all a moment to find your partner. Don’t make a big deal of it, don’t overthink it. Just pick someone—anyone—close by.”

  I gather a sea-salted lungful of air and take in my surroundings. The two girls beside me have suddenly replaced their disdain and are now clasping their hands together like a couple of junior high besties. The guys in the row ahead are already exchanging phone numbers, as are the guy and girl to their right. Within seconds, I surmise that everyone else around me seems to be spoken for—everyone, that is, except Talon.

  Straightening my shoulders, I angle my body toward his and maintain a neutral expression.

  The moment our eyes catch, he bites his lower lip and flashes a cockeyed smirk. “Guess it’s us.”

  My stomach somersaults, but I play it cool. “Lucky me.”

  “Yeah.” He laughs through his nose, his perfect white teeth flashing as he grins. “Lucky you.”

  Chapter Two

  Talon

  I’ve never been a believer in bullshit like fate or destiny, but after the way the stars aligned this morning, placing Irie Davenport not only in my sight but directly beside me—I’m willing to reconsider my stance.

  “We should probably exchange numbers,” I say to her as our anthro class is in the midst of a chaotic freshmen dismissal. “You know, since we’re partners …”

  I refuse to use the word “study buddy.”

  It’s just not sexy.

  And partner has better … connotations.

  Irie flips to a page in the back of her little pink notebook and scribbles something before tearing the page, folding it into thirds, and handing it over. A second later, she slings her messenger bag over her lithe shoulder and tucks a strand of silky caramel-blonde hair behind one ear, revealing a simple golden stud. It’s unpretentious and unexpected—much like her.

  “Wait,” I say after unfolding and scanning the paper. “This is your email.”

  “Yep.” Her expression is bland and indifferent, and it’s the same one she’s been giving me for the last four years, but her violet eyes flicker with life. With all her years of practice, she’s never been able to master the art of the true poker face. There’s a part of her—however miniscule it might be—that wants me just as much as I want her.

  I see it.

  I fucking feel it.

  And if I feel it, I know Irie does too.

  I tend to be numb to most things, most of the time, but not this. Not her. Not us—or rather, what we could be.

  Our tension has been ripe since day one, so palpable you could slice it clean with an obsidian knife. Why she tries to fight it and deny it is the one thing I’ve yet to figure out.

  For years, I’ve been trying to get her number.

  And for years, she’s rebuffed me eight ways from Sunday.

  “What if I need you right away?” I ask.

  “Then you’ll send me an email and it’ll go straight to my phone,” she says as she begins to navigate her way down the row.

  Most girls love to be needed.

  Not Irie.

  I grab my shit and follow closely.

  “What if you need me? I don’t always check my email.” It’s the truth, but now that we’re partners, I’m going to have to change that.

  “I won’t need you,” she says when she reaches the end of our row. “I never miss a class.”

  Her hand, soft and delicate with glossy nails the color of the sky, glides down the railing as she makes her way to the lower half of the auditorium. The faint scent of her wildflower perfume catches in her breeze and I steal a generous inhalation, though it hardly satisfies.

  I want to smell it on her skin—warm and brilliant, alive.

  I also want to run my hands along her curves and bury my face between her thighs and hear her soft voice in my ear as her limber body melts beneath mine.

  I want her nails digging so hard into my backside they leave marks for days. Marks I’d earn. Marks I’d deserve …

  I could make her feel so fucking good if she’d just let me.

  One night.

  That’s all I want, all I need with Irie Davenport.

  I want to unwind her, untighten that coiled personality. She’s guarded and private, unlike the other girls who throw themselves at me and the second they’re finished riding my cock, they lie in my arms and tell me their life stories like I give a shit. But Irie is different. She’s not from around here—someone told me she’s from the Midwest—and she’s not an open book.

  She’s a padlocked diary.

  A padlocked diary who wants nothing to do with me.

  “Do you want my email just in case?” I ask, sounding like a schmuck as we pass through the door and into the hall. We’re side by side now but seconds from losing one another in a sea of shoulder-to-shoulder students.

  “If I need it, I’ll look it up in the student directory,” she says.

  “Cool, cool. See you Wednesday,” I say, but she’s already disappeared into the crowd.

  Rebuffed again.

  It’s not the first time.

  And it sure as hell won’t be the last.

  But I walk away with a smile the size of Texas and the swell of hope in my chest—no different from the feeling I get when I lead the team onto the field during the opening game of the season.

  In football, when you see an opening, you take it. You hold onto the ball with your life and you run like fucking hell until you score—or at least until you advance the ball.

  I’ve been advancing the ball since the first time I laid eyes on Irie at Collin Holbrook’s house party freshman year, and I’ve been running like hell ever since, but with four months until graduation, the end zone is finally in sight.

  My cock swells in an anticipation of my sweetest victory yet.

  I’m finishing t
he year with that touchdown.

  Chapter Three

  Irie

  “Aunt Bette, I’m home,” I call as I hang my bag on the back of a kitchen chair. “Brought you dinner from the deli. Got that soup you like.”

  I place the brown paper bag on the counter and trek to the living room to find my great aunt passed out in her recliner while the TV in the corner plays Wheel of Fortune. Well, technically she’s not my great aunt. She’s my mother’s brother’s wife’s aunt … but in the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t matter because she’s cool as hell and I’m honored to be related to her in any capacity.

  “Hey,” I say softly, placing my hand on her shoulder until she stirs.

  “Irie. Hi.” She blinks a couple of times. “What time is it?”

  I lower the footrest of her chair, fold her crocheted throw, and help her to the kitchen. At eighty-three and a hair under five feet tall she gets around well enough, but I still like to do anything I can to make her life that much easier.

  Also, it’s kind of why I’m here …

  Four years ago, she offered to pay my college tuition and let me live with her for free—she only asked that I be her caretaker, which mostly consisted of running her errands, getting groceries, preparing basic meals, and maintaining the house inside and out. It was kind of strange at the time because I’d never met my mother’s aunt before. She lived in Southern California and I grew up in middle-of-nowhere Missouri.

  It was a lot to think about at first … committing to four years of living with and caring for a complete stranger.

  But the first time we met, she offered eighteen-year-old me a fuzzy navel wine cooler and told me stories from her stint as a strip club manager in the seventies.

  We’ve kind of been best friends ever since …

  Aunt Bette’s slowed down quite a bit over the last few years, though—particularly over this past winter break, when she spent nearly the entire month of December at the hospital battling a stubborn case of pneumonia. Every waking hour of Winter break was spent by her side, reading her the latest gossip articles from her favorite magazines, discussing her case with the doctor when necessary, sharpening her colored pencils and organizing her adult coloring books so she had something to do when she wasn’t sleeping.