He’d only gone maybe half a dozen steps when a spike of adrenaline shot through him.
He didn’t understand why, at first. His body reacted to the information before his brain realized there was any information to be had. Then it registered: Down at the base of the stairs, a man in a plain black sweatshirt with close-cropped brown hair was trailing after the rest of the lately disembarked crowd. In his right pocket, Julian knew without having to see it, was a wicked-looking switchblade.
As soon as Julian glanced at him, the other man looked up. Recognition flashed in his eyes, followed very closely by naked, all-consuming hate.
“Shit.” Julian spun, shouldered through a tight gaggle of students, and booked it the hell out of there.
Two
Standing in an empty study room trying to read by the fluorescent light filtering through the interior window by the door was turning out to be a less convenient way to finish the last three chapters of Jane Eyre than Beatrice had hoped.
The obvious fix—extend a hand and switch on the study room lights—was not an option. Because turning on the lights meant drawing attention to the fact that she’d switched them off. Which meant Beatrice might find herself trying to explain to a half dozen of her new boyfriend’s hot, rich friends how she’d ended up in a study room in the dark in the first place. She didn’t have a good lie to offer them, and the truth was mortifying. She’d been on the library’s second-floor mezzanine, looking for a place to camp out with her book, when Greyson and some of his posse strolled into the lobby below. In a panic, Beatrice had dodged into the first empty study room she came to and slapped the lights off.
Not her smoothest move.
It wasn’t that Greyson Sayer-Crewe—oft lauded the Best Catch on Campus—was a terrible boyfriend. Frankly, it would have been a lot easier on Beatrice if he was. He was just so . . . attentive. There was no way to just sit quietly in the same room and study together. He always wanted to talk to her, draw her out. It was exhausting.
She hadn’t really meant to start going out with him. She couldn’t understand what it was about her that caught his attention. Up until a few weeks ago, Beatrice had only seen him with tall, feminine, skinny girls with shiny hair, who never appeared in public without perfectly winged eyeliner and glossy lips. The types of girls who wouldn’t be caught dead in last season’s yoga pants, and took any opportunity to drop references to their most recent summer trip abroad.
Beatrice was about as opposite to that as any person could get. She was short and pear-shaped, with the all-over freckles of a wild farm child, and an untamable mane of walnut-brown hair. Her fashion sense was probably best described as ‘this is comfortable and doesn’t have too many holes in it,’ with a dash of ‘I found this on consignment for three dollars’ thrown in to add some interest. Bonus points if it came in a color that would make any stylist in the United States faint dead away from its garishness.
Today, for example, she was wearing a pair of acid-wash jeans, her favorite floral hiking boots, and a sweater that was a bit too big on her. The sweater was striped with the ugliest shades of yellow, green, and brown that had ever assaulted the eyes of decent human beings.
Beatrice happened to think the ugliness was part of the charm, but she was pretty sure people like Greyson “Über-Rich” Sayer-Crewe didn’t think ratty and old was the sexy, new look of the season. She hadn’t yet been able to work out why he was suddenly willing to see past her wardrobe.
She was probably overthinking it. On paper, Greyson was the kind of guy any straight girl in her right mind would be tripping over herself to go out with. The fact that he was interested in Beatrice should be flattering. She ought to be over the moon that a rich, handsome, charismatic guy like Greyson had decided that she was worth his time and effort.
And yet . . .
It was just that he had never shown a modicum of interest in her before, even though—because they were both marketing majors—they had been in the same classes multiple times over the past few years. If anything, he seemed to dislike her. She’d made more than one presentation pretending not to notice Greyson laughing at her with two or three of his friends. Heck, Beatrice still suspected that he had tried to convince one of her professors to flunk her out of their marketing research class during her first semester at NYU.
Then, three weeks ago, they were paired up on a group project, and by the end of the week—out of nowhere—Greyson was bugging her to let him buy her dinner.
She thought it must be some kind of joke, at first. It was weird, and she felt flustered, and it was impossible to give a simple, ‘no thanks.’ He always wanted to know why. Before long, Beatrice had run out of excuses.
So about a week ago, thinking he’d give up the joke if she called his bluff, she agreed.
It hadn’t been a joke.
Somehow, by the end of that first dinner, she found herself in a relationship. And she couldn’t seem to find the polite-person exit ramp. Every time she wanted to step back, Greyson prodded her into rhetorical corners until she felt like all her excuses were flimsy and inadequate.
It wasn’t like he was a bad guy. At least, not now that he’d decided he liked her. He didn’t even seem to mind that she was a little weird and skittish about the whole relationship thing. Whatever friction that may or may not have been between them in the past had vanished, as far as Greyson was concerned. A case of mutual misunderstandings of each other’s character.
Beatrice had never been great at confrontation. And she wasn’t sure she could screw up the courage to break things off when she still had zero good reasons why. At least, not beyond the small, quiet voice in the back of her head that kept asking, Are you really sure about this?
Beatrice blew out a breath, making herself focus back on the dimly-lit pages of Jane Eyre.
She didn’t have the time to figure the whole Greyson thing out. She didn’t have time for much of anything, really. She’d already pushed her graduation date back a semester because she hadn’t had the money to pay for classes last year. She was trying to catch up by taking sixteen credits this semester and next, and another twelve credits in the summer. She was starting to think she’d have to drop one of her classes this semester because she was struggling to keep up. If her grades slipped too much, she would lose her partial scholarship, and she needed her weekends-and-holidays job at the coffee shop near her apartment because her parents were already struggling financially . . .
Beatrice rubbed her eyes to stave off her developing headache. If she finished Jane Eyre early, that would give her time to start on the presentation she had due in her marketing class tomorrow morning, which meant she could work on her English paper on the train home, which meant tomorrow afternoon she could focus on memorizing terms for her evening Spanish class.
Greyson and his friends must have settled into some out-of-the-way corner by now. She could probably turn the lights back on. She might even be able to risk slipping down to the coffee shop next door. She was trying to figure out whether a coffee run would put her at more or less risk of running into Greyson again when the study room door burst open. A person-shaped shadow barreled into the room and slammed the door.
“Hey!” Beatrice squeaked, nearly dropping her book. Annoyed at her default high-pitched squawk of surprise, she made an effort to lower her voice to something more threatening-sounding. “I have this room reserved, buddy,” she lied, ignoring the fact that the intruder would’ve been hard-pressed to realize anyone was in here with the lights off. “You can’t just—”
The intruder slapped a hand over Beatrice’s mouth and pinned her against the wall.
Jane Eyre hit the floor with a thud.
Beatrice’s stomach jumped, and her mind went blank except for a long progression of question marks. She only came up to his chin. All she could see was the neck of his hoodie. The scent of soap and something peppery she couldn’t place washed over her. She could feel the imprint of his sweatshirt’s zipper through her sweater every
time he took a breath.
“Shut up,” the intruder hissed, his face so close she could see herself reflected in his dark eyes.
Oh my God, I’m being assaulted in a library. Beatrice got her hands against his chest and shoved him away, sucking in a huge breath in preparation for a scream if he came at her again. Instead, he glanced at the window, swore, and dropped into a crouch, pressing himself against the wall under the window.
The question marks intensified.
“I’m not here,” he said, glaring up at her. “Got it?”
Beatrice let out the pent-up scream in a silent puff of air. It’s okay, she told her racing heart. You’re not being assaulted. Chill out.
Now that he didn’t have her trapped against the wall, he didn’t seem so scary. Beatrice’s step-dad would’ve probably called him a punk, due to the hoodie-jeans-sneakers combo, and what looked like the edge of a tattoo coiling up his neck from beneath his collar. But the tough-guy aesthetic was somewhat softened by the loose black curls falling over his eyes. His hair was short on the sides, too, which made him seem less like a mugger and more like an art student. The tattoo wasn’t even the harsh, blocky ink you’d expect on a gangbanger. It looked like soft tendrils of smoke. All he needed was one of those portfolio things the kids in the art department carted around—and maybe a beanie—and she’d have pegged him for a visual arts major.
Heart rate returning to normal, Beatrice peeked out the study room window for a clue as to what the intruder was running from. There were a lot of students milling around, none of them particularly shifty-looking. But before she could do much more than note the absence of Greyson and his posse, Jane Eyre hit her in the shin.
“Ow!” Beatrice said, returning the intruder’s glare and rubbing her leg with vigor.
“Would you cut that out?” he demanded in a harsh whisper.
“What, I’m not allowed to look out the window?” she returned, lowering her volume to match his.
“No.”
Beatrice deepened her scowl. She had developed a pretty good one over the years. It was useful in keeping her younger brother in line without resorting to violence. “What’s your problem?” she asked. This was her study room, after all. Well, maybe not technically, but she had been here first.
“What’s your problem?” the intruder shot back, with perfect logic.
“I’m not the one barging into other people’s study rooms and accosting strangers.”
“But standing in the dark reading a massive book is par for the course,” he said, picking the book off the floor and waving it at her.
“It’s my life,” Beatrice pointed out, snatching the book from his hand as her cheeks warmed. “I can read in the dark if I want to.”
He rolled his eyes and started to say something else, but his attention snapped to the window. His whole demeanor shifted from exasperation to fear. “Shit.”
Beatrice turned to follow his gaze, but he grabbed her arm—poor, abused Jane Eyre slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor again, pages down—and pulled her around to the far side of the conference table.
“Ow!” Beatrice said again, as he yanked her to the ground with him. “Would you stop—”
He slapped his hand over her mouth. “For the love of God,” he hissed, his eyes boring into hers. “Shut. Up.”
She didn’t even think about screaming this time. Even in the dark, she could see genuine fear in his eyes. He was in trouble. Real trouble.
Beatrice nodded, agreeing to his terms.
That was the precise moment the door to the study room banged open.
* * *
Julian flinched at the harsh sound, his hand still pressed firmly over the lurker’s mouth. The table Julian had pulled them both behind wasn’t ideal cover, but the room was designed for small groups of students to study. It was long, with blocky padded chairs crammed around it. And unless Julian wanted to try his hand at blending in with the wall, he was out of options.
Julian kept his head low, watching Vito’s feet in the slivers of space between the padded chairs and legs of the conference table. Vito paused inside the door, silent except for the sound of heavy breathing.
Julian’s mind raced ahead. If he timed it right, he might be able to tip the table over on Vito and buy himself a little time. Or, if that didn’t work, maybe he could throw a chair. Having a second person to deal with wasn’t making this easier.
Beside him, the lurker’s hands curled into fists against her knees.
Vito’s weight shifted. His hand appeared as he reached down and picked up the damn book from the floor.
Shit.
Julian shot a quick glare at the weird girl next to him, hoping she knew that if Vito found and killed them both, it was her fault.
She wrinkled her nose at him, apparently not impressed by the silent blame-shifting. She looked a little like a lion with all that hair. But not a terribly threatening one. The Tawny Scrawny Lion, or maybe Simba. “Hakuna Matata” Simba, though—all hair, no bite.
“Who’s in here?” Vito barked, breaking into Julian’s fear-induced nonsense-thoughts.
Simba grabbed Julian’s wrist and pushed his hand off her face. He panicked for a moment, thinking she was going to scream, but she didn’t make a sound. She didn’t move except to turn her head in Vito’s direction. Not even to let go of his wrist.
The smack of the book hitting the table made both Julian and Simba jump. Vito slapped the switch on the wall, throwing the room into fluorescent brightness. His shoes hit threadbare carpet as he came around the table.
Julian yanked his hand out of Simba’s grip and went for his pocket. He used to carry a knife with him everywhere. Now all he had in his pocket was a ballpoint pen, which was not great, but it was better than nothing. Vito was always more of a knife guy than a gun guy, so at the very least, Julian might be able to defend himself long enough for Simba to get out and scream for help.
But before he could even get a good grip on the pen, Simba popped to her feet. Julian grabbed at her sleeve, but he wasn’t quick enough.
“Excuse me,” she said, planting her fists on her hips like a diminutive Wonder Woman. “I have this room reserved. You can’t be in here.”
“Fucking—Where the fuck did you come from?”
“I was trying to take a nap,” Simba said. Like this was the most natural thing in the world. Like she wasn’t talking to a dangerous gangbanger with a switchblade in his pocket. “You got a problem with that?”
“You were taking a nap?” Vito repeated. “In here?”
“Don’t judge me,” she said, drawing herself up. “I live two hours away by train, and I’m taking a crap ton of credits, and there are only so many places that are any good for napping on campus. And I guarantee you all the couches in the student lounge already have smelly dudes sleeping on them. I think I’m allowed to use the room that I reserved to take a freaking nap in. Now, are you going to get out of here, or do I have to call in Ms. Newton so she can kick you out?”
“Fine. Jesus,” Vito said, retreating a step.
Julian was astounded. He had never known anyone to get Vito to back down so fast.
“I thought I saw someone I know come in here, was all.”
“Well, clearly you were wrong. Now if you don’t mind . . . ?” She stared at Vito, five foot three—plus another two inches or so of hair—of impatient exasperation.
Amazingly, Vito seemed to buy it all. He tossed out a grudging apology and left, slamming the door behind him. Simba stayed where she was, glaring at the window for a long moment.
Julian gaped at her, equal parts impressed and appalled. If she had any idea what she had just done—
She let out a puff of air and sagged into the nearest chair. “Oh my God,” she muttered, pressing her hands to her face. She appeared to be trembling.
Inexplicable anger slammed into Julian. “Are you insane?” he demanded, keeping his voice low, in case the walls were thin. “What the hell did you do that f
or? He could’ve killed you.”
“I have no idea,” she said, turning wide gray eyes on him. “It seemed better than getting caught hiding back here. I didn’t realize he’d be so . . . I mean, this is a library.”
“Fat lot of difference that would have made.” Julian glanced at the window, but the only people walking past now were students, their attention on their phones or each other. He got to his feet and walked around the table to get a better look. He spotted Vito near the end of the hall, seemingly undecided about whether to keep searching for Julian in the massive library. Julian pressed his back against the study room door. He was going to have to wait him out.
“What did you do to set him off, anyway?” Simba asked, sliding her book across the table and tucking it against her stomach.
“What do you care?”
Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t think it’s too much to ask for an explanation after I stuck my neck out for you.”
“I didn’t ask you to do that.”
“Well, what were you going to do?” she said, motioning to the pen still gripped in his left hand. “Embarrass him into leaving by drawing a mustache on him?”
Julian shoved the pen back in his pocket, anger rising in him again. “It doesn’t matter what I would’ve done. What matters is that what you did was stupid and dangerous, and you should have your head checked before you get yourself killed.” He cut himself off, realizing that it wasn’t her he was so angry at. He was yelling at himself.
Simba frowned at him. “I don’t usually go around getting on murderers’ bad sides.”
“No, you just help random strangers like some kind of idiot,” Julian snapped before he could stop himself. “What if I was a murderer?”
Next Stop Love, #1 Page 2