Hidden Worlds

by Kristie Cook

  “Oh, I live off campus, with my . . .” Oops, almost said Mom. I was out of practice. “. . . with my sister.”

  “Oh, too bad.” She sounded genuinely disappointed. “I thought we could walk back together, maybe hang out. I’ll see you Wednesday afternoon for our team meeting.”

  “Yeah, see you then.” I thought maybe college was different than high school. People were actually friendly.

  As soon as she left, though, prickles of fear trailed down my spine. I’d have to walk to my car alone, in the dark, and that scared the hell out of me. I was probably just extra jumpy from my sense’s false alarm earlier, but it felt like the opportune time and place for an attack. My attackers probably didn’t even know where I lived now, but I had no guarantees. They’d found me once. They could find me again. If they even existed.

  I stuffed my books in my bag and retrieved my keys. I gripped them with their points jutting between my fingers to use as a weapon, clutched the bag’s strap in my other hand and inhaled a deep breath.

  “I’ll walk you out to the parking lot,” Tristan offered, slinging his own backpack over his shoulder. He glanced at my fist full of keys. “You shouldn’t be alone on campus at night.”

  I exhaled with relief. “That’d be great.”

  Though I’d just met him, I felt safe with Tristan. Not that I wanted him or anyone else involved, but I hoped those strangers wouldn’t try to attack with other people around—real people, not boys with little pocket knives.

  As we walked in silence, I wondered what was wrong with him. There had to be something because he paid attention to me. Of course, I was usually the one avoiding everyone else, only because I knew there would be a negative reaction at some point. But Tristan . . . I didn’t want to avoid him. Something inside me seemed to settle—to click into place—with him already.

  I knew I was making a mistake, setting myself up for disappointment . . . or worse. Guys who even had a fraction of his looks could pick any girl, throw her a bone and she’d do anything for him—like his homework. That was the only reason they talked to freaks like me . . . unless they thought we were an easy score.

  I didn’t want to think that way about Tristan, though. It wasn’t fair. But if either were true, he’d be the one disappointed. For now, I’d give him the benefit of the doubt and pretend like it was perfectly normal for him to be talking to me. Again.

  “So you live close by?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Cape Heron, with my sister, Sophia. She bought a bookstore.”

  “The Book Nook? The one on Fifth?”

  “Yeah, you know it?”

  He lifted his chin in a nod. “I live in the Cape, too. I noticed it was re-opening soon.”

  “In a few weeks. It’s been closed for over a year, so it’s needed a lot of work.”

  “Let me know if she needs any help. I’m good with my hands.” He waved his hands in emphasis.

  I tried not to think about what his hands may be good at. It made me giddy.

  I was glad she’d already hired someone. Mr. Beautiful around Mom? They might meet at some point, considering we had several team projects over the semester and he lived near the bookstore. I thought I would kill her, though, if she ever hooked up with him. Although he couldn’t possibly be interested in me, I didn’t think I could stand for him to date her . . . to be my mother’s boyfriend. Ugh!

  “I’m taking a gamble here, but I’d say that’s your ride?”

  Besides a motorcycle, my 15-year-old, white VW convertible was the only vehicle in the parking lot. The other classes must have let out early for the first night. He walked me to my car.

  “Guess I’ll see you Wednesday?” he asked as I opened the door and dropped my bag on the back seat.

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Be careful.” He paused, then added, “Driving home, I mean.”

  “Um, you, too.” I eyed the shiny motorcycle. I didn’t know what kind it was, but it definitely wasn’t a Harley-Davidson, the only kind I really knew. It looked more like a racing bike, the kind seen screaming down the highway at ninety miles an hour, the rider hunched over the handlebars, dangerously weaving around traffic. He had a risky side. Maybe that’s what the mind-nudge detected.

  “You don’t like bikes?”

  “I like Harleys.” I hoped that didn’t offend him, if it was a Chevy-versus-Ford kind of thing.

  He chuckled. “My other one is a Harley.”

  My eyebrows shot up. “Your other one?”

  “I like toys.” He shrugged with a grin. “See you Wednesday.”

  I sat in my car and watched him walk away in my rearview mirror. About halfway across the parking lot, his whole body seemed to shift, to relax. I hadn’t even noticed he was tense—he’d seemed so cool and casual. I wondered what made him anxious. Surely someone like him couldn’t be nervous talking to someone like me. As he fired up the bike, he glanced over at my car and I started my own engine so he wouldn’t think something was wrong. Don’t mind me. Just ogling.

  Before I left, I put the top down. The balmy air hung with humidity, but I hoped the wind on the highway would equate to a cold shower and douse my internal heat.

  ***

  Wednesday morning I rushed again, this time to my women’s studies class. It was the last place I wanted to be, so I took my time getting to campus and now I was running late. Why did I take this stupid class anyway? Tuesday had been a productive day for writing. Going to this pointless class now seemed like a waste of a valuable hour. It would be a long day on campus, too, with the team meeting in the afternoon. Of course, that meant seeing Tristan again, but after a delicious dream the other night and waking up to the disappointment that it could never come true, I’d told myself to stop thinking about him.

  I walked into class right at 9:30, but it hadn’t started yet. A low thrum of chatter among the students filled the room. Not all were female; there were three guys. No . . . four today. My mouth nearly dropped open. Tristan sat at the back of the room, talking to a couple of scantily clad girls. He stretched his arm across the desk next to him and shook his head, saving the seat for someone. I wondered who the lucky girl was as I headed to an open desk.

  I retrieved my books from my bag when he caught my eye and grinned. He nodded at the desk next to him and winked. I stared at him, a dense fog filling my brain. When I shook my head to clear it, he pushed his bottom lip out and gave me sad eyes. A small giggle burst through my lips and before my brain registered that I moved, I was already back there. So much for not thinking about him.

  “What are you doing here?” I whispered.

  “I told you, it sounded interesting, so I picked up the class. Maybe I’ll learn something.” The smile he flashed caused my heart to flip. He was good at making my heart do gymnastics.

  “I’m sure it’s not what you’re thinking,” I said, waving my syllabus as I took my seat.

  He held up his own copy. “Do you really think I enrolled in a class without knowing what it was? Give me a little credit, please.”

  My face flushed. “Sorry. It just doesn’t seem like the type of thing you’d be interested in. I feel like it’s a waste of time and I’m a woman.”

  “Hmm . . . maybe I can make it interesting for you.”

  I lifted my eyebrows. What does that mean? He smiled and nodded at the front of the room. I tried to focus on the instructor’s lecture, but my eyes wanted to pull to my right. Sitting next to Tristan in class was like driving down a highway parallel to a breathtaking landscape—I knew I should keep my eyes straight forward, but they kept drifting to the side to enjoy the view.

  Unable to control myself, I snuck a glance at him out of the corner of my eye. I was shocked to see his face full of pain or anger. I wondered what he was thinking. Was this feminine junk too much for his manly ego? The next time I peeked, though, he seemed perfectly fine. He peered back at me, the gold flecks sparkling. He pushed his notebook to the side of his desk, toward me, with a note written in the marg
in.

  How many cats do you think she has?

  I suppressed a giggle. I’d wondered the same thing about the teacher on the first day of class. I wrote on my own notebook: 12?

  He flipped over to a blank sheet and his pen dashed across the page. I started to think he was just taking notes when he pushed the notebook toward me again. He’d drawn a cartoon picture of the teacher with twelve cats surrounding her. I had to cover my mouth with my hand to keep from laughing aloud. We exchanged written jokes about her and the cats, adding things to the cartoon drawing, throughout the remainder of class.

  “What are you up to between now and that team meeting we have later?” he asked after class.

  I wrinkled my nose. “I have calculus in ten minutes. Then I’ll probably torture myself some more and try to get homework done before our meeting.”

  “Not a math geek, huh?”

  “Not even close.” It was the only freshman core class I hadn’t tested out of. But that was more than he needed to know.

  “Well, you have fun with that. See you later. And thanks for making class interesting.”

  I cocked an eyebrow. I should have been thanking him. I had practically fallen out of my seat with silent giggles.

  “Seriously. It’s no fun writing notes to myself. I don’t play along nearly as well as you do.” He grinned. Then he did it again: he winked at me. My insides softened as I gawked at him. I’m such a fool.

  “I’ll see you later,” I finally muttered when my head cleared. I made a beeline for the door before I made a bigger idiot of myself.

  After calculus, I grabbed a soda and a bag of trail mix at the student union and headed for the seating area where our team would be meeting. I had just spread out my calculus text and notebook on the table when the familiar voice murmured close behind me, sending a tingle up my spine.

  “I’ve been waiting for you for a very long time.”

  It’s like he keeps finding me . . . but why would he want to? Not that it bothered me. It should have, but it didn’t. He made me feel . . . good. Despite the mind-nudge.

  “If that’s the case, then I should turn you in for stalking me,” I replied drily as Tristan dropped his bag on the table and took the seat next to me.

  “Hmm, let’s consider this. You show up in my communications class, then in my women’s studies class that I decide to pick up and have no idea which one you’re taking, and now you’re right here where I need to be in thirty minutes. I could turn you in for stalking.”

  Of course, he was just teasing, but my face reddened anyway.

  “I wouldn’t, though, turn you in, I mean. You can stalk me anytime.” He grinned. I blushed harder. Mr. Beautiful is flirting with me.

  “Yeah, well, I don’t have time right now. First, I need to get this homework done.”

  “Ah, right, your own personal torture. Need some help? I am a math geek.”

  I laughed. “Geek” was the last word anyone would use to describe Tristan.

  That’s how it all started. With two classes together and team projects to work on, I saw him every other day during the week. He helped me with my calculus, I helped him perfect his essays and we kept each other company between classes. Each time we were together, I felt another click in my heart and that was probably not good.

  I honestly couldn’t explain my behavior. I should have pulled away, if I knew what was good for me. Instead, I was drawn toward him. He brought something out in me I never knew was there. I couldn’t pinpoint what it was, but it felt good. Emotionally good. Well, physically good, too. But also emotionally. Really.

  Even more than my own behavior, I certainly didn’t understand his—he could easily take his pick of girls. I didn’t complain, of course. For weeks, our conversations centered on homework, college and the weather—pretty boring, yet safe topics. The more time we spent together, the better I felt around him. The mind-nudge had all but disappeared. Even when he’d flirt with me or get this certain look in his eyes or shift his body closer to mine, I didn’t mind. Well, my body didn’t. It would zing with anticipation of his touch. But my mind still protested, worried he’d be like . . . others. Then he’d pull back, as if there was a line I didn’t want drawn but was there nonetheless—one neither of us could bring ourselves to cross. Yet.

  Spending time with Tristan on campus left little time for my research. But there wasn’t much to do, anyway. The deeper I sunk into it, the more outlandish it became. All I found were myths—telepaths, witches, werewolves, vampires—and even then, each had only one or two of our characteristics. Nothing matched, not even fantasy. I came to a dead-end with no idea where to go next.

  But I was okay with that. With nowhere to go and Tristan consuming my thoughts, I easily drifted back to my comfort zone—hiding behind a mask of normalcy. I wanted nothing more than to be normal, just to have a chance with him. Such foolish desires, on so many levels.

  I just didn’t know how foolish.

  Chapter 3

  I used to think Mondays were nothing but a rude awakening from the lovely dream of the weekend. Now I looked forward to them. Tristan and I spent little time together on Fridays and I didn’t see him at all on the weekends, so when each Monday finally came around, I was ridiculously giddy as I entered our women’s studies class. Except for the fifty minutes of calculus, we spent from nine-thirty in the morning to ten at night together. Of course, we were in class and team meetings the majority of the time, but sometimes it was just us.

  One such Monday in late September, we sat outside on the quad’s lawn. The air was still warm, but we didn’t drown from the humidity. I kicked off my flip-flops and sat on the grass, absorbing the sunshine. I closed my eyes and tilted my face to the sun for a few minutes, but I felt Tristan watching me, making me self-conscious. I surrendered and reluctantly pulled my books out of my bag.

  Tristan had a notebook on his lap and pencil in hand, already working on something. I left my calculus for later, not wanting to bother him, and pulled out the communications text instead. I still had three chapters to read before I could even start on the paper he was probably already writing. He was always several steps ahead of me in our assignments, but, for some reason, still had me review his nearly perfect essays.

  I stole a glance at him one more time before delving into the text. He caught my eye, smiled and winked, bringing that fog into my brain. Why does he do that to me? Apparently pleased with my dazed reaction, he grinned wider and bent over his notebook. The way his pencil flew over the page, I could tell he wasn’t writing. He was drawing. But when I leaned over to get a look, he pulled the book up so I couldn’t see and shook his head. I blew out an annoyed breath and, lifting my chin with petulance, I turned to my book. He chuckled under his breath.

  “Hey, Tristan,” a vaguely familiar female voice called from behind me a little later.

  He glanced over my head and his body went rigid.

  “Hey,” he muttered.

  “We’re going to the Phi Kaps’ house for a pool party. Wanna come?” a different female asked as they came closer.

  He shot them a strange look, almost like he was angry.

  “On a Monday?” he asked, his voice full of skepticism. I could hear something else underneath—a steely hardness.

  “It’s the Phi Kaps. Any day is good enough for them,” the first girl said. “So, you coming?”

  The girls stood by his side now, towering over him as he remained seated. If he looked up, he’d have an eyeful of long legs in short shorts and big boobs in tight tops, but, for some unfathomable reason, he looked at me instead. I recognized the girls from our women’s studies class and they were exactly who I’d picture Tristan with—a much better match than me, no doubt. Apparently, they felt the same. They didn’t give me so much as a glance.

  I wondered if Tristan was the college party type. There was definitely something edgy about him. And what warm-blooded male would pass up a pool party with college girls—especially these girls?

&
nbsp; “No, thanks,” he replied, holding my eyes, the steely undertone still there.

  I blinked in surprise. Both girls’ mouths fell open. They obviously weren’t accustomed to rejection. They glanced down at the notebook in his lap, shot their eyes at me and then back at him.

  “Whatever,” they both huffed and stomped off.

  Tristan relaxed as he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. I didn’t understand his rejection until it occurred to me he was just being polite.

  “You can go, if you want,” I said. “You don’t have to stay here with me.”

  He smiled. “Not interested. In going, I mean.”

  “Seriously. I’m used to hanging by myself.”

  His smile faded and his eyes flickered. “Do you want me to go?”

  Yeah, right. I definitely didn’t want him to go. It made me sad and lonely to just think about it. But he didn’t need to know that. How did I get here, where being alone was a bad thing?

  “Does it matter what I want?” I asked, a slight edge to my tone.

  “It matters very much to me,” he murmured.

  My heart skipped. I stared at the ground, my face hot, and picked at a blade of grass.

  “No, I don’t want you to go,” I whispered. “I just don’t know why you’d want to stay. Most people don’t hang around this long.”

  “I’m not most people.”

  He definitely was not like most people, but I knew he wasn’t thinking along the same lines I was. I didn’t know how to respond, so I just returned to reading my textbook, hoping he would forget the conversation.

  “Can I ask you a question?” he asked later as we walked to one of the on-campus cafÉs before communications class.

  I shrugged and looked up at him. “You can always ask.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Ah. So, then . . . will you answer a question for me?”

  “Depends . . .”

  “I guess I’ll try my luck.” He peered down at me as he opened the door to the cafÉ and stepped back for me to enter. Holding doors open for me seemed to be second nature to him, just like walking me to my car every day and other gentlemanly behavior. No, he wasn’t like other people. “What did you mean earlier when you said most people don’t hang around this long?”