Breathless 3 (Breathless #3)

by Claire Adams

  BREATHLESS #3

  The Breathless Series Book #3

  BAD BOY FRAT

  By Claire Adams

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 Claire Adams

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  Chapter One

  If I had thought that searching information about Claire White was going to put my mind at ease, I had been disastrously wrong. I didn’t sleep at all the rest of the night — or if I did, it snuck through so many moments of heart-pounding anxiety and unease that I didn’t even notice it. The next morning, I somehow managed to drag myself out of bed after hitting the snooze on my alarm three times, when I knew that I couldn’t delay the inevitable any longer. I might be terrified of what I had — somewhat, at least — discovered about Johnny, but that didn’t mean I had an excuse not to go to class. Professor Grant, I can’t come in. I just found out that my boyfriend might be a psychopath and I haven’t slept at all.

  I got dressed mindlessly, feeling like my brain itself ached, pulling on my clothes mechanically in the pale light coming through my dorm window. I couldn’t even process what I had read about Johnny the night before; surely it was a complete misunderstanding. There had to be some explanation. I tried to think, tried to remember what Johnny had told me about the girl when we had been alone together. She had been troubled and he couldn’t save her. I hadn’t been able to figure out just what had gone down — just that apparently Claire had been horrifically mistreated by some boys and that somehow Johnny had been involved.

  I was haunted by the accusation against Johnny as I stumbled my way out of the dorms and started towards the dining hall to grab something to eat. I knew I wouldn’t have time to get a proper breakfast — my sleepless snoozing had seen to that — but I also knew that nothing at all in my churning stomach wouldn’t do anything to help me focus through my morning classes. Not that I’m going to be able to focus anyway. I grabbed a banana, an apple, and a travel cup of coffee as quickly as I could, darting in and out of the dining hall and even brushing past some people in line ahead of me without a word. Most of them were too bleary-eyed to complain.

  As I walked out towards my classes, I felt like I was trapped underwater. Mom and Dad had taken me on a cruise once when I’d been about ten. One of the activities they’d signed us up for had been snorkeling, and at first I had been as eager as anyone on the ship to go along. But the sea had been choppy, and out of the blue as I was minding my own business, staring down into the reef through my mask, a wave crested over my snorkel and the undertow pulled me in its wake. My snorkel filled up and I struggled under the water, trying to find the surface even as I panicked, my mouth filling with brackish brine.

  That same feeling came over me as I walked along the pathway to the building for my first class of the day, trying not to look at anyone. I didn’t know what to think. Obviously, it had been too good to be true; I had suspected that from the very beginning. But I would never in a million years have thought that I had fallen for a total sociopath. Maybe he’s not a sociopath. Maybe he’s just…somehow… My brain foundered, trying to find some justification for what I had read, some way of making sense of what two different sources had suggested to me.

  Clearly, a group of boys had somehow been involved in driving Claire White to her death. Even more obviously, plenty of people thought that Johnny had been involved somehow. I had no idea what the circumstances were. Maybe he wasn’t involved at all. Maybe it’s a big misunderstanding. But if a bunch of people thought that he had helped drive a girl to suicide, I couldn’t imagine that they were all wrong.

  Besides, I could remember how Johnny acted on the ice. He was brutal; he had told me about the brawl during the away game I hadn’t seen with glee in his eyes. He had never been anything but gentle with me, but I couldn’t make myself reconcile the way that Johnny had been on the ice and the way that the reports on his involvement with Claire White’s suicide with the boy who had toasted marshmallows and made love to me on a blanket in the middle of the woods. I remembered how scared I had been when he had driven his huge truck onto the isolated trail, deeper and deeper into the park, away from prying eyes.

  I was moving more slowly than I wanted to, tired down to my bones, my brain struggling between the adrenaline of my fear and the fatigue of not sleeping the night before. I tried to think of something Johnny had done that could not have been done by someone who valued life. Instead, images of him on the ice, colliding with the other team’s players, throwing himself into them hard enough to knock them down or into a wall flitted through my head. I could tell how much he had enjoyed it. What kind of man had I attached myself to? How could I have been so stupid?

  I thought of the girl from the dining hall. She had been more than happy to flash her tits at Johnny, but she had been the first one to tell me about Claire White. It didn’t make any sense. If she really thought that Johnny was so awful as to be involved in someone’s suicide, why would she flirt with him? Why would she go after him? I felt a shiver work through my spine at the thought of her going after him even if she knew for a fact that he was some kind of vicious sociopath.

  But was Johnny actually a sociopath? Could I consider him that way? I stepped into my class and sat down heavily in the nearest seat I could find, totally ignoring my usual place in the room as other students started to file in. My mind was spinning, and I couldn’t quite get rid of the feeling that I was drowning, that I couldn’t breathe. I had no idea what to think. I had no idea what to believe. Part of me insisted that it had to be true; after all, with so many people insisting that he was involved in that poor girl’s suicide, how could there not be fire behind the smoke? But part of me refused to believe it. Johnny had been so upset to talk about her. He had told me as much as he could stand — and it was obvious that it still hurt him. But could I believe that? Could I take it at face value that it was real?

  I tried to focus in class and tried to make myself just put the question of Johnny and his involvement in the suicide aside. But thoughts of what he could possibly have done to the girl he had dated to contribute to her committing suicide popped in, intruding on the lecture. What if he abused her? What if he beat her up — and those other boys helped? They had done something. They went to jail. Someone said that Johnny should be in jail, too. What did he do?

  I was so lost in my own thoughts that I nearly shouted in surprise when my phone vibrated in my pocket. My heart was pounding in my chest. I took my phone out carefully — the professor hated seeing a phone out in her class. I breathed in deeply, trying to calm down. If my hands shook so much that my phone fell out of them, I’d be just as doomed. The screen flashed with Johnny’s contact ID and a message notification. I closed my eyes. Of course it was him; it wouldn’t be anyone else, not at this time of day. Mom or Dad would have called, they wouldn’t have tex
ted. I looked around to make sure no one was watching me and then opened the text message. Hey, Becky-baby, it read. Can’t wait to see you again. What are you up to tonight? I swallowed against the tight feeling in my throat and closed the message without responding. I had no idea what to do or say. I couldn’t just agree to spend time with him. I couldn’t be around Johnny again until I had figured out just what I was getting into and what kind of crazed person he might be. And even then — did I want to be with someone who could help drive someone to suicide and then lie about it? Another text came in, and I cringed before I looked at it. Let’s do dinner at least, if nothing else. I couldn’t make myself respond to it, even if I knew I should write something. I couldn’t think of what I should say. I couldn’t think of what I wanted to do. I had no idea how to feel — other than the fact that I was confused and I was deeply, deeply afraid of the possible monster I had been dating so happily.

  Chapter Two

  I went through the day, feeling alternately numb all over and as if every nerve in my body was about to explode. I didn’t know what to do and didn’t know how to think, and just like before, when I had been plagued by thoughts about whether or not Johnny was interested in me and after the stupid girl from the dining hall had brought Claire White to my attention in the first place, I couldn’t focus. I only heard one word out of ten if I was lucky in my lectures. I had no idea what I’d be able to make of my notes when I went to study later or do homework. As far as I was concerned, I might as well have not bothered going to class — except for the class participation points, which made up part of all of my grades.

  I got lunch at some point in the day, though Georgia couldn’t meet with me; instead of sitting in the dining hall, I grabbed a sandwich and a to-go cup of soup and retreated into the dorm. I didn’t want to risk running into Johnny. I couldn’t deal with the idea of even seeing him, not with everything weighing on my mind the way it was. I wouldn’t know how to tell him what was wrong if I had to look up at his face. Everything would come tumbling out of me.

  It was like living in a nightmare. I had no idea how to make my brain stop swirling around, how to make my heart stop pounding. Part of me wanted to ask Johnny point blank what had happened to the girl. See if he would tell me anything more. But he already gave you his story and it doesn’t match up to what everyone else is saying about him. How can you trust what he would tell you? How well do you really know him? The fact that he had been talking about spending the rest of our lives together, about getting married and having kids, when we had only been seeing each other maybe a couple of weeks, suddenly didn’t seem charming at all, but somehow weirdly sinister. What college-aged guy really thought about getting married? What guy in his early twenties wanted to settle down with someone for the rest of his life and have kids?

  I went back to my room without knowing how I was going to manage anything. I never replied to Johnny’s text, and I still didn’t know, even after a full day of classes, what I would say to him. Georgia came into the room as I was pretending to study, cheerful as always; for once, she didn’t have anything to say about Johnny and me — about how envious she was that I had nabbed the hottest guy on campus or how lucky I was to have run into him. She had had a good time flirting with one of the guys in her Bio class and it had turned into a date for that night. I was happy for her, and somehow managed to avoid unloading all of the stress of what I had discovered the night before onto her shoulders. Georgia didn’t know; she had no idea. I couldn’t ruin the good news of her date with something like that.

  I watched her getting ready, darting in and out of her room, going back and forth to the split bathroom: showering, putting on makeup, changing outfits and asking for my approval on each piece she chose. The entire time my stomach was in knots, and I could only barely pretend like I was remotely okay as I kept my eyes on either the TV or the book in front of me.

  By the time Georgia left, my skin was crawling and I was more than happy to finally be alone again. I thought that if I was around her for even a moment longer, the entire crazy, terrifying story would come tumbling out of me. Did he really just want to have sex with me and that was why he got me into the closet or is it some kind of crazy weird thing? I had loved it when we’d done it — I had been so pleased with myself putting it over on the Country Club, sticking a metaphorical middle finger up at the stuffiness, at my own pretentious parents and everyone they associated with. But knowing that Johnny was apparently involved in some poor girl’s suicide — what had he done? — made me feel like there was something else going on with that tryst.

  My stomach was churning inside of me. My lunch hadn’t done much for me; I had eaten because I knew I had to eat, but I hadn’t been hungry at all. I had been nauseated. I still felt nauseated. I was on birth control, my mother had insisted on it, but it had never bothered my stomach before. I gulped as I thought about the possibility of Johnny knocking me up. Any form of birth control could fail. Oh God, what if he already had? My mind spun out of control with speculation that I knew was sheer insanity. I was letting my imagination get the better of me, as my mom would have said.

  My phone rang and I nearly fell off of the couch, startled out of my wheeling, rambling thoughts. It was Johnny. I bit my bottom lip; could I dare not to answer it? I hadn’t answered his text messages from before. If I avoided him, he might come to find me. It wasn’t quiet hours, and I kind of thought that Johnny would have no problem talking himself into the building, even if the RAs had a rule against it. Who could tell Johnny Steel no? I swallowed against the rising anxiety I felt. I had to answer it. It would be easier to talk to him over the phone than it would be in person if he decided to come and see me. “Hey, Johnny,” I said, struggling to come up with a smile.

  “Becky-baby!” He sounded so normal. How could he sound so normal, so sweet, and so kind? If he had driven a girl to suicide, how could he act like such a great guy around me? Was he going to drive me to suicide? Had it been a suicide at all? I heard Johnny talking and knew that I had to pay attention to what he was saying. I shook my head as if that would stop my reeling thoughts.

  “Sorry, babe — what?” Johnny laughed.

  “I said, aren’t you coming to dinner? I’ve been waiting to see you all day. Going through withdrawals.” I smiled weakly.

  “Oh, is it dinner?” Johnny chuckled again.

  “What are you up to? You’re never this distracted.” Part of me wanted to retort that Johnny hadn’t known me long enough to know how distracted I could be. I was exhausted. I was more anxious than I had been in years.

  “I’m just not feeling very well. Kind of nauseated. Probably have some kind of bug — you know how these dorms are.” I tried to make my voice sound weak and it was much easier than I would have thought.

  “Poor baby,” Johnny said, his voice so sympathetic, so full of affection. It made no sense. Sociopaths are supposed to be so charismatic. Of course he’s sweet. Of course he’s charming. “I could come and bring you up some soup. I think the DH has chicken noodle tonight.” I felt my eyes stinging. Was I totally wrong about him? Was everyone wrong? I couldn’t believe that someone could be so horrible as the comments on Claire White’s memorial page suggested, but so kind and so thoughtful. It just didn’t make sense.

  “Gigi is taking care of me,” I said, looking around as if I expected her to pop up out of nowhere and exclaim that I was lying. She wouldn’t be back from her date for hours. I was losing my mind.

  “Well as long as you’re not suffering alone, I guess that’s okay,” Johnny said. “Just call me if you change your mind. I’ll come and cuddle you and bring you anything you want to eat.” I smiled again, wishing that I could just accept Johnny’s kindness, that I wasn’t sitting on the couch, thinking of terrible things he might be involved in. My life would be so much easier if I had never heard anything about Claire White.

  “I’ll totally call you right away,” I said. Johnny said something else that I barely heard, something sweet and gen
tle and kind, and I felt my heart skipping inside of my chest. I made an excuse and finally got off of the phone, echoing Johnny’s parting, affectionate comment.

  I looked around the living room, trying to decide what I wanted to do. Eating anything seemed out of the question completely. Even the thought of crackers was enough to make my stomach flop over inside of me and give me a greasy, low feeling. I decided that I’d just go to bed. Obviously, I wasn’t going to get any kind of practical studying done and there was nothing on TV compelling enough to distract me from the bone-deep fatigue and the whirling of my thoughts. I would just go to bed, hopefully succumb to the deep need for sleep, and then in the morning, if I was lucky, this would all have been some stupid fevered dream that never really happened. At least, maybe, I would know what to think about all of it.

  Stupid as it was, I climbed into my bed and found myself wishing that Johnny was there. Part of me remembered his comfortable sweetness and the kind gentleness he had shown me every time we had been together. It was totally incompatible with the kind of guy who could torment a girl to her death. I tossed and turned, trying to calm myself down, trying to sort out just what I could — what I should — believe about Johnny. The commenter had said that what he had done to her wasn’t love. Johnny had said that he had been in love with her, that he hadn’t been able to save her from herself.

  I fell into a dizzy, uneasy sleep, with the muscles in my legs twitching even as the blackness of exhaustion started to fill up my mind. I didn’t know the moment that I had shifted between falling asleep and being asleep, plunging into the darkness of oblivion.

  I was back in the woods. Deep down the trail Johnny had driven down, in the darkness, able to see without knowing where the light was coming from. I heard dull, echoing thuds, groans, growls, and a sharp scream. Oh God, what’s happening? My heart started pounding in my chest. I ran, following the noises; I had to know what was going on. Everything around me seemed unreal and terrifyingly vivid all at once — trees whipping at me with their branches, and yet I didn’t feel them. My legs moving underneath me as fast as I could manage, but somehow I was moving along the trail as slowly as molasses, trying to reach the agonizing screams.