by James, Ella
“That’s right,” I rasp.
“Why did you dye it?”
“For a dare.” It’s not entirely true, but I don’t want to recount the flag football game. Don’t want to think about it—him.
She chews her lip. Her brows are drawn together. “What about your name? Which one is real?”
I remember the stench of heavy perfume, and an older lady’s gentle hands on my shoulders. The way I fell into the cab that day, the first day I told someone my name was Walsh. “Walsh was my mother’s maiden name,” I tell Cleo now. “It’s my middle name.”
“So your real last name is Drake?”
I nod. I’m not telling her much more, but I don’t see the point in lying about these basic facts. I don’t think BTM ever told her anything about me. She doesn’t know anything but what I told her in my letters: that my name is Robert. Which is, of course, untrue.
“Why’d you change it?” she asks.
The truth of my change in surname is not just the need for privacy once I came back from New York and started college here, but what happened before that. All the many things that made me feel like leaving Kellan Drake behind. Things Cleo can never know—lest she should find out how the two of us are linked.
I would never put her through that.
“Something happened,” I say slowly. “Something that made it so... I couldn’t be that person anymore.”
“Was that something an assault charge?” she whispers.
My stomach clenches as my pulse pounds behind my eyes. “What do you know about that, Cleo?” I rasp.
“I Googled you.” She looks nervous—and guilty.
“And you read I was suspended from the Trojans for a bar fight.”
She nods quickly.
I nod with her, trying to decide what if anything to add to that.
“What else did you read?” I need to know if any of the articles mentioned Lyon. His situation.
“That’s all. You had some killer stats when you were a senior at private school. You played first string as a freshman after Mark Waldon tore his ACL.” I nod, because those are facts. “And?”
“And then you got into a fight that night. You weren’t drunk—that’s what the story said—but you were at a bar in L.A. at like... closing time. And you got into it with this guy, this other player. It said he lost his hearing,” she says in a whisper.
I grit my teeth. Fear swells in me. Worry—about what Cleo thinks of that.
“It happened in January,” she adds, as if I need reminding.
“Yes.”
Her green eyes widen just a little. “So you really did it?”
“Do you think they lied?” I snap.
She shrugs. “Sometimes people do. Or there are disputes. Someone remembers one thing, someone else remembers something different. Keeps lawyers in business, you know?”
Not in my case. Everything the papers reported about that night was true. Franks did lose his hearing in his left ear. Like both Lyon and me, he never returned to the field. My father found a way to settle out of court.
Franks runs a vineyard now. And the truth of that story is, it took me years to feel sorry for what I did to that fuck.
I nod at her comment about lawyers. I’m starting to feel twitchy now. I want this subject dropped—but Cleo doesn’t notice. She shifts her stance a little, digging her hands deeper into the pockets of her fluffy robe, and tilts her head.
“So you moved here and changed your name?”
I shrug. I wipe my face again. “Looks like it.”
“Did you? Is that how it happened?” she asks. Her tone tells me everything I need to know about the likelihood she’ll let this drop.
I smooth the irritation off my face and try to appear forthcoming. Or like not a fucking liar who’s deceiving her about almost everything.
“I did some traveling first—but yes,” I say. “I left USC and ended up here.”
I turn back toward the treadmill, eager to get back on it and run from those green eyes. After last night—after I wrapped my arms around her and used her heat to warm myself—after she hugged me in the kitchen—and after this line of questioning—I’ve decided it’s a bad thing that the universe brought the two of us together in person. I should send her packing right now, but I’m finding I’m not strong enough. If she learns more about my past, I’ll have to find the strength somewhere. Until then... For just a little longer...
I step onto the treadmill and start the belt back moving, even as part of me is waiting for her words.
She walks over by me. I keep my eyes down as I start to run. She wraps her hand around the treadmill’s grip bar. “Kellan, I’m so sorry. That sucks.”
I turn, confused. “What sucks?”
“You lost... your life. I mean, you had to like playing football, right? You probably loved it. And after you got suspended, you must not have been able to go back. The news didn’t say anything about that—I didn’t Google much, because I wanted to ask you instead of prying on the internet—but I know that when something is a huge part of your life and you have to give it up, it always sucks. That is, if you loved it.”
My throat closes off, my body’s own acknowledgement that what she said is true—on so many levels. I swallow and nod. I bite my cheek as I lengthen my strides.
“Did you play a long time?” she asks warmly. “I wanted to read profiles about you, but like I said, I didn’t want to snoop.”
“Except right now?” I huff a laugh—and am surprised. That I’m able to. After last night...
“Except right now.” She smiles. “You’re right here in the flesh. The legendary Kellan Drake-Walsh-Charitable Kingpin-SGA President. I can’t resist a few questions. Maybe an autograph.” She tugs on her t-shirt. “You know,” she smiles, “the Sharpie-on-cleavage.”
That gets a chuckle out of me. “Bring me the Sharpie.”
“I just might.”
I push my body from a jog into a run. Her gaze moves with me. “Thank you for being honest with me. I know you didn’t have to tell me, but I like to know where you came from.”
I snort. If there’s anything I’m not, it’s honest.
“No biggie,” I say, as I stretch my legs into a more punishing pace.
“You know... I won’t tell. I swear. No one here knows that you played football, do they?”
“Nope.” Our soccer team sucks too much to get me any exposure. Which has been a good thing. I’d have never played if that wasn’t true. Don’t need any sports press sniffing around.
“Well I won’t tell a soul. Not even my best friends. Maybe just Truman.”
I jerk my head in a nod.
Now that she’s standing silently off to my side, and not distracting me with her questions and her pretty voice, the pain inside my chest flares to life again.
I run faster.
Harder.
“My first class is ten. When’s yours today?” she asks.
“Eleven.”
“Okay. Well I guess I’ll drive myself then.”
“Don’t. I’ll take you.”
She looks surprised. “You would have some time to waste.”
I shake my head. “I have to go to the dentist at 10:30, so it works.”
“Yuck. I hate the dentist. Do you have a cavity?”
I smirk at her. “What do you think?”
“I think your teeth look pretty perfect. Is it just a cleaning?” she asks.
“Cleaning.” I nod. “Now get out of here.”
“I want to work out too,” she pouts.
“Later.”
She turns to go. At the bottom of the stairs, she turns back to me. “Kellan?”
“Yeah.”
“Last night was—crazy. Like the wolf.”
She walks back upstairs, and I laugh. That’s me. I’m crazy like the wolf.
Chapter Eight
Cleo
My school day is dominated by a run-in with Milasy. I pass her on the concourse and can’t miss the G
ucci boots she has on—mine: the tan ones that are knee-high. I’m walking with Lora, talking for the first time since the other night, and Milasy glares at her as if she’s doing something wrong.
Before I can even ask Lora what’s up, Milasy is in front of us, with her hands on her hips and her dark hair flowing in the humid breeze.
“Lora—what did we talk about?” she asks, not looking at me.
“Yeah I know, but—”
“But?” Milasy asks.
“Cleo is my lab partner,” Lora lies.
Milasy’s face is unreadable, so I’m surprised when she says, “Find another partner.”
As soon as she stalks off, Lora pulls me into the nearest building—an aviation science lab—and tells me Milasy has told some of the Tri-Gams that I’m blacklisted.
“She didn’t tell us why, just that you’re sort of like... suspended. I was going to tell you...” Lora bites her lip.
“It’s fine,” I say—even though it isn’t. Lora is supposed to be my good friend. I don’t think I’ve missed a single call from her in the last day or two. Nor has she sought me out, except a few minutes ago when we bumped into each other on our walk to the west side of campus.
We part ways outside the aviation lab, and Lora promises to call me later.
As soon as I get into my next class, Art as Self-Expression, another Tri-Gam, Sally, asks about my grandmother.
“What?” I frown.
“Milasy told us you’ve been home a lot, because she’s... Well, Milasy says she’s not doing so good.”
Perfect.
Another girl, a freshman named Christine, confirms this as I leave that class. She pats me on the arm as we pass one another in the lobby of the psych building and says, “I’m thinking of you, darlin’.”
I plant myself under my favorite willow tree to kill a little time before my next class, biology II, and as I step inside that classroom, my phone vibrates with a text from Kellan.
‘Pick u up at 4:30 behind Taylor?’
‘PLEASE.’
When I drag my tired ass into the parking lot at 4:32, he’s waiting in the Sexcalade. I experience a bolt of glee, like a lab rat presented with a carrot.
I slide into the passenger’s seat and quickly size him up. He looks nice: same dark jeans and emerald green button-up he had on when he dropped me off, so I can’t explain why the sight of him makes my heart do backflips. I notice his hair is a little wind-blown, I guess because he has his window down.
I give him a small smile. “How was your day?”
He lifts a shoulder. “How was yours?”
I drop my head into my hand. “It was tedious and tiring. I’m grumpy. And can’t wait to get away from campus.”
“I know something you might like.” He looks surprisingly light-hearted.
“Well, what is it?”
“You like pizza?”
“Who doesn’t?”
We drive the short distance to Mama McCalister’s in companionable silence. He parks behind the restaurant and comes around and opens my door. I smirk at him, but it slips into a smile as I check him out again. He looks more casual frat boy than usual today. And either way, “You make a good Southerner.”
He smiles a gentle smile for me, then he helps me over a big crack in the parking lot’s asphalt. As we approach the door, he keeps my hand in his.
He picks a booth in the back, and when a lustful-looking waitress sashays over five seconds later, he orders chicken pizza.
“Chicken pizza? Are you kidding me?”
“What can I say?” He smiles. “Chicken? Pizza? It works. You agree?”
“Hell yes, it’s my very favorite thing ever.”
He smiles again (clearly he is going for a record). “Ever?” He leans across the table. “Even better than my harness?” he asks in a low voice.
My cheeks and neck burn. “That was dirty. Dirty-dealing. Unfair. Scandalous.”
“Wait until you see what I have for you today,” he says.
I’m blushing so much I’m worried tears might spill over. “Not in public,” I hiss.
He grins wickedly.
“Your teeth look nice and white. How was the dentist?”
“I got a good report. A cleaning too.”
He sits back in his seat and I notice, now that he’s not smiling, how tired his face looks.
“How about your other situation? With the... you know... the you-know-whos?”
“The you-know-whos?” He smirks. “Sounds like some Dr. Seuss there.”
“I love Dr. Seuss. Look!” I lift my shirt sleeve. “It’s YOU.”
He frowns and leans across the table. “Is that some kind of code?”
I laugh. “No, this little guy is from Oh, the Places You’ll Go by Dr. Seuss. It’s one of my favorite books ever. YOU is the star.”
The tattoo is on the inside of my bicep.
He wiggles his brows and rests his hands atop the table. “So will you succeed?”
“Yes, I will indeed.” I laugh happily. “I can see I’ve misjudged you. Not only do you read, but you seem to read a variety of things.”
A troubled look passes over his face, but it’s gone quickly. “I’m a Seuss buff,” he says.
“Really?”
“Maybe.”
I give him a curious look, but he just lifts a brow, and I know he’s not going to tell me what he meant by that.
“Do you have any tats?” I try.
“Don’t you want to know.”
“I do.”
He leans his elbows on the table. “I do.”
“Are they on your booty?” I giggle. I don’t know why, but I’m feeling a little silly now that I’ve made my escape from campus, and at the moment I just want to make him laugh.
“No.” He laughs, a low, dry sound, but still a laugh, and I feel like a champion. “My ass is ink-free.”
“Mine too.”
“Yes—I’m aware of that.”
I bite my lip and look down at the table, hoping he won’t notice my face flush. I can’t believe the sex we had last night. I had no idea that it could be that way—and with an almost-stranger.
“Is the illustrious ‘You’ your only tat?” he asks.
“I’ve got one more.”
His brows come together. “Really? It must be well-hidden.”
I blush a little, thinking he’s seen almost all my hiding spots—even in between my ass cheeks. God.
“I guess so.” I lift my wavy hair up off my neck. “It’s right back here, can you see that?” I point to the spot. “Kind of behind my ear.”
He leans forward again, and I get a silly little thrill from being the one to dictate what he does, even for such a small moment. He reaches out and traces his finger over the soft skin just behind my ear, where curving text spreads over the area where my sisters’ cochlear implants sit: ‘HEAR NO EVIL.’
The server arrives bearing bread sticks and water, and Kellan sits back in his seat. I notice that his face looks very serious. Almost angry. As the blonde girl sets the breadsticks on our table, his eyes never leave my face.
“Pizza should be out soon. Can I get you anything else?” the server asks.
I look at Kellan. He inhales.
“Beverage?” he asks me. He means in addition to the water she just brought.
“I’d also like a medium lemonade,” I tell the server. Her eyes brush over Kellan. “You?”
His gaze is still on me. He wrenches it away and lifts it to her. “Sweet tea.”
The waitress saunters off, and I grin. “Sweet tea? You like sweet tea?”
The corner of his mouth twitches, but he doesn’t smile—or even smirk. “Y’all got that one right.”
I giggle. “You don’t say it right.”
“Say what right?”
“Y’all.”
“How do you say it?” He looks sullen, like he wants to be stormy but I keep interrupting the storm with sunshine.
“It’s supposed to be y’all—so
like if you were going to say ‘awww, that puppy is so cute,’ you need that ‘awww’ sound in there. Kind of like...” I clear my throat and use a low voice. “Y’awwwwllll.” I smile. “What you say is more a ‘yal.’”
Now he smirks. “You mean a y’all?”
I shake my head. “There’s a subtle difference. Not so subtle even.” I tuck my hair behind my right ear, where the tattoo is.
“Yesterday,” he says slowly. “You mentioned hospitals. And your dad and sister. I know your dad passed away.” His lips rub together, like he’s shifting his jaw thoughtfully. “What about your sister?” His voice is low. His face is hard. He knows, somehow. Of course he does.
I take a fortifying breath.
“Don’t,” he says sharply. He leans across the table, looking panicked. “You don’t need to tell me. Forget I asked.”
I shake my head, picking up a breadstick and twirling the tip of it in marinara sauce. “No—it’s okay. It’s her birthday on the twelfth and I was going to tell you anyway. I’ll be going home tomorrow... to visit her grave,” I manage in a clear voice.
Despite that feat, I can’t keep my eyes from springing leaks.
“Damn.” I bring a napkin to my face to catch the stray tears, and then I hide behind it, because no amount of stern inner monologue will stop them.
In the silence, I notice the music—some Ke$ha song—and all the chatter of the place. It makes me irrationally angry, but I can tell the anger is really just a cover for the awful loss I feel—this week in particular.
A fresh slough of tears leaks out, and I swallow. I dab my eyes with the napkin and breathe deeply, and I feel something warm and hard settle against me.
Something heavy goes around my back, and before I have a second to get my bearings, Kellan pulls me up against his left side. I can feel his mouth against my hair as he says, “Fuck—I’m sorry.”
I shake my head, reeling a little at his sudden appearance on my side of the booth. At how good his arm feels wrapped around me.
I force myself to pull the napkin down, despite being embarrassed. “It’s not your fault.” I take a deep, long breath, and let myself get lost in the blue of his eyes as I tell him the fact that is, for some reason, so painful.