Pretending

by Shanna Clayton

  “Uh, no thanks,” I say, circling around him.

  The girl in front of me steps aside. I catch a glimpse of dragon guy behind me moving on to his next victims, shoving his can of spray paint in their faces. Weirdo.

  Gwen is just up ahead, standing next to the refreshments, but there’s a group of guys in my way. “Excuse me.”

  “Sorry,” one of them says, moving to the right.

  “No…worries.”

  A pair of dark blue eyes freeze me into place.

  Wesley.

  Thankfully those eyes pass over me quickly, barely taking in my presence. He goes back to talking to his friends without recognizing me. I breathe a small sigh of relief, then dart toward Gwen in a hurry.

  “Don’t get too excited by the fancy umbrellas.” She waves at the table, pouting. “These are all mocktails. Ugh. School regulations, probably. I swear these mixers aren’t as fun as they used to be.”

  “Charlotte always keeps a bar upstairs,” I remind her. “Wanna head up there?” I try not to seem like I’m itching to get out of this vicinity.

  She links her arm through mine. “Course I do. I knew there was a reason why we’re such good friends.”

  Sneaking a peek over my shoulder, I check out Wesley again. Only his side profile is in my line of view, and he’s engaged in conversation. The tightness in my chest releases, and I breathe normally again.

  For a few seconds, I watch him out of curiosity. Wearing a shirt heavily covered with girl’s handwriting, I’m guessing from all the hearts and swirls, he appears much better suited to this type of atmosphere than me. I figured he’d be here—he and Charlotte are in the same circle of friends—but I never thought I’d run into him.

  He seems so casual and so at ease, inhabiting the relaxed and somewhat cocky quality that comes so naturally to the preppy Greeksters. The thing is, it’s all an act. I know that now. Whoever Wesley Kent really is, he isn’t a self-absorbed rich kid.

  Since I’m not sure how I feel about what happened in his bedroom earlier, I’d like to steer clear of him for a while. I still can’t get over him mistaking me for an employee. I mean, yes, I keep a low profile, but really? It’s not like he’s never seen me in normal clothes before. We’ve been around each other countless times—at Harland’s funeral, one year at Christmas—he should know what I look like by now.

  God, and the worst part is knowing how differently he would treat me if my name wasn’t Dahlia Reynolds. Earlier today he was nice. Seeing that side of him took me by surprise; he’s always been cold and devoid of emotion. Talking to him without all the family stuff hanging over our heads was refreshing. I needed to know that side of Wesley, for Harland’s sake…and I think for mine too.

  “Champagne?” Gwen says, sounding surprised. “That seems fancy, considering how casual this party is.”

  Green and gold bottles line the table. There aren’t any flutes or glasses though, only red solo cups—but I’m not surprised. Charlotte does things by her own standards.

  “It is random,” I agree, shrugging.

  “Here’s a toast to a great year.” She holds up her cup and takes a sip from it.

  “Our last year,” I add.

  Saying that out loud hits me pretty hard. I should be excited. After all, I’ve been waiting for the chance to get out of this town. Harland never required us to get our master’s degrees, so I plan to work on that somewhere else. Still…my experience here feels incomplete.

  “Hold this for me.” I push my cup into Gwen’s hands, spotting a bathroom down the hall. “I’ll be right back.”

  I beeline for the bathroom, ducking into one of the stalls before someone else comes in. Communal bathrooms are the one thing I’m glad I missed out on when it comes to college life. Sharing the same toilet space with other people can’t be sanitary.

  Outside the stall I hear a group of people shuffle in. Doors open and close, metal locks clanging as they enter the stalls beside me.

  A squeaky, ultra-feminine voice fills the bathroom. “Her name is Dahlia, but everyone calls her Doll.”

  What the—they’re talking about me? I’ve never heard that voice before. I peek through the crack in the stall’s door. No way am I walking out there now.

  A group of girls check themselves out in the wall mirror, adjusting their hair and tugging on their clothes.

  “And she lives with Wesley?” one of the girls ask—a tall blonde wearing the tiniest pair of denim shorts I’ve ever seen.

  “Yep, that’s what Charlotte told me. Apparently they were friends in high school or whatever.”

  We’re still friends, I want to growl, but I stay quiet inside my stall. Their curiosity doesn’t surprise me. Not many people know Wesley and I live together, and the ones who do know think it’s strange. I would too, if I were on the outside looking in.

  “Are they like…?” Blondie cocks a brow. “You know, living together-living together?”

  I roll my eyes. It’s amusing how she arrives at that conclusion when in reality there’s an ocean between Wesley and I inside the walls of Kent House.

  The girl with the squeaky voice slides her lipgloss wand across her lips. “No,” she says, chuckling. “Come on, Lauren, have you seen that girl? If you were a guy, would you want to go home to that?”

  My nose twitches.

  Okay.

  I can’t even get mad about that one. The way I look is self-inflicted. But still…no reason to be catty.

  “The way she looks doesn’t matter,” says a new voice.

  Thank you, whoever you are.

  “Because she’s super annoying.”

  My mouth drops open.

  “She’s in one of my classes. The professor is always calling on her, saying, ‘Dahlia, explain this to the class’ and ‘Dahlia, tell us your opinion on that.’” She groans out loud, clearly aggravated. “The professor should just let the little genius teach the class so the rest of us won’t feel like a bunch of Neanderthals.”

  I suck in my breath, feeling like someone struck me in the stomach. I know exactly which class she’s talking about. It’s not my fault the professor likes to call on me; he was one of Harland’s good friends, and he knows about the research we did together.

  “Oh God, Amy,” says squeaky-voice. “How can Wesley stand to live with her?”

  Amy shrugs, tying the front of her T-shirt in a knot so it pulls closer to her body. “It was arranged by his father. Otherwise he wouldn’t be there.”

  “Wow, that sucks.”

  All the girls shake their heads, sharing matching looks of pity.

  “Yeah, but he gets to move out when he graduates,” Amy tells them. “He said to me, and I quote, ‘I can’t fucking wait to get out of that house.’”

  “Wow,” Lauren shakes her head. “He must really hate her.”

  “That’s the general consensus.”

  A lump forms in the back of my throat, choking me. At least the girls don’t stick around, filing out of the bathroom just in time for me to let out a whimper.

  Stupid, nasty gossips. Their opinions shouldn’t affect me like this. It shouldn’t hurt to hear how pathetic they made my situation sound.

  Nonetheless, tears well up in my eyes, threatening to spill. Cursing at myself, I grab a wad of tissue. Letting someone see me this way will only make things worse. I need to become presentable again—and quick—before everyone thinks I’m a mess because Wesley can’t stand me. Ugh, I still can’t believe they said that. Or that he said that.

  Somehow knowing it came from him directly makes it even worse.

  I stand up and flush the toilet, heading to the sink. Cold water rushes out of the spout. I splash it over my neck. Trickling droplets stream over my skin, and it helps. A little.

  I look into the mirror. Some of my powder is coming off. Grabbing a paper towel, I pat my face and neck dry, hoping I won’t remove too much of it. From what I can tell, the girl staring back at me is still unrecognizable. Since I can’t stand to see my own
reflection, I gravitate away from the mirror and out of the bathroom.

  Squaring my shoulders, I take a deep breath. I’m determined not to let what I overheard ruin the rest of the night. Harland used to say that living in fear of what other people think is the same thing as living in a cage. I agree with him. What they think doesn’t matter. I know the truth, and the truth is I’ve never given Wesley one good reason to hate me.

  The first place I head toward is the champagne table. Gwen is still there, chatting up some guy in the corner. “Hey, is everything okay?” she asks, handing me my cup.

  “Yeah. I’m fine.”

  “You were gone a while.”

  “There was a long line.”

  I tip the cup and down the entire thing, pouring myself another right away. Gwen clicks her tongue and pushes away from the guy she’s talking to. “I’ll see ya later, boo. This is gonna be a great party.”

  She leaves him standing there looking confused, and we make our way back downstairs. “Dahlia Evelyn Reynolds,” she says, grinning. “That is one full cup you got there.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Gwen. I didn’t want to keep going upstairs for refills.”

  “Whatever you say. So does this mean we’re dancing on the tables tonight?”

  Unable to help it, I bust out laughing. “There’s no way I’m doing that, but you can if you want. I’ll even cheer you on.”

  As I’m laughing, I feel lighter, all the stuff I heard in the bathroom fading away. Thank God for Gwen. She’s makes me feel better, even when she doesn’t realize she’s doing it.

  “Hey, it’s the dynamic duo.”

  Gwen and I look up to see Miles, Charlotte’s boyfriend, walking toward us. His white “T-shirt” is a perfectly pressed white polo, but it fits in line with his personality. He’s the clean-cut, all-American frat guy, with the classic good looks: lean build, blonde hair, and big green eyes. He and Charlotte were pretty much made for each other.

  “Charlotte told me to make sure you two knew where the drinks were, but it looks like you found them.” Miles smiles at us, showing off years of good dentistry.

  Gwen places a hand on her hip. “Twenty bucks says your little girlfriend never once mentioned my name.”

  Miles’s cheeks turn slightly pink, giving him away. “Well I wanted to make sure you both had something to drink.”

  “That was nice of you, Miles,” I tell him.

  “Yeah, yeah.” Gwen shoves my shoulder, moving me along. “Thanks, Smiles, but we’re good. You can tell your little girlfriend I’m having fun drinking all her booze.”

  We make our way down the hallway leading back into the front room. “That was rude, Gwen,” I say once she stops pushing me. “Just because you and Charlotte have issues doesn’t mean you have to take it out on him.”

  People are standing around chatting with their friends and signing each other’s T-shirts. She’s not paying any attention to what I’m saying, already distracted by someone in the crowd. “Kent’s here.”

  Trying not to frown, I glance in the direction she’s looking. Wesley is on the other side of the room, laughing over something one of his friends said. Seeing him like that, happy and smiling, and knowing that gorgeous smile was centered on me earlier today makes every muscle in my body tense up. It was all a lie. Every kind word, how he helped get the books from the shelf…that kiss. If he’d known it was me he was kissing, it would’ve never happened.

  “I saw him earlier.” I swallow another sip of champagne.

  “You gotta admit, the guy is hot,” Gwen says, devouring him with her eyes.

  I place a hand on my hip. She’s supposed to be on Team Doll. It goes without saying that praising Wesley in any way whatsoever is not okay.

  Catching the look I give her, she clears her throat. “Ah, that is if you’re attracted to his type.”

  “And what type is that?”

  Gwen taps the rim of her cup and scrunches her lips to the side. “You know. He’s just aiiight. The rugged, bad-boy thing he’s got going on isn’t anything to write home about.”

  She’s trying so hard to lie I can’t help but grin. “It’s okay, Gwen. He’s the kind that makes girls go weak in the knees. I get it.”

  “Uh huh, and do you know from experience or…”

  “I’m not going into that.”

  “Why not?” she whines. “You didn’t give me details the first time.”

  And I never will, if I can help it. Erasing what happened today from my mind is number one on my priority list. If there were a button that could wipe that memory away forever, I would press it in a heartbeat.

  “I’ll promise you this,” I say, thinking of a way to appease her. “The details are yours when a guy actually remembers my name.”

  “Really? I’m holding you to that,” Gwen says, pointing a finger at me. “When the time comes, you better keep that promise.”

  I pull out my marker, uncapping it. “Here, hold my drink and turn around.”

  “Oh, I love this,” she says, her eyes brightening. “Are you putting it in writing?”

  “Sure am. I, Dahlia Reynolds, swear to provide Gwendolyn Hubbard explicit details of all my romantic affairs, conditional to a guy remembering my name, and therefore preventing me from hanging my head in shame.”

  “Aw, how cute. You rhymed. Make sure you sign it.”

  I sign my name at the bottom. “There. I’ve sworn my privacy away to you.”

  Gwen bounces on the balls of her feet. “Now all we’ve got to do is find you a man.”

  The excitement in her eyes both amuses and terrifies me. “Hold your horses, cowgirl. There will be no man shopping on my behalf.”

  She purses her mouth into a pout. “How the hell am I supposed to get my details if there is no guy in the picture?”

  “You’ll just have to wait for fate to present that opportunity.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” she grumbles. “Fine. But you better believe I’ll be there waiting when the right one comes along.”

  “Don’t doubt it for a second.” I’ll probably end up regretting this later, but the damage is already done.

  CHAPTER SIX

  WESLEY

  They never suspect a thing.

  The fake smiling, the fake laughing—it fools everyone. They think I’m genuine, and most of the time I’m trying to be genuine, but the truth is I really don’t give a fuck about this party or most of the people in it. I come to these things out of boredom, to fit in, and mostly because I hate being in my dad’s goddamn fortress of a house for too long. This is the world he wanted me to immerse myself in, the world he put his fortune on the line for. So I come. I laugh, I smile, try to blend in with university life. And tomorrow night, I’ll repeat the process over again.

  The Black Templar’s email still weighs on my mind. I don’t know who they are or how much they know. That eerie feeling that someone is watching me has me constantly looking over my shoulder. It was the same in Egypt. Someone followed me then, and they’re following me now.

  “Hel-looo.” Christine waves her hand in front of my face. “You know, Wesley, it’s kind of hard to flirt with you when you’re not paying attention to anything I’m saying.”

  I like how straightforward Christine can be. We’ve never hooked up, but she’s let me know several times she’s interested without playing games. “Sorry,” I tell her. “What did you say?”

  “Am I boring you?” She asks me in a way that lets me know to be careful when answering that question.

  “You could never bore me.” I fake-smile again, slipping back into my social mode. “I just have a lot on my mind.”

  “Like what?” she asks. “Anything I’d be interested in?”

  “Probably not.” Talking about old artifacts is the fastest way to lose a girl’s interest; I know from experience.

  She narrows her eyes on me. “It’s a girl.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “You’re lying.”

  I am lying. Sort of. I ha
dn’t been thinking about the library girl when Christine asked, but I’ve been thinking about her almost every second since she left my room.

  “I swear it’s not a girl, Christine.”

  She rolls her eyes. “What a load of crap. If there wasn’t a girl, you’d be more interested.”

  “Christine—”

  “I’m losing patience with you, Wes. Maybe it’s better if I put it this way: My room is upstairs, the third one on the right. If you want to have fun without games or strings attached, you know where to find me.”

  With that said, she walks away. I can’t say I’m surprised. Christine has never been one to beat around the bush. She is lonely, though, and trying to play it off like she isn’t. Freshman year, her boyfriend died in a car accident. She hasn’t seriously dated anyone since.

  One of these days I might take her up on her offer. She’s a pretty girl with silky brown hair and legs that go on for days. She knows it too, which is probably why she doesn’t play hard to get. But most importantly, she’s not looking for more than I’m willing to give. Not that I’m irresponsible or anything. I don’t strive to fuck every female whose willing like the way Chase and Tyson do. God knows dealing with one is more than enough. Right now I just don’t want anything from Christine. It wouldn’t be fair to her—I’m entirely distracted by someone else.

  The library girl.

  Everything that happened this morning replays inside my head. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about how amazing her lips tasted, and the way her hair and skin smelled like fucking heaven. All of it still feels like a dream.

  There’s just that annoying problem of me not recognizing her. Remembering the way she stormed off frustrates me all over again. For the life of me, I don’t know who she is. Not that I have any doubt I’ll find out. If I can find an ancient sword in the middle of the desert, finding the girl from the library will be a piece of cake. Because I need to find her. There’s something about her that’s…different. In a good way. She would be worth the chase, as Sam used to call it.