False Assumptions (Players of Marycliff University Book 6)

by Jerica MacMillan

  So maybe that’s all she was. A diverse piece of ass. He wasn’t any better than Mark. Evan hadn’t really cared about her after all, either. She’d been delusional to think he was different. And now her eyes were open.

  That was when her self-pity turned into anger. Anger that fed on itself and grew the longer she stewed. When he’d called an hour after Alyssa, she hadn’t answered. He’d sent a few texts, and he’d seemed sober both in those and in the voicemail he left. So she couldn’t even blame alcohol, not that that would make it much better.

  She’d decided she needed to confront him. In person. Show him the proof of his transgression and kick his ass, at least verbally, before leaving and telling him to never contact her again. If they weren’t so far into the semester, she’d consider dropping World Lit so she wouldn’t have to see him again. Or telling him he had to. Why should her graduation plans get screwed up by him being a manwhore?

  That had almost taken her back to self-recrimination again. Because she’d known he was that way from the beginning. That was why she’d hated him at first. Well, she could just go right back to hating him again. The last couple of months would be a blip on the radar. A brief respite in which she liked him—really liked him. In fact, she’d been almost ready to admit she loved him.

  But no. She couldn’t love someone who did this to her.

  So now here she stood in his apartment. She slapped the printout of the picture against his chest before he could say anything. His hand went up in reflex, trapping the paper. She tried to ignore the feel of his pecs, the electricity that still ran through her at the touch of his hand against hers. She didn’t have time for that.

  Pulling her hand back, she gestured at the paper. “Care to explain that?”

  His brows crumpled together, he looked down at the paper still trapped against his chest. He pulled it away, the confusion morphing into something like dawning realization.

  She forced a harsh laugh. “Recognize it now?”

  “Layla—“

  With a sharp gesture of her hand, she cut him off. “Save it. I don’t want to hear it.” Stepping closer, she saw the muscles of his jaw tick as he clenched them, his blue eyes glittering like shards of glass. But she ignored all that, focusing on her own rage. She poked a finger into his chest. “I trusted you. I believed you when you said you wanted a chance. I gave you a fucking chance. Even though I knew you would end up breaking my heart. I knew this would happen all along. I’ve been down this road before, and now—“ she flicked the paper with her fingers—“here I am again. Nothing but a joke.” Her lips curled into something that was supposed to be a smile. “Stupid me. I should’ve known better than to trust a manwhore. Well, I’ve learned my lesson. For the last time.”

  She spun around and headed for the door.

  “You’re not even going to let me explain?”

  With her hand on the open door, she stopped, glaring in his direction. “No. I’m not going to let you try to charm your way back into my good graces. Lose my number, Evan. I don’t want to hear from you again.”

  She kept her back straight as she walked down the steps and out to her car in case he watched her. Inside, she was falling apart. But she wouldn’t let it out. Not where he could see. Not until she was home.

  And then she climbed into bed and sobbed for everything she’d lost and how stupid she’d been.

  Evan glanced down at the printout that Layla had shoved at his chest. It showed him, Romero, and a bunch of drunk chicks flashing their tits. Jesus Christ. He’d been so pissed when they’d done that. Everyone—including Romero, that stupid jackass—had assumed that since he’d come to the party, he was there to get laid. Despite his protests, his so-called friends had gotten him into the kitchen, then two chicks had held him in place while a lineup had flashed them.

  “Take your pick, man,” Romero had said.

  “Dude. No! What the fuck?” And he’d disentangled himself and found some sane people to talk to. He’d planned to leave right away, but got pulled into a conversation with Thompkins and Bolero about football, graduation, and everything else. By the time he’d left, it had been one in the morning, and Layla hadn’t answered. He’d assumed she’d been asleep.

  But with this picture—that he hadn’t even realized someone had taken—he figured he was wrong. She’d been uncharacteristically terse on the phone when she’d said she was on her way over earlier. Now he knew why.

  Fucking hell. He should go find this picture and untag himself at the very least.

  But why bother? The damage was already done.

  He balled up the picture and threw it at the wall as hard as he could. It hit with a light, unsatisfying thud and dropped to the floor. He wanted to throw things, break things, expend all his frustration and anger. At the situation. At himself. At Layla.

  How could she just throw that in his face and walk away? Without even letting him explain?

  He thought she had come around. That she trusted him. Didn’t hold his past against him. Apparently, he’d thought wrong.

  “Are you okay, dude?”

  Looking up, he saw Carter leaning out of his doorway wearing only a pair of athletic shorts, his dark skin still wet from his recent shower. Evan shook his head, a quick jerk, and fell back on the couch. “No, man. I’m not fucking okay.”

  Carter took a few steps into the living room. “Wanna talk about it?”

  “Not really.”

  “What was she so pissed about?”

  Letting out a sigh, Evan shook his head. So much for not talking about it. He gestured at the ball of paper on the floor by the TV. “See for yourself.”

  Carter smoothed out the paper and let out a low whistle. “That’d be enough to piss off a girlfriend. What the hell were you thinking, man?”

  Evan threw his hands up in the air. “Nothing! I was fucking pissed! Romero and a couple of the other guys organized it. I didn’t want a bunch of chicks shaking their tits at me. I’m happy with Layla! Or I was happy with her, until she dumped my ass. Why would I go looking anywhere else?”

  Raising an eyebrow, Carter crossed his arms. “What were you even doing there?”

  “Layla overheard Romero telling me about the party in the library last night. She told me I should go. And now I’m getting punished for it.” Evan let out a sigh and scrubbed his hands over his face. This fucking sucked. He hadn’t done anything. If he’d actually cheated on her, then sure, he’d deserve to get dumped and his ass kicked. But that hadn’t happened. And she wouldn’t even give him a chance to explain.

  “Sorry, man. That really sucks.” He looked down at the picture in his hand again, then back at Evan. “What are you going to do?”

  Evan shook his head. “I don’t know, dude. You heard her. She told me to lose her number. I don’t think there’s anything I can do.”

  “So you’re just going to give up?” Carter’s brows were raised in disbelief.

  He had a point. Persistence was one of his better qualities. Would he really just let go without a fight?

  He waited until Tuesday. Waiting out the weekend plus a day and a half of classes seemed like enough time. Not picking her up on the way to school on Monday was weird. He’d found himself halfway to her apartment when he realized he didn’t need to go that way anymore. At least not until he’d told her his side of the story—the only side of the story—and convinced her she’d made a mistake in breaking up with him.

  Not that he’d phrase it that way. He wasn’t a complete moron.

  But when he came to class on Tuesday, he found her sitting in the back corner, the desks around her already taken. Dammit. He stood there, long seconds ticking past, waiting for her to look up and acknowledge him.

  She didn’t.

  Her head was down, her hair forming a barrier, blocking his view of her face. She had a book open on the desk in front of her.

  The other students around her looked up at him standing there. Like a moron. But she didn’t. She had to know he was ther
e, but she pretended he didn’t exist.

  Fucking perfect.

  Turning around, he found another seat a few rows over. He couldn’t even watch her, because she was in the very back, and all the other back seats had been taken. Dr. Rankin wouldn’t tolerate him turning around to look at her, and he didn’t need to embarrass himself any more than he already had. So he resigned himself to cornering her after class.

  But she escaped while he was still packing up his things, and by the time he made it into the hallway, she’d disappeared.

  “Fucking fuck!”

  Two girls looked at him, their eyes wide with surprise at his outburst. He gave them a tight smile and turned away, his fist clenching at his side. He wanted to punch a hole in the wall, but since it was cinderblock, that would only break his hand and not leave a dent in the fucking wall.

  He didn’t have any better luck on Thursday. Or the following Tuesday.

  Clearly talking to her before or after class wasn’t going to work. He needed to come up with a new plan. Some way that she’d have to listen to what he had to say and wouldn’t be able to ignore him.

  But what?

  He glanced around the empty hallway as though it held the answer to his questions. His eyes landed on a neon green flyer tacked to a bulletin board a few feet away. A plan started forming. That just might work.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  A knock sounded on Layla’s door, and then it pushed open, revealing Alyssa carrying a glass pan covered in foil with a plastic grocery sack dangling from one hand.

  “Here. Take these. Careful, the pan’s still a little warm. I have a pizza in the car. Be right back.” She shoved everything into Layla’s hands and was out the door before Layla could react.

  Bemused, she set the sack and pan on the coffee table and peeked under the foil. Brownies. And in the sack, two pints of ice cream—Haagen Dazs salted caramel for her and rocky road for Alyssa. She took the ice cream into the kitchen, coming back into the living room in time to see Alyssa elbow her way through the door with a pizza box in one hand and a two liter of Dr. Pepper in the other.

  She strode past Layla and set everything on the dining room table with a flourish. “Pepperoni and mushrooms from Mangiamo’s with brownies and ice cream for dessert.”

  “You made brownies?”

  Alyssa brushed her brown hair out of her face, her hazel eyes twinkling. “Well, from a mix. But it’s the triple chocolate kind, so who cares, right?”

  “Ha. Right.” Layla got out plates and glasses, and they sat down to eat. Normally they’d eat on the couch at the coffee table, but that reminded her too much of all the times she’d done that with Evan. So she’d been using her dining table more for its intended purpose the last two weeks instead of just a flat surface to stack things on.

  Alyssa chewed in silence for a few minutes, studying Layla the whole time. Getting annoyed, Layla glared at her. “What?” she demanded around a mouthful of pizza.

  Alyssa dropped her gaze, taking a drink of her soda before meeting Layla’s eyes again. “How’re you holding up?”

  The pizza lodged in Layla’s throat when she tried to swallow. The question caught her by surprise, even though it shouldn’t have. She knew why Alyssa had insisted they have a girls’ night tonight. But she’d thought the questions would wait until after they’d eaten. Or at least gotten through the first slice.

  With a quick drink to help wash down her food, Layla wrinkled her nose. “Fine.”

  Alyssa tilted her head to one side, chewing slowly. “Nope. Don’t buy it. Try again.”

  Layla sighed. “What do you want me to say? I’m still heartbroken? Of course I am. It’s only been two weeks. I thought—“ She swallowed again, this time against the emotion rising in her throat. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter what I thought. But I still have to see him in World Lit. He keeps trying to get a seat next to me, and it’s been hard to make sure all the seats near me are taken before he gets there every time.”

  “That sounds rough.” Alyssa gave her a sympathetic look. “Do you plan on talking to him?”

  Shaking her head, Layla put her pizza down, her appetite vanishing. “No. Why would I torture myself that way? I wish I didn’t have to see him at all. I don’t want to talk to him.”

  When Alyssa didn’t ask any more questions, Layla picked up her pizza again. Maybe that would be it for the night and they could talk about something else. Like Alyssa’s life. Or the upcoming poetry slam Layla would be reading at. Or how the streets were full of potholes. Or the trash collection schedule for the apartment complex. Anything else. Anything at all.

  “So Darren’s got this friend at work—“

  Layla let out a loud groan. “No.” She pointed at Alyssa. “No, Alyssa. You are not setting me up with one of your husband’s friends.”

  “Why not? I’m not saying you should start a new relationship or anything. Just some dates. Give you something to take your mind off Evan. Have a good time. Help you move on. We could even go on a double date. It could be fun!”

  “Absolutely not. Not even a maybe. I’m still getting over Evan. I don’t want to start dating someone else. Not even for fun to help me get over him.”

  Alyssa’s face turned sad. “I’m sorry. I just worry about you all alone here with only books to keep you company.”

  “I like my books. They’re good company. They don’t ever let me down, and they don’t try to set me up on blind dates.” She gave Alyssa a pointed look.

  Holding up her hands in surrender, Alyssa looked around. “At least tell me you’re doing more than holing up in here and moping all the time.”

  Layla rolled her eyes. “I’m not moping. Yes, I’m sad. But I still go to work. I went to a movie last night with some people from my poetry workshop. And I’m helping organize the poetry slam, so that, on top of homework, is keeping me busy. I promise I’m not sitting here alone, crying into my cereal.”

  “Okay, good.” Alyssa paused, then asked, “So how’re the poems for the slam coming? Do you have your pieces picked out yet?”

  Shifting in her seat, Layla looked down at her pizza, picking a mushroom off and popping it in her mouth. “Um, yeah. Dr. Moore is having me read one of the things I turned in last week.”

  “Oh? What’s it about? Is it part of the series you were planning on doing about your grandmother?”

  Layla picked at her pizza some more. “Um, no. It’s about, just, y’know. Stuff that’s been going on. My feelings about life. Like that.”

  Alyssa’s face had morphed from polite interest to unconcealed horror. “He’s making you read something you wrote about Evan?”

  Layla nodded.

  “About the breakup?”

  Layla nodded again, still not lifting her eyes from her plate.

  “Oh my God. I can’t believe you’d even turn that stuff in.”

  “I have to turn in poems on a weekly basis. That was all I could write about last week, so it was all I had. Dr. Moore said it’s some of my best work. When I told him I’d rather read something else, he wouldn’t hear of it. Participating in the poetry reading is a huge part of my grade. I don’t have a choice.”

  Alyssa was all sympathy again. “I’ll be there for moral support.” She paused, thinking something over, then spoke slowly. “You don’t think Evan might show up, do you?”

  “Oh God, I hope not.” Layla knew she’d mentioned it to him before, but that was in the planning stages. Had she told him the date? Maybe. “I don’t think so. Yeah, he’s an English major, but …” She bit her lip. The thought of him being there made her sick, and she pushed the rest of her pizza away.

  Shaking her head, she decided not to think about it. It’s not like she could do anything anyway. And the odds of him showing up seemed small. “I don’t think he’ll come. It’s not really his thing. It’ll be fine.” Right? Right. It would be fine.

  Alyssa seemed to pick up on her desire not to talk about it anymore. Thank God. “So, you’ll never believe
what happened at work yesterday,” and she launched into a hilarious story that sufficiently distracted Layla from worrying about Evan coming to the poetry reading.

  When they moved onto the brownies and ice cream, Alyssa moved on from work to discussing married life. Hearing about her friend’s wedded bliss—even if she complained about living with Darren as much as she talked about how wonderful he was to her—made Layla wistful. She’d started to believe that she and Evan had something real, had started to think in terms of a future together. And now that was all gone. Would she find that someday with someone else?

  Except thinking about having that with someone else, even some unknown, faceless man, made her even more sad.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “No. No no no no no.” Layla stood behind the temporary stage that had been set up in the student art gallery for the poetry slam, watching as the space filled with people. Including Evan.

  What was he doing here?

  She watched him take a program from the student stationed at the table by the door, glance at it, and make his way to a seat. Turning, she slipped behind some taller students so he wouldn’t see her.

  This was bad. So bad.

  Her poem on the program was about him. About their breakup. And he would know. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t—

  Swallowing back the bile rising in her throat, she searched the space for Dr. Moore. She’d talk to him, explain that she couldn’t possibly recite her poem. He’d understand, right? He couldn’t be so cruel as to force her to expose herself like that with the subject of her poem in the room. Could he?

  She twisted her fingers together, finally spotting him in the opposite corner talking with a group of students. When she reached them she cleared her throat, but the noise in the room overwhelmed her attempt to get his attention. So she tapped his arm.