“Hello, Hell,” he mumbles as he lets the door slam shut.
I keep my eyes focused and slightly slide down in my seat. “Welcome to mine, now that you’re here,” I mutter under my breath.
Chapter Nine
“Do you think I should wear this?” Jaimie asks, holding a sparkly purple top to her chest. She turns from the mirror on the closet door and looks at me expectantly. I assess her wary expression—skillfully drawn eyebrows curve down in a frown, glossed lips pulled to the side and left leg slightly bent. The answer is no. I can tell by the tell-tale signs of her body. She spends more time in this dorm than her own. I’m beginning to question if she even attends the university. But then again, she is in my advanced English Literature class.
“No. Why don’t you try the lace black shirt? I’m sure it’ll match your girlfriend’s soul,” I joke, and she laughs. Julia, on the other hand, doesn’t find it funny and throws a pen cap at me. I laugh and pick it up and toss it back at her. She cracks the tiniest bit of a smile.
Over the past week, which is two days from ending, marking my first week of college, I’ve settled a bit more and even cracked a single hair of a fracture in Julia’s rock-hard exterior. Imagine when I’m six months in; I’m sure we’ll be good friends by then. If not, she’ll at least stop glaring at me like I just told her she’s supposed to be peppy. I picture a preppy cheerleader trying to convince her to the join the team and laugh.
“What’s gotten into you?” Julia asks, glancing over her phone to skeptically look me up and down.
“Nothing.” I shrug my shoulders and glance at her with a small smile. “Just—have you ever thought about cheerleading? I think you’d be a great fit with your bright personality and all.”
“Have you ever thought of my fist down your throat?” She smiles sarcastically at me, and I shake my head and look back at the laptop on my thighs. “But for real, why are you happy?”
“Is it a crime to be happy?” I crease my forehead as I tug my lips in a small frown. I was only kidding about her dark soul, but I’m starting to believe I was right. She doesn’t actually scream joy when she glares at you; trust me, I know.
“Maybe she found a boy toy to screw the prude—” Jaimie laughs, takes a glance at my raised brow, then waves a hand at me. “Maybe she just found a boy she likes, one that’ll…distract her.” Well, that’s completely better than saying what she was originally going to say. Not. But I don’t comment on that.
I let out a winded sigh and lean against the wall and shrug.
“I haven’t found anybody. But this week went perfectly.”
“How so?” Jaimie asks, mouth hung ajar as she rolls black liner across her lids in the mirror.
“All of my professors seem to like me,” I tell her. I know I sound sure of myself, but I really do feel that way. All, except my Psychology professor. She seems hesitant toward me, and I don’t know why. I raised my hands for all of her questions and showed her how much I knew, which is quite a lot. What could her dislike toward me be based on? “And the work so far is pleasant.”
They roll their eyes, and Jaimie turns toward me, gesturing to the black top she put on. “What do you think?” I think it hugs her large chest exceptionally well, displaying a great amount of cleavage. “And what about my ass?” She pivots in her open-toe boots and pushes out her butt.
“It looks very…revealing?” I say, unsure. Was that her goal? Certainly not; Julia—her girlfriend—is two feet away from her. Why would she dress risqué on purpose if they’re going out in public?
“Great! That’s what I was going for,” Jaimie exclaims, excitedly clapping her hands. She turns on her heels and pumps her fingers in her voluminous hair.
I’m confused.
“Why exactly?” I ask her, and she carefully trails her nail at the corner of her shiny lips.
“Because of the free alcohol,” she says, but I give her a confused look. “Where we’re going, the drinks are a tad too high for our taste. So I dress up to tease and woo the bartender, resulting in free drinks and sometimes food. But it depends on the venue, really.” That is so juvenile and manipulative. And she doesn’t even look a little bit bothered. Nor does Julia.
I look at Julia with concern. But she just shrugs and smiles suggestively at her girlfriend. “And you’re okay with your girlfriend showing off her assets like that?” I say to Julia.
She nods without hesitation. “I know she doesn’t care for anyone else but me. So why not show off a little of what she’s got, as long as she’s showing me the rest later…” Her gaze shifts to Jaimie’s, and I gulp. The sexual tension in the room just went through the roof.
“Anyway,” Jaimie says, shifting her attention onto me. “Wanna come?”
“No, thank you. I have a lot of homework to complete.” I actually have zero. I finished it all two hours ago. I just don’t want to go out with them again. Not after what happened last time. Plus, after that party, I vowed to focus on my studies and my studies alone, which means no parties and definitely no Grey.
“Blow it off,” Jaimie says, and I mentally gasp.
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.” She laughs. Turning from the mirror, she shakes her head at me. “You have two days you can spend working on it. Why not get out and have a little fun?”
“Like I did last week?” I arch an eyebrow, referring to the fraternity party.
That night I woke up from a nightmare where a car full of frat boys overturned, creating a terrible accident—a combination of my recurring nightmare mixed with a new one. I think it’s safe to say that I woke up drenched in sweat with a swollen throat from screaming. Plus, Julia’s grumpiness as she told me to “shut the eff up.”
“I don’t think so.” I return my eyes back to my laptop screen.
Ms. James, my Psychology professor, announced that she will be assigning us a week-long project to test our abilities and prior knowledge of the course subject, and I’ve taken the initiative of listing possible topics the project could be about.
“Fine, it’s your loss,” she mumbles as she applies her fifth coat of lip-gloss.
I shake my head, relieved she didn’t fight for me to come. I’m typing up another idea under the sixth one when my phone buzzes in the sheets next to me. I stop typing and pick up my phone, breaking into a large grin. It’s Louise, and she’s calling via FaceTime.
“I’ll be right back,” I briefly tell them as I scuffle off the bed and leave the room. I walk down the hall before sitting in one of the chairs in front of the elevators. I slide my finger across the phone to answer and laugh when our lines connect. Her nose is hovering over the front camera.
“Is this thing on?” she mumbles, shifting her face back and forth. “This is the last time I take Charlotte’s advice.” She goes on to rant in Spanish, and I cover my mouth and shake my head, thinking of all the times she cursed in her native language whenever she burned a cake or the washer overloaded with water and soap.
“Pull the phone back, Louise,” I tell her, and a few seconds later I can see her, a smile splashed across her lips. “Hi,” I say shyly. We haven’t seen each other in so long, and even if it is through cell phone cameras, it’s nice to see her face.
“Oh, my bebé, I have missed you so much,” she croons and then trails off to a long-winded series of queries, which I expected. “How are you? Are you getting enough sleep? How are your studies going? Are any of your professors giving you a hard time? Do you want me to beat anyone up for you?” Her face turns a deep shade of red, and veins throb beneath the brown skin in her neck. I admire her protectiveness, but I don’t want her stressing herself out because of it.
“No, no, no, Louise.” I laugh and wave my free hand dismissively. “To answer your questions collectively, I am fine. College so far is all right. The classes are like I expected them to be—challenging but exciting.”
“That’s great,” she exclaims, grinning from ear to ear.
“What about you? How’
s Charlotte’s college internship going?” I ask, genuinely interested. She goes on to tell me all about her daughter and my good friend taking the year off to study and work hands-on in the music industry as a DJ.
“Enough about me,” she says after five minutes of talking about a new ingredient that could spice up the integrity of banana pudding. “What are you doing tonight? Studying, like usual?”
I nod. “Yes. And I plan to continue doing so until tomorrow.”
“Oh, no, no, no,” she says, frowning greatly, creasing wrinkles around her mouth and darkening her gentle brown eyes. “You have to go out. Experience college life after dark. I don’t want you stressing yourself out so early in the school year.”
“I’m not stressing myself out,” I defend myself.
“I know you, Olivia, and when you start studying for days straight, you get wound up, and it’s suddenly all you can do. I don’t want that for you. Go out. Have fun. Live a little. You’re eighteen, for goodness sake.”
What has gotten into her? Is she seeing someone or something? I tried setting her up with my math teacher last year, but that ended up with him resenting me and her scolding me for interfering with her slow love life and then her apologizing and baking me cookies. She could never stay mad at me. And when I suggest that’s what was happening now, she laughs and insists it isn’t.
“I just want you to be able to breathe without drowning in work. I am pretty sure isn’t a lot, considering it is only your first week.”
I chew on my bottom lip. I vowed to only focus on work, to make my parents proud—especially my mother. And the last time I tried to have fun and live a little, I ended up walking in on something I’d rather be burned from my brain and dealing with two drunk girls. I’d rather bury my head in a novel like Wuthering Heights.
“I don’t know; you know going out isn’t my thing.”
“I know it isn’t, but college is supposed to broaden your horizons,” she says, and I chew on my lip a little harder until I draw a little blood.
“Oh, fine. But if I end up in a ditch, it’s on you,” I say, though I don’t mean it.
She always knew how to persuade me to do things that make me hesitant. And it always turned out to be not so horrible after all. Hopefully, that’s the case tonight. Otherwise, I’ve just been set up for failure. Yet again.
***
“Where are we exactly?” I practically shout over the jubilant screams filling the dark, crowded room.
Neither Jaimie nor Julia bothered telling me where we were going while in the car, or while I was getting dressed. Not knowing where I was going, I opted for dark jeans—which I hardly ever wear—and a white, sparkly spaghetti top from Jaimie. Apparently, she has a little obsession with sparkles. But I drew the line when it came to her choice of shoes—heels—and chose a pair of white pristine ballet flats.
All I know is that we’re deeply underground and in a room brimming with people that have tattoos, piercings, and top-notch lungs. I was a little—a lot—scared when we were walking inside the sketchy building between a tattoo shop and a pawn shop and descended never-ending stairs and opened a chipped red door to find a throbbing party sure to produce a horrendous migraine tomorrow.
“You’ll find out soon,” is Jaimie’s response before she perches on a stool at the bar and orders a drink, batting her eyelashes and clenching her arms against her breasts, exposing infinite cleavage.
I roll my eyes and look away. “Will you perhaps tell me?” I ask Julia, and she lifts an eyebrow. I slump my shoulders and sit on a bar stool. Of course she wouldn’t. From what I see, she lets Jaimie dance to the rhythm of her own drum and follows behind her without a beat. It’s sweet, really. Just not in this case. “Fine, fine…” I drag my gaze around the wide, thriving room. “Can I at least get a hint?”
“No. Now hush and enjoy the show. It’s about to begin.” Jaimie nudges my shoulder and hands me a plastic cup filled with a dark substance. I look at it with confusion and reluctance. “Don’t worry, Bambi, it’s just Coke.” I’m still hesitant, but I begin to take a small sip.
“I’m not really liking the Bambi nickname—”
“Shut up, it’s beginning. I have my money on Grey.” Julia perks up and looks toward the front of the room.
“Grey?” I choke on the drink.
“Hush!” she hisses.
What is Grey doing here? I thought this was just some weird underground party that satisfied Julia’s style, rather than a frat party like we went to last week.
I turn in my seat and almost choke as I take a sip to compose myself. A tall man with sloping brown hair, a wicked grin, and wide arms is announcing something I never expected.
“Good night, ladies and gentlemen! Tonight, we have two men stepping into the ring to prove their dominance! On the right, we have the man with twelve consecutive wins under his sturdy belt—the man—the legend—Cesar Hernandez!”
A whopping wave of howls emit from the crowd as a burly, topless man bounces into frame. The legend? Sturdy belt? What?
Through the crowd of jumping bodies and pumping fists, I see the man is standing on a large red mat. We’re at an underground fight. How do these two even associate themselves with something like this? And what does Grey have anything to do—oh. He’s an underground fighter. How did I not see this coming? The scar on his face, his fit physique, his deliciously dark charcoal eyes—I’m steering off point.
“And on the other side, we have the man who makes you shake in your boots—the fighter of all fighters—someone you do not want to mess with—the man we all know and love—the skull crusher—Grey!”
And like that, the dark shadow that lurked in the darkness stalks into the ring. My throat clenches and my chest tightens. There he is. Grey. He looks ten times more menacing now than he did the last time I saw him.
Jaimie, in all her excitement, drags me, along with Julia, of course, closer to the mat.
He is topless, and under the fluorescent lighting, I make out several tattoos coating his fit, lean body. His dark hair is curlier than usual and hangs off his forehead, resting against his thick eyelashes that frame his sharp jawline and high cheekbones. Sweat glistens on his hard stomach, rolling down every curve.
I don’t know if it’s because of the intensity of the situation or my sudden awareness of how truly alluring he is, but I find myself wishing for this to end before it even begins, because for some strange reason, I don’t like the possibility of him getting hurt.
“Shake hands, and remember the rules,” the referee says, and as they do, he takes a step back and hollers, “There are no rules!”
The hollers from the crowd makes the ground shake and my heart race. I look between the two men, each glaring with ferocity. Shouts for each side are thrown from every which direction behind me, but most everyone is cheering for Grey. Is it because he’s good at this? I would assume so the way he’s watching for the first move from his opponent while the guy is smirking, like he’s already won. Or is it because he’s scary enough that even the other guy’s fans are compelled to cheer for his rival?
I am given my answer when someone takes the first move.
Cesar.
He jumps forward, colliding his fist with Grey’s stomach. Grey takes the hit and locks his hands around Cesar’s head, sweeps his legs across Cesar’s, and swivels his body, taking him down. Grey’s arms flex and bulge, and under the light, I take notice of the great big veins pulsing and the sweat dripping off his top lip, searing into the red mat. He looks like he can handle the hits he’s receiving, but after what seems like an eternity, Grey pushes Cesar away and rolls to the balls of his feet, bouncing and waiting for his next planned attack.
Cesar is going to try to tackle him.
He attempts to do exactly what I predict.
Grey sees it coming too, because he steps out of the way, grabs Cesar’s hand, and flips him onto the ground. But Cesar pops to his feet and punches Grey in the face. I feel my heart stop and clench my hands
together, wringing them.
He and I make eye contact. He looks shocked, dark eyes wild and shifting between me and the two girls flanking my sides, cheering him on. As if sensing it, Grey rips his gaze away from me and dodges Cesar’s balled-up fist. I let out a shaky, relieved breath. I don’t know why, though, because it looks like Grey knows exactly what he’s doing.
Grey returns the punch to Cesar’s lip, and Cesar deflects another punch, grabbing Grey’s hand and using his other to sweep his knuckle clear across Grey’s chin. He falls to the ground and moves his head to the side when Cesar throws his fist down, intending on punching Grey square in the face. Grey nudges his elbow roughly into Cesar’s side. He howls in pain but stands, stumbling, eyes blinking wildly.
He’s had enough. He’s going to bow out or tap out or whatever the fighting reference is. But he doesn’t give up.
He swings an arm at Grey’s head, but Grey deflects and tackles him to the ground. Strike after strike, Grey collides his fists with Cesar’s ribs, each drawing a cry from his cracked lips. The sound in the room is deafening—they know he’s won too, and they’re on their toes, waiting for the sign of Cesar’s personal defeat.
After what seems like forever, he gives just that. Cesar’s head lolls to the side, and he closes his eyes. Is he dead? Sensing my worry, Grey looks up, chest heaving, lips curved into a smile. He shakes his head and stands, the referee holding up his right hand while he pumps the other in the air. The crowd goes wild, giving whistles and whoops and yells of victory.
I just stand here in shock and a little tiny bit of awe. He just took down a man with twice his muscular build, and he’s barely breathing hard. Though sweat does cover his golden-kissed skin and definite V-line above his black shorts—
He and I make eye contact, and I feel my cheeks burst with color.
Grey: The Encounter (Spectrum Series Book 1) Page 6