I took a few hasty steps back, not liking the way I filled his line of sight. A sliver of fear snaked around my ribs, squeezing the breath out of me. Did he think I was going to sleep with him? The locked door, the soundproof room, the rumors the trumpet players were spreading…
My rising panic must have shown on my face because he sneered at me, wrinkling his nose in distaste.
“Relax, hotshot. I’m not gonna touch you. Hell, you can take a nap too as far as I’m concerned. I don’t care what the fuck you do over there, as long as you stay quiet and don’t leave.” He pinned me with his stare. “Is that really such a hard request from the snare line lieutenant to a NAD?”
I swallowed down my angry retort, knowing fighting him on this would result in something much worse than listening to him snore for a while.
“Nope. Sounds just peachy. I’ll take this corner over here, if you don’t mind.”
“Don’t care what the fuck you do. Just shut your mouth and wake me up around midnight or so. That’s usually when they bring more pizza.”
Hot resentment flooded through me. He was holding me hostage to be his damn alarm clock.
I pulled out my phone.
Me: Can’t. I’m stuck with Marco in 3A until midnight. Any chance you can rescue me?
I hit send, but nothing happened.
I tried again.
My phone powered off, the battery dead. My charger was in my bag in the other room.
I banged my head uselessly against the soundproof padding on the wall.
A dozen cutting remarks shuffled through my mind, but I kept my mouth shut. And anyway, his chin was tucked to his chest, his breaths coming slow and easy. Like this, Marco looked softer, as if he would be the type to hold the door for gray-haired ladies at the grocery store. Except—his arms wrapped around his lean torso, almost protectively, and his hands were curled up tight. It wasn’t quite the loose-limbed sprawl of someone at home in their own skin.
I didn’t like him, plain and simple. At the core of his being was something mean and little, someone who thrived on getting ahead at the expense of others.
But I only had to get through a few more months of his bullshit until football season ended. After that, there wasn’t any reason to interact with him again—assuming he graduated on time.
With a resigned sigh, I surveyed the room. Beyond the piano along the far wall and a group of chairs and music stands, there wasn’t much in the room besides a whiteboard with a few bars of music scrawled across it. The door was windowless, and there was no way to open it and leave without waking Marco. His legs stretched out across the opening.
I could do this. I could let him win this stupid little round in the battle between us. This was nothing. And maybe the boost to his ego would buy me some peace for a week or two. Let him think I was firmly under his control.
Minutes passed.
I counted the ceiling tiles. Four hundred and sixteen. Or was it eighteen?
I started counting again. Before I could finish the second time, Marco was snoring, phlegmy little snorts as he inhaled.
It was annoying as hell.
Yet I must’ve dozed myself at some point, because a particularly loud thud outside the door startled me awake. The clock on the pale blue wall read 11:49.
Thank God.
Eleven minutes later, I kicked his ankle. “Wake up. Pizza’s here,” I said flatly.
Then I reached over him, and pulled the door open just enough to slide out, forcibly pushing his body a few inches along the floor. He tipped over, grunting out a surprised protest, but I didn’t pause, squeezing through the small crack to the overly bright hallway.
Laird rounded the corner and spotted me instantly, concern furrowing his brow. He quickened his step, tipping his head toward the water fountain two doors down. I met him there, my frayed nerves soothed just by being near him.
“Where have you been?” His voice was rough and his eyes ran over me quickly, as if assessing for damage.
A door shut behind us, and he twisted around to see Marco exit the same room I’d just come out of. A scowl marred his handsome face when he turned back to me.
“You okay? Did he try to do something?” Laird’s muscles bunched under his shirt, threatening the integrity of the seams around his biceps.
“Nothing I couldn’t handle. Just some stupid mind game.” I shook my head, and stooped to drink some tepid water from the fountain. “My phone died—I tried to message you.”
He started to reach for me, but caught himself, letting his arm drop back to his side. “I waited for an hour, then I came out to look for you. I was starting to get worried, but then I thought maybe you were mad at me or something.” He shuffled his feet and ran a hand over the back of his head, gripping his neck. “I sent you a bunch of texts, but I guess you didn’t get them.”
My shoulders drooped. “I’m sorry.”
His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I polished up all the snare harnesses in the equipment room. Made myself useful for a few hours.”
I winced. That was a task NADs usually did, not a senior. Definitely not the captain.
“Laird,” I whispered, not sure what to say.
He leaned his weight against the wall, blocking anyone in that direction from seeing his hand as he tangled his fingers with mine. “Spend the rest of Sunday with me—when we get out of here. I can make it through the next eight hours if I know I get you all to myself afterward.”
“And do what?” A small grin lifted the corner of my mouth.
“Fuck, that dimple of yours,” he breathed. “You have no idea how crazy it makes me.”
My lips spread into a wicked smile, and I peered up at him from under my lashes. “How crazy?”
He took a step closer and pulled my hand to the front of his shorts, where I could feel him hardening. I ran my palm down him once, twice, before I remembered where we were and stopped.
His eyes were closed, lips parted as he inhaled deeply. “I can smell you from here. Cherries and flowers. I want my pillow to smell like that before I fall asleep tonight.” He opened his eyes halfway, Irish green lust simmering back at me. “How do you feel about that?”
“I think that can be arranged,” I murmured, feeling an answering tingle between my thighs. I smoothed my hair behind my ears, trying to keep from launching myself at him.
“Well. This looks cozy.” Marco’s dark gaze flashed back and forth as he stepped in between us to get a drink of water. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
Laird shifted, standing to his full height. “Nothing I need your help with.”
Marco wiped his mouth on his shirt sleeve. “Reese. Funny, I haven’t seen you around for the last few hours.” His voice rose, attracting the attention of the assistant band director and a few drum majors coming down the hall. “Did you sneak out? You know that’s against the rules.”
I gaped at him. Was he fucking kidding me right now?
The band director paused, trying to get a read on the situation. “Is there a problem here?”
Marco shrugged, a triumphant smirk on his face. “Just asking Reese here if she can tell me where she’s been for the last three hours or so. I know I haven’t seen her around anywhere.”
The lying son of a bitch. If I told the truth now, he’d deny it. I knew it in my marrow.
Laird cleared his throat. “She’s been with me.”
Marco’s eyebrows winged up. “She has?” His voice had a hard edge to it, blatantly challenging Laird’s claim.
Laird turned and stared him right in the eyes. “I’ve had her polishing all the snare harnesses. With a toothbrush. Since I’m her vet and all.” He took half a step back and gestured toward the equipment room. “Feel free to double check her work. She did a good job, even on yours.”
Marco’s mouth pinched closed, and he glanced between Laird and me. “So, it was just the two of you? How convenient.”
The assistant band director opened his mouth to speak but Laird
cut him off. “Nope. Smith was there for a while too, but since he worked faster, I cut him loose after the first hour. Made Reese finish up solo.” Laird cocked his head in fake concern, his voice soft but steely with an underlying challenge. “Do you have a problem with my methods? Are you questioning how I’m handling things?”
Oh shit. I tried to blend into the wall, because—all the sudden—this wasn’t about me anymore. I mean, it was, but it wasn’t.
Marco knew Laird was lying. It was in the way his face was screwed up in confusion, as if he couldn’t figure out why the captain would go out on a limb for the little drummer girl. But he also couldn’t call Laird out on it without revealing his own deception.
They had one of those weird staring contests guys have sometimes, each trying to out intimidate the other.
The assistant band director turned to me, flustered. “So…”
I widened my eyes and painted the most angelic smile on my face. “I was scrubbing hardware. Like Laird said.”
Marco snarled at me, tearing his gaze away from Laird in the process, before turning and stomping away down the hall.
Dear holy angels in heaven who kept track of all these white lies on a never-ending tally sheet.
Sides had just been taken.
Laird and me against him.
And he’d just lost.
Laird
The little yellow octopus on my screen refused to swim higher, regardless of how many times I woodpeckered the button. He’d stop, go, turn right or left, and sink lower, but not swim up and follow the bubbles. For the fourteenth time, he got stuck in the coral and the timer ran out on the level.
Fucking hell. I almost threw my phone across the room. The code for the app I was developing as part of my Video Game Design class had been fighting me since last weekend. All the earlier design steps—the graphics, the sounds, the scoring algorithms—had gone smoothly, but somewhere there was an error in the programming that I just couldn’t find. Oh, and this next stage of the project was due Monday night, four days from now.
I should’ve spent more time on it earlier in the week when I first integrated the graphics, but I assumed it’d be an easy fix—like all the other stumbling blocks I’d hit with the project so far. A little tweak and it’d be handled. And despite staying up until after three this morning trying to rework the directional commands, the little fucker still refused to cooperate.
Swallowing back my frustration, I switched out of the app and checked my texts to see if Reese was going to make it to practice today. If she didn’t show up after already missing Tuesday’s practice, I’d have no choice but to give her spot in Friday’s game to an alternate. I hated to do it, but those were the rules.
Me: Feeling better?
Reese: No. Still puking. I already emailed the director and he told me I was benched from the Georgia game. This fucking sucks. My guts hate me.
She’d had a wicked stomach virus for the last three days. I’d spent the last two nights in her dorm room with her—because she refused to come to my townhouse—microwaving cups of broth and forcing her to drink plenty of water and Gatorade in between her trips to the bathroom.
Reese hadn’t wanted me to be there, hadn’t wanted me to see her like that. Pale, sweaty, damp hair clinging to her face—none of that mattered to me. She was still beautiful and there was no place I would’ve rather been than by her side. Her nausea didn’t make me squeamish, maybe because I’d seen Garrett like that so much when I was younger.
Eventually, she’d given in and let me fuss over her a bit. She’d laid in my lap on that little bed, cool washcloth over her hot forehead, making a sound that was halfway between a groan and a hum as I ran my fingers through her tangled hair. I’d murmured nonsense words to her until she fell into a restless sleep, shivering under the blankets and then kicking them off her sweaty body as the fever rose and broke. Ignoring her protests, I’d skipped two classes, only going to the ones with mandatory attendance, because I’d needed to feel like I was doing something to help her, even if it was just to sit by her side while she napped in between bouts of vomiting.
But I couldn’t help worrying it was something more.
I held her thin wrist and counted her pulse while she slept, watched the rise and fall of her chest for her respirations. Her long, tan limbs showed no unusual signs of bruising, and my fingers didn’t trip over any enlarged lymph nodes when I massaged the back of her tense neck. But was she paler than normal? I told myself it was dehydration, not anemia. I googled all the signs of leukemia reoccurrence and alternately reassured myself and fretted over the multitude of subtle symptoms.
Fatigue.
Loss of appetite.
Dizziness.
Fever.
Night sweats.
Weight loss.
All things that could’ve resulted from a normal, garden-variety stomach virus.
Not cancer.
Not like Garrett.
And so I pushed my worst fears to the darkest recesses of my mind and shoved them behind a steel door. I focused on making her laugh until her dimple appeared. Showed her stupid YouTube videos and rubbed her feet. Changed her sheets and washed her clothes. Helped her memorize the Krebs cycle for biology and reassured her that missing a football game if she wasn’t better wouldn’t be the end of the world.
Friday’s game pitted the Rodner Sharks against the Georgia Bulldogs, who we were expected to crush on the scoreboard. Those games were never as exciting as when the teams were more closely matched and the predicted winner was not only highly debated, but conference rankings hinged on the outcome. She’d still get to play in the stands and be part of the whole game day, she’d just miss marching in the actual show.
I hadn’t seen her yet today. Thursdays were my busiest days, with an anatomy lab and a computer lab session back to back.
Me: Do you want me to come over again tonight?
I winced as I typed it. I wanted to be there. I wanted it almost more than I wanted to breathe. But I also needed to focus on my damn video game project, and it wouldn’t be easy to do that from her dorm.
Reese: I keep telling you, you don’t have to take care of me. You’re a computer science major, not a nursing one.
Me: I’ll bring you dinner at least. Think you could nibble on one of your favorite subs?
That way I could check on her, I rationalized. I wouldn’t stay, I’d just drop off some food and make sure she was set for the night. Reassure myself that she was on the mend and didn’t need to be hauled down to the Student Health Center.
Reese: That actually sounds really good. First time food has sounded tempting in days. But you don’t have to, Laird. It’s out of your way. I can call and have it delivered.
She could, but I’d rather bring it to her.
Reese had tried to get me to leave every time I’d shown up, protesting she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself—but that wasn’t the point. Reese didn’t have to take care of herself.
She had me.
And if there was one thing I’d promised myself after watching my mom disappear and my dad fade into an emotionless shell of a human after Garrett’s death, it was that you didn’t just abandon the ones you loved when it wasn’t pretty. When it wasn’t fucking convenient.
That’s when you loved more. You loved harder.
And since I hadn’t said the words to her yet, all I had were my actions.
All I had was myself.
And I wanted it to be enough.
I wanted to be enough for her.
And, project be damned, the least I could do was pick her up a fucking sub.
Me: I’ll be there. As soon as practice is over.
Content that I’d gotten in the final word, I tucked my phone away and slogged through what felt like the longest two hours of the day.
I gave Reese’s spot on the field to Heath, and the choreography only seemed to confuse him. Instead of rising to the occasion, he wandered aimlessly from point to point, always
a little too fast or a little too slow, sticking out instead of blending in.
Keeping my frustration in check exhausted the last of my patience, so when practice ended, and Marco called my name as I headed toward the exit after stowing my gear, my tone was clipped and to the point. “What?”
“I was thinking we should make a new snare duel for Saturday. It’s been the same for the last few shows; it’s about time to switch it up, don’t you think?”
Why? Why, why, why? What we had worked great and, most importantly, we already had it mastered.
I leveled a barely concealed glare his direction. “And you want to change it now? For the show we play in two fucking days?”
“Hey, man. You’re the best player on the line, right?” His sarcasm came through loud and clear. “I didn’t think it’d be that hard for you. I know I can handle it.”
He threw the challenge down like a grenade.
The muscle in my jaw ticked as I searched for any last shred of self-control lurking in my sleep-deprived body. Anything to help me deal with his habit of talking out his ass.
“Next week. You want to rework it, we do it next week. You know the drill. We have to pass off any changes with the director before it makes the show. And he’s out of town until the game Saturday.”
The assistant director had run practice today.
I shifted my bookbag on my shoulders and fished my car keys out of my pocket.
Marco scowled. “What? You don’t think we can get it ready in a few hours and get it checked off before game day starts? Where do you have to run off to so fast?”
I retreated a step from the thread of aggression in his tone. Not because I was scared. But because I wasn’t entirely sure how we’d gotten to this point. We’d played side by side for years, and while our close friendship had faded over time, we’d always still maintained a certain camaraderie. But these days, if felt more like we weren’t even on the same team.
“I’ve got a project due. It’s called homework, Marco. And I don’t have some cymbal girl under my spell doing all my assignments for me.”
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