by R. A. Smyth
This close, I can see the flecks of blood dusting his knuckles, both hands looking worse for wear than they did from further away. With both his hands lying flat on the table, I press one of the ice-filled napkins against his knuckles, a startled gasp escaping me when our skin touches, a static charge jumping between us before he pulls his hand back slightly, breaking the contact. With wide eyes, I stare up into his bright blue ones, swirling with confusion that’s matched by the intense way he’s looking at me, like I’m an enigma to him, his brows pulled down as he tries to suss me out.
Coughing to clear the lump in my throat, I murmur, “Sorry,” making sure I don’t touch him as I once again place the napkin on his knuckles before doing the same to his other hand.
It’s only once I no longer have something to keep me occupied I realize how fucking awkward this is. I don’t even know this guy, and I’m beginning to feel like a bug under a microscope with the way he keeps staring at me. I can’t be that bloody interesting to look at.
After an awkward fifteen minutes where neither of us says anything, I remove the ice from his knuckles, using the now wet napkin to wipe away the blood until they almost look good as new.
Licking my dry lips, I keep my focus on gathering up the napkins and grabbing the bag of ice. “There you go. All done.”
He still says nothing and, after another uneasy moment, I give a stiff nod and get up, dumping everything in the trash and head out, leaving the mindboggling Prick behind.
The next morning, I wake up to a new message from Cam.
Cam: Sorry about last night. Something came up.
Why do I get the impression that ‘something’ is the same reason Mason’s knuckles were busted?
Chapter 9
My least favorite class of the week is gym. From the grumblings of the other girls in the changing room, I’m not the only one. The problem is, it’s not the actual physical exercise I dislike. I enjoy the class, although, apparently parents kicked up a fuss about their little princesses having to appear a sweaty mess in front of the boys in our year, so now the girls do yoga and pilates, while the guys get to do whatever they want, basically. Even so, it’s still enjoyable.
No, my problem is with the pre-and-post-gym changing routine. I always make sure I arrive early, ducking into a stall to change into a baggy top and yoga pants before anyone else shows up, and thankfully gym is the last class of the day, so as soon as it’s done, I grab my stuff and get out of there, showering back in the dorms, instead of in sight of the rest of the girls.
As I grab my clothes from my locker, I can hear the other girls whispering, wondering why I’m so weird. Just because I don’t have the same desire to strip in front of them all and have them judge me, picking out their perceived faults and laughing at them. Emilia, Mary, and Abigail quickly copped on to my strange routine, but thankfully they haven’t said anything about it. They seem to be the only ones though, as each week the whispers become more and more prominent.
“What is she hiding?”
“Why does she refuse to shower?”
“I bet she’s got, like, a horrible skin condition or something.”
For the most part, I tune them out. Who cares what they say? They’re vapid girls with nothing better to discuss. Unfortunately, Bianca has decided to make it my problem, as she and the other three girls of the month block my escape out of the locker room after class.
“Where are you always running off to after gym?” she snarks, her arms folded across her chest, pushing up her tits that are already barely restrained by the thin, stretchy fabric of her sports bra.
“Why do you care?” I sigh, not in the mood to deal with this today. At this point, the entire school thinks I’m fucking Cam, and based on the dark looks being thrown my way, no one is too happy about it. I’m seriously starting to think I should just fuck him. If I’m going to be accused of doing just that, I may as well get something out of it, right? “Making sure I’m not running off to see Cam?”
Her face darkens at that thought, her eyes drilling into me. I don’t know if she actually thinks I am sleeping with him, or if it's just a rumor she started to gain some sympathy.
“Stay away from Cam,” she snarls. “He’s mine.”
“Yeah.” I snort. “For like another week, but then some other girl is gonna be warming his bed at night.”
Her lip curls up in disgust, but she doesn’t argue with me, knowing I’m right. Instead, she takes a step forward so we’re toe-to-toe. “Maybe so, but it will never be you.”
What she doesn’t get, though, is that I have no real interest in Cam. Yeah, he’s smoking hot, and one look in my direction has my body fired up and willing to do whatever he wants to me, but I don’t want to be with him. I’m not made for the rich, pampered life that would come with being with someone like him. I don’t want the spotlight on me, all that attention. While it seems to be what most of the girls here are after, it’s not me. I live in the dark, move silently in the shadows. It’s where I’m comfortable, where I belong.
My casual shrug seems to do nothing but confuse her, as she most likely expected another snarky retort, but I don’t have space in my life for such petty drama.
I move to step around her, but she snatches my wrist, her nails digging into the skin. “You’re reaching above your station. Stick to the scholarship boys. Trash should only date trash after all.”
Throwing a final glare her way, I yank my hand out of her grip—she should be fucking thankful that’s all I do—and storm out of the locker room, leaving the lot of them whispering behind me.
I’m still in a rotten mood the next day when I arrive at computer science, not helped by the fact I hate this class. I have no fucking clue what I’m doing and the online lesson plans may as well be written in French for all I can comprehend of them. So it’s safe to say this class is kicking my butt.
I’ve actively avoided sitting anywhere near West since the party, but today I have to suck it up and ask for his help because I’m seriously at risk of failing if I continue on the way I am. Why it’s compulsory to have at least a basic level of understanding in this crap is beyond me. What the hell am I ever going to do with spreadsheets? And I can’t see myself doing a job where I have to give presentations. As far as I can tell, this whole course is just a headache. Nevertheless, it’s one the school has mandated as necessary to pass before graduation.
Throwing my shoulders back, I make a beeline for West, claiming the seat beside him, the same one I sat in on the first day. I can tell by his tense posture he knows I’m here, but he doesn’t look away from his screen, his fingers flying over the keys as he types what looks like gobbledygook into some sort of program. He’s definitely not following the same beginner’s lesson plan I am.
“Hey,” I begin hesitantly.
“Oh, so you're talking to me again?” he snarks, his eyes never leaving the screen.
“I was never not talking to you. I was just angry with you, which I had every right to be, by the way.”
“Your temper is as bad as Hawk’s,” he grumbles, clearly not realizing how fucking insulting that is.
Gritting my teeth, I attempt to overlook it. Remember, you need his help.
“I was wondering if you could maybe help me?” I ask in my sweetest possible voice. Adding my best attempt at an innocent smile, too, when he glances my way. It must come off as more of a grimace if his suspicious look means anything.
“With what?” he asks dubiously.
“All of this,” I gesture to the computer. “I’m gonna fail if I don’t start improving.”
After a long, tense moment of silence, where he attempts to ascertain if I’m lying or not, he finally lets out a breath. “Fine, what lesson have you made it to?”
“Eh, lesson two.”
“Two?!” His eyes widen in surprise, his lips pursing. “So you haven’t managed to do anything since our first class?”
“Hey!” I defend myself. “It’s hard when you’re trying to teach
yourself.”
Rolling his eyes, he waves toward the screen, “Alright, sign in and I’ll help you.”
With a pep in my step, I jump to action, swiveling toward my computer and logging in. I can feel his eyes on me and I once again feel that sense of calm he evokes in me as he rolls his chair over beside mine. My body has never settled the way it does when he’s around. I’m always on alert, ready to jump into action. Life has taught me to be that way; yet with him, all of me relaxes, my body like a purring housecat around its master.
For the next hour he takes me through the lesson plan, and I pick up on things so much quicker when he explains them than I do just reading the document. His passion for computers comes across with every word he says, every carefully thought out explanation, and instead of the class dragging like it usually does, the hour flies by. I’m still convinced I won’t need to know half this crap, but at least I understand what I’m doing now.
I’m so focused on my task I barely notice the bell ringing. Grabbing my bag, I get to my feet. “Thanks, Wes,” I throw over my shoulder as I leave the classroom, smirking at his glower before rounding the corner and disappearing out of sight.
***
The bright light of the alarm clock taunts me, silently mocking me and my inability to sleep. I’ve always been a bit of an insomniac, lucky if I manage to get four hours sleep. It’s the only reason I’ve been able to stay on top of the workload since I got here; but thanks to Hawk’s continued glares and Bianca spreading gossip, sleep has been non-existent.
Seeing that it's already four a.m., I give up on trying to get some rest. It doesn't matter that I keep closing my eyes, focusing on my breathing and blocking out the errant thoughts that keep probing at the corners of my consciousness. My body won't lie still; it won't switch off.
I've been so busy adjusting to my new routine here I haven't kept up with my regular exercise. Working out every day is something that was ingrained into me from a young age. I’d start my day with some simple stretches, followed by a five-mile run and a second cardio or weights session later in the day. I used to hate it, but being without that routine recently has thrown me off-kilter. My body feels sluggish and out of sorts.
Deciding to get back to it, I toss back the covers, quickly donning a sports bra, lycra shorts, and my ratty sneakers. Throwing a loose t-shirt over the ensemble, I pull my hair up into a messy ponytail, grab a bottle of water and my gym bag and head out the door. It’s still dark out as I cross the campus, soaking up the pre-dawn silence. This is my favorite part of the day, before the rest of the world wakes up. It’s so at odds with the usual noise and chaos of the campus.
Entering the sports complex, I follow the signs for the gym, stepping into the dimly lit, empty room. I don’t bother to turn on any more lights, preferring the half-light atmosphere as I cast my eyes over the various machines, weight benches and yoga mats before striding over to the heavy punching bag hanging from the roof in the far corner of the room. Dropping my stuff on the floor, I pull off my t-shirt and tug on a pair of fingerless boxing gloves, flexing my fingers to stretch the leather over my knuckles before swinging my arms to loosen the muscles, doing a few jumping jacks to warm myself up and getting into position in front of the bag.
With my weight centered and my arms raised, my thumbs un-tucked, and my fists clenched tight, I pivot on my back foot, pushing my body forward and driving my fist into the bag. It swings slightly, absorbing the impact from my knuckles. Even that one hit has the strange buzzing sensation I’ve been feeling recently beginning to ease, quickly replacing it with adrenaline as I settle into a punishing rhythm.
Jab. Cross. Hook.
Repeat.
I lose all track of time as my whole world narrows down to that small sequence of movements. Nothing but the sound of my labored breaths and the satisfying snap as my punches land perfectly on the leather material.
I hit the bag over and over, giving it everything I’ve got. Pouring every ounce of frustration, anger, and determination I have into each and every punch until I’m an exhausted, sweaty mess. Even then, I keep going.
You don’t stop until I say you can stop!
The angry bark echoes in my mind, taunting me as I continue to pummel the bag, fighting past the weariness settling into my arms.
I’m reaching my limit when I first sense I’m no longer alone, that ingrained feeling of being watched crawling over me. Not letting him know I’m aware of him, I continue on with my routine. Jab, cross, hook. Jab, cross, hook. But my attention is no longer on the movements, it’s entirely focused on him. I’m expecting him to do something, but I don’t sense him getting any closer to me. Nor do I hear him moving over to any of the gym equipment. What the fuck is he doing?
“Are you just going to stand there and watch me like a creep, or are you going to work out?” I pant, not bothering to turn around.
I knew it was him the second he entered the room. The crackle of electricity zinging through the air was a dead giveaway. Over the years, I’ve trained myself to pick up on the subtle changes that occur in the air when someone is nearby. I’ve learned to listen to my basic instincts, to pay attention when the hairs at the back of my neck stand up, or the feeling of eyes digging into the back of my head. Those instincts have saved my life more than once.
It’s more than just being aware of his presence, though. It's like my body is primed to respond to him, to all of them. I don’t just sense that someone is in the room, I instinctively know it’s one of them. What’s more, I can tell who it is. I don’t even need to look over my shoulder to know Mason’s been silently watching me for the last few minutes.
It’s the same with all of them. Cam has my body instantly going into overdrive when he’s nearby. Just the feel of his eyes roaming over me has my pulse thudding and my breath stuttering. He’s pure sex appeal, and damn, when he’s around me, I just want to tear his clothes off and fuck his bloody brains out.
With West, it’s how his presence settles me in a way nothing else ever has. Even exercising only dulls the buzzing to a faint background noise, but when he’s around, everything within me hushes. It all quietens, as though I’m responding to his steadiness. He dons an impassive expression, like he doesn’t give a shit about anything around him, but I’m beginning to suspect he’s just quietly confident that nothing will surprise him, that he can solve any problem thrown his way. That certainty resonates with me.
Hell, even Hawk’s presence affects me. Not in the same way as the others. No, his is much more volatile. He just has to enter a room and he has unadulterated hatred pounding through my veins, and I instantly want to claw his eyes out. And that’s before he opens his mouth and says something that makes me want to rip his nut sack off and shove it down his throat. Just thinking about that asswipe has me punching the bag harder, pretending it’s his face I’m smashing my fists into.
For Mason, I can feel his penetrating gaze on me as soon as he enters a room. He’s always silently watching me, making me feel like he can see right through me. With just one look, he tears through every barrier I ever erected around myself, leaving me exposed and completely at his mercy. Everything between us is more subtle, but it’s no less intense. When our skin touches, it’s a jolt of energy, like I've just stuck my finger in a live socket. He makes adrenaline rush through my system, heightening my senses. I can practically taste the tension in the air around us. I'm just not sure if it’s sexual on his part, or something else. Hell, it could be pure fucking hatred for all I know. He's impossible to get a read on. It could honestly swing either way. I know I can’t deny he’s hot as fuck. With his broad, muscular frame and those thick biceps, how can I not picture his large palms squeezing my ass as he easily pushes me against the wall, punishing me with every savage thrust of what I am certain is a humongous dick. The type that eviscerates women and ruins them for all other men.
Now I’m hot and bothered, and it's got nothing to do with my morning exercise. Thank God, Mason, who is still watch
ing me from the doorway, can’t tell what I’m thinking. There’s no way he can know my red face is because of my dirty thoughts. That’s the only reason I’m comfortable dropping my fists, spinning around to glare at him. Why the fuck is he just standing there watching me like a creeper?
I try my damnedest to ignore the way his heated eyes trail over my exposed thighs and naked torso, pausing on my heaving chest before meeting my face, thanking the lucky stars above I never turned on the lights. In the half-darkness, he won't be able to see my imperfections.
Realizing he never answered my question, I scowl at him. “Can I help you with something?” I bite out. My sharp words, combined with the death glare I’m giving him, must knock him out of whatever trance he’s in because he quickly dons his usual look of indifference and stomps over to the weights bench, effectively dismissing me. Of course this asshole gets an early morning gym session in before class, ruining the little bubble of peace I’d created for myself. I should have expected him to be here, he looks like he fucking lives in the gym.
I watch as he silently sets himself up, loading more weight plates onto the bar than any normal human should be able to lift before getting comfy on the bench, planting his feet firmly on the ground and starting into a round of bench presses, confident enough in his strength that he doesn't need anyone to spot for him. Talk about arrogance. I'm sure as fuck not going to save his sorry ass if he drops all that weight on his chest. Not that I could possibly lift what looks like the equivalent of a small car in weights off of him if I tried. I’d need to be fucking superwoman to do that shit.