My eyes widen. “Why would one of your brothers pretend to be you?” I whisper.
Adam shrugs, but he puts a finger to his lips to shush me. Then he puts his ear to the door, and I do the same.
Sucking noises and wet smacks fill my head with images. Whoever’s in there looks like Andrew, and my treacherous brain fills my thoughts with images of Andrew, feasting between my legs.
Shit. This is not working for me. I start to move away, but Adam gives me a look. I don’t care if he thinks I’m being prudish. I can’t picture Andrew banging my brains out while I listen to one of the Kensington brothers get laid. Yet the next words stop me in my tracks.
“Oh, Whitney. Yeah. Just like that.”
It’s Andrew! Oh god. But it isn’t me in there. Does he know some other Whitney?
All noises and movement on the other side of the door stop.
Adam’s eyes widen. He raises one eyebrow.
“What did you call me?” a woman asked, her voice has jumped several octaves.
Nope. That’s definitely not a Whitney in there. He called some woman by the wrong name. Dammit. By my name. What is this... throwback Thursday? Why would he do that? It doesn’t make any sense.
This isn’t going to end well. There’s no way he can salvage this. It’s about to be the wrong kind of fireworks. Definitely the more exciting kind. I put my ear to the surface once more.
“What do you mean?” comes the muffled response. He sounds confused.
I press my hand over my lips. He doesn’t know he’s called whoever he has in there by my name.
Adam grins from ear to ear.
“You called me Whitney. Who is that?” the unknown woman shrilled. Clearly, her name wasn’t Whitney, and I have to bite down on a laugh. She went on, “Which freshman whore is Whitney?” Something crashes and then another. She’s throwing shit.
Shuffling comes from the interior. Footsteps follow. Adam bolts away from the door, snags my hand, and jerks me into the bedroom across the hall. He slams the door behind us. He crosses to the radio and flips it on. The thrum of 90’s grunge guitar riffs emanate from the surround-sound speakers almost immediately.
Then we’re back in our respective spots: ears on cheap-ass wood composite. The knob across the corridor rattles and then she comes flying out. By the sound of it, she’s running down the hall.
“Adam, how could you do that? Who the hell is Whitney?” she yells.
Andrew trudges out after her, his steps heavy. “Well, about that, Marissa.”
Three seconds of silence pass.
I’m on pins and needles, but picturing the whole, soap opera scene playing out in my head. Adam is laughing so hard he’s having to constantly wipe tears from his cheeks. I don’t know how he can laugh so silently.
“What?” she demands.
“Well.”
“What. Is. It. Adam.” She’s not amused even a little. I’m sure if looks could kill, Andrew would have burst into flame already.
He coughs. “I’m not Adam. I’m his brother, Andrew.”
“You’re, you’re, you’re. You-you?” The sound of her voice moves around the room. She must be picking up her stuff. “You knew. You knew I thought you were Adam.”
Andrew doesn’t answer. Smart decision on his part. There’s not a damn thing he can do to make any of it better. He clears his throat and ruins it all. “Do you think we can keep this between us?”
She bellows at him like a trapped pig, and the closing of the front door cuts her off in mid-shriek. I can’t figure out how I feel about the whole thing. My ex called a woman by my name... after he pretended to be his brother to bed her.
Adam’s shoulders shake harder. He falls back from the door.
Again. I shake my head. Is it some twisted, kinky thing with him? He’s always having sex with women while pretending to be his brothers. The two I caught him with thought he was Atticus. Weird.
Footsteps come down the corridor and stop. “Atticus? Is that you in there?” Andrew calls.
I open my mouth to answer, but Adam puts his finger to his mouth. He shakes his head, and I snap my mouth closed.
Adam grunts back. “I’m busy.”
Andrew groans. “Adam?”
“Yeah. I’m busy.”
“Busy doing what?”
Adam points to me and makes a fucking motion with his hips. “What do you think?”
I whimper a little and then add an “Oh, Adam,” for good measure. I consider adding a squeak just to fuck with Andrew’s brain, but he speaks before I can work up the sound.
“Who do you have in there?” he asks.
“Go away, Andrew,” Adam growls. “I’m busy.”
“Guess that’s fair.”
“No shit,” Adam barks. He’s grinning like a Cheshire cat.
Footsteps lead away. The front door opens and closes.
That’s when Adam throws his head back and indulges in a gigantic belly laugh.
As much as I currently despise Andrew and Atticus, I like this brother. We could be friends.
When Adam’s mirth subsides, I touch his shoulder. “Hey. Luca says there’s a welcome party in our dorms tonight. Do you want to come?”
His smile disappears, and he considers me so long that I think he’s going to turn me down. “Sure. I’ll be there.”
There’s not anything else to ask, so I show myself to the door. “See you later, Adam,” I call over my shoulder.
“Yeah,” he says.
The latch clicks, and I’m on to the remainder of my Tuesday. Since the rest of my hours are free, I can finish unpacking my stuff and spend an ungodly amount of time getting ready for Luca’s party.
At the Party
Thumping music filters up through three floors to my dorm room. From my apartment, the bassline is the only thing I can make out. Luca isn’t wasting any time getting the party started. It’ll be mind-numbing at ground level.
My breasts are jacked up to my chin, and my make-up’s done in as many layers as Van Gogh’s Starry Night. Perfume and glitter slick my skin. My little black dress stops short of baring my lacey thong. My hair is one of my best features, and it falls nearly to my waist, long and brown.
Smirking at the whole damn universe, I dare anybody to turn me down tonight. When I yank open the door to my private dorm room, Adam’s already standing there with his hand in the air, ready to knock.
“Hey,” he says.
“I didn’t know you were here. I thought you’d be downstairs.”
He shrugs. “Gentleman and shit... or something.”
“See definitely not an asshole.”
He gestures to my dress and spindly heels. “Vixen to the max?” Adam asks. “Looking to rub some spite in somebody’s face?”
I laugh. “Something like that.”
“If looks could kill—”
“Andrew would already be dead.” My keycard is already in my bra, and the door latches behind me.
Adam offers his arm, and we make our way down to the party without another word. We take the stairs, and the music volume increases. They’re playing old school DaftPunk.
When we reach the bottom, I gape at the place. Luca’s outdone himself. This time of year, the sun’s down by six o’clock p.m. All the overheads are off and there’s an absence of outside light.
Twinkle lights hang from the ceiling, and silver Christmas tinsel reflects light back at the disco ball in the center of the room. The roar of the crowd fills the space. The music drowns out individual words. Red solo cups abound, and some of the attendees wear costumes. It’s definitely an “anything goes” kind of celebration.
We make our way to the couch, and I take a seat on one end. Adam sits next to me. He looks like he’ll jump anybody that so much as looks at me cross.
And then Andrew is there, standing in front of us.
I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing and scoot closer to my escort.
Andrew frowns down at Adam. “What are you doing, brother?�
�
Adam grasps my hand and strokes it. I beam at him like he’s the best thing on the planet. “Whitney invited me,” Adam says.
Andrew plops down on the couch at the other end. He punches the throw pillow. “What?”
“You heard me.”
Andrew’s gaze switches from Adam to me and back again. “Are you shitting me?”
“What do you think, brother?” Adam draws out the last word. It’s an insult and a challenge all in one. “I’m sorry she wasn’t able to say hello while we were in your room earlier.” He looks to me for confirmation.
I fake an apologetic look and gesture toward Adam. “My mouth was full.”
Andrew’s eyes widen until I think they’re going to pop out of his head. Then he decks the couch cushion beside him this time, upsetting a sexy unicorn seated on the arm. She gets up and wanders away.
When Andrew catches his breath, he growls, “You’re a fucking asshole.”
“Takes one to know one.”
Andrew jumps to his feet. “How could you do this, man? She’s... she’s mine.” The final word slips out, and his face twists as though he’s gagged on the taste of it.
“I don’t think she agrees with you,” Adam counters.
“I belong to no one,” I bite out. “Least of all you, Andrew Kensington. I’ll choose who I bed and when I bed them. Fuck off.”
Andrew blinks and then leans close to Adam. “Was it really her you had in my room earlier?”
Neither of us answer. We sit, waiting for the lit fuse to ignite the wrath.
Andrew raises a fist but brings it down on the cushion on the other side of Adam. The impact makes me flinch, but I won’t move away.
Adam pushes Andrew’s hand off the couch. “Threaten someone else.” He pauses. “Perhaps Atticus is here.”
Andrew gestures to the two of us. “Look at the traitors.” He claps slowly, but his face twists. The gauntlet’s been thrown.
The music’s too loud for many people to hear his proclamation and only three part-goers stop to watch. They’re probably hoping for a fight.
Andrew raises a fist. He hesitates a nanosecond and then throws it, straight for Adam’s chin.
Adam ducks to the side and pops back up. “Go home, Drew.”
I hop up from the couch. “Stop it, Andrew. Don’t you know when you’re beaten?”
Andrew straightens, spins around, and marches away. I glare holes in the back of his head. The throng opens to let him through and then closes in his wake.
There aren’t many men that can inspire me to violence; he is one of them. I might have a chip on my shoulder, but I’m out to prove a very important truth.
Andrew Kensington wants what he cannot have.
6
Sentencing
No way. No fucking way.
I blink fifteen times, but the names don’t change.
Whitney Cargill——-—Andrew Kensington
This has to be a joke. There’s no way my Wednesday can start off this badly. Fifteen other students are still flipping through their handouts. My nemesis, Andrew, is nowhere in sight for once.
I march to the front of the room and toss the syllabus down on the instructor’s desk and point to the semester assignments. “Is this a joke?”
Professor Shin raises one of her thin eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?” Her accent sounds almost French. “What can I do to assist you, Miss Cargill?”
“You assigned me to work with Andrew Kensington.”
“Yes.”
“Did the president set you up to this?”
“The president?”
I nod and squeeze my eyes closed. This complicates everything.
“Of the country?” she asks.
Fifteen students behind me snicker.
I snort in disgust. “No, the president of the college.”
“Ms. Kensington has nothing to do with how I conduct my class.”
I point to the assignments page. “Then how do you explain this?”
She frowns at the paper and then at me. “Which part?”
“Look who my partner is. How did that happen?”
“The luck of the draw?”
“Luck of the draw?” I repeat.
She nods. “The students were randomly assigned to various tasks by a computer program. The day before the first day of class, I create the members for each team. Then I enter to result into the syllabus. There’s really very little outside input.”
“But why would you assign teams like that? We should be able to pick our partners.” I hate how whiney I sound, but I can’t help it. After yesterday, this is the icing on the cake.
Professor Shin stands to lean over her desk and peer down at me. “This class is meant to prepare you for the real world, Miss Cargill. You do not get to choose your project partners in the real world. No matter how privileged you are.”
My mouth drops open. I’m supposed to believe that the universe—through some random generator app—has assigned me to be his partner.
Bull. Shit.
“Is there any way to switch?” I ask.
“After the fit you threw?” She crosses her arms. “Unless you can come up with a more legitimate reason than ‘I don’t like him,’ there won’t be any team switching.”
My shoulders droop. How do I explain he enrolled me as the first model in nude figure drawing? I could have abandoned the whole endeavor, but I didn’t. I stayed, spread my legs, and let everybody sketch my privates to hang on their walls. What other proof do I have?
She picks up my syllabus from her desk and hands it to me. “Will there be anything else, Miss Cargill?”
“No, ma’am,” I answer, beaten. How did I fricking wind up as Andrew’s partner? I trudge back to my desk. I can’t have my inheritance until I give college a try. I don’t have to complete a semester, and I won’t. But I can’t get leave until after Valentine’s Day.
At least Andrew is absent for the period. Maybe I can switch classes and pick up something else instead. The thought brightens my demeanor, and I open my textbook.
Two minutes later, Andrew enters. He pauses on the threshold. There are six open seats. One on either side of me, and then four toward the front. He stops at Professor Shin’s desk, and she hands him another copy of the syllabus. He takes one of the desks at the front and immediately opens the handout.
Professor Shin steps to the front of the room with a list. She rolls through the names, checking off the attendees. Her eyes narrow, and her mouth presses into a line. At least four students are absent. She sets the attendance book back on her desk.
“Please look over your syllabus in your own time, but I’ll mention that only five unexcused absences are allowed per semester. Without a doctor’s note, anything beyond five impacts your semester grade. Do you understand?”
Each student murmurs their assent, including me. Though, I can’t quit staring at the back of Andrew’s head. He’s still flipping through his syllabus.
“Please open to page one hundred fifty-six in your Introduction to Art textbook. We’ll begin in the middle of the page.”
The sound of pages flipping follows the crack of new hardback spines being opened.
She begins to read, and I tune her out almost immediately. I’ll catch up on the reading later. Will I be able to tell when Andrew hits the project assignments page? He’s got to be getting close.
Andrew goes still, leaning over his desk as though reading closer. He turns around in his seat to give me a cocky grin from his seat in the front row. I want to slap him again. My fingernails dig into my palms.
His mom set the whole thing up. She must have. Somebody got into the program and hacked it. Probably the same way Andrew signed me up for Figure Drawing 101.
Andrew raises his hand. “May I move back by my partner?”
Professor Shin practically beams at him. “That’s a marvelous idea.”
He moves to the desk to my right, and I shift to my left. This is too much coincidence to be a ra
ndom occurrence. What are the odds? Slimmer than I can calculate.
“Anyone else?” she asks the class. A girl winks at a boy and moves to be closer to him, but nobody else moves.
I scrunch down in my desk. I’ve time traveled. We’re fucking grownups, but Andrew raised his hand and turned it into high school while I wasn’t looking.
“Chicken shit,” I whisper to him.
He cups a hand around his ear. “What’s that?”
“Chicken shit,” I repeat a little louder.
The professor stops speaking long enough to glare at me. Not him, but me. “Is there a problem, Miss Cargill?”
“Not a damn thing,” I said.
She crosses her arms. “Swearing is a sign of limited vocabulary.”
I snort. “Bovine excrement.” What is it with this place and cursing?
Her eyes bulge.
I can’t stop my snicker. “But it’s easier to say bullshit,” I add.
Her mouth opens and closes. No sounds come out, but I’m not waiting to hear what she has to say. Why would I bother? That easily, I’ve made the decision. I won’t be back. Andrew can go fuck himself.
I stand up. “I’ll show myself out, Professor. I won’t have a note for today.” My footsteps are loud in the deathly quiet of the classroom. Between my provocative posing yesterday and my walkout today, I’m probably about to end up on the Art department’s shit list.
A minute later, Andrew catches up. “You’re ballsy today.”
I move to the other side of the corridor. “Yeah, well, I’ve had enough Kensington shit to piss me off for the whole semester.”
“Touché,” he says. “So, what are we going to do about our project? Do you have any ideas yet.”
“I have one.”
“What’s that?” he asks.
“I’m going to drop the class and pick up a different one.” I scowl at him. Why’s he being so friendly? Because he’s afraid I’m fucking Adam? Is that it?
He tsks at me. “That’s not happening.”
I stop in the corridor and cross my arms. “Oh, yeah? Why is that?”
“I know people.”
I squint at him, trying to tamp down the fury bubbling up. “I beg your pardon?”
He smirks. “I know who’s secretly fucking who in administration.”
Hearts of Darkness: A Valentine's Day Bully Romance Collection Page 107