by Andy Gallo
Whoa. Not on Isaiah’s watch.
“My fault? For what? Having the nerve to apply for a scholarship program the university is famous for because this year it’s going to be hand-delivered to the golden child?”
“Stop calling me that. You don’t know crap about me. No one has given me anything. Nothing. I’ve earned every grade I received and my place on the soccer team. What has anyone given me?”
“Are you serious? You earned everything? How many hours did it take you to earn your BMW? How do you earn your monthly allowance?
“You get the vice president for a mentor and the head of the business school, and I get the stuck-up suck-up and Professor Newbie. Right, no one gave you anything.”
“You think Fred is some prize?”
“Fred? You’re on a first-name basis with your mentor already and you can’t see the favoritism in that?”
“You’re crazy. Geoff was a Gage Scholar and has some idea what this is like. Fred didn’t even go to Harrison. I got the guy who’s trying to score points with my dad but knows nothing about this program. Some favoritism.”
“Right. And all that, ‘Tell Aiden I said hello’ crap? Nothing there, either?”
“It’s called being polite. I barely know his son, who, I might add, spends every minute we’re together trying to impress me with how many girls he’s fucked. As if I give a damn. Your head is so far up your ass about not getting what you think you deserve that you have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“My head is up my ass?”
“Are you having trouble keeping up here? ’Cause you repeat everything I say.”
“Fuck you,” Isaiah tossed at him.
Darren crossed his arms and mumbled. “So original. I’m impressed.”
“You’re such an asshole.”
“Right, I’m the asshole.”
“You show up late, looking like you just rolled off the deck of the family yacht, and then pretend to be surprised with all the ass-kissing you’re getting. How’s them butt cheeks? Chapped yet?”
Darren blinked down at his clothes and laughed dryly. “In case you missed it, it’s ninety freaking degrees outside. And as I said, no one gave me squat. Fred’s gonna have nothing to offer, and if you think Dr. Billings is so great, I’ll swap you for Professor Linton. Billings doesn’t even know how to use email. He has to get his assistant to answer for him.”
That stopped Isaiah. He leaned over the back of the chair and switched to a lower tone. “Really? That’s not just a rumor?”
Darren mirrored the ceasefire and delivered Isaiah a grin that he was going to feel the rest of the week. “Yesterday he handed his classroom assistant floppy disks and asked her to print more copies of the syllabus.”
Isaiah busted out a laugh. “I don’t think I’ve even seen a floppy disk in real life.”
“That’s what I’m telling you. I got all the best people.”
Isaiah sighed. That wasn’t how he saw it, but then he’d already come to the meeting pissed off and everything since had been seen through that lens.
He cocked his head and eyed Darren once more. Tried to see things from his point of view. The guy had seemed decent when they first met—helping him with the painting with delightful cheek. Jack had said some redeeming things about him, too.
But the fact remained—Isaiah hadn’t imagined the way President Jerk-Off catered to him. “Look, I want a fair chance at this, okay?” Isaiah said. “That means both of us sacrificing things. Both of us getting to meetings five minutes early.”
“Fine, but I did not ask President Jenkins to set the time or ask him to give me Billings or Fred or anything. And I’m not going to apologize because my family has money. I don’t flaunt it in anyone’s face, and I’m sure not going to feel bad for wanting the Gage Scholar position. It means something to my grandfather and my father that I be the scholar next year.”
“And you always do what daddy and granddaddy want?” That came out perhaps a tad snide.
He opened his mouth to apologize, but Darren cut him off, a pained look in his eye that made Isaiah feel crap. “My great-great-grandfather intended this scholarship for his son and descendants. It’s meant to be mine.”
“Have you studied the Scholar charter? There is nothing in it that says it’s meant to be yours.”
Anger flashed across Darren’s face. “Seriously? You’re going to lecture me on the program?” He pulled his phone from his pocket. “Here’s an idea. Why don’t we call my grandfather and ask him what his grandfather said when he created the program?”
Darren tapped a few buttons and then turned the phone so Isaiah could see “Grandpa Gage” on the screen.
Was this guy for real? Isaiah rolled his eyes. “How long have you been waiting to do that? All day? Your whole life?”
Darren dropped his arm, cheeks flushing. He averted his gaze, and Isaiah felt a prickle down his nape like he’d overreacted. The guy was privileged and blind to it, apparently. But was there something lurking in his expression that seemed . . . different from other rich guys he’d experienced?
Darren spoke. “Can we just pick a time to meet? Please?”
“I have night classes and rehearsals. I need to meet before six.”
“Soccer practice goes until six. There’s got to be some time that fits both our schedules?”
“I get finished at eight thirty most nights.”
Darren nodded. “I have a game on Thursday and an away game on Saturday.”
“Tomorrow at eight thirty?”
“Can we do Friday?”
“No frat party this weekend?” Isaiah briefly slammed his eyes shut. “Sorry, that was dickish. I can do Friday. Where do you want to meet?”
Darren stuffed his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Anywhere but the house. There actually is a party there this Friday.”
Yet he agreed to meet?
Isaiah scooped up his hair and retied it—a tick he had when he was nervous. He flashed Darren a small grin. “How about you use some of that spoiled rich boy power and get Billings to give us a room in the business school to use?”
Darren laughed, and it flooded through Isaiah with a good dose of awareness. “How about we ask together? Otherwise they’ll think it’s my idea.”
“You think he’ll give it to us if he knows it came from me?”
“I know they judge us on everything we do. Your idea, your credit.”
Those thousand-watt smiles were going to be distracting as fuck. Not that he would complain. In the flirtatious department, Isaiah always gave more than he got. “Fine, but Darren?”
“Yeah?”
“This is a competition.” He met his eye. “I’m in this to win.”
Chapter Five
Isaiah
“Child, that outfit is not going to get you laid.”
Isaiah looked from his roommate, Nico, to the Captain America T-shirt he’d shrugged into. The shirt fit well, and by well, he meant tightly. It stretched just enough to show off his biceps and all the work he’d done on his abs. The khaki shorts were a bit baggy, but they didn’t make them like yoga pants. “I’m not trying to score.”
Nico rolled his eyes. “Haven’t I taught you anything since I met you? Clothes make the man. You can’t walk into a club dressed like a straight boy in the closet.”
“I’m not going to a club.” He wasn’t even twenty-one yet. Given his status with the school administration, he wasn’t risking an underage drinking arrest or fake ID charge.
“Oh no. It’s worse than I thought. You cannot wear that to a date.”
Isaiah stared at Nico slung across his bed, flicking through a magazine. The window was open, letting in a soft, warm breeze. Chatter came from the ground floor below—students gathering outside for a night on the town. Usually Nico was with them, but he was “suffering” another breakup.
Isaiah sat on his bed and pulled on his sneakers. He felt Nico’s gaze on him, waiting for a response.
He pulled his laces and tied them without looking over.
“This is so not a date.” The thought. Like Isaiah would go out with someone who used his connections to win people over. Like Darren would consider dating a no-name guy like Isaiah.
Yeah, no romance in the cards there.
Not to mention, they were fighting for the same position.
Awkward enough finding the guy hot.
Isaiah glanced up to find Nico studying him.
“What? I just have to meet the golden child to discuss the fundraiser we’re putting together.”
“Here I thought the smile twisting your lip had to do with the yummy quarterback you’re training.”
“I was not smiling.”
Nico snickered. “Whatever. Back to the quarterback. Any chance I can stretch with him?”
“Jack’s taken. Very taken.”
“Too bad. Why are all the hot ones taken? Present company excluded, of course.”
“I thought you were getting over your breakup.”
“Yep. Over it. Hey.” Nico waggled his brows. “Maybe Jack and his boyfriend would be into a third?”
“Jesus, Nico. Jack’s my friend. That’s it. He’s gaga for his boyfriend, and the feeling is mutual.” It was enough to give anyone a toothache.
“Fine. Now tell me about this golden boy. How hot is he?”
Isaiah groaned. Hadn’t Nico been listening all week? “No way. Not going there. He’s an entitled richie who thinks he’s owed the position because he shares the same name.”
“Didn’t you say his great-great-grandfather started it and provided the money?” He glanced down his nose. “I’m pretty sure that’s what you said about the cutie.”
Isaiah retied his hair, staring at the tattoo circling his bicep. “He’s not cute.”
“Hmm. Not what I’m getting.”
Isaiah mumbled, “As if I care. I’m not dipping in that well.”
“Not everyone whose parents have money is a jerk you know. Just because you dated one, doesn’t mean they're all like that.”
“Everett and I didn’t date.” At least Everett didn’t think they had. Isaiah was good for sex, but not good enough to introduce to friends. “And this is specific to Gage. He’s the last to arrive for the meeting, rolls in wearing shorts and no socks, calls his mentor by his nickname. And the whole pulling up his grandfather’s number on his phone thing. Total tool.”
He stuffed a pad and his Gage Scholar binder in his backpack. His hand lingered on the binder. Was it . . . was it possible he was the one being a dick about this? Would a better person step aside and let Gage have it? Call it bad luck and move on?
Move on to what?
He was already teaching as many yoga classes as he could, and while the money was okay, he smuggled most of it home. And he was tired.
His body ached from work, study, music practice, rinse and repeat.
It wasn’t like he assumed he’d get the scholarship if he’d applied on any other year, but trying felt like he was doing something to get out of the rut. It made him hopeful.
Nico’s cold hand landed on his shoulder, and Isaiah jumped.
“Easy, ’Saiah. Just me.”
“Sorry, just thinking.”
“It’s brave of you, doing this. Challenging the system.”
Isaiah’s throat tightened, and he nodded. “Thanks. It just gets under my skin. All I want is a fair shot, and all I see is how they kiss Darren’s ass. Worse, he struts around like he’s entitled to all the perks he gets.”
“You have a right to get worked up about getting an honest chance to compete. You’re a fox in a lion’s den in this competition; you gotta be scrappy.”
Isaiah laughed. “Lions, eh?”
“Yeah, you against the golden king.”
Isaiah sighed and shot Nico a sideways glance. “At least he’s easy on the eyes.”
Nico slapped him on the back. “There you go.”
He zipped the backpack shut and slung it over his shoulder. “Right, I’m outta here. Have a shitty night.”
“Love you too, ’Saiah.”
Darren
“Christ, could they have given us a smaller room?” Darren scoured the one table and four chairs squeezed around it.
Isaiah, a block of heat at his side, took in the closet. They’d met outside the Commons and traipsed through the eerily quiet halls to the study room his professor had given him a key to.
Isaiah shrugged. “Plenty of room.”
“If you don’t mind sitting on top of each other!”
They both stiffened. Did that actually just come out of his mouth? He’d meant to throw out the expression. Not to have the imagery linger. “Um, I mean . . .”
Isaiah’s eyes glittered insanely blue in the hard light. “I know what you men.”
“Did you just say men?” Darren eyed Isaiah curiously, his pulse all kinds of wonky.
“Mean, dammit. I know what you mean.” Isaiah pushed into the room and claimed a seat. “Let’s do this. The fundraiser work.”
“Thank you for that clarification.”
Isaiah tossed him a friendly middle finger, and Darren settled into the opposite seat.
Without a suit, Isaiah looked different. The T-shirt hugged his body, showing off every muscle as he pulled out his binder. His hair was tied up but looked rushed, more than a few strands hurriedly tucked behind one ear. He’d nicked himself shaving, too—
Nice. He had a tattoo on his left bicep. If Isaiah would only lift his sleeve so he could see it properly.
Crap this room was small. Every breath, Darren was inhaling whatever woodsy deodorant Isaiah was wearing, and the energy pouring from the guy prickled him.
Fundraiser. Fundraiser. Fundraiser.
He pulled out the notebook he’d worked on over the summer and spread it out on the table. His pocket hopped with a buzz.
Darren whipped out his phone, and Isaiah threw up his arms. “Easy, soldier.”
Oh. Just an incoming text sent to all his frat brothers.
He forced a grin and shrugged. “Thought it was a call.”
Thought it was his dad. He’d sent a message that he’d scored the winning goal in his game earlier. Thought maybe Dad might take the bait and answer back.
He had to stop looking at his phone. Stop jumping at every buzz.
It buzzed again, and he jerked his head toward it. Just frat party stuff he didn’t care about.
“Expecting a call from your girlfriend or something?” Isaiah’s gaze stroked Darren’s face, and Darren shifted on his seat at the intensity.
“Or something.”
Another buzz—
“You know what? Hand it over.”
Darren clutched his phone. “What? It’s on silent.”
Isaiah curled his finger. “Which doesn’t stop you looking at it.”
He wanted to deny it, but Isaiah was probably right. Reluctantly, he handed it over.
Isaiah arched back in his chair like a cat and slid Darren’s phone into his pocket. Crap, he was flexible. Darren shot his gaze to his notebook.
So much for not thinking about his phone for the next hour.
“Fundraiser,” he said and cleared the rasp out of his throat. “Let’s talk about that.”
Isaiah shifted his gaze to where Darren was pulling out all his notes. “You did all that since Tuesday?”
“I’ve been working on this all summer.” He’d expected to need to hit the ground running.
“All summer? Why?”
Darren raced a hand through his hair. “Because I . . . it wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be.”
“I mean why were you working on it at all?”
“Contrary to what you might think, the title wasn’t going to be handed to me. I would have followed the program just like anyone else.”
“Really? Why?”
“Because the scholar competition has two fundraisers that help support a woman’s center and a foster care program. They both depe
nd on the funds. If there were no competition this year, they’d lose the money.”
Isaiah grew quiet. Darren dared a longer look at him, and it was to find the guy gently frowning. Maybe he wondered why Darren didn’t just write a check?
Well, he would.
But the event also raised awareness, which his mom said was the key for successful annual fundraisers. Key for making change.
Isaiah lifted his gaze from Darren’s notes, catching him looking.
“Looks like an impressive list you have there.” That frown deepened.
“Ideas for the fall fundraiser.”
He slid a couple of sheets across the table. Isaiah stared at it for a few beats. “I . . . um . . .”
“What?”
“This is all your idea.”
“Okay?”
“It’s just . . . the judges will consider this in their assessment.” Isaiah flicked open to his half page of notes, stirring in his seat. “You’ll get all the points.”
Darren drove a hand through his hair. “I get where you’re coming from, but I can’t just toss this away.” It was months of work, contacting local groups and feeling them out for their interest in taking part, cultivating relationships with key players who could bring in a lot of money. “Tweak it, play around with it, sure, but unless you have a more solid plan—”
“No, but—”
“Then can we use this one?”
Isaiah cast another look at the sheets. “Where on earth will you find a banjo player?”
Heat whipped up Darren’s neck. “You have a problem with banjo music?”
Isaiah opened his mouth and shut it again. “No, it’s . . . fine. I like the music angle. I can catch up by organizing the musicians.” He picked up a pen and crossed through banjo. Wrote piano. “Why do you look like I killed your puppy? I’m begrudgingly accepting your idea, here.”
Begrudging was right. “What’s wrong with having a banjoist?”
“Next you’ll be suggesting we all dress up as Mummers for the fundraiser.”
Darren folded his arms against the hit that came with Isaiah’s laugh. He barely held back from calling the guy an asshole. “I play banjo,” he said quietly. “And saxophone and guitar.”