Bruiser (Elite 8 Studios #7)

Chapter 1

Isaac

“Here’s your decaf hazelnut latte.”

I still, my fingers a few inches away from the to-go cup. “Did you say decaf?”

“Sure did,” the chipper student employee at the library’s café says, already turning away to craft the next drink order. “Enjoy.”

“Wait, I didn’t ask for decaf.”

“Yes, you did,” she retorts, tapping the side of the cup where my supposed order is scrawled. “Says so right here.”

“Yeah, no, I see that,” I say as calmly as I can manage. “But I can promise you the word decaf has never willingly passed my lips unless in answer to the question what’s the most pointless thing you’ve ever put down your throat? This is a mistake.”

She heaves a sigh, as if I’m causing her morning shift to take a brisk downward spiral, when I’m most certain it’s my morning undergoing some kind of cruel cosmic joke.

First, it was the blown tire on my bike that necessitated me walking to campus today, making my already long commute even longer than normal.

Second was the vehicle that drove through a puddle right next to me, splashing questionably murky water all down my pant leg and into my shoe.

For the record, wet socks are second only to decaffeinated coffee.

Third was the call I received from my father informing me of an important business dinner I’m to attend this weekend as his poised and dutiful son.

Spoiler alert, this dutiful son will be conveniently absent.

Needless to say, it’s only six-thirty in the morning, and I’ve already had enough.

“Please,” I beg the café worker. “I need caffeine today. Could you remake the drink?”

She sighs again but grabs a new cup, which I take to mean my salvation is close at hand.

I thank her, looking around the library as I wait.

This early in the morning, it’s mostly empty.

Which, for me, makes it absolutely perfect.

The house I share with my best friend Todd and a few undergrads is always either loud, in the planning, prep, or active stages of a party, or smells like a truly horrific combination of desperation and body odor. Often all three at once.

Whereas the library?

It’s quiet, peaceful, and filled with light near the tables but shrouded in an air of curiosity and shadows the further down the stacks you go.

Like an entire world is waiting to be discovered if you care enough to try.

Of course, the internet has made the library obsolete for most students.

But that’s what makes it my preferred spot to study before class.

And my table? The one all my own?

It’s tucked into a corner on the third floor, hidden away behind a stack of old cassette tapes. No one ventures that way. No one.

Hence—perfection.

The promise of a morning spent all alone buoys my spirits as I wait for my latte to be finished.

Finally, it’s set before me with a wan smile and a lackluster, “Have a nice day.” I return the sentiment before grabbing my drink, the outside hot even with the protective sleeve.

I’m halfway to the stairwell when I take my first sip… and come to a dead stop.

That is 100%, no doubt about it, decaf.

With a frustrated growl under my breath, I stomp forward and tug the door to the stairwell open a little harder than purely necessary. It shuts behind me with a clang.

Huffing, I make my way up to the third floor, past the study space with couches and easily accessible tables, past the many stacks of books and periodicals, and even past a very old librarian who goes by Bev.

I’ve just managed to calm down a modicum when I enter the familiar row of cassette tapes and spot someone sitting at my table.

My table.

I sputter for all of a second before my brain kicks into gear. “You’re in my spot,” I tell the guy.

He turns slowly, his upper body twisting to take me in, his form dwarfing the chair in a way I’d find funny if I weren’t so utterly indignant. A dark eyebrow rises before he says, calm as can be, “I didn’t see your name anywhere.”

“My…my name doesn’t have to be on the table for it to be mine.”

He regards me for a moment before turning back around. “Then how would anyone know?”

My mouth opens and closes a couple times. “It’s just mine.”

“There’s another seat,” he says, typing something on his laptop.

I stare at the back of his dark-haired head, briefly contemplating chucking my useless drink his way before deciding against decaf-induced violence. “I don’t want to sit with you,” I inform him, quickly amending it to, “I don’t want to sit with anyone.”

“Then I guess you’re out of luck, huh?”

I suck in a harsh breath. The absolute gall. “Listen, buddy—”

“Trevor.”

My teeth clack together. “What?”

“My name is Trevor,” he says, his voice low like the rumble of thunder. “And I know how to be quiet.”

“That’s not the point,” I manage, closing the distance between us and all but slamming my drink onto the table beside him. “This is my table. It’s always been my table. And I want to be alone.”

Trevor lifts his gaze, although he doesn’t have to lift it far to meet my eye, even from his seat. “‘The only way to have a friend is to be one.’”

I blink in shock. “Did you…just quote Ralph Waldo Emerson at me?”

“You know the guy?” Trevor asks, his eyes back on his work.

“I’m an English major, so yes, I know him. And for your information, I don’t want a friend.”

Trevor hums. “That’s too bad.”

Gritting my teeth against the absurdity of this morning, I tug out the chair next to him. “‘It is better to be alone than in bad company.’”

Trevor’s lips hitch up at the corner into what might be a smirk. “Emerson didn’t say that first.”

“I know that,” I tell him shortly, pissed that he knows that. “Can you please find somewhere else to sit?”

Ever so slowly, Trevor’s eyes move to the chair I’m holding on to. He slides into it, his back warm before I tug my hand away, appalled at what I think is his form of humor. Or assholery.

“There you are,” he says, waving to the seat he just vacated. He sets my latte in front of it before tugging his laptop closer.

“You…”

With a real growl this time, I plunk myself into the second seat, swinging my backpack around to set on the floor.

I dig through it as Trevor taps his keyboard lightly next to me, the man’s presence really fucking big for how quiet he’s being.

Granted, he’s a really fucking big guy. Well over six feet and plain thick underneath his cream-colored cable-knit turtleneck and jeans.

How the fuck does he look so good in a turtleneck, of all things?

Pretty sure he’d look good without it, too.

I toss my stupid conscience out the big window in front of us, imagining it splatting onto the concrete sidewalk below. He’s probably in athletics, considering that physique. And guys in athletics don’t mix with guys, like, well…me.

Plunking my textbook down, I eye Trevor as discreetly as I can manage. “Are you on the football team?”

Fuck. So much for not engaging.

Trevor’s head turns my way slowly, a sort of impassivity in his gaze that irks me. “No. Why?”

“You’re…” I wave my hand around for a second before landing on, “Huge.”

His eyebrow rises subtly. “Maybe you’re just small.”

My inhale is sharp. “I’m not small. I’m perfectly average.” Hearing my own words, I hastily add, “Better than average. Fuck off.”

The last part is mumbled, but Trevor catches it, based on the way he chuckles low in his throat.

I ignore him, opening my textbook before doubling back for my highlighter.

I bite the cap as I read, not a single word sinking in.

Next to me, Trevor is still tapping away.

I do a double take when I notice the tattoos covering the tops of his hands, all the way down to his fingertips.

If Trevor notices my staring, he doesn’t comment on it. But his fingers slow for a second before resuming their rhythm.

How much of the guy is covered in ink? Not his face, clearly, but I can’t see anywhere else. His arms? His chest? His ass, maybe?

Not that it matters. At all.

Chiding myself for losing focus, I grab my latte, only to remember after I’ve taken a sip that it’s fucking decaf.

My noise of frustration has Trevor glancing over at me. “Don’t like coffee?”

“I don’t like decaf coffee,” I clarify, pushing the drink far, far away.

“Why’d you order it, then?”

I stare at him. “I didn’t order it. They made the wrong drink.”

Trevor looks from the latte back to me, his expression blank. “Why not ask them to remake it?”

I take in a slow, slow breath, asking the world to grant me an ounce of patience. “What a thought,” I deadpan. “Hadn’t even crossed my mind.”

I can feel Trevor looking at the side of my head as I try to get lost in the pages in front of me. Much to my continued annoyance, I can’t get my brain into gear. Tossing my highlighter down, I grab my phone and open up my recent group text.

Me: Is there something going on today I’m unaware of? Some planet in retrograde or, like, a Friday the 13th sort of thing?

I’m not expecting a response from Todd this early. He’s certainly still fast asleep. But my other best friend, the third piece of our trio, answers quickly.

Lumi: It’s not Friday, babe. Or the 13th. And you don’t believe in astrology.

I grumble under my breath.

Me: Well, this day is fucked. I can tell you that.

Lumi: Jello shooters tonight?

Another ping comes through quickly, and my eyebrow pops up.

Todd: Fuck yes. Watermelon, please.

Leave it to Todd to wake from a dead sleep for jello shooters.

Me: It’s not even seven in the morning, you guys. And can we please focus on my problem?

There’s a long pause.

Lumi: It’s a perfectly normal day according to everything I can find. Must just be you.

Well isn’t that reassuring.

Me: Todd?

No answer.

Me: Tell me you didn’t fall back asleep, Todd. I’m in peril here!

Lumi: He’s definitely asleep.

Letting out a mighty groan, I reach for my latte. Only to remember, once again, that it’s a useless brew. I’m about to chuck it into the trash can nearby when Trevor, my companion whom I almost forgot about, plucks it from my grip. “What are you…”

To my shock, Trevor brings the cup to his mouth and takes a sip.

I huff. “By all means, catch my mono.”

The hitch of Trevor’s eyebrow tells me he doesn’t believe my claim about having mono. Which, yeah… I don’t. But who just…

And now he’s walking away with my latte.

“You’re welcome,” I call after him, cursing myself for checking out his ass. Which is perfect, of course, just like the rest of him. “Ugh.”

So this day is shit. It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s not like I have a major test this morning that accounts for a quarter of my overall grade.

The manic laugh I hear in my mind is both unwelcome and entirely unhelpful.

Closing my eyes, I take a moment to center myself.

I think about where I am. My quiet corner of the library, where the smell of books is strong and the morning sun is starting to light my face.

I imagine I’m in my own library, if such a place existed.

With towering bookshelves and an actual ladder I’d have to use to reach the top of the stacks.

Not because I’m small but because the shelves would simply be that high.

I imagine sitting down on a comfy couch in the middle of the room, reading or writing, perhaps, dry paper between my fingertips and the air around me filled with poetic words, so tangible I can hear it like a whisper.

The thought has my shoulders coming down, tension leaving me. When I open my eyes, I feel a little better. I uncap my highlighter and begin reading again.

I’ve managed to internalize some of the subject matter when Trevor returns, lowering himself steadily into the seat next to me. I avoid eye contact, not wanting to break my concentration.

But the man sets a to-go cup on the table and pushes it toward me. “Here.”

I stare for a long couple seconds at the cup before shifting my gaze to Trevor. “What is this?”

“A new latte,” he says, already back to typing on his laptop. “Hazelnut, right? It’s caffeinated this time.”

For once, my mouth has no witty retort. He got me a new latte? Seriously? “Why?”

Trevor shrugs, his massive shoulders lifting an inch. “Seems like you’re having a bad morning. Figured it might help.”

My swallow is rough. “How do you know I’m not this much of a bitch all the time?”

That seems to amuse him. His lips twitch, and he shrugs one shoulder again. “Guess I don’t. But you showed up with one pant leg wet and your hackles already raised. So I’m betting whatever is bothering you started long before you met me.”

“Oh, you’re definitely a big part of it,” I assure him.

He snorts, completely unruffled.

“This doesn’t mean I forgive you for stealing my table,” I mutter, turning the latte enough to see the messy scrawl labeling it as hazelnut. And above that… “Red?”

Trevor’s eyes shift to me, a dark, dark brown. “You never gave me your name.”

“So you picked ‘Red.’ Because I’m a ginger?”

“No,” Trevor says with a small shake of his head, the clack, clack, clack of his keyboard quiet. “It’s the color of the sea floating beneath your freckles.”

The hitch in my breath matches the one in my pulse. “I’m not…blushing.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“It’s cold outside. And I had a long walk here.”

Trevor hums his acknowledgement. I can’t tell whether or not he believes me.

Carefully, I bring the latte to my lips. Part of me is convinced it’s going to be decaf again. Just as a way for Trevor—or the universe—to fuck with me. But it’s not. It’s caffeinated. Gloriously, wonderfully caffeinated.

Trevor chuckles at my low groan. “Didn’t expect you to be so easy to please.”

My eyes shoot his way, but he’s focused on his laptop, his dark hair falling a little messily over his forehead, those tattooed fingers tapping away.

“This doesn’t make us friends,” I inform him. Because assuming anything more from his words is far too dangerous.

Trevor’s lips twitch again, but he doesn’t respond. I snatch my phone up.

Me: We’ve got a problem.