Chapter Fifteen
I was murder-level pissed about Clayton ruining my Hugo Boss polo today, until a sweet little prize landed in my lap. Or rather, was swiped by my hand.
Striding out of the bathroom with nothing but a towel around my waist, I snigger again at the ridiculous stream of messages lighting up Harper’s phone.
The nonstop vibrating is edging into harassment territory.
Dropping onto the edge of the bed, I scoff with a mix of humor and disgust, marveling once again at Harper’s lack in security.
Pathetic. Looking through her inbox, I see it’s only Clayton who messages her constantly.
It also doesn’t escape my notice that he’s the one who suggested she bought her essay like I did.
I honestly didn’t know Mr. High and Mighty had it in him, but the irony is too sweet.
He led her down the wrong path and I’m the one who heroically took the fall.
I can imagine it now. Her, trapped in a tower and guarded by a beanie-wearing mop.
Me, the incredibly handsome savior dripping in tattooed armor and hung like a horse.
I’ll call out, ”Stubborn Damsel, let me save your hot ass.
” Harper’s brunette locks will billow in the wind as she leans out of the window to shouts back, “Huh? What? I can’t hear you! ”
I’m chuckling to myself, water droplets rolling down my body.
Scrolling back to the last message from Harper, I swipe every response below and move each one to the trash.
When I’d snuck her phone out of class, I figured I would be adding a mild inconvenience to her day and giving her a reason to seek me out.
I wasn’t prepared for the sheer level of entertainment her personal life would provide me.
Another message comes through, this one promising to hunt Harper down if she doesn’t respond. This one gives me pause, just before I delete that one too.
Where does Clayton get off hounding after my current source of amusement?
The only person who gets to terrorize students is me, and tormenting Harper is one hell of a thrill.
As of this second, I’ve decided she’s mine alone to bully until she flees screaming, and no one else will get a piece of the intimidation pie except me.
I won’t waste too long thinking on why my focus is centered on her, supposing it’s because she’s the first one to actually stand up to me.
Throwing on the first pair of jeans and t-shirt I find laundered and folded in the chest of drawers, I make sure to keep Harper’s phone with me as I jog down the stairs.
The frat house is oddly quiet, only a few guys in the kitchen throwing darts directly into the wall.
Ignoring them, I stride out the front door and use a key fob to open the attached garage.
Whipping off a dust sheet, my Kawasaki Ninja comes into view.
This machine is a pure beast with its four-cylinder, liquid cooling engine.
Gah, I could nerd out for days with the biggest hard-on in history for this beautiful metallic outline.
The body is a mix of black matte and shining chrome, deserving of a tender stroke before mounting.
I don’t think I’ve ever acted like such a gentleman before, but she deserves it.
Nina the Ninja may be the cause of future broken legs and various other bones, but she’ll never break my heart.
Settling myself on her leather-encased curves, I rev the engine loudly before shooting out into the street.
Heading in the opposite direction of the main campus, the tires eat up the road with all the smoothness of a purring kitten.
Swerving around corners and shooting down various streets, the tightening in my chest that comes with residing at Waversea begins to ease.
There are three segments to the college grounds.
The main sector where the student bullshit happens, a circular band of buildings around the outside for the admin crap and the town beyond.
“All the amenities a student could need,” the brochure says.
Huh, so where the fuck is the strip club and casino, Dad?
A couple bars, restaurants, a rec center and movie theatre aren’t enough to keep me contained in this hellhole any longer than necessary.
I spend a while riding around, chasing the taste of freedom I’ve never actually felt, and scaring more than one old lady taking her sweet-ass time crossing the road.
Begrudgingly, I head back toward a row of depressingly gray office buildings and park around the back in a narrow alley.
I made it my business to know the layout of the admin segment, exploring every hidden nook and figuring out what happens behind each locked door.
Walking the rest of the way, I pass the treasury and admissions offices, with a bunch of staff residences visible at the far end of the street.
A red door comes into view at the top of some stone steps, still wrapped in a half-dead string of Christmas lights.
Pushing inside unannounced, my eyes fall on Mitch reclining behind the desk.
“Master Waversea, so good to see you,” he jumps up, flashing a too-wide grin.
Mitch is a short, rounded guy with a perfect bald patch like someone scrubbed the top of his head clean.
He’s got that jolly, approachable vibe most people fall for, but behind the curtain he’s got nine kids by eight different women to support and he's crooked as they come. Not that it matters. Even if he were squeaky clean, everyone’s got a price.
“How’s it going, Mitch?”
“Oh, you know, same old. Something tells me we’re about to have another glitch,” he winks.
Funny how the finance system’s glitched more than a few times since I enrolled, but stranger shit’s happened.
Tossing him a roll of cash, I stroll down the corridor to a single elevator at the far end.
The doors take forever, so I jab the button repeatedly until they finally slide open with a ding.
Stepping out on Floor Four, the stale warmth hits me in the face.
The heaters crank year-round in here. Unlike the sad concrete outside, the interior is light and glassy.
Offices are divided by panes instead of walls, with oversized plant pots scattered around like they’re gonna fix anyone’s soul-sucking job.
No wonder a few pairs of eyes lift when I walk through. I’m probably the most exciting thing they’ve seen all month. Aside from a few breaks in keyboard tapping, no one bothers me as I slide into an empty desk.
This level deals specifically with student loans and scholarship grants, including weekly allowances for the totally broke.
I punch in the password I memorized while getting head from an intern down the hall.
Honestly, I can't even remember which one. The screen unlocks to reveal a sea of virtual files. Navigating through the maze where I buried Clayton’s records so nobody else could touch them, I open the BACS account and cancel his next weekly payment, which was set to drop at midnight.
Stalking isn’t cool, even by my standards. So that prick can skip a few meals. I double check that his gym membership is still flagged as pending, then log out with a satisfied smirk. Reclining in the chair, the grin fades as the weight of what I just did settles in.
Was that... a good deed? I’ve never jumped in to fight someone else’s battles.
People need to take care of their own mess because I’m too busy planning the takedown of the century.
Dismantling a billionaire’s pride and joy doesn’t happen overnight, but I’ve got years of simmering hate to keep the engine running.
And I’m the only one twisted enough to finish the job.
After stopping by Floor Three to tweak a few payroll numbers, because screw you for calling me out Peterson, I head back down, give Mitch a lazy nod, and return to my bike.
I tear across campus toward the back of the basketball court, duck into the rear entrance of the locker room, and take my time changing even though I’m stupid late for practice.
Coach scheduled extra sessions ahead of a big game on Friday, but I don’t take orders.
He’s lucky I bothered to show up at all.
Scrubbing a hand down my face, I roll my shoulders and step out onto the court.
The entirety of the team are sitting in the first row of the bleachers, watching the two sophomores go head-to-head in a private game of one v one.
Huxley and Garrett don’t even look my way, locked in on whatever bromance rivalry they’ve got going on.
“What the fuck?” I mutter, my hackles rising beneath the surface.
These guys may have been the shit last year, but they stepped back this semester to make way for new talent, AKA, me and anyone I deem worthy.
Not that it stops them from loitering around, hanging in the back like uninvited guests.
Noticing me with my arms crossed and eyebrow cocked, Coach jumps up from the bench and rushes over, stumbling in his haste.
“The returning players thought it would be a good idea to demonstrate some offense and defense tactics for the team to work on,” he fumbles out.
For a coach, he’s more than a little overweight and sweats like a hooker awaiting STD results.
Apparently, he was a star player in his day, but if that was so, I doubt he’s standing here quivering under the rule of a nineteen-year-old.
Knowing the team will need as much help as they can get before next Saturday, I drop on the edge of the bench without another word.
Huxley has his blond waves tied back, his concentration on the ball in his hands, stalling with a few bounces whilst looking for an opening.
Faking left, he spins on his heel to dart right but his teammate is a step ahead of his tricks.
Garrett crouches low to steal the ball mid-bounce, twisting his body in the opposite direction.
He jumps to shoot from the arc line to make a clean basket.
The team beside me applaud eagerly like a bunch of seals clapping for fish.
Rolling my eyes, I lean back against the bleacher’s railing.
There’s nothing they can show me that a personal tutor back home hasn’t done a thousand times.
A shudder rolls through me at the thought of that dark and depressing mansion being a home.
Luckily, I missed most of practice because the sophomores are clasping each other on the back before announcing it’s time to head out.
An excited murmur passes through the team, many with an inspired glint in their eyes.
Remaining in place until everyone has left, I hope to get some time alone on the court until one person in particular notices me not following.
“You’re always late for practice,” Garrett states the obvious, dropping down beside me. Leaning forward with his tattooed forearms on his thighs, he blows the long fringe from his eyes and glances at me.
“I decide when practice starts. Everyone else is too early,” I shrug, much to his amusement.
“I used to be a lot like you,” he muses.
I purse my lips, looking across the empty court.
There have been many comparisons between Garrett and myself over the year.
Just because we both have dark hair, tattoos and reek of sarcasm, doesn’t mean we’re the same on the inside.
No one is like me, practiced in the art of concealing rage behind a perfectly placid mask.
Garrett watches me out of the corner of his eye.
“Trust me, I’ve seen how quickly life can change.
One day, you’re going to want somewhere to turn and find there’s nowhere willing to take you.
Food for thought.” I laugh at his ridiculousness, because what he fails to realize is I don’t need anyone.
I’m enough company for myself. That way I will never fall victim to the melancholy emotions which tear others down.
Snatching up the ball by his feet, I dribble across the room to end the chitchat I have no interest in being a part of.
After a beat, Garrett stands on a sigh and exits in my peripheral vision.
Running to the far end of the court, I slam the ball into the basket before doing the same on the other side.
Not for the first time, I wonder why I am actually on this team.
For someone who has decided to remain isolated, I’ve entered a sport which means I must depend on others.
It was an average day of torturing freshmen and bribing the staff when I noticed Clay’s name scribbled on the sign-up list and something inside me sorta snapped.
Clayton’s a funny fish. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t participate in anything.
From what I understand via my sources, he’s already got a record and his own mother can’t even remember him.
But he continues to call her weekly, and then decided to join a team sport.
I joked that I had wanted to terrorize him further, but secretly, I was fascinated.
I had to see with my own eyes if he managed to find a shred of happiness despite the life he previously led.
But he hasn’t, which means there’s no hope for me either.
Bouncing the ball between my legs as I walk, I allow each thud to resonate with my being.
Like a chime passing through me until I’m able to block out unwanted thoughts.
Throwing the ball from the center of the court, it hits the back board before dropping into the net.
Running after it, I circle back and do it over and over again, each time taking a step back to see how far I can shoot from.
It’s evident I’m lacking a challenge in my life if this is what the height of my excitement has come to.
My thoughts turn to the girl who has invertedly dug up all of these unwanted questions. Who has stirred unwanted emotions within me. The one who’s managed to cut through my bullshit, making me re-evaluate everything I stand for. The only girl I can’t have.
I stop so quickly, I almost topple over.
What the fuck am I thinking? There is no girl on earth I can’t have, and just like that, I see what the issue is.
I drop the ball, its small bounces pounding across the wood as clarity clears my jumbled mind.
The allure, the appeal, the attraction. It’s all because she isn’t pawing at my feet, begging for a scrap of notice.
By refusing me, she’s only enticed me. There’s appeal in the unknown, and now I realize that, I’m determined to know her inside and out by the end of next week.
A smile grows across my face, a light giddiness filling my chest. She will put up a good chase, but I have eyes on my prey now.
To rid her from my system, I’ll have to revert to my base instincts.
Fuck and forget, then I can focus on casting her out quicker than she can scream, “More, Rhys, more!”