Chapter Twenty Three
My hand tremors as I lift the phone to my ear.
I can’t believe I’m doing this, but I don’t see any other way.
The ring through the receiver is like a gong, clanging against my better judgement.
Rhys Waversea doesn’t ask for help, he gives orders.
However, this time, I don’t think that’s going to work.
“Who the fuck is this?” A voice grumbles, thick with sleep.
Perhaps a five a.m. wake up wasn’t on Clayton’s agenda for today, but the big lug should be up and putting in all the ball practice he can get.
Sure, he may have single handily won the game against Armitage yesterday, but it was sloppy AF.
He has all the grace of a fumbling hippo. “I said, who the fuck is this?!”
Oh yeah, words.
“I need you to get here right now!” I bark into the phone way too loud, my voice cracking like a teenage choirboy on his first solo. Great start, Rhys. Real commanding. On the other end, there’s a groggy snarl.
“Kenneth, I spent all night searching for you. I swear on anything I am, I’m going to find you and I’m going to tear you limb from limb for leaving me alone in that damn porno.
” His voice rises, cancelling out everything I wanted to say.
As in, my mind has gone completely blank as I sink onto the edge of the mattress, sniggering into my hand.
What in the sweet juicy tea have I just stumbled into?
There’s a shift beneath the covers and I remember myself, shooting back upright. “Seriously, what kind of psycho—”
“It’s Rhys,” I hiss, stalking into the bathroom and easing the door closed.
“Rhys who?” Clayton asks, a frown evident in his voice. I roll my eyes.
“The only Rhys in a thirty mile radius.” I know that for a fact.
Anyone who’s started at Waversea and thought their name was Rhys since I arrived here has quickly had second thoughts.
There’s an intense quiet on the other end of the line, punctuated by sharp huffs of breath.
Might as well get this over with. “I need you to get to my place. Something terrible’s happened. ”
“Rhys,” he finally grunts my name. I can practically hear him bristling. Figuring I have minus two seconds before he hangs up, I force the words through my teeth.
“Look, you’re also the last person on earth I want to be speaking to, but I kinda….well, I might have…” Swallowing past the lump in my throat, as if it’s trying to close up on me, I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I just need you to come over. Right now.”
The silence stretches, a knife’s edge scraping at my nerves.
I press my thumb harder into the bridge of my nose, almost wishing the bone would crack so I could focus on something other than the emptiness on the line.
I want to check on Harper, but my legs refuse.
The memory of what I saw already has me clawing at my open shirt like I can tear the panic straight out of my skin.
“Why would I give a shit about helping you?” Clayton asks whilst clattering in the background.
I imagine him kicking a chair or smacking items off the desk, too frustrated to stay still but too intrigued to cut me off.
Trust me, I’m just as uncomfortable on this end of the phone, my skin itching with the need to be anybody else right now.
“Do you realize how insane you sound, calling me at the crack of dawn? You of all people? What kind of twisted—”
“It’s Harper,” I snap, my voice tearing itself raw. My chest seizes as I drag in a breath. “Something’s wrong with Harper. Just get your ass over here.” A soft chuckle sounds, gently mocking me into a worse mood.
“Ask me nicely.” I pull the phone from my ear, staring at it like the thing just grew fangs. Is this asshole serious right now? My free hand fists into my hair, tugging hard enough to sting as I pace a tight line across the bathroom tiles.
“Ask you nicely? Do I sound like some sort of little bitch to you?!” My laugh is hollow, sharp, scraping out of my throat like broken glass. I kick the base of the sink, the impact jarring up my leg. A muffled sound comes from my bedroom.
“No,” Clayton says after a beat, his voice smug. “You sound desperate. You want my help, so ask for it. In fact, I want you to beg me for it.”
I catch sight of myself in the mirror and shake my head, thinking to myself, get a load of this guy.
I thought Clayton’s hero complex would have shoved him out the door before I’d even finished speaking.
Maybe I overestimated his connection with Harper, the way he jumps to her defense or how she makes deals with the devil on his behalf.
“I don’t beg.” A snort escapes me. My jaw ticks so hard it aches.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Wild eyes, shirt creased, sweat rolling down my neck, and for a flicker of a second, I don’t even recognize myself.
But the problem is bigger than my ego. Just about.
I can’t trust one of my lackies with this. It has to be him.
“Will you get your ass over here and help Harper?” My reflection is just as disappointed as I am.
Dark shadows circle my eyes, stress wearing on me.
There’s no response down the line. Nothing.
Not even a grunt of acknowledgement. As I wait, my stomach knots so tight I think I might puke right here against the marble basin.
For a second I swear I can hear the stubbornness of his jaw locking into place.
Dammit. I turn away from the mirror, unable to look at myself for this part. “Please.”
I hear drawers slam, frantic rustling, the sound of him moving like a man possessed. His breath has gone harsh now that my desperation has leaked through. The line goes dead in my ear. I lower the phone, staring at the black screen, unsure if I got the response I wanted.
The walls close in, every tile and polished surface mocking me.
I slip out, heading straight into the hallway to pace the length of it, purposely avoiding looking at the bed.
I can’t bear to look. I’m not easily disturbed but the sight in the center of my bed is beyond horrific.
Disastrous. Fuck, I can’t stop wringing the ends of my open shirt that I shoved back on over my jeans upon waking.
I refuse to think about last night, the visions of her sweat-slickened body trying to slip beneath my mental shields. I’m always in control of my emotions for a reason; the consequences of being out of control too drastic for anyone to handle. How the fuck did I let this happen?
Clayton arrives in record timing, bursting through the front door with fury ablaze in his eyes. Spotting me, he runs up the stairs in sweatpants and a tank top. His blonde waves shake erratically with each movement, no beanie hat in sight.
“Where is she?” His bunched shoulders and clenched jaw are nothing compared to the worry etched into his features. I point to the closed door with a slight shake, words not making it past my lips.
Resting his fingers on the handle, he takes a visible breath to brace himself and pushes the door open.
I scrub a hand down my face, as the panic surfaces again.
There she is. Her pink tinted locks spread across my pillow, the naked outline of her hourglass figure pressed into my mattress with the cover pooling low on her ass. Perfection. Wait no, fucking disaster!
We both frown at the bed, taking in the view until backtracking into the hallway. Clayton’s nostrils flare, his arms crossing over his chest like a solid band.
“I don’t understand. Other than her terrible lack in judgement, what’s the problem?” I gape at him, gesturing to her sleeping form because the issue is so glaringly obvious.
“She’s in my bed?!” I whisper-shout, looking at the dude like the moron he is. His black eyes turn impossibly darker, shadowed by lowered eyebrows.
“Did you call me here just to see her in your bed?” Clayton’s jaw ticks, the taste of violence crackling between us.
If I weren’t vibrating with the kind of panic that makes my bones itch, I’d laugh in his face, because this would be the perfect torture for him, dangling her inches away like raw meat, but the one being tortured right now is me.
“Don’t you get it? No one stays the night in my bed.
When she wakes up, she’ll be hopelessly in love with me like all the other mindless drones around here,” I spit the words at him, pacing like a caged wolf, my eyes flicking to the railing where bodies sprawl across every available surface, the debris of my parties consisting of youth and poor life choices.
There’s even a few slumped across the stairs who will need a chiropractor when they sober up.
“I can’t believe I’ve let this happen. I wanted to screw her and move on, not…
this?! Everyone becomes obsessed with me after they’ve experienced Rumpleforeskin. ”
“Fuck my life,” Clayton mutters, attempting to barge past me, but I slam my hand against his chest. For the first time since I woke up, a jolt of exhilaration courses through me as his body tenses under my palm.
He growls, a sound that reverberates through his ribcage, but he can’t intimidate me.
Forget the private martial arts lessons, forget the home-installed boxing ring.
I’m a ruthless bastard who strikes to kill and bathes in blood before anyone has the chance to disrespect me.
“I need you to get rid of her. Carry her back to her dorm or slip into the bed and have your way with her, I don’t give a shit. But you are leaving this house with her, and no one has to know I took pity on the school’s charity case.”