17. Maren
Maren
I 've been avoiding Riggs for three days. My phone's been blowing up with texts, but I've left them all on read. What are you supposed to say to the guy whose face you rode like it was your last night on earth? Thanks for the orgasm; let's never speak of it again?
Professor Westfield drones on about Faulkner's use of symbolism or some equally mind-numbing shit while I doodle bloody knives in the margins of my notebook.
Lit Theory is my personal purgatory—a class I'm only taking because I need the humanities credit to graduate.
At least it's a lecture hall, which means I can hide in the back row and?—
“Hey, nightmare.”
The deep voice sends a jolt down my spine. I don't need to look up to know who it is. My body's already betraying me, nipples hardening beneath my thin t-shirt, pulse quickening.
Riggs drops into the empty seat beside me, his long legs stretching out into the aisle. He smells of cedarwood. The scent triggers an instant flash of memory—his face buried between my thighs, his fingers stretching me open.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I hiss, not looking at him. “Your seat is over there. Or literally anywhere but next to me.”
From the corner of my eye, I see him grin, that cocky, lopsided smirk that makes me want to either slap him or climb him like a tree.
“Nah, I think I'm good sitting here,” he replies, leaning back in his chair like he owns the goddamn place. He pulls out his laptop to take notes. “Besides, the view's better.”
I finally turn to look at him, and it's a mistake. His hair is still damp from a shower, the dark blond ends curling slightly. There's a shadow of stubble along his jaw that wasn't there three days ago. My fingers itch to touch it, to feel the rough scratch against my skin.
“Just because I fucked your face doesn't mean we're anything,” I whisper, keeping my voice low enough that the pretentious English majors in front of us can't hear. “You sitting here is going to make people think we're a thing.”
His eyes darken at my words, pupils dilating as he leans in closer. “We are something, Maren.”
“We're nothing,” I snap, but my voice lacks conviction even to my own ears.
“Bullshit.” His knee bumps against mine under the desk, the heat of his body seeping through my jeans. “ Nothing doesn't make you come so hard you squirted down my throat.”
Heat floods my face. Fucking hell. Only Riggs would say something like that in the middle of a damn class.
“Can you fucking not?” I whisper, sliding as far away from him as my seat allows.
The professor drones on about stream of consciousness, and I try—really try—to focus on anything but the heat radiating from Riggs beside me. I scribble nonsense in my notebook, pressing the pen so hard it tears through the page.
“You've been avoiding me,” he murmurs, his voice low enough that only I can hear it.
“No shit, Sherlock.”
“Why?” His knee presses against mine again, and I don't pull away. I can't pull away. My body's a goddamn traitor.
“Because this—” I gesture subtly between us “—is a complication I don't need.”
“Seems to me it's pretty damn simple.” His breath tickles my ear as he leans closer. “We want each other.”
I feel a light touch against my hair, so subtle I almost think I imagined it. His fingers brush a strand behind my ear, the contact brief but deliberate.
“Don't,” I warn, but it comes out weaker than I intended.
“Your hair smells good,” he murmurs, as if I hadn't spoken. “Like rain.”
“It's called shampoo. Look it up.”
He laughs quietly, and I hate that I like the sound. Hate that I want to hear it again.
“It's distracting,” he continues, completely unfazed by my sarcasm. “You're distracting. Haven't heard a damn word Westfield has said.”
“That makes two of us.”
I force myself to stare at the slide up front, but the words blur together.
My skin feels too tight, too sensitive, like every nerve ending is on high alert just because he's sitting next to me.
I'm suddenly aware of every inch of my body—the rise and fall of my chest, the press of my thighs against the chair, the way my toes curl in my boots.
Riggs shifts beside me, and then his arm is sliding behind my chair. Not touching me, just...there. Hovering. Like he's daring me to acknowledge it, to tell him to move it or to lean back into it.
I fidget with my pen for the next twenty minutes, hyper-aware of Riggs next to me, of the heat of his body just inches away.
When Jenkins finally dismisses class with a reminder about our essays due next week, I practically leap from my seat, shoving my notebook into my bag with enough force to tear the spiral binding.
“Whoa there,” Riggs says, gathering his own stuff at a deliberately unhurried pace. “What's the rush?”
“Some of us have actual lives outside of harassing people.” I sling my bag over my shoulder, already stepping into the aisle.
“Harassment?” He raises an eyebrow, following close behind as I push past a cluster of students discussing Faulkner like it's the most fascinating thing they've ever heard. “Is that what we're calling it now?”
The lecture hall empties slowly, students clogging the doorway like a cholesterol-filled artery. I drum my fingers against my thigh, impatient.
“You know,” Riggs says, his voice right in my ear, “most people wouldn’t be running away from spending time with me.”
“Leave me alone,” I snap, not looking at him.
He laughs, the sound low and rich. “You don't mean that.”
“And you know that…how exactly?” I finally glance at him immediately regretting it. His eyes are fixed on me with an intensity that makes my stomach flip.
“Because,” he says, “your pupils dilate when you look at me. Your breathing changes. Your cheeks flush.” He leans closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Your body's an open book, Maren, even when your mouth is telling lies.”
The crowd finally thins enough for me to slip through the door. I push past a group who look like they've just rolled out of bed, Riggs right on my heels.
“Don't you have a class to get to?” I ask as we enter the main hallway of the humanities building. The smell of coffee from the nearby student lounge mixes with the musty scent of old books and desperation.
“Nope. Free until three.” He matches my pace with irritating ease, his long legs giving him an unfair advantage. “You?”
“None of your business.”
“So that's a no as per usual, then.”
“Look,” I say, stopping abruptly and turning to face him. “Whatever happened the other night was a one time thing.”
The words hang between us as we push through the double doors leading outside. Students mill around the quad, some sprawled on the grass soaking up what might be the last warmish day of fall, others power-walking to their next class with caffeine-fueled determination.
Glancing around, I see someone who definitely doesn’t belong. Detective fucking Harlow and he’s standing talking to some random student.
Riggs nearly collides with me from behind, his chest bumping against my shoulder blades. “What the?—”
“Shut up,” I hiss, grabbing his wrist and yanking him sideways behind a concrete pillar.
“Maren, what the fuck?” Riggs sounds more intrigued than annoyed, his eyes searching my face.
I don't answer, just peer around the edge of the pillar.
Harlow is still there, flipping through a small notepad, nodding at whatever the other person is saying.
He's wearing the same ugly brown jacket he wore during all those interviews, the one with the coffee stain on the right sleeve.
A year later, and he still hasn't bothered to get it dry-cleaned.
“Detective Harlow,” I mutter, risking another glance. The cop is still there, scribbling something in his little notebook. “The asshole who wouldn't leave me alone after what happened last year is out in the quad.”
Understanding dawns on Riggs' face.
God, how many hours did I spend in that police station answering the same questions over and over?
“Miss Marino!”
The voice booms across the quad, and I freeze. Students turn to look, conversations pausing as heads swivel in my direction. I consider pretending I didn't hear, but Harlow's already crossing the grass toward us, his ugly brown jacket flapping in the breeze.
“Shit,” I say, forcing my face into a neutral expression as I turn around. “Just let me handle this.”
Riggs shifts beside me, his body suddenly tense. I can practically feel the protective energy radiating off him, and it makes me want to punch him. The last thing I need is him playing white knight.
“Maren Marino,” Harlow says as he approaches, like he's confirming my identity to himself. His eyes are the same washed-out blue I remember, his mustache just as pathetic. “Thought that was you.”
“Detective,” I say, keeping my voice flat. “What a surprise to see you on campus.”
“Just following up on a few things.” He tucks his notepad into his pocket, his gaze sliding to Riggs and then back to me. “Got a minute to talk?”
Students are still watching, their eyes curious and hungry. Nothing like a little public spectacle to break up the monotony of a Tuesday morning.
“Actually, I'm late for class,” I lie smoothly, adjusting the strap of my bag. “But you can call my lawyer to set up an appointment if you need to. You remember his number correct?”
Harlow's mouth twitches beneath his mustache. “This won't take long. Just a few questions about your whereabouts a few weeks ago.”
I turn on my heel without another word, muscles tight as I stride away.
My heart pounds in my chest, but I keep my face impassive, the mask I've perfected over the last year firmly in place.
I can feel Harlow's eyes boring into my back, but I don't give him the satisfaction of looking over my shoulder.
“Miss Marino!” he calls after me. “We're not done here!”
I am. I'm so fucking done. He can kiss my ass and call my fucking lawyer.
“That's her…Bloody Mary…”
“…the girl who killed Coach Harrington...”
“…heard she stabbed him thirteen times...”
The voices blend together, but certain words cut through the white noise. Creepy. Bloody. Psycho.
Riggs is at my side in an instant, his longer stride easily matching mine. His jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscle twitching beneath his skin.
“Ignore them,” I mutter, though I know it's useless advice. The whispers are getting louder, less careful. More vicious.
“They don't know what the fuck they're talking about,” Riggs growls, his hand brushing against mine. I pull away, shoving both hands in my pockets. Public displays of anything aren't exactly what I need right now.
We pass a group of sorority girls who fall silent as we approach, then immediately burst into dramatic whispers once we're a few feet past. One of them giggles, the sound high and cruel.
“Hey, Rhodes!” A male voice calls out from behind us. “Didn't know you were into dead girls!”
Riggs stops so abruptly I nearly trip over my own feet. I grab his arm, fingers digging into the solid muscle.
“Don't,” I warn, but it's like talking to a brick wall. His body is vibrating with tension beneath my hand.
“What did you just say?” Riggs turns slowly, his voice dangerously soft.
The guy—some frat boy asshole in a backwards cap and a shirt with Greek letters—smirks, clearly pleased to have gotten a reaction. He's surrounded by three equally douchey-looking friends, all sporting identical smug expressions.
“Just saying, man,” Backwards Cap continues, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Heard she likes it rough. Coach found out the hard way.”
“What the fuck did you just say?” he snarls, moving away from me.
He towers over a scrawny guy in a fraternity sweatshirt. The guy has a deer-in-the-headlights look, suddenly aware he's said something to the wrong person.
“Nothing, man,” Frat Boy stammers, taking a step back. “Just joking around with friends.”
“Say it again,” Riggs challenges, his voice dangerously quiet. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides, knuckles white with tension. “Say it to my face.”
“I just said what everyone knows,” Frat Boy says, finding a shred of courage now that he has an audience. His eyes dart to me, then back to Riggs. “She's a fucking murderer. Bloody Mary. Killed Coach and somehow walked away?—”
Riggs' fist connects with Frat Boy's face before I can even blink. The sound is sickening—a wet crunch of knuckles against cartilage. Frat Boy crumples like he's made of wet cardboard, blood spurting from his nose as he hits the ground.
Well, okay then, golden boy. A little subtly would be better, but ya know men are stupid.
The guy's friends scatter like roaches when the light comes on, backing away with their hands up, suddenly very interested in being anywhere but here. So much for brotherhood.
“Come on, bro ,” Riggs growls, looming over the fallen frat boy who's now cradling his face, blood seeping between his fingers. “You had a lot to say a minute ago.”
The quad has gone silent, dozens of students frozen in place, watching the scene unfold with wide eyes and open mouths. Someone's filming with their phone. Great. Just fucking fantastic.
“Riggs,” I hiss, tugging harder at his arm. “Let's go. Now.”
He doesn't budge, his gaze still fixed on the bleeding mess at his feet. “Apologize to her,” he demands.
Frat Boy looks up, his eyes watering, blood smeared across his chin. “Fuck you,” he spits, but his voice wavers.
I see the shift in Riggs' body language—the slight adjustment of his weight, the flex of his shoulder—and know he's about to throw another punch. This time I step between them, my back to Frat Boy, my hands pressing against Riggs' chest.
“Stop,” I say, my voice low and steady. “That's enough.”
His eyes meet mine, and for a second, I don't recognize them. They're darker, wilder—filled with a rage that makes my breath catch.
“He doesn't get to talk about you like that,” Riggs says, his voice rough. His heart pounds beneath my palm, a rapid beat full of adrenaline.
“This isn't your fight,” I counter, pressing harder against his chest.
“The hell it isn't.”