4. Amber
AMBER
I didn’t miss the hangovers, that was for sure. My roommates groaned and slid around the couches like blobs and the pathetic sight of them made me smile. Laney and Marissa were wonderful women who I support with every grain of my being, but a small part of me was envious of their life.
Last year, I’d witnessed Laney talk herself out of a speeding ticket. Sophomore year? She’d had four fake IDs and had managed to not get written up for distributing them to younger girls. The year before that, she’d convinced the RA to not report the alcohol in her dorm room.
I’d drawn the short straw with my freshman roommate and gotten caught up in a drug scandal and put on probation. Then it’d been academic probation. And that is still my reputation. I’d grown and changed, but people refused to see that version of me.
Jeff Maddow’s disgusted facial expression from three days ago told me all I needed to know. I was just the druggie freshman girl who went wild in college. That’s why he thinks I don’t deserve to be at this school.
I’m gonna show him, that beautiful rat bastard.
“Ambeeeer. Could you bring me some coffee and I’ll love you for the rest of my life?” Marissa whined and flipped from her right to her left side. She grimaced and paled, and I grabbed a small trash can and placed it in front of her. “Why do you look so normal?”
“I didn’t drink last night.”
“I think I killed all my brain cells and forgot.”
“You might be right,” I said, laughing.
“Did I dance on a bar with some guy with a face tattoo?”
“Absolutely. I only took three pictures.”
“Kill me. I told myself I was growing up this semester. I’m going to be a grown-ass adult soon.”
“You can still dance on bars when you’re an adult, Issa.”
“How do you remain friends with us if you don’t drink anymore? I can’t stand myself sometimes but being around us sober is the pits, girl.”
“I love you both. Plus, I learned I don’t have to drink to have fun. I know that makes me sound old and wise, but shit, it took a long time to discover that.”
“I’m not there yet. Don’t tell my parents.”
I snorted, feeling a spark of pride in my decision to not drink for the last five months.
While my junior year hadn’t been as eventful as the wild freshman year, there had been one too many nights of stupid mistakes and morning regrets.
I’d hit a low point when my advisor had said I was one grade away from being kicked out of school and that had been the day I’d decided to clean up my act.
That meant no more partying, blowing off classes or hooking up with guys who were too drunk to really see me.
That had been my rock bottom and I was slowly pulling myself up from that with a small step every day.
Today’s step? Figure out the real reason I’d gotten into this school, because ever since Jeff had thrown that accusation, it had registered in the most insecure part of me, wedging itself into every thought until it consumed me. I’m average. I’m not worthy.
It wouldn’t be totally insane if it were true.
I wasn’t an exemplary student. I hadn’t been the star of anything in high school or involved in so many clubs my resume was three pages long with eight letters of recommendation.
Even my parents had expressed their doubts at me applying to one of the best schools in our state.
‘ Don’t aim so high, Amber—that way the disappointment won’t be as strong. ’
Well, three and a half years later, I’m going to graduate with a better GPA than I had in high school. So take that, haters.
“I’ll make some coffee, but then I’m going to hunker down in my room to get some research done.”
“Ah, research .” Laney dragged the word out for five syllables, making her pitch go two octaves too high. “About our filthy hot and single neighbor.”
“Our out-of-my-league neighbor, that is,” I added, ballparking the measurement of coffee grinds to make a full pot. My dad called it laziness that I didn’t get a scoop and measure exactly the right amount—I called it just fine. No one had complained about my brewing abilities yet.
“Amber, Jeff Maddow is not out of your league,” Marissa mumbled. “You would actually have to try something to actually be shot down from him, and we all know you haven’t.”
Ah, yes. My lack of confidence in dating. A common topic in our household.
“I banned talking about my dating life until February. Off limits.” I leaned against the counter and sighed at the folder of dating apps in my phone.
My roommates had made me download them after a disastrous fling that had left me feeling used and smaller than dirt and I hadn’t logged into them.
It was a form of punishment. There had to be the right catchphrase to be interesting, and the profile pictures had to be classy but sexy.
I had never been called classy or sexy in my entire life. But that was neither here nor there. I had bigger things to worry about than my lack of happily-ever-afters. A scandal that might or might not involve me and my Uncle Martin. That took precedence.
“Let me know if you’re dying or something, but I’ll be busy for a couple of hours.”
They didn’t respond and I brought coffee in my favorite mug up to my room. Research phase had begun. How I got into school.
It took an hour or so to find all the old materials saved in the cloud—four years ago seemed way longer than I cared to admit. But I found it all saved in a folder. At least I’d been organized online at eighteen.
It seemed normal. I’d filled out an application, sent my transcripts, written an essay—I thought—and hit Submit. Then I’d gotten a letter saying I was in wait, got called in for an interview and got accepted. None of that seems fishy…yet.
Who did I interview with? I started making notes containing the names of people who’d been involved.
The dean of admissions, the academic advisors for those declaring communication majors and an alumnus Dean Sanders.
God, that name was familiar. A couple of searches later, nothing popped up and I let out a frustrated sigh.
I’d have to circle back to this process. Next item on the list—internet stalking Max Miller, Cooper Killian and Dillon Cage. Maybe something would magically appear or stand out. Because I want to reach out to Jeff?
Don’t be an idiot.
“Gah!” I shook my head, refocusing, and got to work. Social media kept more information than we’d care to admit and teenagers weren’t the brightest when it came to privacy setups. Dillon and Max might have their account private, but their friends’ weren’t and bam . I was in, seeing their posts.
Interesting that they’re still at the school, living life and not showing any signs of an injury.
Jeff had been right about that. Dillon liked girls.
Lots of them. In every picture he was shirtless with a different chick on his arm and that was something I could use.
I jotted the information down. It was officially the note-gathering stage of the search and while my skin tingled with an almost electric excitement at uncovering a truth, my gut tightened.
Each oddity meant that Jeff accusations could have merit.
Only one way to find out.
Create account? Yes, please.
It took less than ten minutes for me doctor a photo of myself that looked somewhat sexy—I included a lot of cleavage—and hid my identity. Hit following on a hundred people, got some auto-follows back, and took a chance.
SportsDiva: I’ve heard a lot about you, Dillon. Can I ask you a question?
Dillon: Name it, baby, only if I can ask you a question.
SportsDiva: I was told you got a spot on the baseball team. I’m really bendy for athletes…
Dillon: I like bendy.
Oh god, boys were idiots.
Dillon: I was a sports recruit during my freshman year but played too hard and got injured. Are you good at taking care of people in bed?
SportsDiva: Oh yeah.
Okay, now I was out of my league. How did I get more information from him and remain sexy? Shit. I really didn’t want to do it… I didn’t. But I accepted a little defeat and texted the number Jeff left with me.
Amber: I need help. Are you free?
Jeff: Yeah, what’s up?
Amber: I’m chatting with one of those kids you think was involved and I started it trying to be sexy and, well… I’m not sure how to proceed in the conversation.
My phone buzzed and I waited two rings before answering. It wasn’t nearly enough time to calm my racing heartbeat or get my sweaty palms under control. “Yeah?”
“You’re talking to him right now? In person? Are you an idiot? We need to be discreet.”
“Again, insulting me isn’t in your best interest. I created a fake account online, dumbass. It’s not in person.”
Silence. A loud exhalation. “Oh. Are you at your house?”
Why did I call him again? “Yes, why?”
“I’m coming over.”
Then he hung up.
“Shit!” I stood and admired my outfit. If I counted right, I had about thirty seconds to change from the booty shorts and baggy sweatshirt. I was sans makeup and had a coffee stain on the white material, but I didn’t have time to change. My account pinged with another message.
Dillon: Diva? I really like your profile picture. I’m still hurting from the injury and I think sending another picture, with less clothes, would make me feel better. Here, I’ll send you one as motivation.
Dillon: *image*
I gasped. He’d just sent me a dick pic. Oh my god. My first dick pic. Laughter overwhelmed me and by the time I calmed myself down, a loud knock sounded on my door. Jeff Maddow. “Uh, come in?”
He entered the room and three things happened simultaneously. His cologne filled my small room and I breathed in deeply. He noticed. Then he widened his eyes and pointed to the computer. “Is that a dick?”
“Oh yes.” I giggled again and had to cover my mouth with my hand. “Our boy Dillon wants me to send a slutty picture. I was thinking about doing the elbow thing to make it look like a butt.”
Jeff’s face remained perplexed, but slowly, it transformed from the hard, angry expression to one of amusement and my legs turned to noodles.
I didn’t have to like the guy to be attracted to him and how massive he was standing in my room, three feet away from me.
Plus, he wore another Henley shirt, showcasing his toned arm muscles and it was probably a good thing it was the dead of winter.
I couldn’t promise how I would react to his bare arms.
Shit, his smile is growing.
“Fucking shit.” He threw his head back and howled, and didn’t ask permission before sliding a wooden chest from the end of my bed next to my computer chair and sat right next to me. “This is hilarious. Have you done the elbow thing before?”
“Not since high school. Dare we try it again?”
“I’ll take the shot. Make your arm sexy.” His eyes lit up with amusement, the deep gray almost the same color as the sky outside, and it was hard to ignore how my stomach swooped at our nearness. I had to remind myself. He thinks I’m a part of this scam. That I’m average. He’s out of my league.
I handed him my phone and shoved up the arm of my sweatshirt, making cleavage of my elbow. “Get it?”
“Oh yeah.” He laughed again, deep and rich in timbre, and handed me the phone. “Now I’m wondering if any of the pics I got were just arms.”
“Doubtful. It’s you,” I said, tensing at the realization of what I’d said. He didn’t comment and I considered it forgotten. “Okay, Dillon, let’s play.”
I sent the image and he opened it within the second.
Dillon: Great start. I want to see more. Show me those nips, babe.
“Oh my god.” I cringed and Jeff had the decency to wince. “Do guys do this? Do you do this? My roommates want me to start Tinder and Bumble but if this is what’s waiting for me, I’d rather date myself.”
He rubbed the back of his neck and shrugged. “I want to say no…but…yes?”
I closed my eyes and let out a frustrated breath. He’s not perfect. Good. Remember that.
SportsDiva: We can arrange that but I kinda got a kink for injuries. Tell me about yours. I want to imagine my hands on you.
“Nice. Let’s see what he says,” Jeff said, encouraging me.
Dillon: I hope we can arrange for that soon. It wasn’t bad. Just a rolled ankle.
SportsDiva: Someone as strong and built like you couldn’t recover from that?
Dillon: Decided baseball wasn’t for me after all. I answered, babe, your turn.
I clicked out the messages and went to his profile, scanning pictures and videos of Dillon doing various things on campus.
He was into frisbee golf, keg stands and oh shit.
There was a video of him dated the fall before from a CrossFit gym.
He’s a sophomore now and if he got injured right before this video went up…
“Interesting, isn’t it?” I tapped my pen against my teeth and watched Jeff for a reaction.
He bounced his gaze back from my laptop screen to my face a couple of times before he ran his hand along his jaw.
His lack of response made me continue. “What’s the protocol for injuries?
You received a full-ride baseball scholarship, right?
If you were to get hurt, they’d rehab you or something—not just let you decide baseball wasn’t for you. Wouldn’t he lose money?”
“This just gets weirder and weirder.”
“How so?”
“His name was on the roster the entire year. We were told it was more serious and they even had him come back and make the announcement to us.” He stood, gave me a hard look and said, “This is the second athlete with a fake injury. Fuck. You did good, Amber.”