Chapter 4 #2
“Good.” He stands, stretching. “Because you’re my best friend, but she’s my blood. And if I have to choose—”
“You won’t have to.” Another lie to add to the pile.
Inside, Ethan yells something about starting a new game. Troy heads back in but pauses at the door.
“Just... watch out for her at that club, yeah? Luzia attracts a certain type. Rich entitled assholes who think daddy’s money means they can do whatever they want. I don’t want her around that shit.”
The description hits too close to home. Isn’t that exactly what I am? A rich kid playing at being normal?
“I know the type.”
“Yeah, well, make sure they stay away from my sister.”
I nod, already knowing I’ll be finding excuses to check on her at Luzia. Already hating myself for wanting to.
Sixty hours of community service with Tara. Sixty hours of pretending I don’t remember how she tastes like cherry lip gloss. Sixty hours of protecting her from everyone except myself.
I am so fucked.
The house feels wrong without Ethan and Troy.
They finally left this morning. They’re both coming back a couple times over summer, but for now it’s too quiet, too empty.
At least Freddie’s decent to live with, the guy’s got discipline, keeps things tidy.
Makes it easier to think when everything’s in its place.
I love Freddie like a brother. We get each other, I think.
He sees more than he lets on and he cares about shit too fucking deep.
I’m filling him in on the dean’s verdict, and he’s laughing like it’s the funniest thing he’s heard all week.
“Dude, trust this place to have the most insane policy.” He shakes his head in disbelief.
“They think you broke in, set off sprinklers, destroyed hundreds of samples... and their solution is community service? That’s some seriously chill disciplinary action.
” Freddie wipes tears from his eyes. “Like, ‘Oh, you destroyed thousands in research? Here’s a trash picker, have fun!’”
“Yeah, it's not too bad, I suppose.” The lie tastes like ash. What I don't tell him is about the phone call I made yesterday—the one that cost me what was left of my pride. But seeing Tara on my doorstep that Sunday morning changed everything.
I've seen Tara Hawkins in a lot of states.
Laughing, arguing, dancing at parties, but I'd never seen her scared before.
All the sunshine was drained from her face.
The email she showed me had snapshots of security footage from that night.
Crystal clear shots of us in the hallway, my hands in her hair, her back against the display case.
Then we disappear from frame, and seconds later, the sprinkler system activates.
To anyone watching, it's a simple equation: horny college students plus making out equals destroyed research.
And fuck, I knew I'd do anything to see her laughing again. Which is how I found myself making a call I swore I'd never make.
“Spencer Family Office, how may I direct your call?”
“It's Alfie Spencer. I need to speak with Harrison.” My voice comes out tight, controlled.
“One moment, Mr. Spencer.”
I pace my room while waiting, watching Tara through my window as she sits in her car, head in her hands. Three rings, then:
“Young Mr. Spencer. This is unexpected. How can I help?”
“I need...” The words feel like glass in my throat. “I need the foundation's help.”
“Of course, sir. What seems to be the problem?”
I close my eyes, hating every word. “There's been an incident at the university. In the geology department. Some valuable specimens were damaged.”
“I see.” Harrison's tone remains neutral, professional. “And your involvement?”
“I was there. With someone. We didn't cause the damage, but there's security footage that makes it look like we did.” My free hand clenches into a fist. “The dean is meeting with us tomorrow morning.”
“And you'd like the foundation to intervene?”
“Yes.” The word tastes bitter. “Whatever it takes.”
A pause. “The foundation could make a contribution toward restoration efforts. Though I should warn you—even the Spencer name has its limits. The dean is quite... principled.”
“Just do what you can. Please.” I never say please to Harrison. We both know it.
“Very good, sir. Will there be anything else?”
“Don't tell my father. I don't want—” I swallow hard. “Just handle it quietly.”
“Of course, sir. Though you know how he enjoys solving these little... problems.”
The Spencer Family Foundation made a very generous “donation” to the university's geology department this morning before the meeting. Dear old Dad's favorite way of solving problems, throw money at them until they go away. I hate myself for using it. And for what?
I thought the donation would at least get us off completely, make this whole mess disappear.
But no, we still have to do the hours, still have to play along with their bullshit assumption that we caused the damage.
If it had just been me in trouble, I’d have taken whatever punishment they dished out.
I wouldn’t have gone anywhere near my family’s money.
The irony? The real culprit is my lovable but frequently idiotic housemate. Ethan, drunk off his ass and convinced he’d found the building’s “party mode,” was the one who actually triggered the system.
The family lawyer spent hours arguing semantics. “Just kids being kids,” he’d said, like we were teenagers caught smoking behind the gym. “The university’s negligence in maintaining their security system is the true issue here...”
It didn’t matter. They had their footage, their culprits, their story. All my father’s money bought was a reduction in punishment and the guarantee it wouldn’t go on our permanent records.
I don’t tell any of this to Freddie. Not because he’d judge, the guy’s got a better heart than most, but people get weird about money.
I’ve seen it enough in my own family, watched how it twists everything it touches.
It brings darkness and fuckery and all the things I’ve been trying to avoid.
My friends here at UMS... they’re separate from that world. Clean. I want to keep it that way.
“So...” Freddie’s voice has that tone I hate, the one that says he thinks he knows something. “More time with Tara.”
I grunt in response, but apparently that’s enough encouragement.
“You guys kissed,” he states.
I keep my face neutral despite my surprise. “Alex?”
He nods, and I scrub a hand over my face. Of course, Tara told Alex, and of course, Alex told Freddie. The most predictable game of telephone in history.
“These fucking girls,” I mutter. “Yeah, we kissed.”
Freddie’s grin spreads slowly, like he’s just won something. “So, you like her.”
“No.” The denial comes too quick, too sharp. “I don’t like her.”
“Right.” His voice is heavy with skepticism. “You just liked her enough to kiss her. Even though you know you’re risking genital mutilation from Troy.”
“I’m going to hit you in a minute.”
He barks out a laugh, holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. You don’t like her. You just happened to kiss her, and now you have to spend sixty hours doing community service together.” He gives a low whistle. “Good luck with that, buddy.”
I don’t reply, which only makes him smile more.
“Oh, and don’t forget Troy will kill you when he finds out!” he calls out as he runs upstairs.
I glare at his disappearing form, but he’s not wrong. Sixty hours with Tara Hawkins. Sixty hours of trying not to remember how she’d smiled against my mouth.
Part of me – the part I’ve been trying to ignore – is already counting down the minutes until I see her again.
It’s terrifying how much I want to be around her, how she’s gotten under my skin like no one else has.
Usually, I can go days without thinking about someone.
Keep them in neat, controlled boxes in my mind.
But Tara? She spills out of every container I try to put her in, colors outside every line I draw.
The community service hours stretch ahead of me like both a gift and a curse. More time with her means more chances to slip up, to let her see too much, to fall deeper into whatever this is. But the thought of not being around her feels wrong now, like trying to ignore gravity.
Fuck. When did I start thinking like this? Like some lovesick idiot writing bad poetry about her smile?
But if I’m honest with myself, this didn’t start with that kiss.
That just broke the fucking dam. The truth is, I’ve been fighting this since that first party, when Troy practically dragged me downstairs to join in and meet his freshman sister and there she was – standing on a table, leading an enthusiastic, if slightly off-key, rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody.
Hair wild, cheeks flushed, absolutely electric.
I knew then she was dangerous. Knew she could break through every defense I’d carefully constructed.
So, I did what I do best – buried it. Locked it away. Told myself she was just Troy’s enthusiastic little sister who talked too much about fossils and wore too much pink.
But that kiss changed everything. Now I can’t stop thinking about how she felt in my arms, the little sound she made when I pressed her against that display case, how perfectly she fit against me. Every time I close my eyes, I see her – breathless, wanting, mine.