Chapter 36 – Clover
Chapter Thirty-Six
Clover
“Should we worry that Sylvia’s not in her room?”
“She probably snuck off to see a boy,” Thomas mutters. “We should leave it.”
Boys are so lazy when it comes to their friendships. If helping a friend involves exerting more effort than a well defined grunt, they’re useless.
“I’ll text her,” I grumble.
Thomas tries not to sound frustrated.
“Fine.”
I send Sylvia a text because I’m a way better friend than Mr. We Should Leave It, but she doesn’t reply on the usual Sylvia timeline – which is instantly. Thomas and I sneak back down the hall into my room. We tried to “confess” and we can’t risk anyone else spotting us in the halls.
I’ll just have to tell Sylvia in the morning. When I shut the door behind me, I lock it, just in case anyone else decides it’s a good idea to come in while we’re doing this.
Thomas grins. “Locking the door for us?”
I hate the insinuation. We’re not doing anything. We’re just friends. Locked in a bedroom together. There’s nothing romantic about that. I know romance.
“We have a stalker on the loose,” I remind Thomas. “Duh.”
“Right.” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, ignoring my intentional glance towards the cricket bat I conveniently found in the dance studio after practice one day. No one else claimed it and I needed a weapon. Now, we’re inseparable. I just wish it didn’t have someone else’s name on it.
Thomas makes himself way too comfortable sitting on my desk and kicking up his annoyingly large feet with his Doc Martens on. I roll my eyes and sit on my bed, my feet dangling off the edge as I try to come up with a suitable insult for Thomas about his feet.
Finding out our stalker’s identity is slightly more important than insulting Thomas, so I save finding a solid insult for later.
“We need to trap our stalker again.”
“I have a plan for that,” Thomas says. “But you won’t like it.”
He shakes out his mane of light brown hair. I hate that I notice things like how thick his hair is, or how his shampoo smells. I hate that I notice how fast his facial hair grows. He already has a five o’clock shadow and it’s so unfair how his facial hair highlights his chin.
Thomas taps his fingers, coated in chipped black nail polish, on my desk as he scans my books.
“What plan might that be?” I answer him gruffly, snatching the romance novel I borrowed from Kola out of Thomas’ hands.
He doesn’t need to know what I’m reading.
I stick it in the top drawer of my dresser and return to my bed.
Thomas fixes his gaze on me and runs his tongue over his lower lips.
Can you just stop being sexy for one fucking second? I can’t stand his ass.
“It’s becoming obvious, isn’t it? This stalker of ours has a thing for me.”
My eyes roll to the back of my head. Of course Thomas Bainbridge thinks everyone on planet earth has a thing for him. It doesn’t help that everyone in our year makes such a big deal about his tattoos, height and muscles.
“Get a grip, Thomas.”
“I’m serious. That’s why they threatened you and it’s possibly why they attacked Sylvia.”
I bite my lip for a second. He might be right.
Whoever attacked Sylvia could have easily mistaken her as a threat.
She seemed pretty close to Thomas when they got to campus.
I even questioned if there were any feelings between them.
But seriously? Why would someone want to kill another person over Thomas Bainbridge? He ain’t all that…
“Okay,” I tell him. “How does that help us?”
“Dunno. I just don’t want you getting hurt. Or Syl for that matter.”
His eyes dart to mine and that terrifying flash of possessiveness crosses them.
I quickly look away from him. I don’t want Thomas to think he owns me or this blackmailer justifies him acting like a creep.
I’m only letting him stay here because we’re sort of friends now and we’re sort of in the same boat. It doesn’t mean anything.
“Why do you care?”
“I’ve got a sister.”
“Congratulations.”
“I miss her,” Thomas says. “She was my best friend. Men ought to protect women.”
I’m about to give him a preliminary lesson in women handling their own shit, when he interrupts my train of thought.
“What about you? Got a brother?”
Lil’ Cee… Yeah. I have a brother. I nod.
“What’s his name?”
“You won’t believe me.”
“Try me,” Thomas says. He really won’t believe me. Upper class British people recycle the same three names. Subscribers voted on my brother’s name in the comment section of my mom’s dramatic gender reveal video – we are not the same. He won’t understand my world for an instant.
“Chaos Shooter Robinson. I call him Cee or Lil’ Cee.”
“Chaos? Shooter?” Thomas repeats, barely concealing his mixture of bemusement and doubt. I pinch his shoulder hard, which makes him blush and smile at the same time. Annoying ass.
“I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”
“It’s a weird thing with your parents, isn’t it?”
“Everything with my parents is a weird thing.”
When the divorce video drops, dealing with them will become even more insufferable, I’m sure of it.
I don’t know why Thomas keeps trying to get to know me, but he’s the only person here I’ve bothered to tell about my past. Kola and Sylvia know everything from their teen years watching the channel, and they don’t judge me for it, but I don’t need anyone British all up in my American business.
Thomas scoffs. “Join the party. Everything with my parents is weird too.”
No way. From everything I’ve heard about Thomas and his family, they’re perfect. I heard a couple whispers about a divorce, but everyone seemed to think that even that would be handled with ultimate grace. He’s like royalty.
“Aren’t you basically as rich as a prince?” I blurt out, hating myself for a moment for sounding so uncouth. I learned quickly that unlike California, Texas, or anywhere else we lived, English people don’t like talking about money.
Thomas’ cheeks instantly turn red.
“I am not rich,” he says. “My family isn’t perfect. It’s a bloody mess.”
“Can’t be any messier than mine. I promise.”
“Are your parents getting a divorce?” Thomas throws back.
My stomach lurches. I’ve spent almost every minute here trying hard not to think about their divorce.
My dad won’t talk to me about it and my mom keeps sending me messages like it’s something I should celebrate.
Where will I go for the holidays? What about our family?
The weird feelings I’d suppressed about them bubble up and instead of saying something snarky back to Thomas, I tell him the truth.
“Actually, yes. And they’re posting about it on social media every single day, like they aren’t ruining everything.”
“I’m really sorry,” Thomas says. He sounds like he means it.
“What about your parents?” I reply. I’d rather hear about Thomas’ problems than talk about mine. “What happened?”
“My dad cheated,” Thomas says. “Repeatedly. He’s done worse than cheat.”
“What could be worse than cheating?”
“Who he cheated with.”
“This sounds like something we shouldn’t let leak to TMZ.”
Thomas snickers. “You’re funny.”
“Are you going to tell me?”
He fluffs out his way-too-fluffy hair and shrugs, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. Thomas is so unreasonably chill, that I can’t imagine anything making him uncomfortable.
“Yeah,” he says. “But I haven’t told anyone. Not even Sylvia. So you have to promise to keep this a secret, yeah?”
He stares at me like he’s testing me, but I don’t know the right things to say.
I never do, especially not with guys who look like Thomas.
It’s easier for me to just act like an asshole and push him away.
That’s always been easier for me than letting people get close.
You let people get close, you get hurt. Love isn’t real, is it?
With our generation, it’s so much worse too. Everything is just for show.
“You trust me to keep your secrets?” I don’t know why the thought makes my heart pound and I don’t know why I want him to say yes. I don’t need Thomas to trust me.
“Yes,” he says. “I do. I think you’re a sweet girl.”
He thinks the girl who walloped him with a cricket bat is sweet? I don’t get him.
“Okay…”
I pause, waiting for him to fill in the blank space.
“I found out my father was abusing girls in the foster system for sex and using a Bainbridge family charity to run the entire thing.”
He swallows and then looks away from me, as if what he’s just revealed is his fault. I’ve heard some fucked up shit in my life. Thomas doesn’t have to be afraid of what I’ll say or think of him.
“Girls… you mean like…”
“Children,” Thomas says softly, with a distant voice. “My own father sexually abused little girls for years. There are dozens of victims and quite frankly, I wish I never knew.”
“Do the police know?”
Thomas touches his face and then shakes his head. He scoffs at the idea of the police. He’s a billionaire’s kid, isn’t he? That was probably a stupid ass question on my part.
“It doesn’t matter. My father’s too powerful. If my mother escapes their marriage alive, it will be a miracle.”
“Hey,” I tell him, suddenly concerned about his butt planted to my uncomfortable desk chair. “You can sit up here. But no funny business. We’re just talking.”
“Just talking,” Thomas says, getting up onto the bed and sitting next to me.
I can smell him on his hoodie and see the places he chipped off the black nail polish on his fingers.
His hair smells delicious too and his body is so big and warm that I don’t need to throw my blanket over my thighs anymore.
He’s so fucking close to me.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Just talking.”
I rest my head on his shoulder and convince myself that’s what we’re doing. Just talking.
* * *