Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Taylor
I’ve locked myself in my room, just so I don’t have to see his stupid face.
Because he has a football scholarship, I had to upend my whole life when our parents got married.
I should’ve just stayed at my school, with my friends and boyfriend, or ex-boyfriend, rather.
There was no point in keeping him around when I had to move to the opposite side of the country.
Since my mother pays for my college, I sort of had to do what she said.
And when she said, “If you want me to keep paying for it, you’ll transfer,” I fucking transferred.
My mother, Elizabeth Marie Gooding, the owner of a multi-million dollar tech company that she inherited from my father when he died, tells me to jump, and I basically ask how high.
At least, until I turn twenty-five, and the company passes to me.
Not that I know what to do with a massive tech company.
So, here I am, sitting on the bed in my new room of the massive house she bought on the East Coast, so my step-brother didn’t have to move schools, as he’s some sort of college football god.
The news outlets are calling him the next Tom Brady or Patrick Mahomes, which can’t be good for his ego.
That’s probably why he’s such a fucking dick.
My door flies open. No knock, no ‘I’m coming in,’ as the devil himself walks through my threshold.
“Get the fuck out!” I shout, throwing the shoe I was holding at him.
“Don’t be like that, Kitten. I’m trying to be a good big brother, and offer you a ride to school. We’ve gotta be cautious of the environment.” His sharp smile pulls upwards as he tilts his head down, looking more sinister than ever.
“No fucking thanks, I’ll get myself to class.” I kick off the shoe I was wearing, and head into my closet to get different shoes, since I don’t want to walk over to where he’s standing to retrieve the one I threw at him.
The massive walk-in closet my mother made sure I had, to help soften the blow of being forced to move, seems to welcome me as I move towards the shoes.
I snatch a pair of white platform sneakers and put them on quickly.
Once I’m done, I look into the mirror, taking stock of my whole outfit.
I’m wearing a pink crop top that drops over the shoulders and has long sleeves, my plaid skirt, with knee-high socks, and my platform white sneakers.
I straightened my hair last night, and twisted two space buns up with half my hair.
My one goal, since being forced to move here, is to ruin my selfish step-brother’s chances on the field.
If I don’t get to live my dreams, then neither does he.
I turn around and grab my purse from the hook, and when I step away from the mirror, a scream leaves my lips as I’m suddenly shoved against the wall.
His hips press against me, trapping me between his body and the unforgiving wall. “You are not leaving the house dressed like this.” One of his hands is next to my head on the wall, but the other one has migrated around my waist.
“I’ll dress however—” My words stop suddenly when he wraps his fingers around my throat, cutting off the air supply.
He presses his forehead against mine, and stares down at me with his dark eyes, where the blues in them are so dark that they look like a midnight sky on a moonless night.
“Keep running that smart mouth of yours, sweet sister, and I’ll show you exactly who it is you’re living with.” His grip tightens, making my vision tunnel at the edges, my pulse thrumming hard in my ears.
The reaction I’m having isn’t what I expect.
My heart races, but not in fear. No, it’s in anticipation, itching to see what he does next.
My body hums at every point of contact between us, like it’s trying to reach for him more.
My thighs press together, wishing they were wrapped around him, instead.
He’s breathing heavily, matching the pace of my own chest rising and falling.
The air I’m able to pull in becomes easier when he tilts my head up, using his thumb.
Looking up at him, my eyes move between his, trying to read the situation better.
But I can’t read his intentions, and that’s a dangerous predicament to be in.
His lips hover over mine, and my heart jumps at the thought of him kissing me. Not sure why. I hate this asshole, but fuck, he smells good. Like mint, sweat, and bourbon. Why does he smell like bourbon so early in the morning?
My eyes fall closed, waiting for him to make the next move, hoping he just kisses me so we can get over whatever the fuck is happening right now. I need to push past the heat radiating in me.
“Stay away from me and my friends,” he growls.
My body slumps at the sudden release, the cold sweeping across my skin. When I open my eyes, he’s gone, and I slump down the wall, trying to regain control over my now sensitive body.
When I make it to class, I’m relieved to see that he’s not in this one, like he was in every class yesterday. How is that even possible? Great question. I should figure out what he’s studying, besides football.
I’m still reeling from this morning, and the fact that he told me to stay away from him and his friends. He’s the one that keeps popping up. I’ve attempted to avoid him at all costs, yet every time I turn around, he’s right there.
Now, there may not be a step-brother in this class, but I’m spotting someone else that could be fun to play with, and I doubt Mr. Football Star is friends with him. However, he’s not sitting in the class as a student; he’s up front, and my jaw drops.
“Good morning, class,” Johnny states, as I attempt to shrink little in my seat, hoping he doesn’t see me.
Fuck, he’s a professor!
“Looks like we have a new face. Care to introduce yourself?” he asks, and every head turns to look back towards me.
“Nope.” I shake my head. “I’m just here to learn, so if you could get on with teaching, that’d be great.” The girls in the class all give me death stares, like I’ve just insulted Zeus himself.
“That’s not how this class works. Since you won’t introduce yourself, we’ll take turns guessing who we think you are, then.” Johnny smiles as the class turns away. “Okay, so who wants to analyze her first?”
“You can’t be serious.” I run my tongue over my teeth, and roll my eyes.
“This is psychology. I never joke about analyzing and observing behaviors.”
“She likes attention, based on how she’s dressed; she carries herself with confidence, but is guarded,” one of the guys in the front row states, confidently.
“She walked in here without anyone, so it tells me she’s yet to make any friends,” a blonde girl adds, with a bit of a snide tone, making me hate her instantly.
“She tripped while walking into her class yesterday. So she’s clumsy without meaning to be, which tells me she probably gets distracted easily.”
“Or, I’m just clumsy,” I retort, crossing my arms over my chest.
“She’s defensive, which means she doesn’t feel comfortable being the center of attention, especially if she’s the focal point.”
“How is this productive?” I ask, looking at Johnny, the stupid professor who is stupidly hot.
“It teaches them to make snap judgements, to be able to defuse any situation they may find themselves in. Not all psychology is just sitting and talking behind a closed door. Some are at hospitals, working with someone who had just tried to hurt themselves, or someone else. Some are walking down the street, or standing in line at the bank. You have to be ready for a snap decision at any point,” Johnny replies, like this is some sort of TV show where psychologists just so happen to be near someone standing on a ledge, so they can talk them off and be the hero.
“Life isn’t a show or movie where we’re the heroes.
Most people who need real help don’t seek it out; they’re the ones who seem happy to save face, but silently, they’re screaming for help in how they carry themselves.
The small micro expressions and tics, that most untrained eyes will never catch,” he continues, and my heart slams in my chest.
Like my father.
He seemed like he loved his life, yet he put a gun in his mouth, and blew the back of his head out. We never saw it coming. I never saw it coming.
“I get it. Can we get back to whatever you’re currently teaching? I’m not learning anything by them psychoanalyzing me.” I flip the book for this class open, and look down at it.
“As soon as you introduce yourself,” Johnny replies. “In this class, there is no bullshit, no secrets. We have to be able to trust each other with our darkest parts, or we’ll never know if we’re able to help others, especially if we can’t help ourselves, or each other.”
“Fine.” I stand up, leaving my hands at my side.
Heaven forbid they assume I’m trying to hide something by crossing my arms. “I’m Taylor Gooding.
My father was Derek Gooding, the Tech God of his generation.
He killed himself four years ago. My mother remarried, and forced me to move here, because my wicked step-brother has the potential to be the next Tom Brady, Peyton Manning, or Patrick Mahomes.
I was forced to leave my life behind, because Mommy Dearest currently controls my father’s entire fortune. ”
My eyes move across the classroom, locking eyes with each and every person in here.
“I hate him for being more important than me, and I hate this school, as nearly every person I’ve met has made snap judgements about me, since I ‘carry myself with confidence,’ and I’m unafraid to speak what's on my mind. There’s also a rumor going around that my step-brother is a manwhore, and I’m curious about that, if anyone wants to give me the tea on that.
” I blow a kiss to them and sit back down, my eyes locking on Johnny, the professor.
“I’m also obsessed with nineties movies, specifically ones that have Johnny Depp in them. ”
“How much of that was a lie?” the blonde girl asks.
“You’re right; it’s not just the nineties Johnny Depp that I love, it’s all of them.” I shrug, and the entire class, except her and Johnny, laugh. He just looks at me a little dumbfounded. “I’ve introduced myself, but I know nothing about any of you. Should I psychoanalyze each of you?”
“No, we’ll go around the room, state our names, and one thing about us.”