14. Camden
14
CAMDEN
H arper is gone.
We returned home from the hockey game late on Saturday. It was practically Sunday morning, at that point. The video had been posted. But her room, her bed , was empty.
Then empty Sunday night, too, with no trace of her throughout the day.
Royal said something about her shopping with Olivia, but that didn’t seem to hold water when the sun set, and his sister did not come waltzing in through the front door.
I know because I was hunkered down in the living room, with my gaze on the front windows, for most of the day.
Now it’s Wednesday , and I’m getting sick of looking in at her empty room. She’s been back to her room at least once—on Monday night, I snuck in to find her previously rumpled bed made, neat as a pin—but I haven’t run across her.
It’s fucking frustrating. I wanted a reaction—I wanted assurance she wouldn’t talk to her brother. I wanted to twist the knife a little bit.
And she decides to remove herself from the equation?
My anger builds upon itself. Each time I think about her, each time I check for her, it spikes. The shots of adrenaline have been messing with my sleep. My eyes feel like sandpaper. I was playing catch up from our late Saturday, and I only seem to be getting farther behind.
Why can’t she just follow the fucking rules?
I rub my face.
I sit through class, forcing some modicum of will power to pay attention to the professor, and when it ends, I bolt. The Administration building is too warm. Too full of bodies pressing close. I trot down the wide, marble stairs, around and around until I hit the ground floor, and exit onto the quad.
“Hey!” Lucas jogs over. He slaps my hand. “Some guys are gonna go to the pizza place for dinner tonight. You in?”
My attention is dragged across the quad, toward the student center. To the girl walking at an angle away from me. Backpack on, hands in her pockets. Head bent against the relentless wind.
Harper Shay, at long last.
I straighten, glancing from Lucas to her. It’s really no contest when I compare the two. Continue with him or go follow her?
I’ve been waiting for some blowup. Some reaction to the note I left on the mirror.
Nothing .
Did she find the page?
“I gotta run, man,” I say to my teammate. “Catch you at dinner.”
He nods, and I jog off in Harper’s direction. She’s just disappearing inside the student center, and it takes me another minute to reach the doors. Ahead is the entrance to the dining hall, but it’s closed while they change over from breakfast to lunch.
To my left is a gym and the staircase that goes up to the lounges on the second floor.
Perhaps that’s where she went.
I take the stairs two at a time and pause at the top. I give the open area a quick sweep, and just when I’m about to give up, I find her. Rather, the back of her head.
She’s tucked in a corner all alone, facing the huge windows that overlook the quad.
Well, she’s not alone anymore.
I approach, pausing to look over her shoulder at the textbook open in her lap. A notebook is balanced on her knee, and she’s taking notes by hand.
In a world where students highlight right in the book, or take notes in the margins—or, perhaps worse, type everything into their laptops—this seems like an old-school method.
So I do the natural thing and squeeze between her and the next chair, and I snatch the notebook from her leg. Her pen skates across the bottom of the page, a word cut off.
She lets out a squeak, but she’s not fast enough to stop me. I fall into the seat beside her, ignoring her fully while I thumb through the pages.
Lots of notes that don’t really make sense.
“What is this?” I glance over to find Harper glaring at me.
I smile. I didn’t really know what I was going to get from her. Shame or embarrassment, maybe? But anger is a whole lot better. It matches mine.
“Math,” she snips at me. “Give it back.”
I squint at the page and keep my facade. “There are no numbers.”
“I know.” She reaches for it. “It’s theoretical.”
I keep it away, leaning back in my chair. “Theoretical math? You’re a freshman, aren’t you? This seems like a high-level course for someone in their first semester.”
Strands of hair fall in her face. They flutter with her huff, and she’s practically hanging off her chair to swat at the notebook. I catch her hand and tug a bit more.
Her index finger has a little stain of pink on it. She smells good—floral. I haven’t noticed that scent on her before. Perhaps it’s a new perfume? Borrowed from whoever she’s crashing with?
Her legs leave the floor, and she squeaks.
“Hmm.” I run my finger along the inside of her wrist. “Feisty little thing, aren’t you?”
She yanks.
I hold fast.
Her cheeks flush, and she meets my gaze. “I’m going to make your life a living hell.”
“Ah.” I tap her palm. “But how will you do that if I can do the same to you? One click, and that video goes public.”
“You’ve already used my real name. People can find me. Is that what you want? Especially after you heard about Max, huh? You thought, gee, she has a stalker, let’s make it super easy for him to find a video of her having sex .” She scowls. “If you can even call it that.”
She’s cute when she’s mad. She’s wearing an oversized sweater, but at this angle, I have a view down the gaping collar to the black bralette that cups her tits.
Oh, to be the lace pressed against her nipples.
I drop the notebook on top of her bag, then rise. Still holding her wrist, I hoist her to her feet. One quick pull, and she collides with my chest.
She’s hottest when she’s off-balance. When I can feel her shape against my body.
When she doesn’t know what’s coming next.
“How about… you sneak into my room tonight?” I suggest. “You blow me to my satisfaction, and I’ll change the name on the WatchMe profile.”
She blinks fast. Thinking it over? Trying to hide the shot of lust that probably went straight between her legs?
I tip my head. “That would require you returning to the hockey house, of course.”
“Of course,” she echoes. “You want me to suck your dick, and you’ll change the name on the account to what?”
“Hmm.” I tilt my head. “Your porn star name could be something sweet. Candy, maybe. No, not with that expression. Sour Patch Kid is a mouthful and might send the wrong message. I don’t know, Harper. I’ll think on it.”
I release her, and she stumbles back.
I don’t move while she gathers her notebook, textbook, bag. She doesn’t bother shoving everything into it, just clutches it all to her chest and speeds away.
Well, I thought it was a good offer.
Maybe I should call her Venom. She has enough of it inside her. And it’s fitting for this school… Harper truly is an FSU Viper.