Chapter Nineteen
My cheek is pressed so hard against the surface of my desk, it’s gone numb.
Last night was fitful, and it had nothing to do with the music this time.
Every time I drifted into more than a shallow slumber, blinding lights flashed behind my eyelids and roared questions filled my ears.
I gave up eventually, and doom scrolled until Thiago messaged with proof of life.
“Well,” he sighs through the speaker. My phone is resting beside my ear, my hands knotted in my lap. “I mean, there’s good news, and there’s bad news.” I groan, wishing I’d been a big girl and just looked for myself.
“Just give it to me.”
“Now there’s a command I can get on board with,” he chuckles.
There’s a faint creak on the other end of the line as if he’s leaning back in his chair.
I should shut down his amusement quicker, but envisioning him with his fingers laced over his stomach and a dreamy look in his blue eyes is better than facing the inevitable.
However, I’ve got class in less than an hour and I need to know what I’m letting myself in for.
“Thi, focus. What does it say?”
“Good news is you look hot as fuck. Like, holy crap, Meg. You could have warned me. I can’t even pretend I haven’t been rock hard—”
“Thiago,” I snap harsher this time. Lifting my head just enough to glare at the window, I withhold a hiss at the intrusion of light. How dare the morning carry on whilst I’m having an internal crisis. Thiago clears his throat, his tone dropping enough to make my nape prickle with unease.
“Bad news is… they’ve pitched you and Everest as a couple.” I sit bolt upright now, glaring down at the screen which is giving me a full view of Thiago’s ceiling.
“What?!”
“I mean, it’s not such a reach,” he continues cautiously. “The photos are rather… intimate.”
I shudder at that last word. Blood rushes from my temples and the room tilts slightly.
Of all the things I was worried that would be printed across the small-town tabloids today, all of the headlines I’ve created in my own mind, none of them involved me and Everest being seen as an item.
And Thiago is now looking at it in full detail.
Everest’s hand around my waist, my fingers splayed on his chest, the color of his tie matching my dress. Oh fuck.
“Let me see.” I snatch up my phone now, as if that would give me a better angle of the screen glowing on the edge of Thiago’s phone. His hand promptly covers the camera.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
I scoff, my brows knitting together. “Thiago, show me.” There’s a muffled hum on the other end and a pause long enough that irritation sparks through the fog in my head.
He’s actually not going to show me. “Fine, I’ll just look for myself.
” I drag my chair closer to the desk, rolling my shoulders to brace for the impact.
It can’t be any worse than what I’m picturing in my head… right?
With only a slight shake to my hand, I power up my computer and watch the screen flicker to life. Propping my phone up, Thiago remains quiet on his end other than a few clicks and the tapping of his keyboard. A pale blue glow is cast across my room, illuminating my reflection in the glass.
Looking away from the dark circles under my eyes and how my mouth is pulled tight, I open up the search bar. Suddenly, the screen glitches violently and then blacks out. Frowning, I click a few times, wondering if I should give the monitor a smack when a message flashes before my eyes.
ACCESS RESTRICTED.
My jaw drops. “Thiago,” I growl, my eye starting to twitch. I’m giving him a silent countdown to undo whatever he’s just done to my computer before I lose my shit. The lower the numbers get, the more my chest heaves until his face appears on the phone.
“It’s just a bunch of shallow reporters hunting for a story that isn’t there,” he tries to explain.
There's a pinch to his tanned features, his blue eyes twinged with sympathy. I stare him down, now uncaring of what the articles say. He can’t just block me from looking at something because he’s worried I can’t handle it.
I’m the one that has to walk out that door and face the world. I might as well be prepared for it.
“Unblock my access,” I state without room for negotiation.
Thiago looks over my pursed lips and serious stare, then sighs.
I watch him return to his keyboard, the clacking loud beside the speaker.
Impatiently tapping my foot, I openly ogle at his jaw line and the definition of his Adam’s apple.
His skin is flawless, a shade of smooth chocolate that would easily be lickable.
Catching my tongue toying with my bottom lip, I shake myself and straighten.
The message on my screen has yet to disappear, even as Thiago sits back looking pleased with himself.
“You’d better grab your wash bag and towel.
That asshole next door has just stepped into the bathroom, so I’ve set the fire alarm to go off in sixty seconds. ”
“Wait,” I shake my head and Thiago levels me with the same expression of a man about to announce checkmate.
“Would you like a hot shower today or not?” I stall.
Damn it, he’s got me. Shoving my chair back, I tug down the oversized T-shirt I slept in and reach for my towel just as a siren splits through the air.
I flinch even though I was expecting it.
Lifting my phone, I shout into the mic, “This isn’t over! ”, then end the call.
With one ear pressed to my shoulder and my hand covering the other, I throw my door open in time to see a very dry Reid storming out of the bathroom in just a towel.
He doesn’t glance my way, heading for the stairs with bunched shoulders that I can’t help but appreciate.
Since when did artists have traps like that?
Despite the alarm cutting through the hallway, I sneak along the wall until he’s out of view before slipping into the bathroom.
The second the door is locked in place, the alarm cuts off.
I smile secretively at Thiago’s ridiculousness.
Someone is going to have to talk to him about boundaries, but as long as I’m benefitting, it won’t be me.
Twisting the shower knob as far as it will go, steam instantly fills the small space and swallows me whole.
The water is gloriously hot, bordering on painful as I step beneath it.
The heat scalds my skin pink, and I lean into that sensation instead of the memories of last night.
The hands that were on me, the gentle press at the small of my back, the grip on my hands in my lap.
I stay under the spray longer than necessary, letting it pound against the back of my neck in an attempt to wash away the lingering humiliation.
I must have looked so weak, and I bet Everest was lapping it up.
Thiago was right, I don’t need to see those photos.
Although, once I’m scrubbed clean, dressed and ready to face campus, it seems I don’t have a choice.
Five steps into the central courtyard, I instinctively reach for my phone in my back jean pocket.
I don’t know why. It’s not as if Thiago can censor my entire world, no matter how much I wish he could.
Yet, the images are everywhere. Plastered across stone pillars, taped to notice boards, on the screens of every hand of everyone who I pass.
Enlarged stills from last night showing my face tilted toward Everest’s with something far too close to gratitude shining in my eyes.
I’m drawn directly to the main notice board like a moth to a flame.
Or rather, like someone with zero self-preservation.
‘Chemistry on and off the Field? New Co-Captains Step into the Spotlight.’
‘More Than Teammates? Golden Leaders become Golden Lovers.’
‘Love, Legacy, and Lacrosse: The Duo Rewriting Hollowbrook History.’
I stare at the headlines, dumbfounded. The narrative is not what I expected, but it’s also so far removed from what last night was supposed to represent.
I suppose, if we’re hunting for small mercies and as Thiago pointed out, I do look hot.
I’d barely checked my own appearance in the stadium’s small mirrors, but I’m seeing the whole picture now.
That leg slit is higher than I remember, showing a long limb and tensed calf thanks to the heels.
The satin clinging to my waist in a way that sharpens the line of my body, the red hue brighter in the camera’s light.
The faint sheen on my skin that makes me look more alive than I’ve felt in a long time.
And pressed against me, like a shadow against a flame, Everest stands rigid.
I avoid tracing him with my eyes. I was there in the flesh last night.
I know exactly how sharp his jaw was, how green his eyes were, how tall he stood at his full height.
Starting to turn away, I pause, then reach up and tear the posters off the notice board.
Whoever put them up is either trying to goad me or mock me, and I have a good idea who would want to do both.
Screwing up the papers, I dump them into the nearest recycling can and head to my first lesson, uncaring of the whispers that follow.
Murmured conversations carry me all the way to the art block, students holding up to compare the image they’re seeing against the outraged woman in baggy cargo pants, a black hoodie and her damp hair curling at the ends. A far cry from last night, I’m afraid.
I almost make it. The art block is in sight, the open doorway beckoning me with the promise of a hideaway in the back of the studio for the next few hours.
Blocking out everyone else, I fix my gaze on the building like it’s a finish line, adjusting the strap of my bag higher on my shoulder, willing my legs to carry me the final stretch without any more incidents.
Alas, nothing in my life can be that simple.