Frozen Hearts #3
Maybe if my life had worked out differently, I’d have fretted over fitting in and forming a solid group of friends, but that naive little girl is long dead and buried, and in her place is someone who doesn’t give a damn what others think.
Someone who recognizes that some things are far more important than having a friendship group and being accepted by superficial, rich brats.
Like security.
Safety.
Breathing.
I pull my laptop, notepad, and pens from my bag, prepared to take notes on today's lecture as the other students settle into their seats around me.
Right before the professor is about to begin, the classroom door swings open, and the room erupts into hushed whispers as a tall, broad-shouldered, muscular man with messy blond hair and a cheeky grin steps confidently into the room.
He gives a slight nod to the lecturer, who ignores his tardiness as he waves him toward the tiered pews.
Chestnut brown eyes scan the rows of seats, spotting the only empty one—right beside mine.
He makes a beeline for it, deftly squeezing behind the other occupants in my row as he works his way down.
Eyes follow his journey with rapt fascination. Girls smile coyly and reach out to touch him as he passes, while guys nod or hold their fists up for him to bump. Whoever he is, he’s clearly popular.
Dropping into the chair beside mine with a sigh, he leans over to grab his things from his bag.
The move offers me the opportunity to check him out without him noticing.
The thick cords of his biceps flex, and I can practically see the ropes of muscles around his shoulder, chest, and back through his top.
An athlete.
There’s no way someone like him looks like that and isn’t on some sort of sports team.
He doesn’t spare me a glance as he sets his things on the desk, his dirty-blond locks falling forward and obstructing my view of his face, and I rip my gaze away from him as the professor calls the class to attention.
Professor Caldwell has barely introduced himself when the bitchy blonde from Monday’s orientation tour leans into the hottie’s other side and begins whispering in his ear. I roll my eyes but bite my tongue and keep my focus on the professor as he goes over the syllabus for the semester.
It’s immediately apparent that this guy is a hard ass, and the class is going to be one of my tougher ones. Professor Caldwell makes it clear that he doesn’t suffer fools and won’t tolerate students who neglect their studies, and I make a mental note to ensure I don’t fall behind.
“I would advise you all to get a head start on next week's reading,” he calls out an hour later. “There will be regular class tests to ensure all of you are keeping up with the course load, and if your results are repeatedly subpar, you will find your place in my class in jeopardy.”
Once I’ve jotted down a reminder to read the chapter on introductory statistical methods ahead of next week's class, I slam closed my textbook, glaring at the hottie beside me. He’s oblivious, of course.
As he has been all class while he flirted it up with blondie.
The two of them whispered and giggled non-stop, their heads so close, I wouldn’t be surprised if they were actually making out at one point.
Her hands were all over him, stroking his arm and sliding across his thigh.
There was a moment halfway through when I started to panic, thinking she might give him a hand job right then and there in the middle of class.
Not only were their antics annoying, but her high-pitched giggles made it impossible to hear and I kept missing what the professor was saying.
Those two might not have any concerns about flunking out of this class, but I sure as hell do. I can clearly picture the look on my advisor’s face if I fail my first test of the year.
Gritting my teeth, I barge past the two of them—still oblivious to everyone around them as they flirt openly in the middle of the aisle—and stomp down the stairs toward the exit.
Unlike some people , I have places to be.
Leaving campus, I make the fifteen-minute walk to my apartment. Halston is an elite college town that is centered around the university, however, if you head toward the outskirts of town, that elite vibe gives way to a shabbier feel.
My apartment is situated amongst the living quarters for the working people of this small town. The ones responsible for the day-to-day running of the university and who work in the surrounding shops, bars, cafes, clubs, and restaurants.
I’m only a couple of blocks away when my phone rings in my pocket, and heaving out a sigh when I see the caller ID, I reluctantly answer.
“Mom.” That one singular word is snapped off the end of my tongue as I fail to keep the bitterness out of my tone. I do not have time for her bullshit today.
“I haven’t received this week's money,” she hisses like a snake about to strike, and I grit my teeth in an effort to keep my temper in check.
No hello, how are you doing? No inquiries about my classes or how I’m getting on at university.
Not that I expected any such concern. My mother has never been maternal or caring; she has become downright spiteful over the last four years.
But she knows how to play people. Anyone who meets her thinks she’s such a sweetheart—a mother with a heart of gold who can do no wrong.
Bull-fucking-shit.
It’s an act she puts on to ensure she gets what she wants—men, money, status. Doesn’t matter what the end goal is.
The worst part is, it works every time.
I’m the only one who sees her for the snake she is. The only one privileged enough to be subjected to this side of her.
I don’t get the sweet smiles and pouty lips.
Nope, all I get is the bitter bitch that resides underneath.
Pressing my fingernails into the palm of my hand, I mentally count to three before responding. “I don’t get paid until tonight. You know this. I’ll transfer it to your account tomorrow.”
“Why can’t you do it tonight?” she whines, and I’m forced to close my eyes and take a calming breath before I bite out a response that will only make the situation worse.
“Are the bills paid and the fridge stocked?” I ask in response, careful to keep my biting tone to a minimum despite the anger bubbling inside at her callous demands.
“Of course, Riley. Honestly, what do you take me for?” She huffs haughtily and I roll my eyes at her dramatics.
Fighting back a wave of frustration, I calmly retort, “Then it can wait until tomorrow. I’m already late for work, and I don’t get off until two.”
“Fine,” she sighs as though her generosity knows no bounds.
“How is?—”
The line goes dead, and I pull the phone away from my ear, blinking at the screen in disbelief as I realize she hung up on me.
“Nice talking to you, too,” I sneer, shaking my head and stuffing the phone into my pocket. My mother knows exactly how to piss me off.
Rolling my shoulders, I shake off the fiery pit of hurt and anger that takes up residence in my stomach every time I have to deal with her and push open the door to my apartment building. Hurrying up the stairs, I let myself into my tiny one-bed apartment to change for work.
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