All Over You (All Falls Down #3) (11 page)

"Are you okay?" Bryan asks nearly seven hours later, concern in his voice.

"I'm fine, Bryan," I lie, rubbing my temples. I'm lying on the double bed in my cheap motel room, staring at the old, boxy television on the stand across from me. It doesn't work. Not that I expected it would. The motel is run down, in a rough neighborhood in L.A. Police sirens and music blare on the street below. The curtains in the room are thin and stained, and so is the carpet. The sheets are threadbare, the comforter thin and worn. The water in the bathroom is tepid, the shower offering little more than a trickle. It's not ideal, but I don't have the money to waste on luxuries like hot water and soft sheets.

I've been here for less than an hour, and Bryan's the only person I've spoken with aside from the clerk who checked me in. My cell phone is still turned off. I'm not brave enough to power it on and see the missed calls from Cam. I barely know him, but I miss him already.

"Are you sure? I can take a few days off and come help you," Bryan offers.

"Really, I'm fine. I just wanted to let someone know where I was in case…" I can't seem to make myself say the words
in case I'm charged with murder
. Coming here wasn't about trying to hide from the charges probably being filed against me right this moment. I'm not hiding. I'm simply trying to find evidence that exonerates me before those charges catch up with me. I doubt the police will appreciate that distinction. I already know Cam won't.

"You shouldn't be doing this alone, babe."

"I'll be back in a couple of days. If anyone comes looking for me before then…"

"Yeah," he says with a tired sigh. "I'll make sure they know you aren't trying to hide. Be careful, Ivy. And call me if you need anything. I mean that."

"I will," I promise. "Goodnight, Bryan."

"Goodnight."

I replace the room phone on the base before reaching for my laptop. After firing it up, I open my email to find a new message from Erin.

Hey chica,

Sorry I didn't call you back. My fucking phone got no fucking reception at the lake house. I promise I didn't drown or get dragged off to by a hot rancher to be his dirty sex slave. Oh, wouldn't that be hot? Mmm. Hot ranchers. How do you feel about moving to Montana? We can make this happen, right?

You sounded weird in your voicemails. Is everything okay? And why the hell is your phone turned off? You never turn your phone off. If Mr. Gleeson finally bent you over his desk, I want details, you kinky bitch!

See you when I get back on Wednesday. Love you!

xx,

Your Bestie

I scroll through the few selfies she sent of her at the convention with some of my favorite authors, smiling at one of her holding a giant margarita in one hand, shooting me a saucy wink. She looks good, as if she got a little sun and found her happy place again while at the lake. I shoot off a reply to her, giving her the phone number to my room and telling her I'll explain later.

I hover the cursor over the little X in the corner of the browser tab to close it down for the night, but I find myself hesitating. Before I can talk myself out of it, I quickly load one of the San Francisco news stations in the browser, and immediately wish I hadn't. Rory Clark's face is splashed across the homepage. "UCLA Student's Body Found," screams the headline at the top.

Stupidly, I click the article, only to find a picture of his parents embracing, heartbreak etched onto their faces. I don't even get halfway through the first paragraph before the tears I've held off all day spill over to run down my cheeks and I have to stop reading. I already know my name hasn't been released yet, but it's only a matter of time.

Pushing my laptop to the side, I curl up in a miserable ball, wishing Cam was here to tell me again that everything is going to be okay. It's not though. Not this time.

Whoever Fake Ivy is, she's a heartless, evil bitch.

"What's your favorite book to read?" I ask my class, turning from the chalkboard to face them.

"Goodnight Moon!"

"Buwty and da Beast!"

"The mouse and cookie book!"

"The Nightmawe Before Chwistmas!"

"That's not a book," Tommy Howell says, laughing loudly at the little blonde seated beside him.

"Yes, it is!" Lilah Rodgers narrows her blue eyes on him and tilts her chin up. "My daddy wead it to me."

"Did not!"

"Did so!" Lilah yells right back at him.

"Did not, did not, did not," Tommy says, pushing his glasses up his nose before scowling at her.

"Tommy, Lilah, behave," I warn the two of them, clapping my hands together to get their attention.

They reluctantly back down, but not before Tommy sticks his tongue out at Lilah, who gives him a haughty sniff and pointedly turns her back on him.

"What happening to raising our hands?" I ask the rest of the class.

Half of their little hands immediately shoot upward.

"Much better," I say, scanning their eager faces. I stop at Malik Turner, who sits in the very back of the classroom, his head bent over the sketchbook on his desk. At six, he's already an incredibly talented artist. Unfortunately, that's the only thing he's shown interest in since being placed in my class. He doesn't talk much, and struggles with most of his work. "Malik, what about you?" I ask him softly.

His brown eyes turn in my direction and he blinks as if only just noticing I'm there.

"Malik doesn't read," Tommy snorts. "He doesn't know how."

Laughter ripples around the room.

"Thomas Howell." I snap my head in his direction, my hands on my hips. "What did I tell you about bullying your classmates? Five minutes off your recess. If you interrupt again, you'll be sitting beside me for the entire period, do you understand?"

"Ah, man," he groans, slumping down in his chair.

Lilah smirks as if she's pleased.

My gaze drifts back to Malik to find his head down, his shoulders hunched as if he's embarrassed.

"Malik," I say again, causing him to glance up at me again. "Go ahead, sweetheart. What's your favorite book?"

"Ivy Kendall?" someone says from the doorway before he can answer.

I turn to find Cam standing at the door beside two San Francisco officers in full uniform. He looks so handsome as he stands there, his feet planted and his arms crossed, causing the muscles in his arms to bulge beneath his tattoos. But gone from his face is the wicked smirk. The soft way he always looks at me is gone too, replaced by a grim, business-like expression. One that sends a chill through me.

"Cam?" I say, confused as the two officers start toward me. "What's going on?"

"You're being arrested for murder," he says. His expression twists as he looks at me like he doesn't know who I am. "You murdered a kid."

Chaos erupts as my students begin to scream and cry hysterically. I try to rush forward to comfort them, but the two officers grab my arms, jerking me to a stop. I'm forced to stand helpless as they slap handcuffs on my wrists while my kids watch, big tears rolling down their faces.

"I didn't do this," I whisper to Cam.

He watches me from the door, the disappointment in his gray eyes searing me to my soul. He doesn't believe me.

Without another word, he turns on his heel and strides away, leaving me completely alone.

"Cam!" I shout, struggling to break free to run after him. "Cam! I didn't do this."

I jerk away with a jolt, Cam's name still echoing around the room. The sheet is twisted around my legs, holding me captive in the uncomfortable bed. I kick my way free before rolling to my feet. My heart hammers loudly, and I'm drenched in sweat. It's early morning, barely even sunrise. There's no way I'm going back to sleep now. Not after that.

What in the hell kind of dream was that?

"Ugh," I groan, digging the heels of my hands into my eyes as if doing so will clear away the image of Cam walking away from me while I'm handcuffed in front of a room full of kindergartners. "You barely know him," I mutter to myself, knowing damn well that reminder isn't going to make a difference. I've been telling myself the same thing since I met him, and I still can't get him out of my head.

How mad is he right now?

My gaze drifts to my cell phone. I take a step in that direction before forcing myself to stop. "He doesn't need you complicating his life," I mutter to myself. "You did the right thing."

Except, with that dream still rattling around in my brain, the fact that I ran doesn't seem like the right thing. He's probably livid with me, especially since he told me I wasn't supposed to leave town. It's too late to do anything about that now, though, isn't it?

Sighing, I grab the duffle of clothes and toiletries I bought on the way into L.A. and hurry toward the bathroom. If I'm not going to sleep, I might as well get to work on clearing my name.

chapter nine

last resort

The UCLA campus is old and elegant. Gorgeous sculptures and fountains adorn the grounds, scattered between acres of trees and grassy walkways. The original four buildings draw the eye, the breathtaking architecture transporting visitors to another time and place. Growing up in L.A., I spent a lot of time on campus, even before I was accepted here during my senior year of high school. I know my way around, and no one stops me as I wander the campus, trying to work up the nerve to approach clustered group of students to ask my questions about Rory.

If anyone recognizes me from my time here or knows about my supposed relationship with their classmate, they don't say anything. I half expect someone to point me out and a crowd of angry students to descend with pitchforks and torches, but everyone is quiet, subdued. A definite cloud hangs over the campus, and I have no doubt it has everything to do with Rory and the media vans stationed just off of campus.

"Ivy Kendall?" a female voice calls as I wander around
Janss Terrace
near the west end of Dickson Plaza.

I turn toward the sound to find an elderly woman seated on the edge of the fountain, a pair of sunglasses pushed up to the top of her head. I'm not sure how I missed her. Dressed in a dark pantsuit with a briefcase at her feet, she stands out, her poufy white hair and lined face make it difficult to mistake her for one of the students fifty years her junior.

"Professor Burney?" I say, striding the few feet toward her with my hand extended. She was one of my favorite instructors during my freshman year, a battle-axe of a woman with a sharp wit, an even sharper tongue, and a devilish sense of humor. For reasons I still don't fully understand, she liked me better than most.

"It's so good to see you, dear," she exclaims, rising to her feet to wrap me in a warm hug. "It's been far too long since you graduated."

"Two years," I murmur, stepping back so I can see her more clearly. As much as I love the campus, being here reminds me of a rough time in my life. While my classmates were out partying, I was killing myself, trying to take care of my father, pay my tuition, and maintain my GPA. Those memories invariably trickle in and mix with my reason for coming here now, casting an oppressive shadow. "How are you?"

She waves a hand in the air, a mischievous smile on her face. "Still striking fear into the hearts of unsuspecting freshman," she says.

I laugh in genuine delight, happy to see she hasn't changed a bit in the last few years.

"And you?" she asks, settling back down onto the lip of the fountain and then motioning for me to join her. "Have you decided to rejoin us for your graduate degree or are you merely visiting today?"

"Visiting," I say, easing myself down onto the cool cement. "I'm not quite cut out to tackle graduate school."

"Oh, horseshit," she says frankly, arching a brow at me in a no nonsense way. "You'd do splendid in a graduate program. You've one of the quickest minds of any student I've taught in the last two decades, and you have the drive and determination, to boot."

"Thank you," I murmur, a thrill of pleasure running through me at her kind assessment of my qualifications. "Unfortunately, grad school doesn't pay for itself, and I'm actually really happy where I'm at. My students are challenging, but being able to make a difference in their lives is worth any frustration." I don't bother mentioning that my job and any chance of graduate school I might have had may both now be gone, ripped away by the cold-blooded woman pretending to be me.

"I had a feeling you would say that," she says, reaching out to pat my hand. "Your heart has always been one of the biggest things about you. I remember watching you fight tooth and nail to keep the Emery kid out of prison after he hit your parents. After everything you lost because of him, not many would have been so forgiving."

"He was only twenty, with a two year old daughter at home."

The night he hit my parents, he was doing twenty over the speed limit and texting, in a rush to get home after working late. He lost control and slammed into my dad's car, sending it over a cliff. My mom died instantly. My sister made it to the hospital, but passed away before they could get her prepped for surgery. My dad made it out alive, though barely. Sending a twenty-year-old to prison for being stupid wouldn't have brought my mom and sister back or made my dad whole again. Enough lives were destroyed by the accident without depriving a two year old child of her father, too.

"He didn't deserve to spend the rest of his life in prison for making a mistake."

Professor Burney squeezes my hand as if she hears the sorrow in my voice and knows I'm no longer talking about Tyler Emery. "Mr. Clark was a good kid from what I hear," she says, her voice pitched low, for my ears only. "I've heard rumors about the two of you. I won't presume to know what the truth is, but I don't doubt you will come out the other side of this."

I want to ask her how she knows why I'm here, but swallow the question back. By now, I'm sure everyone on campus has heard whispers that I'm the reason Rory killed himself. How many of them believe I told him to do it? That I'm a heartless, manipulative bitch? Another image of a group of students descending with pitchforks and torches drifts through my mind, pulling out a shiver.

"Do you know who…?" I lick my lips, hesitating before I forge ahead. "Someone stole my identity. I'd never even heard of Rory Clark until the police showed up on my doorstep. That's why I'm here. Do you know who might be willing to talk to me about him?"

Do you know who here
doesn't
want to see me hang for this?

"You're trying to clear your name." Her hazel eyes light up. "Good girl. Don't let these bastards blame you for a crime you didn't commit."

"I won't," I promise her.

She nods, satisfaction on her wizened face. "Start with the freshman engineering students," she says. "I can't promise they'll all be receptive, but some of them, at least, might be willing to talk with you. I'm not privy to what dorm he was assigned to, but his classmates will be." She glances at the watch on her delicate wrist and then up at me again. "I have a lecture beginning in a few moments, but you should visit in truth one day, dear. We'll spike our tea and have a grand time." She reaches into a pocket of her briefcase and pulls out a business card before handing it to me.

"I'll do that," I promise, rising to my feet with her. "Thank you, Professor Burney."

"Call me Sarah, dear," she says, dusting off her pants and straightening her jacket. "Give them hell."

With that, she's off, marching across Dickson Plaza toward the Humanities building on the far side of Powell Library. I stand where I am until she's lost to sight, and then turn to the right to begin the trek toward the Court of Sciences, a short walk away from my current position.

A couple of female students pass me in hoodies and jeans, cups of coffee in one hand and their cellphones in the other. The blonde glances up at me and then back down at her phone before doing a double-take. She opens her mouth and then closes it before opening it again, but she doesn't say anything to me. Instead, she grabs her friend's arm and pulls her away.

"Did you see her?" she hisses when she thinks I'm out of earshot.

"See who?" her oblivious friend asks loudly.

"Her! I think she's the girl who…"

Her voice fades as I quicken my steps, but the damage is already done. Hearing her whisper about me is like a punch to my gut, twisting my stomach into painful knots. Tears threaten, but I fight them back, refusing to cry when the two are undoubtedly casting glances over their shoulders at me.

Hunching my shoulders, I hurry toward Boelter Hall, more determined than ever to find some way to clear my name. I'm halfway there when someone grabs my arm, spinning me around.

"Hey! What―?" The question dies on my lips when I see Cam standing over me, a scowl on his face. He's breathtaking, with his gray eyes on fire and his jaw clenched so tight it pulses with anger. His entire body is taut, rigid as he glares at me, his chest heaving.

"Hi," I squeak, not sure what else to say to him.

"Hi?" He blinks his eyes slowly, long lashes momentarily obscuring the stormy gray before they pop open and fixate on me again.

"What are you doing here?"

Clearly, that's the wrong question to ask him. He opens his mouth, closes it, and then gently yanks me forward by my arm. I topple into his chest with a little cry of alarm, quickly silenced as his mouth crashes down on mine, stealing my breath. I don't mean to kiss him back, really, I don't, but I can't stop myself. A guttural groan rips from deep within his chest, and then my hands are in his hair, holding him to me as he devours my mouth.

Little, punishing bites to my bottom lip set off a series of detonations in my lower belly. The painful knots vanish, replaced by liquid flame. Cam pulls me closer, one hand on my nape, angling my head as he plunges his tongue into my mouth, claiming me in the middle of the UCLA campus. Another deep groan vibrates in his chest as my tongue twines with his. He tastes like mint and cherries, a combination quickly unraveling me. My body aches, screaming to feel his big hands on my naked flesh.

I want him. For his sake, I shouldn't, but I do. So much it's killing me.

"Please," I beg, not even sure what I'm asking for as he pulls back to nibble on my bottom lip again. I push myself closer, until the hard ridge of his erection presses into my stomach.

"Fuck," he mumbles, his hand now fisted in my ponytail while the other roves over my ass.

A sharp whistles sounds from the left.

"I got next!" someone shouts. "We'll take turns tapping that fine ass."

"Hell yeah," someone else says, laughing loudly. "I'd fuck the bitch right here."

In a blink, Cam's mouth is gone from mine. He jerks me behind him, hiding me from sight as he spins on the group of guys cheering and making disgusting comments a few paces away. All I can see past his broad shoulders are snatches of hair and body parts.

"What the fuck did you just say?" he snarls.

The group falls quiet as if sensing the menace rolling from him. His muscles are bunched, his feet planted and his hands clenched. Violence hangs thick in the air around him, unmistakable in its intensity. One wrong word, and he's going to seriously hurt someone.

"Cam," I murmur, placing my hand on his back. "It's okay."

He shrugs me off and points at the clustered group. "You don't ever talk about a woman like that," he says, voice deathly quiet. "Especially not my woman, you feel me?"

My heart flutters when he calls me
his woman
. I like the sound of that. A lot.

"He's a cop," one of the guys whispers, obviously noticing the badge hanging from a chain around Cam's neck.

"Sorry, dude," another one mutters. "We were just kidding."

Cam ignores the platitude, homing in on the guy who spoke first. "You treat women with respect. And you mind your own fucking business when you see one kissing her boyfriend, not make fucked up comments about joining in. Get the fuck out of here before I take your sorry ass in for sexual harassment."

We stand in silence as the group hurries away, subdued. When they're lost to sight, the sound of their footsteps completely faded, Cam still doesn't turn around to face me. I contemplate touching him again, and quickly decide against it. He's furious, and I know damn well all of that anger isn't because some idiot offered to fuck me on the sidewalk. He's mad―
livid
―at me.

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

My apology seems to break the spell holding him in thrall. He spins to face me, his cheeks flushed with anger. His eyes snap as he looks at me, fury roiling in the depths again. I expect him to yell at me for running off, but he doesn't. His gaze flits across my face, softening incrementally, and then he grabs my arm in a gentle vise.

"Let's go," he barks, already striding away.

And I want to go with him. Regardless of what the desire says about me, I think I'd follow him to hell itself, especially when he looks at me with his eyes a contradiction of hard and soft, and snaps orders like he fully expects me to obey. Like he's used to being obeyed without question or complaint. His confidence is sexy as all hell.

"No," I say anyway, planting my feet and resisting so he either has to drag me with him or stop walking. As pissed off as he is though, he's not the kind of guy who would drag me away kicking and screaming.

He stops and turns to me. Something familiar flares in his eyes.
Desire.
A predatory gleam lurks there, dilating his pupils. I think it turns him on when I disobey him.

"Don't fuck with me right now, kitten," he warns, his voice a low rumble. "I'm about two seconds from pulling my dick out right here on the sidewalk, regardless of who's watching."

God help me, but this man is going to be my undoing.

I lick my suddenly dry lips, instantly drawing his gaze to my mouth.

"That fucking mouth," he groans and then tugs on my arm again as if to get me moving.

"Unless I'm under arrest, I'm not going with you," I tell him, squaring my jaw.