Bad Intentions (10 page)

“Don’t worry about it.” I rake a hand through my hair. “I’m actually pretty worn out. The drive about killed me, and staying up all night last night didn’t help.”

“We’re pussies.”

I flash her a look of disgust.

“What? Don’t stone me.”

“Who are you?” I ask with laughter laced in my tone.

“I have a foul mouth. You knew this from day one.”

I can feel my brows flicking. “Today’s only day two.”

“Well, no need to hide my true colors now.” She smiles and stands up, yanking her shirt over her head in the process.

“I’m in desperate need of a shower. Oh, and don’t be surprised if I’m in there thinking about Gere.” A smile bends the corners of her mouth.

“Stop. Just stop. He’s old enough to be your grandfather. I’m gonna puke.”

Zoe’s cheeks turn a vivid scarlet as she turns and shuts the door.

My roommate is gone when I awake, and although her unfiltered mouth is missed, it’s nice to have a few silent minutes to think alone. I haven’t had any time to just sit and reflect yet. The sound of my alarm clock chiming tells me that it’s eight o’clock, and unlike most college freshman, I’m thrilled at the fact that I have to get up and go to class.

Braxton University has the best physical therapy program in the nation. It was the defining factor in my decision to move here. Prior to my accident, college never really crossed my mind. Even my parents thought I would be an Olympic athletic. It just hadn’t been a priority. Oh, how things have changed. Earning my degree is now my only priority. As soon as I came to terms with the fact that my gymnastics career was toast, I knew what I wanted to be when “I grew up.” Even though I didn’t show it much during my recovery, I’m so thankful to all of the physical therapists that helped me cope with my injury. It was a no brainer. I wanted to become that very person to someone else.

People say everything happens for a reason. While there are times I don’t agree with that statement, I do feel like I’m right where I’m supposed to be. Since my accident and all.

Throwing my arm over the side of the bed, I reach toward the floor and pull up my purse. I rummage around in it until I find a small, cylindrical prescription bottle. I hate the pills. I hate the way they sometimes make me feel foggy if I haven’t eaten, and I hate the way they remind me that my body failed me. Sometimes I dread taking them. They make me feel weak. But, it’s a love-hate relationship. Although, I know I’m not a druggie… my body needs them. I guess that’s the true difference. Addiction comes from the mind. But what eighteen-year-old needs to take a medication in order to do the simplest thing, like stand up? The pills mask the pain. And then there are other days—days that I sing their praises for helping me have the strength to sit upright in bed. Today is one of those days.

From the moment my lids opened and I stretched in bed, I could already feel my spine aching. I didn’t take anything during my drive here because I didn’t want to have them in my system. The ride—sitting up for hours on end in the same position didn’t help—and then my little stunt at the bonfire... Yeah, that about sums up why I need to take one this morning.

I grab a bottle of water off the rickety nightstand and swallow my miracle pills. I have a good half hour before I need to get up and make the trek to class. So I lay, unmoving, and allow it to kick in.

Ten minutes later, I’m anxious to get up and get the day started. I take a quick shower and toss on a sundress I bought at Target. My hair has already started drying and falls down my back in loose waves. The humidity won’t treat me well. I know the moment I walk outside, I’m going to turn into a ball of frizz, but it is what it is.

Meandering around campus proves to be my biggest obstacle. That, and the fact that I’m almost positive I look like Hermione Granger in her early days.
Screw you weather,
I think as I walk up a set of concrete steps and prepare to enter my first college class. Kinesiology 101.

I glance around the lawn and expect it to be littered with students as I stroll toward a structure that has
Martin Hall
etched into the brick on the front of the building. I’m shocked to find it almost deserted, other than a lone student here and there, each toting a backpack slung over their shoulders. I find it odd and slightly eerie. Glancing at the time on my phone, I see that it’s seven forty-five. I take another step forward, my flip-flops slapping the ground underneath my feet.

With fifteen minutes to spare, I approach a door and swing it open. The squeak of hinges pierces my ears as I open it wider and slide inside the lecture hall. There’s a small wooden desk at the front of the room that is oddly empty, much like the majority of the chairs placed in tight rows in front of me. I take a step forward, my arm outstretched as I run my index finger over the back of a chair.

And then, I twirl around and around and around. I open my arms and stretch them out on either side of me as far as they will go, spinning like I’m Mary-freaking-Poppins. I’m elated. Hell, I’m a hundred times more than elated. Some may groan and whine about getting up early—that’s evident from the lack of bodies filling the seats in the vast space—but not me.

I….cannot…
wait
for what college has in store for me.

And then, just as suddenly as I began to twirl, I lose my footing. My sandal slides against the material of the bag that I’d let fall from my shoulder moments before, nearly causing me to do the splits. Quickly, I reach out to steady myself on a chair. I’ve never had a problem with balance—it’s usually my strong suit. In this moment though, it fails me.

With a thud, I tumble onto my butt. My legs sprawl out in front of me and my shoulders instantly sag, as I lean back and rest against the very chair that foiled me. I tilt my head back and don’t even try to suppress the laughter that bubbles out of my throat and echoes off the walls around me. I’m thankful that no one showed up early to bear witness to my foolishness.

It’s then that I hear someone clapping. I twist my neck around to see a ray of light reflecting off the floor and onto the silhouette of a body. The sound of hands meeting in a calculated, sharp clap jars me as I stand up and peer toward the door. As the clapping continues, I start to seethe when the outline of the silhouette becomes more visible.

Of course, it has to be him.

“That little stunt was spectacular. Truly.” He nods his head as if he’s approving. As he walks closer, I can see a slick grin creeping its way onto Ryle’s perfectly plump limps. It’s deceiving and alluring at the same time.

I want to smack it off his face and then smother him with kisses.

“Shut up,” I huff and lean forward to pick up my bag. A foot kicks it further away from me. Inhaling, I shake my head and lean forward again. Ryle uses more force as his tennis shoe collides with it again. I watch as it actually becomes airborne and lands with a thud several feet away. “Asshole,” I whisper under my breath.

“I heard that,” he gruffly admits.

“Aw.” I hold my hand in the center of my chest pretending to care. “I hope it didn’t hurt your feelings.” I add, “Like you have any.” I jerk my bag up off the ground and march to the furthest seat away from where he’s standing.

Just as I take a seat, the door swings open, and in walks a man carrying a briefcase. He nods to say hello as he places a silver coffee thermos on his desk. Behind him, students usher in, dragging their feet as if coming to class is the worst kind of punishment. I glance at my phone again, which reads eight eleven. Punctuality isn’t anyone’s forte, I assume. Not like I have much room to talk after yesterday.

“And what’s that supposed to mean? I’m not really a read-between-the-lines kinda guy.” Ryle addresses me from a few feet away. His feet still glued in place, his eyes search out mine.

“It means that you’re also not the kind of guy who gives a shit. About anyone.” I shake my head in annoyance and focus all of my energy on pulling a fancy new notebook out of my bag. He must have gotten the point, as he turns away and takes off up a set of stairs leading to more seating. I glance behind me almost expecting to find him, but he’s gone.

Breathing a sigh of relief, I lean back in my seat. A light tap on my shoulder makes me huff. It better not be
him.
I turn around slightly. I’m surprised to see Kaiser sitting behind me with a grin on his face.

“Small world. I should have known I’d see you here.”

“Is that so?” I ask, my grin mimicking his.

“Body movements are your thing. Turns out they’re my thing too.” Kaiser must have noticed my brow shoot up because he adds, “The class, that is. Kinesiology.”

“Oh, I gotcha. Apparently Ryle’s too,” I say as my pulse spikes with the mention of his name.

“Yeah, about him. Are you two, ya know, bow chicka bow wowing?”

“What are you, twelve?” I chuckle. “Seriously, bow chicka anything should never come out of your mouth again.”

“Don’t be modest. You two totally have this whole fighting attraction thing going on.”

My voice is heavy with sarcasm as I say, “You must be blind, Kaiser. The
only
thing we do is fight and bicker like cats and dogs.”

“That’s evident from yesterday, but I gather that there’s more to it.” He rubs his chin conspicuously, like he’s a mastermind stumped by a puzzle. “From where I’m standing, it reminds me of a boy on a playground taunting an innocent girl. I’d bet my check that’s what’s going on here.”

“I think you’re wrong, honey,” I scoff and turn my attention to the professor, who is now preparing for his first lecture of the semester.

I can’t help but allow my mind to drift. Kaiser’s wrong. It’s nothing like when we were all children and boys would pick on us and call us annoying little names. I clear my head and try to focus. I was so excited to get to class, and now I’m yawning.

When the professor announces that class is over for the day and dismisses the group, I look down to see my notebook page consumed with doodles, hearts and flowers.

So much for taking notes.

Looking around the room, I’m shocked to see that most of the student body is zoned out. Some are even sleeping. It makes me feel less guilty for my mind drifting. I quickly jot down the notes on the dry erase board and make my way to the exit through a crowd of people all trying to push their way to freedom. The sun is shining as I walk outside, and the warm rays feel nice on my exposed shoulders.

A rough hand snakes around my bicep. I jerk my arm, only to feel the grip of somebody tightening his grasp. I’m in a sea of people rushing by me hurriedly as they try to beat time and get to their next class, practice or work. I’m jostled forward before I can turn around.

“What kind of vibe are you getting now?”
he
says softly, mockingly.

I swivel on my heels and am not shocked to find myself face to face with Ryle Benson. I look at him. Really look at him. He’s gorgeous in an angelic, masculine way and trust me, it’s possible to appear both hard and soft. I wouldn’t ever think someone could possess both features, but I’m staring at someone who masters it. His cheekbones are chiseled like a piece of artwork and are covered with a dusting of five o’clock shadow. His mouth is defined by a set of luscious lips. Lips that are so full it’s practically a sin to also have them attached to a person whose features hold such a strong sexuality that I have to hold back a gasp.

Something primal rises in his throat. I can hear it as he inhales deeply, and I pray to God that my deodorant hasn’t failed me. Gazing up, I see his eyes are the deepest shade of blue, like night. I wish there was an invitation into the smoldering depths of
those
eyes. I want to know why they cast an impression of cold loneliness.

I place my free hand on his forearm and bask in the knowledge of my power, as chill bumps break out on his skin like my palm is made of icy fire. “I’m getting mixed vibes, and I’m tired of being pushed around,” I say confidently before my nerves get the best of me. I avert my eyes downward and let my hand slide off of his arm. The tip of my sandal finds a small pebble, and I begin to roll it back and forth. The steady movement keeps my attention, and the distraction fills the silence between us.

I’m dying to touch him again but I can’t bring myself to look up at him. I see his hand moving toward my face and my breath catches, as he guides my chin upward. I meet his gaze and try to decipher what I see there. I don’t blink, for fear I’ll wake up from this dream with my face against my desk, slobber plastered to my cheek.

With the pad of his thumb, he gently strokes my parted lips. My legs go weak as I fight the urge to quiver in response to his touch. He closes his eyes as his fingers feather over my lips, as if to commit them to memory. Abruptly he drops his hand, and just as quickly, he turns away without a word. And then he does something that no guy has done before. He starts to sprint.

I’m left watching him literally run away from me, wondering what the fuck just happened.

As I stand with my arms hanging limply at my sides, staring at his retreating behind, Kaiser nears me. “Do you still think I’m wrong?” he asks smugly.