Madeline giggles and claims a seat at her desk, flipping open and turning on her laptop.
I decide the conversation’s come to an end and check my watch. Ten minutes. I breathe deep, continuing my journey toward the door. “Nice . . . talking with you.”
“You’re going out with Brock Cunningham, aren’t you?”
Not the response I expected. I halt and turn around, the slight chastising tone in her voice piquing my interest. “Kind of. Why?” Though her back’s facing me, I see her shaking her head in quick little jolts.
“I’ve seen you two around campus. I can’t say that he’s not right up there with Ryder as far as sex appeal goes. He’s definitely a fine-looking specimen, but you should really, really think twice about making him anything long-term.”
I suddenly feel like I’m being reprimanded by a nun. “Who are you, my mother?”
She shrugs. “Just a concerned citizen.”
Is this chick for real? She’s spoken fuck-all words to me, and now she’s my relationship mentor?
“And your need to play the concerned citizen card stems from what, dear roommate of mine who’s decided now’s the perfect time to exhibit her skills in speaking English?” Sarcasm drips from each word like melting icicles. “Do tell.”
“He’s a drug dealer,” she says matter-of-factly as she stands and faces me. “Though preppy in his looks, Grecian god–like in his build, and as cordially sweet as they come, Brock Cunningham’s a chameleon. Wits outwitting the best of them, he races more cocaine in and out of the DC metropolitan area than NASCAR drivers complete laps.”
My heart stops, my breathing following suit.
As my purse slides from my shoulder, she continues to clog my head. “They all do.”
“Who’s ‘they’?” My voice comes out grainy, like sandpaper rubbing against sandpaper.
With guarded eyes, she tosses her crimson hair over her shoulder. “Ryder; my boyfriend, Lee; and a few local dirtbags Brock’s got on his payroll.”
Other than Ryder’s name, I heard the word “boyfriend.” Okay, she’s lost me so much that for a split second I find myself scrambling to form a sentence. But in true Gemini form, I never fail to word-vomit my thoughts.
I pick up my purse, a wicked you’re a walking contradiction smile rearing its ugly head across my lips. “Your boyfriend’s on his payroll, huh?”
“Yeah.” Her brow lifts in slow hesitation. “Why?”
“Why?” I laugh, tapping my chin in mock thought. “Let’s see. Could it be because you’re saying I should think twice about someone who deals, but you shouldn’t?”
“Lee sells it for Brock but doesn’t actually run the whole ring. That’s the point.” Her ridiculous defense comes out in fast, clipped strokes. “There’s a difference. A big difference.”
No longer interested in this bullshit conversation, I swing open the door, convinced the girl I’m rooming with is going to drive me nuts. Borderline psychotic. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s how easily humans throw rocks—no, boulders—against the same glass houses they reside in.
Can I deny my mind is spinning, whirling like an amusement park ride? No. Absolutely not. The captain of the football team, who’s completely unaware that he’s already dipped his way into my shallow soul, has managed to lump himself into the ilk of slimy bastards who turned my parents into what they were, what they died as.
He’s an addict’s dream, dragging unsuspecting victims off to never-never land.
Yet as I make my way down the stairs, I can’t stop my feet from moving. I try, but I can’t. I push open the doors, the late August sun showing no mercy as curiosity about who Brock Cunningham really is seizes every cell in my body. Desperation nearly blinds me as I scan the student parking lot for Brock’s Hummer, snagging it before I can take another nervous breath. Though my movements appear unperturbed, my pulse’s thumping like an angry fist against a punching bag. I hear the vehicle’s locks unclick, their sound mimicking that of a cocked shotgun.
Bang, bang, bang goes my heart as Brock gets out, but I open the passenger-side door, preventing his intention of doing it for me. I slide in, my senses vibrating from the effusion of expensive leather and masculine cologne sweetening the air. Every nervous tic inside me comes to a complete stop as Brock ducks back in, our gazes connecting with an instant sizzle. Though it feels like an eternity’s swept by, it’s only a few seconds before a warm smile steals his lips, the deep sea green of his eyes dizzying my head the same way they did the first time I saw him.
That’s all it takes. A single look. A single heart-stopping, breath-thieving look from him and my mind changes scripts, deciding that things between us, in our current state, are too perfect, that my questions will only bring what we’re becoming—a fucked-up duo—to an abrupt end, leaving me to wonder what could’ve been.
Regret: the universe’s way of keeping each of us a slave to its brutality. Holding our hand in its poisonous grip, regret’s toxicity is the last visitor remaining by our side as we lie on our deathbeds.
Though I yearn to unearth every mystery this man’s trying hard to conceal, the world around me disappears, taking with it any and all questions I had but a few seconds ago. I don’t want to meet Brock’s demons, the skeletons he’s holding captive in a trunk of buried secrets. I have no desire to acquaint myself with them. Not now. Maybe never.
But I have to. I opened myself up to him, and he lied to me, keeping the biggest piece of himself hidden beneath a petrifying camouflage. That makes me want to run, flee, fly away from him and his world. However, as a lethal blend of curiosity and nervousness shifts through my limbs, I can’t move. Something more powerful than I’ll ever be keeps me planted to the seat.