Three Years Later
Spring Semester, Senior Year
Kam
I BREATHE INthe spring air as I walk across campus. It’s early morning. Well, relatively. Being up at eight-thirty is hellish for most college students, but normal for me. I’ve already worked out, eaten breakfast, showered, and dressed. It’s just part of my routine—the routine I’ve followed since I stepped foot on this university three and a half years ago.
I walk into the communications building and find room 202. I stop short when I see the last face I ever expected to see sitting in the third row, playing on her phone. Her hair is pulled up into a tight bun with a few tiny red streaks standing out against the deep dark brown. She’s wearing cutoff shorts, a black T-shirt, and white Converse. The sight of her actually makes my heart palpitate. It still stings when I think about the day we broke up.“Let’s call this what it is . . . quits.”
I never quit.
I walk up and quietly slide into the desk next to her. “Well, well, well . . .” Laney looks up with just her eyes when she recognizes my voice. I think she’s just as thrown as I am. “What is an architect major doing in an eight-thirty a.m. sports broadcasting class? On a Friday, no less?”
She huffs and puffs as she cocks her head to look at me. “I needed a one-credit class, and this was the only one I could fit into my schedule.”
“Uh-huh. Sure it wasn’t because you just wanted to see me?” I purposely tease her.
“I can assure you, it wasn’t. If I wanted to see you, all I’d have to do is pick up the school newspaper, or go to their website, or turn on ESPN.”
“None of those things compare to being seen in the flesh.” I smile brazenly.
“Nope, you’re right about that.” She points to my neck.
“What?” I place my hand on the skin.
“Bite mark.”
“Oh.” I chuckle.
“Same old Kam,” she remarks as the professor writes his name on the whiteboard in front of us. He’s very young, maybe mid-thirties, but dressed like a twenty-something frat boy—plaid polo, cargo shorts, and flip-flops. This class is going to be cake.
I sneak glances at Laney as we go over the syllabus. She looks older, more mature, but some attributes are still exactly the same—long silky legs, a plump, pouty mouth, and a perky rack. She’s still sexy as hell and as tempting as sin.
I try not to think about how her exotic perfume affects me as the professor glosses over each bullet point. It seems like he’s more eager for this class to be over than the students are.
At the forty-five minute mark, he calls it.
“Next week, have chapters one through three read and prepare to participate. Dismissed.”
I walk next to Laney as we slowly exit the room. “Partners for the final project?” I ask her.
She shrugs, considering. “Sure, why not. We can just report on you.”
“An interview?” I beam.
“I know how much you like to hear yourself talk,” she digs lightly.
“Wear a skirt for the Q&A. I like legs, too,” I banter back.
“Kam!” She smacks me on the stomach just as a guy with glasses and both hands gripping the straps of his backpack walks up to us. He doesn’t look happy.
“Hey.” He snakes his arm around Laney’s waist possessively and stares me down.Is this guy for real?
“Hey.” She smiles up at him. “Steve, this is Kam.”
“Yeah, I know who he is. Mr. Big Shot Quarterback,” he says, standoffish. He has an accent sort of like Laney’s. He’s definitely not from around here. “Ready to get out of here, Lay?”
“Lay?” I curl my lip. That’s the worst nickname ever.
Steve glares. I just eye him up like the dufus he is. Is she seriously with this guy?
“See you next week, Kam.” Laney sighs melodramatically.
I lean forward, encroaching on her personal space just to fuck withSteve.“Later, Lemon,” I rasp, winking arrogantly, then walk away.
