Page 30 of Notorious Man on Campus

“Teased me?” She looks faintly puzzled and, damn it, hopeful. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Brick. I wanted you. Still want you. We haven’t—you haven’t—” She waves her hand around, unable to say that I haven’t come yet. Fuck. Is she really an innocent or is she the sensual bombshell I had in bed a few minutes ago? But it doesn’t matter, because neither version of Nyla belongs to me. They’re both poison. Like Eve’s apple.

“No. There’s still nothing between us, Nyla. Can’t be. Ever.” I can’t believe I broke my rule about leading on innocent women.

I almost laugh out loud at myself because I’m worried about Nyla when I know very well the rule I broke with Nyla was supposed to protect me. From her. The forbidden fruit, the poison apple.

And I don’t want to even think about my brother Jimmy.

“Because of Jimmy?” she says. “He never wanted me. Trust me. You need to get over that, Brick.”

“Get over my brother?” I sneer at her because I need her to feel how impossible that is.

“No, that’s not what—”

“That’s right, I forgot you don’t know the meaning of loyalty. Have no concept—”

“That’s not fair.”

I should anticipate it coming, should stop it, but too much alcohol and those mesmerizing golden eyes of hers distract me. Her slap lands squarely on my left cheek in a sting so loud my head spins like a wash cycle.

“Fuck, Nyla.” I grab her wrist too late then pull it off me and back away from her. “Fair? Why do you expect fair? Life is never fair. Don’t hope for things you can’t have.”

The tragic expression on her face looks like I’ve struck her and I touch the red sting of my cheek. We’ve both been struck for going past the line.

“I’m sorry. I won’t cross the line again.” I force myself to say the words she needs to hear, the words that should be true, but that truth is slipping. I can feel it. “I don’t want you, Nyla. I don’t want a girlfriend and especially not you.”

Her face changes and instead of the hurt and disappointment I expect, she shows concern. For me. Fuck. The last thing I need is her sympathy, her knowing, seeing right through my fucking lie.

Spinning away from her, I yank open the door and leave. I don’t stop when Allie stands in my way, putting two hands on my chest, asking me what the fuck I was doing in Nyla’s room and what’s wrong with me.

Dylan’s across the kitchen having a beer chugging contest with Trey, about to get his ass kicked it looks like because that sucker Trey has a hollow leg.

“Go support your man, Allie. I’m going to bed. Alone.” I add the last to placate her because I can’t get away with telling her to fuck off without Dylan killing me, not because I care what she thinks. Girlfriends are a pain in the ass.

But the taste of Nyla on my lips as I run up the back stairs tells me there’s a lot more to them than pain. The look on Nyla’s face was pure pleasure, and the pleasure was not just hers. At the top of the stairs I turn right toward the bathroom and kick out whoever’s in there with a few loud raps and insistent shouts, because tonight I’m going to need an ice-cold shower.

I only hope the icy water cures more than my overexcited dick. But I should know better than to rely on hope for anything.

Chapter 12

Nyla

What did I expect?

I throw myself at him, bare my soul—not to mention my unmentionables—and give myself to him, let him take whatever he wants, beg him to let me have him. And he did what he does best. He turns me down cold, shuts me out, deserts me, claims he wants nothing to do with me. I know why. I get it.

But why the fuck do I keep coming back for more?

Because it’s Brick and I… don’t know. Or more likely I do know and don’t want to admit to myself that I’m hopelessly attracted to him, keep telling myself it’s no more than a connection. I can’t bring myself to think the L word.

But what else would explain my absolutely batshit behavior? Slinking against the door, I refuse to cry, refuse to admit the answer. I pull off my sweater and throw it in the direction of my closet, not caring at the moment that it’s worth more than a month’s rent for my family and that I’ll need to get Dooley to return it tomorrow because no way can I keep it. More because it’ll remind me of tonight than because of some pride about taking handouts.

That’s how far I’ve sunk, how useless hope is when it comes to Brick. Pulling on my ragged Fox Chapel High football shirt, the one Brick gave me that night—because evidently I’m still a hopeless fucking romantic bent on self-torture—I throw myself onto my bed. My phone rings and I jump, scrambling to pick up my phone until I see it’s only Dooley. Only Dooley? He’s too good to be only Dooley, but I can’t answer the phone all the same because I need to keep my misery all to myself, locked in the chamber of unhealthy secrets.

No one’s supposed to know about me and Brick, about our true history, about Jimmy. Hell, even Brick doesn’t know the damn truth about his brother. But that’s one secret I promised to keep for Jimmy and I will because it’s his secret to tell. Some day. Some fucking day.

I briefly toy with calling him, begging him to let it go, but I don’t have the heart. Poor Jimmy’s already suffered enough. Now it’s my turn.

“But what about Brick? Hasn’t he suffered enough?” I ask out loud and wish there was an answer, wish so much that the answer was yes, he’s finished with his suffering and misery and he’s whole now and all yours because you’ve saved him from the pit he’s living in.