Nothing But Wild (Malibu University Series Book 2) Page 4

  “Not even the Salvation Army is desperate enough to take these.”

  “Y-you’re not donating my f-favorite shirt and pants. I wear those the m-most.”

  I’ve stuttered ever since I can remember. No one knows why or how it started. At least, none of the therapists I’ve seen over the years could explain it. Inside my head everything is tidy, succinct, and clear. Forceful even. But as soon as the words are ushered out of my mouth they turn into a pile-up of letters.

  Most people I meet assume I’ve suffered a traumatic experience or that my parents had something to do with it––both of which couldn’t be any farther from the truth. Have I been fat shamed? Of course. Have I been bullied at school? Hasn’t everyone? But nothing serious enough to justify the anxiety I’ve felt all my life when I’m forced to speak.

  I’ve tried the medication. The cognitive therapy. Some of it worked, most didn’t. So after years of struggling to control it, I’ve given up and come to accept that it’s just part of who I am. It doesn’t mean I don’t get self-conscious about it, though…because I do.

  Zoe blinks. Her brow bunches, incredulity dueling with amusement on her refined features. They finally settle into a determined frown. “I’ve changed my mind. We’re burning them.”

  She tosses my favorite shirt and pants onto the rest of the pile on my bed and I snatch them back, clutching them protectively to my breasts. Not to be outdone, Zoe grabs them and tugs. Backing down from a fight would never in million years occur to her.

  “Let. Them. Go,” she orders.

  “No.” I tamp down the urge to laugh as she pulls harder.

  “Did you, or did you not beg me to help you fix this shit stain of a wardrobe?”

  I exhale audibly. I mean…I don’t know if I’d call it begging, but I also don’t want to hide anymore. Either behind a Halloween mask or my baggy clothes. I don’t want to disappear into the background. For better or worse, I want to be noticed. I’m well aware that I may be setting myself up for a lot of heartache, but I’m willing to face the challenge. If this is going to be a new and improved me, who better to help me spruce up my image?

  “How long would you like to hold on to your hymen? Till you’re dead? Because if I had a dick, it would go limp looking at this outfit.”

  “Fine.” My head drops. My grip loosens one finger at a time. “I wouldn’t be surp-prised to find a p-pentagram under your bed.”

  “I don’t need sorcery, Ramos––” She extends a hand and makes a circle near my face. “The virgin is all over you.”

  I swat it away and immediately flush red hot because the thought of everyone knowing…

  “Really?”

  She makes a face and smacks my forehead. “No, not really, you weirdo. I’m just super, super intelligent.”

  “And humble,” I add, my lips trembling into a smile.

  Alice’s head pops in, her brown eyes wide and glassy with amusement. “What are you guys up to?”

  “I’m Eliza Doolittling, Ramos’s ass,” Zoe deadpans while she takes the clothes out of my hands with undisguised glee and tosses them on the discard pile. Not a second later, she’s back in my closet, pulling out a shopping bag.

  “She’s helping me up-pdate m-my wardrobe.”

  Alice eyeballs me and a silent question passes between us. She wants to know if she needs to intervene, and I shake my head. I asked for this, after all.

  “With a flamethrower!” Zoe cuts in.

  Alice grins. “I’ll be up late––History of Italian Film exam tomorrow––let me know if anyone wants to order take-out.” That said, she disappears into the room across from mine.

  “What’s this?” Zoe continues unabated. Before I have a chance to answer, her face is half inside the bag. “What is THIS? Blake! Blaaaake! You gotta see this.”

  I went a little crazy the day I received the email from my birthmother. I thought I had experienced rejection and disappointment in my life. I thought a person whom I didn’t know and didn’t love had no power to hurt me. Well, I was wrong. Every cut I’d received until that day paled in comparison to what it felt like to see those words.

  Blake walks in and pops out her earbuds. Prince’s Purple Rain pours out of them before she turns the music off. It’s hard not to stare at her. Dark tilted eyes scrutinize the clothing on the bed and a wrinkle forms between them.

  “Stop torturing the poor girl, Zo.”

  “Wait till you see this,” she says to Blake, swatting me away as I attempt to take the bag from her. Then she starts pulling articles of clothing out of it. A Victoria’s Secret extra large sweatshirt, a couple of pairs of black leggings, a pair of Ugg boots.

  “It’s the Basic White Becky starter kit––”

  Blake snorts. “Keep me out of this.” She turns to leave.

  “Where are you going?!” Zoe shouts. “We have a serious fashion emergency here!”

  “I’m on a writing jag,” echoes from down the hallway.

  Blake writes lyrics. Songwriting’s her passion, one she keeps a tight lid on. The only reason I know is because I noticed a few lines she’d written on the back of a sandwich wrapper and the piles of crumpled-up Post-its in her Luis Vuitton bag. That’s when she told me. Otherwise, she never talks about it.

  The full force of Zoe’s attention returns to me. “Were you on a venti caramel macchiato high when you bought these?”

  Did I mention I’m not a fashion junkie?

  Her head is shaking before I can even attempt an explanation. “No. Just no. You’re returning everything. Except these––I’ll let you keep these.” She pulls out the black lace bra and matching underwear and my cheeks warm. Next she pulls out a pair of black joggers and grimaces. “Jesus, you’re hopeless. Come on. We’re going shopping.”

  Two hours later, my Neiman Marcus dressing room holds enough clothing to outfit the Duchess of Windsor.

  “I don’t n-need all this,” I say to the tall shadow on the other side of my dressing room curtain. Zoe’s long slender arm intrudes in my safe space, shoving three more hangers at me.

  I wouldn’t even know where to begin, how to get dressed in the morning. I’ve been wearing the same style of clothing since the ninth grade. That was the year my butt and boobs grew exponentially larger than the rest of my body, which did not look so hot on someone measuring all of five foot three.

  The curtain rips open and Zoe does a cursory inspection of the outfit I have on. She shakes her head. “No. Take it off. Too baggy.”

  “I like baggy,” I grumble. Baggy be it, in my opinion.

  “No shit,” she remarks drily. “That’s the problem.”

  “My b-butt’s enormous…” My voice trails off. I hate the sound of it right now. And I probably shouldn’t have said it out loud, but the thing is, Zoe elicits total honesty out of me. Also, ugly truth: sometimes living amongst a disproportionate amount of skinny Amazons and looking comparatively like Blueberry Violet in Willy Wonka And The Chocolate Factory gets to me. I’m only human.

  Once again, the curtain flies open, and exhaling loudly, Zoe hands me another pair of jeans. The dramatics are strong in this one. “There are celebrities that pay hard-earned cash––serious money––to get an ass like yours. Stop being such a whiney little bitch and own it.”

  No one will ever accuse Zoe of dissembling to save someone’s feelings. And yet an unexpected grin slowly grows on my face as I stuff my legs into the pair of designer jeans she just handed me. “S-Stop ex-exaggerating.”

  Paying for this butt…Who in their ever loving mind would want this?

  “Fine…” She rolls her eyes. “It’s not hard-earned.”

  Despite my best effort to not encourage her, laughter escapes me. She really is the best kind of sociopath.

  Dallas

  “I’m thinking about going to Chile for spring break. A guy I know from boarding school says they get some wicked sixty foot swells,” I say to the freeloaders that have appropriated my couch. “Anyone game?”

  The whole team is over tonight, most of them taking turns playing Assassins Creed on my Xbox, some of which are losing money betting on who’s gonna win. The rest are watching the Laker’s win on my eighty-six inch flatscreen.

  We’ve got a big game tomorrow so it’s video games and take-out, a tradition we started freshman year when one of the starting seniors got so trashed he forgot to show up for the game the following day.

  “Anybody here date Jill Hennessy?” Shane asks while staring at his phone with a shit-eating grin.

  Shane Westbrook. Son on Senator Westbrook. Grandson of the first African American Fleet Admiral of the U.S. Navy, Lee Westbrook.

  “Do not do it, man,” Warner howls as he stuff a slab of pizza in his mouth.

  Shane glances up, looking genuinely bummed. “Why not?”

  “Venus flytrap,” Cole answers from the other side of the sectional.

  The snickers start because the peanut gallery knows what’s coming. Shane’s a junior. He transferred in last year from UCLA so he doesn’t know the playbook––the real playbook––yet.

  “The fuck?”

  “Once you stick your dick in her, she ain’t letting you go, bud,” Cole explains, with a wicked grin. His glee at crushing Shane’s hope is some shit, but that’s Cole for you.

  “She sounds nice,” Fletcher the freshman deadpans while simultaneously taking his anger out on my Xbox controller. “You should definitely date her.”

  “Bitches be craaazy,” Chasen, another freshman, sings.

  “Knock that shit off, Chasen,” Brock jumps in immediately. Mother is ever watchful of his brood. He’s kicked back in one of the recliners, arm tucked behind his head, reading the Bible. I kid you not. “You want someone saying that about your mom or little sister?”

  “No, Cap,” Chasen answers, duly chastened.

  “Dude…” I level Peterman Two with a generic WTF look.

  “What?” he answers, faking innocence as usual. “I just saved him months of incessant text and phone calls.” Then turning his attention back to Shane, “You’re welcome, Westbrook. Don’t say I never did nothing for you.”

  “Your insides are some seriously dark matter, dude,” Warner says to Cole. Then he goes back to watching the Laker’s game.

  Shane shakes his head and goes back to texting.

  Cole turns to me again. “Are we gonna need jet-skis? Could get expensive.”

  I shrug. When money isn’t an issue, there’s no such thing as can’t do. “I’ll float you. Problem solved. Anyone else want the rest of the shrimp stir-fry?”

  “No,” they all answer at once, which has me grabbing the take-out box off the coffee table before one of these savages changes their minds.

  “I mean, sixty foot waves? It’s totally unhinged, but I dig it.” Cole slaps his palms together and rubs. “Let’s crush some ass.”

  “Don’t encourage him,” Brock mutters. Mother is a pious dude. His brother…yeah, not so much.

  “Why not? It’s fun to watch him crash and burn.”

  That hits a nerve. Do I love an adrenaline rush more than the next guy? Maybe. Do I push the boundaries a little too far? Sometimes. So what? I’m not hurting anyone. And the chicks I date know the score. I’m not sure Cole can say the same.

  “Fuck you, Cole. Like you’re one to talk.”

  “Negative. I’m into chicks, bro.”

  “Cole…” Rea warns.

  “Get your face out of his taint and open your eyes,” Cole says to Rea, who endures it with the chill patience of a Shaolin freaking monk. There’s a reason he’s a captain of this team. The glue of this crew. “It’s a cry for help.”

  “I’m not the one drowning myself in pussy to run away from whatever is chasing me. Who’s the one with the cry for help?”

  “Guys, c’mon––” Reagan shakes his head and checks his phone for the millionth time tonight. Poor bastard.

  “Did somebody say taint?” Quinn shouts from the kitchen. Then he cackles like a lunatic.

  “Duuuude,” Warner sings.

  “Inappropriate, man,” Westbrook adds. “Highly inappropriate.”

  Smith’s laughter soon turns infectious. Before long everyone else is laughing too.

  Whoever found my phone. Can you please return it to me? Please! I can’t afford a new one.

  The chime of an incoming text has me digging into my backpack. The bus ride home from Stanford feels longer and more painful than necessary, my body reminding me of every jab I took.

  We lost to Stanford and it was a brutal one. Warner strained a quad. Quinn jammed a finger. And I got tossed out in the fourth quarter for elbowing Hernandez in the gut. Cheater deserved it.

  Regardless, it was not a good look when we’re already two games behind them in the standings. Like I said, the season is a short one and we don’t have many more matches before the playoffs. Add in this bus ride home that feels like it’s taking an eternity and we’re all close to wrecked.

  Seated next to me, Rea’s fast asleep, head against the window, face smashed into his pillow. Quietly, I fish out the phone and glance at the screen. Should I text back? I play with the idea. I’ve had it over a week now––maybe a little more. I can’t tell you why I haven’t returned it yet. Only that I tucked it in my gym bag and have been carrying it around with me ever since.

  Hello? please text back if you have my phone. I promise I won’t be mad.

  That makes me chuckle.

  “What are you smiling at, princess?”

  I glance up into Quinn’s smirking face and my amusement drops. He’s appropriated the entire row in front of mine under the claim that he needs more sleep than the rest of us. Asshole.

  “Your mother wanted to know if I enjoyed her services last night.”

  I put my head back down and focus on the redhead’s phone. I should give it back. I’ll do it as soon as I get back to campus on Monday.

  “In that case, make an appointment to see the cock doc, love. Mum gets around.”

  I wait for Smith to slide back down into his seat before I type.

  Out of town. Will return it when I get back.

  Pressing Send, I turn it off and stuff it back into my bag.

  “What are you doing?” Rea cracks an eye open.

  “Invading some chick’s privacy.”

  “Hmm, cool.” He’s still half asleep. Otherwise the no-fun police would be all over me.

  “Alice text?” I ask because it’s becoming increasingly obvious that Rea is going off the rails without her.

  “Nah,” he returns, his tone a major downer.

  “Should’ve taken my advice, bro. Bailey’s a cool chick.”

  I tried to gently shove him in the right direction a few weeks ago––he’s got it bad for a girl he’s become good friends with, a cool girl too, a film major––but some dudes need to overthink everything and Reagan is one of those types.

  He looks away for a beat, pensive. “You think I messed it up beyond repair?”

  “No. Only thing beyond repair is death.”

  My chest gets tight. Rea nods, as lost in his thoughts as I am in mine.

  “What’s that?” Eyes cast down, he’s squinting at the phone in my open backpack.

  “A phone.”

  “No shit, genius. Whose phone? Last time I checked yours didn’t have a case with cartoon dogs on it.”

  “Some chick’s. She dropped it in class.” I can’t tell him I think it may belong to Bailey’s friend. The no-fun police won’t allow it. He’d get in a huff and insist I return it tonight and that is not happening.

  “So why do you still have it?”

  “Because I’m strangely attracted to her and need to learn everything about her before I return it.”

  “Stop fucking around. Why do you still have it?”

  Nobody wants to hear the truth. Even when it hides in plain sight.

  I shrug. “Haven’t gotten around to returning it. I’ve been busy.”

  Satisfied with my answer, he fluffs his pillow, his head goes back down, and his eyes fall shut. They suddenly slam open again and he stares at me pointedly. Then his gaze shuttles to the row in front of us.

  “I heard you talking shit with Q,” he says in the lowest possible volume. “His mother went to jail for soliciting.”

  Fuuuck. I’m an asshole but not that big of one.

  “I didn’t know,” I murmur back.

  Rea shakes his head. It goes back down on the pillow and his eyes close again.

  The pressure is back. I’m crawling out of my skin. No way am I getting any sleep now. I’m too restless, too messed up. I pull the phone with the cartoon dogs case out of my bag, dim the screen, and start flipping through it.

  Punching the Photos icon, I watch as a bunch of memes and dog pictures populate the screen. Then I see it and the world comes to a screeching halt.

  It’s a selfie taken in a full-length mirror…of a girl in a Cat Woman costume.

  Kitten.

  Chapter Five

  Dora

  “When did we get old enough to have a twenty-one year old?” my dad, Evan, muses out loud while he plays with my ponytail.

  There’s more silver threaded through his sandy blond hair than there was last time I saw them. I tend to forget that time doesn’t stand still for them either.

  “Not for another week––don’t rush it,” my other dad, Jay, remarks from across the table, his ginormous body barely fitting in the booth. He tugs on the collar of his navy polo shirt and glances around like he’s casing the joint.

  My dad, Jay, is the Bureau Chief for the Southern California branch of the DEA and my other dad, Evan, is a high school art teacher. Which means I know everything there is to know about how to avoid getting caught committing a crime, and the difference between Cubism and Abstract Expressionism. Basically if you need to start a cartel or buy a really expensive piece of modern art, I’m your girl.

  And yes, I have two dads. For the sake of clarity, I’ll refer to them by their first names, Jay and Evan. To me, they’re Dad and Daddy.

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