Nothing But Trouble (Malibu University Series) Read online

  I take it from him with a heavy heart. I’ve finally hit bottom. There’s my sugar. My day can’t get any worse. I’ve officially lost my only source of income and I can’t even call my parents because they will stress, and in turn, I’ll stress even more.

  A whiff of chlorine and laundry detergent tickles my nose. As I’m rubbing it, the sudden, obvious presence of a tall person standing much too close for comfort draws my attention to the left and up, up, up. Where I’m met by a set of blazing green eyes staring back at me. My attention falls to lips molded into a sulky frown.

  My day just got worse.

  “What?” is the only thing I can think to say under scrutiny so intense it could strip paint off a car.

  “Hi, Reagan,” Josie says a bit too loudly, compelling both of us to glance her way.

  “Hi, Josie,” he returns with a crooked smile.

  My gaze skips between the two of them. Then takes a full lap around the joint to find a stifling amount of attention––mostly female––attached to the guy standing next to me.

  Spare me. Fine, okay, he’s hot. No question. And maybe if my life wasn’t crumbling around me, I would be trying to stuff my panties in his mouth the same way Josie is clearly thinking about doing.

  But these girls? I’m just going to say it––some of them look concussed. Josie included. I am almost one hundred percent certain I’ve never worn a concussed look over a boy and if I ever do somebody needs to slap me.

  “Rea! Call me so we can make plans,” one of the glamour girls sitting in the corner shouts. She’s so perfect she looks Photoshopped.

  Delete. Delete my prior claim. This guy is way out of my league. The only way my panties would ever get near his face is if he had a gushing head wound and I needed to stop the bleeding to save his life.

  He gives Photoshopped girl an absent nod and returns to bore holes in my head with his hot stare. “You lost your job?” he asks with unmistakable concern in his voice.

  It’s my turn to frown. “Were you eavesdropping?” The guilty look he gives me is all the answer I need. “Great.”

  Now that my humiliation is complete, it’s time for a speedy departure. I hobble away from the counter, last paycheck firmly grasped in one hand, and push through a wall of guys. Members of the soccer team, judging by the uniforms. The inconsiderate jerks barely make room for the girl on crutches. I head for the exit with Reynolds on my heels.

  The urge to ugly cry is strong and this guy is not allowed to watch. I’ve never been a fan of messy public displays of emotion and right now one is imminent.

  “You’ve got that determined, stalkery look about you, Reynolds. Stand down,” I grumble under my breath and hear him chuckle.

  “Determination is implied in stalking.” I stop and shoot a glare over my shoulder because…really? “You might want to use another adjective is all I’m saying.”

  I blink. He smiles.

  “How about annoying?”

  “That works.”

  In my haste to be gone, I bum-rush the door and almost lose my balance. My life has officially become a comedy of errors.

  Thankfully, strong hands reach out and set me safely back on my feet––pardon, my foot––before I get a taste of the cement sidewalk. “Thanks,” I mutter.

  “You’re welcome,” my stalker replies in a semi-amused tone.

  A marine haze hugs the shoreline, making the overcast sky the color of opals. Something to be grateful for since I have to wait for the campus shuttle and I forgot to spackle on the SPF 50.

  While I wait for a convertible Bentley with a surfboard sticking out of the back seat to drive by before stepping off the sidewalk, I sneak a side-eye and find Reagan staring straight ahead. I’m assuming he’s going to his car while I’m headed to the shuttle stop.

  I am dead wrong. He’s a barnacle. A monkey on my back. Toilet paper stuck to my shoe. All the metaphors for shit you can’t get rid of. I pick my way between cars to reach the other side of the Malibu Mart parking lot with him riding my every step.

  “Why are you still following me?” And he has, all the way to the shuttle stop. Nowhere near his Jeep. “Your car is that way,” I helpfully point out.

  “You lost your job because of me.”

  His voice sounds dull, lacking its usual snappy charm. There’s something wrong about it. Like a lion with no mane…or no roar. Whatever, it sounds wrong.

  When I reach the shuttle stop, I glance up and find his gaze remote, as if he’s not seeing me, and while he’s lost in thought, I take the opportunity to study his face. Something I haven’t done yet because frankly it’s like staring into the sun, way too intense and only to be attempted in small doses.

  Closely shaven, the sharp line of his jaw is stiff. His angled brows pulled low over traffic light green eyes. There’s a small scattering of barely noticeable freckles along his sculpted cheekbone. I wonder if he wears SPF 50. He’s so tan I doubt it. He should though. He definitely should. Melanoma kills.

  His hands come to rest on his hips and his sensual mouth purses like he’s mulling over a serious dilemma. Except the dilemma isn’t his to solve. He doesn’t have a high GPA to maintain to hold on to his scholarship. He doesn’t have a car that’s more valuable as scrap metal. He doesn’t have to work to pay his living expenses. Mr. Big Deal doesn’t have a worry in the world.

  My emotions are presently everywhere on the scale: annoyed, crushed, overwhelmed, scared…so scared I don’t dare answer. I’m liable to say something I’ll regret in my present state, and it would be really unfair of me to unload on him during this freak-out.

  “You did, didn’t you?” He gestures toward the Slow Drip with a tilt of his perfectly shaped chin.

  Did I mention that the dimple in his chin is cute? Yeah, well, it is darnit. Which annoys me. Chins like his should only be dispensed to movie stars and billboard models. They’re too dangerous for ordinary civilians to possess.

  “Because of me,” he continues, nodding to himself. His gaze latches on to mine and gets squinty. “Do I have something on my chin?” He brushes it with the back of his hand.

  “No,” I huff. Because nothing screams I’m innocent of whatever you assume I’m up to like acting bitchy. “And yes. I lost my job. I have a sprained ankle. How am I supposed to work behind the bar with three other people on these?” I stomp the crutches for a fleeting moment of juvenile satisfaction.

  He frowns, his flawless face crowded with guilt.

  “Anyway…” My voice peters out, my shoulders fall. I’m suddenly exhausted. I’ll have to sell one of my cameras. The mere thought of it makes tears prick my eyes and stuffs up my nose. “It’s my problem. Not yours. And––” I glance away. “I guess food isn’t absolutely necessary.” A burst of dry laughter comes out. It’s strained, humorless. Awkward. “I’ll be fine.”

  He exhales harshly. “Jesus.” It’s safe to say my joke bombed. His hands rake back and forth through his sun-painted hair.

  “I’ll sell a camera,” I barely get out, wracking my brain for a happy thought to stave off the tears welling in the corners of my eyes.

  Babygoatsbabygoatsbabygoats

  My cameras are the only things of value I possess in this world. It took me seven years of working the worst jobs on the planet to pay them off.

  Cleaning cages at the animal shelter? Been there. The cleaning was easy compared to seeing all those distraught furry faces behind bars. Many a night I drove home in tears.

  Working at the car wash in the middle of a northeast winter? Done that. Don’t try it. Not unless you’re keen on frostbitten nipples. The sexual harassment wasn’t a whole lot of fun, either. Which served as a springboard for the next horrible odd job.

  Transporting vats of used grease from fast food joints and diners to recycling. Yep. Unfortunately, I’ve done that too. My least favorite. I still won’t touch fried food with a ten-foot pole. My gag reflex trips automatically if I even catch a whiff of used oil.

  And yet I would go back an
d do it all over again for my cameras because they are life. The tools of my trade. The instruments of my passion.

  “Your camera?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Let me drive you back to campus,” he implores softly.

  Even though it’s well in the eighties, I’m chilled to the bone. That’s easy enough to explain. I’m tired and stressed. That’s all. What I can’t explain is how his low voice warms me from the inside out. A ray of sunlight bathes my eyes. The sun is starting to burn through the marine haze. I nod because anything is better than standing here for another minute.

  Chapter 8

  Reagan

  “Email me your schedule.”

  “You’re like a dog with a bone,” she murmurs impassively.

  I look over at the quiet girl sitting in the passenger seat of my Jeep. You’d never know by looking at her what just happened. She lost her job because of me and I don’t think this girl has much to fall back on. As if I didn’t have enough to keep me up at night. Now I can add getting her fired to the list of things I need to atone for.

  Staring out at the coastline, expression calm, she pushes her sleek dark hair behind her ear. Bailey is delicate, her features angular and tiny with the exception of her eyes which are big, dark, and expressive. She’s beautiful––I won’t deny it. As soon as I stepped into the Slow Drip and saw her face, I forgot why I was there in the first place. She’s got that girl-next-door thing nailed. Except Jersey’s got an edge that makes her…Interesting. Sexy. Something more. My eyes slide over her bare thigh, her shapely legs. Definitely sexy.

  “Sharkattack101@gmail,” I throw out and get no reaction at all. My attention shifts from the road to her. She’s in a zone, hasn’t heard a word I’ve said. “You’re not writing this down.”

  Her sharp brown gaze finally seeks me out. Heavy suspicion lurking there.

  “I’ll drive you to class. And if I can’t, I’ll have one of the guys on the team do it.”

  “No––”

  I sigh tiredly. I’ve never met anyone so unwilling to accept help. “Immovable mass, meet an unstoppable force.”

  “Unstoppable arse, you say?” A sly smile tips my way.

  “Ha ha. Not funny. And that would make you an immovable ass,” I gladly point out. She smirks. “I’ve never had to beg a girl to let me drive her around before.” I soften my voice, coax her with humility. Ego has no place in this. I genuinely want to help her. “But I’ll do it if you want me to.” She watches me closely. I’ve got her full attention. “Think of it as my soul’s absolution. Allow me to squire you around, Alice.”

  She bites down on her bottom lip and heat shoots up my neck. Then it ricochets all the way down to my balls. The fuck was that? Abstinence. That’s what it is. Something I have to remedy quickly.

  “Did you just quote The Legend of Ron Burgundy to me for the second time since we’ve met? Did that really happen?”

  A stupid smile spreads across my face. I knew I liked this girl. Any female that’s seen Anchorman and can quote lines gets a vote of confidence from me. “Best movie ever.”

  “Wow, brutal honesty. And you’re not even in the least bit embarrassed. Just owning it. Owning that shame.”

  “I’m man enough to give it a bear hug, even.”

  She looks away, hides the full-blown smile sliding across that fine pale skin of her beautiful face. Seeing that smile makes the load I’ve been carrying around the past few days feel a little bit lighter.

  “I’m impressed,” she tells me.

  “Really? If that’s what it takes to impress you then ‘you’re a smelly pirate hooker.’” A burst of laughter rips out of her. It’s full-throated. And God, yes, I’ll have another. “‘Why don’t you go back to your home on whore island.’ I could do this all day.”

  “Please don’t,” she laughs.

  I pull the Jeep over in front of her dorm and park. “I’m going to make it my mission to make you laugh more, Bailey.”

  Her laughter slowly dies down but her smile remains as she studies my profile. She doesn’t want to like me. I can feel her resisting the pull. What she doesn’t understand is that I’m a natural-born competitor. I live for a challenge and she’s just issued a major one. It only makes me try harder to win her over.

  “Don’t fight it. My suggestion is that you let yourself like me. It’ll be easier for you that way.”

  Rolling her eyes, she chuckles. “So modest. So humble.” Her dark eyes sharpen and narrow as we exchange a sixty-second stare-off. “So sure of yourself.”

  “That I’m a likeable guy? Yeah, I’m sure.”

  Shaking her head, she tamps down another grin. “First of all, I find it incredibly creepy that you stalked me all around campus.”

  “I prefer to think of it as moxie.”

  “Moxie is for mousy twelve-year-old girls yearning to make it on American Idol. What you did was borderline cause for a restraining order.” She studies me. “Why do you want to drive me? Seriously, why insist? You can walk away from all of this. I’m happy to let you.”

  Tension rides up my back. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “Obviously not, or I wouldn’t be asking.”

  “You can’t get around this campus on crutches.”

  “I mean why do you care, Reagan?”

  Two things happen at once. Something inside of me wakes up from the dead at the sound of my name being spoken in her voice, and that something travels straight to my dick. I shift, pull the hem of my t-shirt over my shorts.

  Then my father’s face crops up. Those two things should never occur at the same time and yet sadly they have.

  My smile loses its shine because the prior makes me hard as Valyrian steel, and the latter kills my boner instantly. I don’t think a girl’s voice has ever made me hard before, but I guess there’s a first time for everything. The second would kill anyone’s boner. Probably won’t be the last time, either.

  No one on this planet knows the real story of the family Reynolds and it’s going to stay that way. Deflection is the name of my game and I mean to play it to the bitter end. I can’t tell her that I’m ashamed of my father. That he’s everything I don’t want to be. So I whittle it down, reduce it to something that will make sense to her.

  I send her a casual smile. It’s become second nature and therefore not hard to summon. “I feel responsible. It’s my fault you’re in this mess and I need to fix it.”

  The weight of her stare on the side of my face is palpable. I’m seconds from piling on more bullshit to my explanation when she speaks.

  “Okay,” she quietly concedes. So quietly I have to look at her face to make sure I heard her right.

  “Yeah?”

  “You can drive me to my Thursday night study group. It’s off campus, on PCH. That’s more important. But only on the condition that you drive me. I’ll fend for myself on the days you can’t.”

  “Deal.” A grin spreads across my face. A real one. “Now email me your schedule.”

  Chapter 9

  Alice

  “Why aren’t you ready?” Zoe asks as soon as she and Blake step into the suite. Zoe places a tray with four iced coffees on a side table and we all reach for one.

  Have I mentioned the suite? It’s decked out like a penthouse at the Four Seasons. Or what I imagine a penthouse would look like. 60-inch flat-screen television with cable and Netflix, abstract art prints on the walls, rugs, and a feather-stuffed couch. All courtesy of Zoe’s decorator. Not kidding.

  It stinks like school spirit today because both of them are wearing tight-fitting Malibu U Water Polo t-shirts and frayed jean short shorts.

  I glance at Dora and find her stuffing a powdered donut hole into her mouth. She shrugs and pauses the show we’ve been watching.

  “Ready for what?” I ask.

  Perching her pink mirrored sunglasses atop her head, Zoe gives me and Dora the once-over. “The water polo game.” Her tone suggests I’m an idiot, her expression says more of the same.
“You said you’d come.”

  “I said I’d think about it.”

  “We don’t have time to debate details. We’re playing Cal today. It’s gonna be jammed.” Zoe’s scrutiny moves to Dora, giving me a precious moment’s respite. “You too, Red. Let’s go. Chop, chop. Out of the maternity clothes.”

  “But…” Nose crinkling, powdered sugar dusting the corners of her lips, Dora looks adorably put out. “We’re watching Gigolos…and the guys forgot Steven’s birthday.” She examines her oversized teal-colored sweatpants and frowns. “And these are really comfortable.”

  “Yeeaah,” is Zoe’s answer to that. “Time for an intervention. You’ve been mainlining that show since you discovered it and enough is enough. Go put on some clothes that don’t make you look like a middle-aged third-grade teacher from Poughkeepsie who gets off by creeping on her young, shirtless neighbor from her upstairs bedroom window while he’s washing his car.”

  “Wow.” I choke down a burst of laughter. “That’s a mouthful. You put a lot of thought into that one.”

  “Sounds like someone is speaking from experience,” Blake snickers.

  Dora pops another donut in her mouth, this one glazed. “Have you ever even been to Poughkeepsie?”

  Zoe blinks. And blinks. “Do you want to die a virgin, Ramos?”

  Dora freezes. She’s the epitome of wide-eyed innocence. “How do you know I’m a virgin?” The note of challenge in her voice makes me smile. She so seldom sounds confident that it’s nice to see her flexing some muscle.

  Zoe crosses her slender arms and cocks a hip, her glossy lips lifting in a smug smile, and with each silent moment that passes, Dora’s confidence fizzles.

  Swallowing the last mouthful, she puts down the box of donuts and sighs. “G-gimme a few minutes to get changed.”

  A few minutes after that I hear Zoe’s voice coming from Dora’s room. “No, you’re not wearing that…because you’re not...because…Blake, explain it to her.”