Nothing But Trouble (Malibu University Series) Read online

  “My father’s a DEA agent!” Dora whisper-hisses. “I’ll get high off the secondhand fumes. We all will!”

  “With any luck,” is Blake’s quick comeback and Zoe and I snicker.

  On level ground Zoe has a good four to five inches on Dora. Tonight she’s wearing four-inch Louboutin booties with the spikes on them so the disparity is hilarious. Ducking down so they’re face-to-face, Zoe calmly says, “First, let’s scale down on the melodrama. Second, you’re not leaving, Red. You’re going to board that courage train and ride it all the way inside the party.”

  Dora glares. There’s a moment of silence, in which Zoe feels compelled to add, “Do you want to be the 40-Year-Old Virgin? Is that on your vision board?”

  Without another word, a sullen Dora drags her feet back into the house, a hand covering her mouth and nose.

  “Outta the way, crutches coming through,” Blake yells as she splits the crowd. Her long braids swaying down her slender back. She’s wearing a body-hugging white t-shit dress that hits mid thigh and tan high-heeled sandals. The stark white against her brown skin makes her look like a living statue. Too good to be real. Necks snap as we follow her across the living room. She’s got so much natural, unintentional sex appeal that it’s impossible not to stare at her.

  There’s so much to take in, my eyes don’t know where to look first. You could park a small airplane in this place it’s so big. This is definitely a party house. Wide-open spaces. Furniture sparse and large to accommodate the size of the guys who live here. Zoe said it belongs to one of the water polo players. Whoever he is he definitely wants for nothing.

  A series of glass panels span the entire back of the house that overlooks the patio. All of them wide open. The crowd spills out around a pool lit up in orange, one half of Malibu U school colors, and down to the beach.

  I’m gaping. I fully admit it. I’ve seen ridiculous displays of wealth. Living so close to New York City, it’s hard not to. This, however, is silly rich.

  Lil Tjay’s Goat pumps loudly out of the state-of-the-art sound system. Bodies move, swaying to the beat. Arms wave in the air. Solo cups filled with alcohol slosh over the sides, spilling down shirts. Girls laughing. Guys shouting at an enormous wall-mounted television where a basketball game plays.

  “This party is lit! Let’s head out back,” Zoe yells over the music. I can barely hear her. She motions us in the direction of the patio and ventures deeper into the crowd.

  We find some open space the size of a postage stamp and park ourselves there. Dora fidgets with the short skirt Zoe made her wear, pulling on the hem, while her eyes dart around in wonder, not sure what to take in first. I’m almost as awestruck. Though I do a better job of concealing it.

  “Incoming––mythical creature,” Zoe mutters through a fixed smile, the first time I’ve ever seen her look even remotely uncomfortable.

  “Mythical creature?” I repeat with a curious glance at Blake.

  “It’s a well-known fact that Brock Peterman is a virgin,” she explains, her lips tilting up on one side. “Every girl on campus is gunning for him.”

  A guy approaches, a head taller than just about everyone else and therefore easy to spot. He’s wearing a faded blue Sharks Water Polo t-shirt, a deep tan, shorts, and flip-flops.

  I’m starting to sense a trend here. Do any of these guys ever wear anything else? Is it a rich boy thing, or California thing?

  “Well, I’m not,” I clarify. No matter how handsome he is. And that, he is––with intense, dark blue eyes and full lips that soften his overly angular features.

  “N-neither am I,” Dora concurs.

  “Me three,” Blake adds.

  The only one conspicuously silent on the subject is Zoe who is presently surveying the crowd in an attempt to pretend she didn’t hear us. Her face grows tighter the closer he gets.

  “Zoe––” Peterman calls out and Zoe’s head whips around, her shy smile blossoming into a full one. I’ve never seen her look so…vulnerable. Or genuinely happy for that matter. Which answers some of my questions and produces more.

  “Hey, P.K.”

  Set in a severe line, his lips part to reveal optic white teeth while his warm gaze takes its sweet time moving over her face. “Wanna go over notes tomorrow?”

  His deep, smooth voice makes something as boring as studying sound sexy. And going by the look on Zoe’s face, I’m pretty sure I just heard her designer panties go up in flames.

  A beat later he seems to recall that they are not in a bubble. His indigo eyes move to me and Dora and a question mark appears in them. One Zoe is quick to answer. “Brock, this is Dora and Alice. You know Blake.”

  His chin tips up. “Ladies.” His attention immediately returns to Zoe. “How’s late afternoon? We can meet at the library?”

  She looks up at him with so much undisguised awe that it almost feels like we’re intruding on an intimate moment.

  “Brock––” yet another deep voice murmurs.

  A tall black guy walks up and I’m instantly struck by his eyes. Large, golden, and rimmed in something darker. I can’t get a good read on the color because it seems to change with the way they catch light. They’re mesmerizing. And he just caught me staring. Great.

  “Shane––Zoe, Dora, Blake, and…”

  “Alice,” I finish for him.

  Shane’s questioning gaze tags Brock’s. “Phone-tree girl?”

  Phone-tree girl? I’m confused.

  One corner of Brock’s mouth hikes up and he nods. Which only confuses me more. Shane smiles. It’s brief and brilliant, and so precious I can see why he doles it out in very small portions. “’Sup, ladies.” His attention immediately returns to Brock, expression turning grim. “Caught a couple of dudes doing bumps in the bathroom.”

  Brock’s face darkens. “Ours?”

  Shane shakes his head. “Never seen them before.”

  “Do me a favor and toss them out.” Shane starts to leave and Brock catches him by the arm. “Take Quinn and Cole with you.”

  Shane nods and a beat later he melds into the crowd.

  “I am a golden god!” someone shouts from the second-floor balcony.

  All heads tilt back to witness a guy standing on the railing. Wild curly blond hair. Chest bare with his arms spread wide. His body is a patchwork of carved muscles that descend into a deep V at the edge of his low-slung board shorts. An intricate tattoo covers his left pec, snakes over his shoulder, and down his arm.

  “Way to rip off Almost Famous, dude,” a male voice emerges from the crowd.

  “I fucking hate these parties,” Brock groans.

  “Jump, jump, jump,” the chants start.

  Scowling, Brock brackets his lush mouth with his hands and shouts back, “Do NOT jump. You’ll break your neck, asshole.” He glances back at Zoe and says, “Be right back,” before walking off to deal with his friend.

  “Dallas Van Zant is a certified idiot,” Zoe mutters.

  “He’s not that bad,” Dora counters.

  Well, this is curious. All three of us turn to stare at her. Wide and innocent, her big brown eyes dart back and forth between us.

  “What? We have English lit together.” She shrugs. “He’s a lot smarter than people think.”

  No stutter. Her adamant defense of him also noteworthy. Hmm.

  I bookmark it, save the questions for later because Dallas (smarter than people think) cannonballs into the pool and displaces most of the water onto the people crowded around it. We scrabble away in time to avoid getting hit. The group of girls standing nearby, however––not so lucky. They scream as they bear the brunt of it.

  “Most of the time,” Dora amends.

  “Zo-ho, trolling for dick as usual,” a male voice calls out, loud enough for everybody around us to hear.

  Zoe stiffens. Her hard stare veers to a guy who slowly approaches with two others right behind him.

  He’s stocky. With espresso dark hair and even darker eyes hidden beneath the flat brim
of a Malibu University Baseball team cap. All three are wearing Under Armour shirts painted to their ripped chest, silky shorts hanging to their knees.

  Brock returns almost simultaneously and wedges himself between Zoe and the trio, essentially creating a human wall.

  Zoe flips the troublemaker off and he returns a sly half smile. More of a leer. This guy is objectively attractive, but seems almost a cartoon villain with all the posturing.

  “The bird? Really, Zo-ho, that’s the best you can do?” he says with a humorless chuckle.

  Zoe tilts her head, slouches. The epitome of lazy indifference. “I wasn’t flipping you off, Kellan. I was showing the girls the size of your dick.” Scanning our frozen expressions, she showcases her finger. “This is what it looks like hard. I can’t recommend it.”

  Strangled bursts of laughter come from Kellan’s entourage and the pretense of a smile he’s wearing quickly transforms into an expression of barely leashed rage. He takes a step closer and Brock stiffens, looking down on Kellan with clear warning in his hard stare.

  “Take another step and you’ll get these straight in the sphincter,” Zoe calmly states. She points to the Louboutin heels she’s wearing, the ones with the tiny studs on them. “Although you might like it and we both know what I mean.” Then she lifts her hands in a gesture of surrender. “No judgment.”

  Kellan turns cherry red.

  “Keep walking, Blythe,” Brock orders. At the same time he pins Zoe with a silent command to stop, a flare of anger turning the sharp edges of his cheekbones pink under his deep tan. “Keg’s that way.” He points to the far side of the patio. “Move, or I’ll escort you out.”

  Kellan’s furious glare shifts between Zoe and Brock. He mutters, “Bitch,” as he walks away with his friends. This is better than binging on an entire season of Gigolos.

  Brock’s frown persists and it’s aimed at Zoe.

  “What?” she says, uncertainty drawn on her delicate features.

  He shakes his head. “That was harsh.”

  Zoe’s eyes go theatrically wide. “Did you hear what he called me?”

  “He’s an asshole,” Brock practically growls. “Everybody knows it. Why can’t you ignore him?”

  I can feel the weight of his judgment and it’s not even directed at me. Zoe’s face falls, her confidence wanes.

  “I didn’t start it––” she argues quietly.

  “You bait him.”

  “Brock…”

  He exhales loudly, tugs at the collar of his t-shirt. “You’re better than that.” He turns to leave and Zoe blanches.

  “Brock…”

  Casting one last disappointed look at her, he walks away. And leaves behind a vacuum. The silence stifling. We all exchange looks while Zoe stares after his broad, retreating back. Her body stiff, her hands fisted at her sides, eyes glassy.

  “You’re designated driver, Ramos.” Her voice sounds flat. No sign of the kick-ass Zoe I’ve come to love and appreciate. I hate seeing her like this.

  “Sure…y-yeah.”

  She holds up her keychain. Dora takes it and Zoe turns to Blake. “Let’s party.”

  Chapter 11

  Alice

  By midnight, the luster of the party has worn off and I’m ready to go home. While Zoe is hammered, Blake’s not quite there yet. For the past hour, the two of them have been taking turns playing an arcade video game with a couple of random guys in the game room (yes, this house has a game room) while Dora and I have been watching from the wings.

  “Three out of five,” one of the guys announces while Blake and Zoe celebrate another victory by high-fiving each other.

  “Didn’t they say that when they lost the last two sets?” I toss out.

  “Last three,” Dora corrects.

  “Do you want to get out of here? My armpit is starting to hurt again.”

  She nods enthusiastically, which makes me chuckle. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say Dora’s here against her will. “I’m heading to the bathroom. Be right back,” I tell her as I push away from the wall behind me.

  It’s nearly impossible to move around the packed house. I get jostled and pushed around. The sweaty bodies buttressing me are the only reason I’m still upright.

  Reagan’s nowhere to be seen. Makes sense. I doubt he was in the mood to come out for a party tonight. Win or no win.

  Halfway across the room I pass Brock, who’s deep in conversation with the blond guy, Dallas. His expression serious, big hand gripping Dallas’s shoulder. “I’m worried about you…” I hear him tell his teammate.

  I catch his eyes and ask him where I can find the bathroom. Meanwhile the blond conducts a blank-faced inspection of me, his bright blue eyes sharp and assessing. Nothing about his demeanor indicates he’s high or drunk so I assume the reckless behavior comes naturally.

  “End of the hallway on the right,” Brock shouts back and returns to his conversation.

  Getting through the crowd takes forever. When I finally reach the hallway, it’s blessedly empty. And long. Door after door confuses me.

  Did he say last door? On the right or left? I can’t think straight with the music blasting. Consequently, I pick a random door on the right and push it open.

  Wrong door. Definitely wrong door.

  Two girls and a guy occupy a large bed. He’s lying prone. One girl, a blonde, rides his dick and the other, a brunette, his face, which is obscured save for the dark hair against the pillow.

  A creepy sensation rides across my skin.

  The blonde girl moans. The other shouts. Meanwhile I can’t move a muscle. I’m rooted to the floor for what feels like forever, long enough for the chick on his face to come loudly.

  My gaze lowers to the tiny dolphin etched on the outside of his calf. The girl riding his dick turns and giggles and his big hand squeezes her thigh. I think to myself, she sounds drunk. Which doesn’t matter, but manages to snap me out of my paralysis and sends me into action.

  Slamming the door shut, I stand there for a moment to process what I just witnessed. My heart crawls up into my throat and my stomach turns into a churning cauldron of bile. My body knows there’s something wrong before my brain can catch up.

  Long tan muscles. A dolphin tattoo on the outside of his calf. Brown hair.

  That’s why I haven’t seen him all night. He was celebrating the victory at a private party of three. Or drowning his sorrows. Either way he was having a great time while I was worrying about him.

  I’m stuck again, unable to move, shock and disappointment serving as lead weights strapped to my ankles. And even though I know I have no right to be upset, I’m devastated. Accomplished athlete usually equals a string of bed buddies. Hot, accomplished athlete means lower your expectations into a grave and throw dirt on top. But for whatever reason I wanted to believe he was different. That’s on me––my fault.

  Weak-kneed, I lumber down two more doors. Guys like Reagan Reynolds don’t do girlfriends because they don’t need to, I remind myself. Not when he has so much being offered to him on a silver platter. Why would anyone choose to eat hamburgers and French fries every day, no matter how much they love hamburger and French fries, when they have a veritable smorgasbord of delights to choose from? They wouldn’t. And do I blame him? Hell no. I wish I could be him.

  All the same, it’s time to stow this festering attraction someplace where it will never see the light of day again.

  The urge to leave is a strong one. Mood bruised, I contemplate walking out the door and springing for an Uber with money I can’t spare. I can text the girls once I’m in the car. They’ll understand. First, I need to find a bathroom.

  Grabbing the last knob on the right, I send up a prayer to the Lord to cut me a break and let this be it. Unlocked, the door swings open.

  “Uhhh…sorry,” I mumble.

  Lying on a bed with one hand tucked under his head and another clutching a beer bottle, Reagan tears his gaze away from whatever’s got his attention on the television and aims
those go-green eyes at me.

  No random girl is riding his dick, or his face. Blessed be the Lord.

  “Bailey?” I don’t answer right away because I’m much too busy doing a full-on Alvin Ailey modern dance routine in my head.

  My eyes fall on the tattoo on the outside of his calf. They slow-climb up his tanned legs, get past the long gray basketball shorts, skim over the black t-shirt, and reach his messy brown hair.

  “Bailey,” he repeats more forcefully and this time my gaze snaps back to his face. His brow quirks and his mouth lifts into a weak smile.

  “I was justlookingforthebathroom,” comes out a hot freaking mess.

  This night is quickly descending into black comedy territory. I sound like a breathless twelve-year-old speaking to her first crush and he’s looking at me like I just grew a dildo in the middle of my forehead––familiar but at the same time out of context and confusing.

  Reagan points to a door within his room. “You can use mine.”

  Only now do I note where I am. And his bedroom is swank. Dark contemporary designer furniture instead of Ikea and hand-me-downs. Silky gray linens. Trophies lined up on top of a built-in bookcase…a bookcase. Wow. I don’t know anyone who lives this well, let alone a college student. “You live here?”

  “Seems I do,” he replies flatly, his expression missing the carefree teasing smirk he usually wears. I should leave, turn around and excuse myself. That’s the smart thing to do. “Are you going to stand there acting weird all night, or are you coming in?”

  I hop inside and gently shut the door behind me because, you know, I like to torture myself for a good time. “I’m not acting weird,” I say, hiding behind an annoyed tone. This profoundly witty comeback is followed by a sixty-second stare-off, which I end by hopping as quickly as I can to the bathroom.

  I’m acting weird.

  The bathroom is about as big as my entire dorm room. Maybe even bigger. And tidier––I’m ashamed to admit. I do my business, and afterward, simply because I cannot help myself, I trample his privacy by conducting a thorough examination of his personal items.