Winter Miracle Read online

  I make sure she gets to the front of the dormitory building before kicking the bike back into gear. I take off, head full, and I swear to god that same black sedan drives on by.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  INDY

  The following day, I switch off my cell and turn to study. I avoid the morning lecture, thankful that it’s streamed online.

  You won’t be able to avoid him forever.

  The thing is, I don’t want to. I wanted that kiss as much as he did, wanted it to never end, but there can be no relationship between us, not when I’m trying to keep a low profile. Hooking up with Abbotsleigh’s golden boy would be a quick end to that.

  And other things…

  I wish everything could go back to the way it was, that I’d still be back in my tiny New York apartment with the couple next door engaging in overly loud sex and the guy upstairs calling for them to ‘shut the hell up.’

  It might be good for you, but you’re not even going to give it a chance?

  And then what? Hanging off the arm of the hottest property here is going to deliver the kind of attention I don’t need, the kind of attention I cannot have.

  “I ordered a bourbon, babe, not a whiskey.”

  I apologize to the Josh Groban lookalike in front of me and take his glass — empty, surprise, surprise. I’m so distracted I almost pour the whiskey over his hand.

  Lucy appears, eyebrows crossed together in concern. “You alright?”

  “Boy issues,” she says with a nod, when I don’t immediately reply. “I can smell that shit a mile away. Who is it? Come on.”

  “Cayden Beckett,” I confess.

  She slams her hand down on the bar. “Holy shit on a stick. You went there?”

  “I haven’t gone anywhere yet.”

  “So why does it look like you just killed a clown?”

  I place my hands on the bar for support, wishing it didn’t sound like a stadium concert in here. “I kissed him, but…”

  “But?” Lucy pushes.

  “I don’t know. I ran.”

  “Smart move.”

  Was it? It’s all I’ve been thinking about, that kiss.

  “Look,” says Lucy, “everyone knows Cayden Beckett and his eighth wonder of the world are only good for one thing—getting off, guilt-free. He hits it and he quits it, which is fine for most of the bimbos here looking for a college tale to tell, but I can see you’re different.” She placers her forefinger against my head. “I’m kind of guessing there’s something resembling a brain up in there instead of a little home theater showing Dance Moms reruns, which is why you should know better. Cayden Beckett is not commitment material. Heck, he’s not even boyfriend material.”

  “How many girlfriends has he had?”

  Lucy throws her head back in laughter. “Girlfriends? Ze-ro. But fuck buddies? Cum chums? Pelvic affiliates? I don’t know. Hundreds. Thousands.”

  I exhale long and deep. Maybe she’s right? I am smarter than this. I’m studying to be a freakin’ lawyer for crying out loud.

  So why do you want him so bad? Why are you wet right now thinking about him, his lips and what they could do? The way they could make your back arch and all your worries be poofed away with orgasm after orgasm after orgasm…

  Lucy knocks on the bar. “Now, head out of the cock clouds and stop serving up whiskey to the bar runner. That shit’s expensive.”

  *

  I turn on my cell heading home, ignoring the thirty-odd calls and texts from Cayden and skipping down to a number I dread seeing. What the hell does he want?

  Naomi’s up, as always, when I arrive, her hair pulled up into a tight updo, the smattering of freckles on her skin even more pronounced following a shower. She turns from her desk. “Are you still in the dumps?”

  I sling my bag onto the bed and collapse face-forward, speaking muffled into my Nintendo game controller pillow. “Afraid so.”

  “You did the right thing.”

  I sit up. “What do you mean?”

  “With Cayden Beckett.”

  “How’d you work that out?”

  She clears her throat. “Like I said, word gets around.”

  “Does it?” I find it odd he’d mention it to anyone given that spiel. After all, nothing came of it. That’s not the kind of legend status you want spreading, that the great and almighty Damage couldn’t get a simple girl like me across the line.

  “Look,” says Naomi, sounding an awful lot like Lucy right now, “that guy is no good. You can’t see it because you’re inside it, but I can. Head down. Study, remember? That is why you’re here, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” But I don’t like the lecture. I’ve never liked anyone telling me what to do, not my aunty, not the foster parents who followed, not the loan officer, not the… I stop my thoughts right there, don’t want to head down that thorny path tonight.

  I get up. I’ve had enough, but I’m not going to say so. I have to live with Naomi.

  “Where are you going?” she asks, only pissing me off more. ‘You’re not my mother,’ I want to scream, but I hold my tongue.

  I smile. “I just need some air.”

  She picks up her cell. “Okay.”

  “You’re not to ask me to text when I’m coming home?” I mean for it to come out as a joke, but it sounds like I’m scalding her.

  “Indy, come on…”

  I pull on my jacket and open the door. “I’ll be back later. Don’t wait up.”

  *

  It’s surprisingly cold outside. If I had balls — god forbid — I’m sure they’d be tucked up in my throat somewhere. This is New York kinds of cold. So much for southern weather.

  Like you had a choice.

  The party elements are out tonight, the frat boys still deep into Hell Week. A group passes me by, roped together. They shout out the house rules boot camp style while a fellow brother holds up a copy of Playboy like he’s a tourist leader.

  I almost laugh at that.

  I don’t know where I’m going. For a moment I think about heading to The Lab, but I’ve spent enough time there already tonight watching the door, expecting Cayden to arrive at any moment.

  He never showed.

  It’s game night tomorrow, the Trojans taking on the Stanford Cardinals. I was actually considering going, seeing what this football fascination was all about, until ‘The Incident,’ as it forever shall be known.

  I head diagonally away from the campus square, down the older part of the college with its whitewashed brickwork and turrets. It’s like something out of Harry Potter, at odds with the swampy surrounds.

  I hear them before I see them—a rabble.

  “If it isn’t Bar Girl.”

  I turn and find the creep who almost assaulted me in the bar approaching with a group of jersey-clad clones. They’re drinking, which I thought was forbidden in the open, but it seems the Trojans make the rules around here.

  I pivot on my heel to walk in the opposite direction, but they’ve closed in around me, the creep, with his disgusting long hair, eyeing me up. He spits to the ground. “Why you playing so hard to get, girl?”

  My pulse is jumping ahead of my heart, but I remind myself to stay calm. You’re in the middle of campus. He wouldn’t try anything.

  And then I recall the bar.

  He reaches out to touch my hair. I flinch away and jam my hand into my pocket. “Don’t make me use this.”

  I’m bluffing, but he backs up a little, looking down to my hidden hand.

  “What you got in there, sweetheart?”

  He reaches for my hand, but I pull away.

  “I’m Dwayne, by the way,” he says. “Dwayne Bell—Trojans quarterback.”

  Gotcha. “I thought Cayden Beckett was the Trojans quarterback?”

  The other guys laugh.

  “Burn!” one of them bellows.

  Dwayne smirks, nodding. “Nice, but how about you put that pretty mouth to better use, service me and my friends here?”

  One of the other
guys steps in. “Dwayne, man. Come on. Leave her alone.”

  Dwayne shoves him away, asserting himself as the alpha. “No, we’re going to have some fun. Fucking Trojans, right?”

  There’s a lackluster “Trojans” in turn, an automatic call and response.

  Dwayne takes a step closer to me, reaching for my jacket zipper. “Question is, which one of us are you going to suck off first?”

  “Hey! What’s going on here?”

  The group parts. A golf cart parks ahead, a man with a flashlight raised stepping out.

  I read ‘Campus Security’ on the roof. The thing’s even got flashing lights.

  Dwayne puts his hands up. “We were just talking to the lady, Drew. No harm in that.”

  I rush forward to stand near the cart, thankful for its sudden appearance.

  “Beat it,” says the security guard, “before I wake the Dean up and get the real shit-show started”.

  Dwayne smirks again and tips an invisible hat. “Yes, sir.”

  They skulk off, whooping and shouting.

  The security guard turns to me when they’ve gone. “You alright?”

  I nod.

  “I’m Drew, by the way.”

  “Indy,” I reply.

  “Well, hop into my chariot, Indy. I’ll give you a lift back to your dorm, and a word of warning: Stay the fuck away from those assholes.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  CAYDEN

  I’m paying way too much attention to my bowl of oats when something collects me on the back of the head. I spin and swat Colton’s lacrosse stick away. “Get that fucking thing out of my face, will you?”

  “Hey,” he says, “someone’s got to knock some sense into that fat head of yours. She doesn’t want you, bro. Move on.”

  I hold up my spoon, shaking it for emphasis. “She does, but…” I can’t finish the sentence because I still have no clue why she fled the other night.

  “I see. Very insightful,” teases Colton, scooping up an apple from the fruit bowl with his stick. “Dad’s secretary rang, by the way.”

  I turn back to my oats, ladling up a spoonful and tilting the spoon, watching it all spill back in. “Did he? And what, pray tell, did Father Dearest want today?”

  Colton plucks the apple out of the stick’s scoop and bites down, talking while he chews. “He wants us at his wedding, of course.”

  “And what number is this woman? The flight attendant, right? Bazooka boobs, bad hair?”

  “Number five,” says Colton, “but to be precise he never married the last one, only engaged her, which means Bazooka Boobs is number four.”

  I lean on my hand. “It gives me a fucking headache trying to keep up with it all.”

  “Hey, at least he’s got a spare ring up his sleeve. What was the last one? Like, five mil?”

  “Seven,” I correct. “She got lucky.”

  Colton slaps me on the back. “I guess we know where our commitment issues come from, right?”

  “Who’s having a wedding?”

  We both face Hunter, who’s walking into the room. He looks like hell.

  “And he is arisen! You look like shit, by the way,” says Colton, tossing his stick Hunter’s way.

  Colton—always telling it like it is.

  Hunter reaches to catch the stick, but he’s way off. It goes clattering to the floor.

  Colton and I exchange a look, his eyes saying it all: What the fuck is up with Hunter?

  I’ve never seen Hunter so lethargic, so out of it. He takes a seat beside me, clutching his stomach.

  “You should see a doctor,” I suggest.

  Colton stands in front of us. “Who was that blonde you went to for the clap? Legs for days.” He brings his hands up. “Ass you just wanted to—”

  “Dr. Charmer,” smiles Hunter, “and that I did”.

  Colton winks. “I bet she has the medicine you need to get over this, whatever the fuck this is.”

  Hunter stands and breathes out. “I’m fine. Indigestion or some shit. Besides, it’s game night, and I’m not about to lay down and let those Cardinal bitches stomp all over the hallowed ground of Troy, right, Cay?”

  I reach up to fist-bump him. “Fuck, no, brother.”

  *

  My mind should be on the game. The Cardinals aren’t going to be easy to take down, but I cannot shake Indy from my head. She hasn’t been in class, hasn’t returned my calls, and even though I know she’s at The Lab working, I can’t bring myself to go down there. Why? Hell if I know.

  Because she’s in your head, messing you up. You promised no girl would ever do that, ever mess you up like Mom did to Dad.

  The great Beckett legacy—What a fucking joke.

  I decide to use the gym on the other side of campus, the quiet one with weights from a 1930s sports catalogue. I prefer the feel of them, the idea they’ve helped sculpt legends, that they are worn, all purpose. Besides, I need to clear my head, and I sure as hell can’t do it with the rest of the Trojans talking about whatever ass they picked up last night in the free-weight room back at the stadium.

  I’m almost there when I see her.

  Indy.

  She’s standing in the shade beside the gymnasium.

  She’s not alone.

  I pull back around the corner and watch, feeling like I’ve suddenly been teleported into an episode of Catfished, but no. She wouldn’t go for this guy, no girl here would. He’s old enough to be her father, with salt and pepper hair and a suit jacket. What kind of guy wears a suit jacket when it’s so hot and humid out?

  He could be a teacher, I think, but I know the staff here. I pride myself on my ability to remember names and faces, and this guy? I haven’t seen him on campus before.

  Whatever they’re talking about, Indy seems upset. She walks away shaking her head, coming back and speaking again.

  He puts a hand out, trying to calm her down, to reason with her, and she listens, nodding with understanding.

  What the fuck? Who is this guy?

  Maybe he is her father, but then I assumed she was raised by her aunty, something about foster parents?

  You assumed she liked punk too, remember?

  How could I forget…

  Eventually Indy nods one final time and begins to walk away. I could approach her, it would be easy, but now doesn’t seem like the right time. I’ll catch up with her later, whatever it takes, even if I have to pull out the ol’ serenade-by-the-window routine. She needs help. What kind, I don’t know, but she needs me and I’m going to do everything I can to make sure she’s safe and happy.

  I reaffirm myself.

  Becketts don’t give up this easily.

  I don’t give up this easily.

  She heads in the other direction, but I stay glued to the man. He gets on his cell. It’s a short call.

  Who the hell are you?

  Against better judgement, I follow him, making sure to keep my distance.

  He makes a beeline for the dormitories. I stick to the shadows, telling a group of freshman to shut the fuck up when they scream “Damage!” passing by.

  The man continues past the dormitories heading to the visitor’s parking lot. A girl heads up beside him and the two stop in the middle of the path.

  I look closer, recognizing her. She’s Indy roommate.

  If I was confused before, now I’m completely lost. What does she have to do with this?

  The two break apart and the man disappears into the parking lot, lost in the sunlight.

  I rush over to the girl. “Hey.”

  She turns, looks surprised.

  “You’re Indy’s roommate, right?” I start.

  “Naomi,” she says, cautious. “You’re Cayden.”

  “Yeah, how is she?”

  She steps up to me like she owns the place. “Look, why don’t you do us all a favor Cay-den, and stay the fuck away from her?”

  I’m so shocked I struggle to get a reply out. “Sorry?”

  She stands right in front of me,
right in my face. “I said, you’re going to leave her the hell alone.”

  “Or what?”

  She smiles. “Or there will be consequences.”

  She turns and walks away.

  I’ve met defensive roommates before… fellow sisters, ex-boyfriends, even the odd husband, but this is something else.

  And it’s not good.

  Not fucking good at all.

  *

  I shoulder-check Dwayne on the way out of the players’ tunnel. “Keep the bench warm for me, asshole.”

  He flips me the bird. “You’re hanging by a thread, Beckett. Remember that.”

  I shouldn’t pay his words any attention, but they’re ringing loud and clear as I take the field, the cheer rising up in a tidal wave of sound.

  “Da-mage, Da-mage, Da-mage!”

  I scan the stands quickly, but finding Indy up there is going to take me all night.

  No, it’s game time, Cay. Forget her for now and do what you do best.

  So I do. I focus.

  You’ve got this.

  Hunter pulls up beside me shaking his head at the opposition. “How can you take a team with a fucking Christmas tree for a mascot seriously?”

  I look at their Cardinals mascot and laugh. “I think it’s supposed to be a redwood.”

  Hunter jogs away into position. “Oh, they’re going to see red alright. Let’s do this.”

  I take position, the band playing on.

  This is my domain, my kingdom.

  On the green, I am God.

  We manage to force the Cardinals into two early fumbles. I seize on it early, putting in the yards for the first touchdown. After that, it’s all downhill, an easy ride to a solid 24-10 victory.

  I’m burning, but in a good way as I head to the sidelines. People crowd around me in a tight crush. I sign what I can, thank them all for coming up—the usual jazz.

  When they start to clear, Hunter charges into me. He played a fine game tonight, no doubt, back to his best.

  Coach claps us both on the shoulder from behind, pulling us into a huddle. “My boys. Keep that shit up and I’ll be seeing you at the Super Bowl.”