Very Wicked Things (Briarwood Academy 2)

Because barely living worked for me. It’s what I deserved anyway.

But something had changed.

And the crux of the matter had to be the fucking anniversary of this day.

I punished myself for thinking about her by adding additional laps as I swam, embracing the burn. Later when I was home and exhausted, the workout would help me sleep. That and a bottle of Jack from dad’s study I’d swipe—if he didn’t come home. Which knowing what today was, he’d probably work late. Not talking about our grief seemed to be the way we handled things. Even better, I could call up Marissa, one of the older college girls I liked to hook-up with. Yeah, the best way to forget a girl is to get another one under you.

After swimming, I walked out of the center and headed for the parking lot. My feet betrayed me, and I took the route that went past the dance building where she might still be practicing. My chest tightened the closer I got, and I don’t know if it was more from anticipation or dread. Definitely a combination. Because one part of me longed to stare at her without her knowing, but the other side of me knew there was no point. Still I headed that way, and when my feet stopped directly in front of the big windows, I glanced in all casual like. No one was there.

I’d missed her. Thank God.

By the time I got to the parking lot, I was freezing from the cold front that had moved in. In the space of five minutes, I had the Porsche’s heat on and the music cranked. I eased out of my spot, aiming for the quickest exit on the east side of the parking area. But before I reached the main road, I saw an old brown car, its hood popped. My pulse kicked up at the sight of Dovey bending over, peering at the engine as her skirt blew in the wind.

My first instinct was to stop and see what was wrong because that’s what a decent guy would do, but that’s not me. I drove past her, refusing to look. No big deal. But when I got to the turn for the main road, I couldn’t make myself leave. I mean, it was after five o’clock and the parking lot was practically empty. What if no one helped her? On the other hand, she was tough and could take care of herself…

I backed up, whipped my car into a spot next to hers and got out, completely ignoring my promise to stay away from her.

I cleared my throat.

She didn’t budge, intent on the car. I understood her silence when I saw she had ear buds in.

I blew out a breath. Did I really want to talk to her. Willingly?

“You know what you’re looking at?” I asked her, rather loudly.

She jerked and straightened up, bumping her head on the raised hood. “Ouch!” She pulled out the ear buds and rubbed her temple. “That hurt.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, my gaze taking in every facet of her, like I needed it to breathe. Her dark hair was tousled from bending over, she had a smudge of grease from the engine on her cheek, and a red spot on her forehead where she’d banged it.

She bounced from foot to foot in those boots, her face guarded. No surprise there. Our altercation in class was fresh in my mind. I’m sure it was in hers, too.

“Let me help you,” I said, glancing at the car.

“No thank you,” she said, turning away to look under the hood.

I deserved that. In fact, I think she was being polite considering what a jerk I’d been today.

I licked my lips. “I’m sorry, Dovey.”

She froze. “Sorry for what?”

Yeah, explain that one.

“Cuba?” She put her hands on her hips.

For playing with her heart?

So I kept it simple. “I was a douche in class today. And there’s no excuse for it. I’m sorry.” I owed her more, but I couldn’t say it.

“So I wasn’t just a curiosity to you?” she asked, face stony.

I mentally groaned. “Someday, I’ll explain—”

“Did you say someday?”

I nodded.

“Here’s the thing, Cuba. Somedays will eat you alive. They’re promises you make to fool yourself into believing everything will turn out right in the end. Someday, your ship will come in. Someday, you’ll tell me why you’re an asshole. But that someday gets further and further away, until before you know it, it turns into never. Make your someday, now. That’s my motto.”

“Maybe I don’t care if my somedays never come true,” I said.

“Then you’ve given up?” she asked. “You don’t care about being a doctor anymore? Or being happy?”

“I’m happy,” I said. I wasn’t.

She sighed heavily and put her back to me, gingerly picking up a wrench from an old compact toolbox.

“Jumper cables might be more useful if it won’t start,” I said.

“Feel free to leave anytime,” she mumbled from underneath the hood.

I glanced around at the gathering dark. And as much as my head was telling me to go, my body wanted to stay. I came in closer, watching as she fiddled with the oil stick, knocked on the radiator, and then clanked on the battery, making an awful metallic clanging noise.

“You should bang on the oil pan too. That might help,” I yelled over the racket.

She paused and the silence stretched. And stretched.

I grimaced. I’d been trying to break the ice, but, of course, it didn’t work because too much was between us. The barrier too thick.

“Please leave,” she said, rising up and pushing her hair off her face. “We’re not friends, and I don’t need your help.”

But she appeared uncertain. And worried.