Nothing But Wild (Malibu University 2)

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.