Nothing But Trouble (Malibu University 1)

He backs away slowly, leans up against the front door of the dorm, and holds it open. “Yeah…so…”

“Yeah, this was fun. Let’s do it again soon…ha ha. Or not.”

I’m hoping for a smile, a chuckle, something, anything. Instead I get…nothing. He blinks, expressionless. Not even a ghost of a smile. Only an awkward, grating silence. Wow, that got weird real fast.

“See you around, Alice from New Jersey.”

“Thanks for the crutches, the Reagan Reynolds.”

He gives me a lazy salute, and a moment later he’s gone, disappearing into the waning light of early evening.

Chapter 3

Reagan

What just happened? What in the fucking hell was that?

With my mind in overdrive, I pull the Jeep into the driveway of the beach house I share with three of my teammates. As if I don’t have enough shit to worry about. Now I can add nearly running over a girl with my car to the list.

I guess I should thank my maker that Alice Bailey isn’t the dramatic type. Although she definitely has a tendency for anger and sarcasm. The memory of her smart mouth puts a smile on my face. Goes to show you how totally fucked my life is that some chick calling me Dr. Moron turns into the highlight of my day.

The garage is open. Two cars sit inside. Dallas’s yellow Porsche and a white Range Rover I don’t recognize. Cole and Brock are out––their bikes missing. Which means Dallas has some girl over. I love the guy, but his dick’s given more rides than a N.Y. City yellow cab and I’m really not in the mood for company right now.

I park and stare at the phone sitting on the passenger seat. Anxiety climbs up my throat as I contemplate the call I have to make. Alice from New Jersey didn’t ask for a police report––or a campus security one for that matter. Problem is, Doc Fred will most definitely call my father so I might as well get the ass chewing over with now.

I pull up his number and pause, my finger hovering over the button. I’ll call him in an hour. After he’s had his second scotch. He’ll be in a better frame of mind then. Not a minute later, my phone rings and my father’s name flashes onscreen. And if that’s not a great big screw you from the universe I don’t know what is.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Have you called Jim Sullivan yet?”

Pat Reynolds has never met a greeting he liked.

“No, not yet.”

“What are you waiting for?”

It’s a forgone conclusion that I’m attending UCLA medical school next fall. It’s never even been discussed, simply accepted as a done deal as soon as I was old enough to apply to colleges.

Legacy. A word bandied about often in my family. I come from a long line of accomplished doctors. My great-grandfather helped establish Cedars-Sinai. My grandfather holds two patents on surgical instruments. My father is the head of the cardiothoracic surgery unit––my mother the head of dermatology. You get the idea.

Everyone assumes I’ll follow in my father’s and grandfather’s footsteps and specialize in cardiac surgery. An assumption I have done nothing to correct because the path of least resistance is the only way to keep the peace with my old man. And after the “great disappointment” my older brother has been to him, it all rests on me to “save the family name.” I’ve heard that speech more times than I care to recall. All of it simply an effort to stroke his own ego––my dad cares for little else.

“He has my MCAT score and my application. I don’t see why I need to call him.”

“He’s a friend and the dean of the medical school, Reagan. Do I need to spell it out for you?”

Frustration builds in my chest. I can’t have this discussion with him now. Not over the phone. “Something happened today,” I start, steering the conversation away from what is bound to turn into another ugly argument. My father and I have never been close, but lately it seem all we do is argue.

“What is it?” he spits out in a tone sharpened by irritation. He’s always irritated. I’d be concerned if he wasn’t.

“Nothing serious. I was in a minor car accident on campus.”

“Is your car damaged?”

This line of questioning does not surprise me at all. That’s dear old dad, for you.

“No, I didn’t hit anything. But there was a girl…she sprained her ankle.”

“Did you get a police report?”

“No, but––”

“Was anybody else present? Someone you can trust?”

My resolve to keep a cool head around him starts to slip. He knows exactly where my buttons are and goes after them every chance he gets. “No. Just the two of––”

“Then it never happened,” he cuts in again. “It’s her word against yours.”

My frustration boils over. “You’re not hearing me, Dad. She’s not asking for anything, but I know she can’t afford medical care and her ankle is really fucked up.”