Nothing But Trouble (Malibu University 1)

It’s a convertible. Top down. Filled with girls I’ve seen around campus. Hair whipping in the wind, they’re laughing and singing along with Taylor Swift’s We Are Never Getting Back Together at the top of their lungs.

Welcome to Wonderland. It is not a myth. Los Angeles is populated by a disproportionate amount of pretty people. A few weeks ago this would’ve had me staring with my jaw unhinged, but the sight has become so common it doesn’t even warrant a second glance anymore.

Not a single one of them notices me as they drive by. My foot slips out of the flip-flop, making me stumble a few steps. Luckily for me, I manage to right myself before turning into roadkill.

I’m adjusting my backpack when I hear a second car approaching. Out of the corner of my eye I catch a flash of black paint and an oversized, deep tread tire. A Jeep Wrangler comes barreling toward me and everything goes slo-mo, my life flashing before my eyes.

There’s no time to think. All I can do is react. Instinct takes over and I dive for safety. It feels like I’m falling forever. Until, finally, I land on the grass running along the asphalt––and, unfortunately for me, slide to a stop on my face.

I’m lying motionless, trying to discern if all my parts are still attached to my body, when a series of sounds register. The screech of tires. A door slamming shut. And the soft thump of running feet.

“Are you okay?” a deep male voice queries. A big hand gently falls on my shoulder.

The only thing I’m absolutely certain of is that my face broke my fall.

“Does it look like I’m okay, asshole?” I barely manage to get out with my mouth smothered in dirt and grass. I can taste it. Disgusting.

I hear a quick snort. Then a murmured, “Don’t move. I’m calling 911.”

“No!”

I’m pretty sure the only thing injured is my pride right now and in no way can I afford any emergency medical care. I’m currently on the bare-bones-only-deploy-if-you’re-dying plan and my savings account is allocated to other semi-important stuff like food. “Who taught you how to drive? Your blind nana?”

“You were standing in the middle of the road,” the same voice asserts with undisguised amusement underpinning his bullshit claim.

He carefully pries my backpack off and I roll over, onto my back, blinking up at the head looming over me. Bad driver’s face is obscured by the sun.

“I’m going to call campus security,” he states with the confidence of someone who is seldom rebuffed, his voice deep and granular. Also, strangely soothing. That’s weird but whatever. I probably have a concussion.

“I said no. It’ll just be a waste of time.” Time that I do not have to waste.

I attempt to sit up, and his hand moves to my back, helping to guide me. Brushing my hands off, I examine my palms––scratched up and dirty. My knees––skinned and bloody. Grass and dirt sticks to my face. I can feel it. Particularly to my lip gloss. This stuff is worse than superglue. I try to brush it off with the back of my hand to no avail.

“Wrong––I was standing on the side of the road.” I refrain from adding, “dipshit,” as I am apt to do when I’m angry, and in this case, in pain.

“Let me see your ankle.”

As soon as he mentions ankle, it starts to throb. And I mean really throb. “Are you a doctor?”

The sarcasm is strong now, percolating behind every thought, simmering under every unspoken word waiting to be unleashed. I can control myself, however. I’m not a complete idiot. I’m stranded and injured and the stone-cold fact is that I need this guy’s help right now. I’ll save the verbal ass kicking for later.

“No, but my parents are.”

His parents? I couldn’t make this up if I tried. Let’s get this out of the way––this school is filled with a bunch of pampered rich kids.

I glance up and at first the glare makes me squint and hide my eyes behind my hand. Then his head moves against the sun and I get a clear view of a face that would make even my cousin Marie consider going straight. A cleft accents his chin, nice lips, high cheekbones, a strong jaw line. In other words, features you usually find on billboards peddling underwear.

But his eyes…fucking A, excuse my French. Vivid green framed by thick dark lashes. A one-two punch to the sternum, knocking the wind right out of me. If I wasn’t on my ass already, I would currently be in the process of falling on it.

I’m staring. I know I am and yet I really don’t care. He almost killed me. Attempted vehicular manslaughter means I get a free pass to stare.

“So that makes you…what? A doctor by birthright?”