Nothing But Trouble (Malibu University 1)

“I gotta go.”

“I’ll see you Thursday,” I hammer again.

“Thursday,” he quietly repeats.

“It was nice meeting you, Brian,” Alice says in the sweetest voice. My gut clenches. This girl is awesome. The fucking best. I don’t deserve to be her friend. Not after the way I treated her.

Brian smiles briefly and looks away. “You guys better get outta here. It’s not safe for you.”

I want to yell no shit. I want to yell at him until he listens.

Brian pivots and runs off.

“Thursday!” I shout. But he’s already around the building and out of sight.

Alice

With the streets mostly empty, it only takes us half an hour to get back to campus. It’s 1 a.m. by the time Reagan parks the Jeep in front of my dorm. We haven’t exchanged a single word since we dropped off Brian, his very sweet and very troubled brother.

Reagan turns off the engine and plants his forehead on the steering wheel in between his hands, the knuckles pale. “I shouldn’t have taken you. It was stupid and selfish of me.”

“Stop that. I made the decision to come along and I’m glad I did. Your brother is sweet.”

He snorts. “Yeah, real sweet.”

“How did it happen? The cut. God, it looked awful and painful.”

“They couldn’t give him any painkillers while they stitched him up because he’s a known substance abusers,” he tells me, his voice dull and distant. “A lot of them will injure themselves to get drugs.” A shiver runs up my back. “He was trying to stop some guys from raping a girl he knows. That’s how he got cut.”

The air gets caught in my lungs, pain and sympathy pool in my gut. “Oh my God. Poor Brian. And the girl, is she okay?”

“For now. He was anxious to get back to her. That’s why I signed him out.”

I nod absently while the question I’m dying to ask hangs on my lips. “Do you think he’ll show up at the clinic on Thursday?”

He still won’t look at me. His breathing gets harsh. He sucks in deep breaths of air and expels them loudly. It’s then I realize he’s trying not to cry. With the heel of his palm, he starts pounding on the steering wheel, slams his body against the back of his seat, and tips his chin up to stare blindly into the cloudy night sky.

“I don’t know,” he croaks. “Honestly? No. I don’t think he will.” The truth comes out slowly, painfully. His throat works. The muscle along the sharp cut of his jaw twitches.

I reach over, slide my hand up his shoulder, grip his neck, hot to the touch, alive under my fingertips, and bring him into my arms. He comes easily, hiding his face and sorrow on my shoulder, his arms banding around me in a crushing grip.

I pet his back and let him ride it out on the curve of my neck, all that anguish he’s packed down over the years surging up at once. It’s not fair. He shouldn’t be carrying all the responsibility of his brother’s welfare by himself. His parents are assholes. That goes without saying.

The cotton of my long sleeve shirt is damp when he pulls away. Then in one smooth motion, before I can see it coming, he cups my face between his large rough hands and leans down. His warm lips touch mine. It’s soft and gentle, a question instead of a command. And when I don’t object, he kisses me again with more conviction. With urgency that speaks of a stolen moment that may never come around again.

I’m in shock. I’m lost in him. I’m thrilled. My joy climbs so high it is destined to end with a brutally hard landing. I know this. I do. But I want it so badly that I willingly ignore the voice in the back of my mind telling me that he’s hurting and alone. That it’s only natural to want to celebrate life, to feel something good, something tangible that connects us to another living being when we’re faced with our own fragility. That voice urges me to pull away, to stop him. But I don’t get the chance because he does it for me.

“I’m sorry. Fuck. I’m sorry, Alice.” For a moment his lips hover over mine, unsure whether to stay or go.

Stay. Please stay.

How do I tell him that I’m not sorry? That I want his sweet, soft kisses again and again. That I want kisses that are not so sweet too. All that and so much more from him.

He sits back in his seat and rubs his face. His lashes, still wet, glisten in the flood of light from the overhead streetlamp. “Please tell me we’re okay. I can’t lose you. Did I fuck this up again?”

“It’s okay. You’re upset…” I reassure, giving him the cover that his pained expression and voice are asking of me. “It was just…”