Nothing But Trouble (Malibu University 1)

“I’m kind of a big deal,” he deadpans with a smirk. “People know me.”

Huh? For a minute I’m mired in confusion. Is he serious? Is he a screaming megalomaniac as well as a shitty driver? But then the words grow familiar. “Did you just…quote the movie Anchorman?”

Mr. Big Deal’s gaze moves away, pink stains his cheeks. Roger that. I nailed it. Then again, I guess I should be grateful. Quoting the movie isn’t half as bad as if he were serious.

He shifts on his feet and I catch sight of a tiny dolphin tattoo etched on the outside of his calf, hidden amongst the sun-bleached man hair.

“Reagan Reynolds,” he finally mutters.

“Wait, wait…The Reagan Reynolds.” My eyes go wide for maximum dramatic effect. I probably should stow the bitch card but my ankle hurts something fierce and this guy is the root cause.

The Reagan Reynolds gifts me with another one of his half-cocked grins. “You know who I am?” He’s dropped the Ron Burgundy act. This is all him. He’s a little surprised and a lot pleased that I may know him.

My face falls flat. “No.”

Dr. Fred coughs and Reynolds’s smile promptly disappears.

I can feel my forehead getting very clammy. “I don’t know if the Tylenol is going to cut it, Doc.”

“I’m afraid we don’t dispense anything stronger. For that, you need to get to an ER.”

“Thank you for waiting with me,” I say as he parks the Jeep in front of my dorm two hours later.

“It’s the least I can do,” Reynolds replies through the tight set of his mouth.

It took a while for the painkillers to finally kick in, for me to feel more human and less Incredible Hulk, and once the pain became tolerable, Dr. Fred sent us to a medical supply store to pick up a pair of crutches. Reynolds insisted on paying and I didn’t argue since I inconveniently don’t have an extra fifty bucks sitting in my checking account.

Reynolds takes my new crutches out of the back seat and holds the passenger side door open for me. “You really should get that x-rayed,” he insists, worry etched in the V between his pulled-together brows. I wave at him to step back and position the crutches to stand. In the meantime, he watches on, unsure what to do. The swagger he’s been brandishing all afternoon seems to have deserted him, his expression steadily growing more troubled since we left the medical center.

I really can’t. I have too much to contend with right now without adding this guy’s “fragile male psyche” to it.

I hop ahead and hear him murmur, “I’ll grab your stuff,” at my back.

“I’m on the first floor,” I announce awkwardly as I punch in the code on the knob to get in. “So, you know…there’s that.”

I force a broad smile in the hope that he’ll lose the sullen attitude. More for my own peace of mind, seeing as he’s making me feel guilty and I’m the injured party. No such luck. The gloom and doom persists. Oh well.

Turning, I hop down the hallway. Thick silence trails after us. When we reach my door, he gently places my backpack on the floor.

“Give me your phone and I’ll punch in my number,” he says, quietly. His open palm comes at me and all I can do is stare at it. It’s huge and pale compared to the tan skin of the top of his hand, the topography marked by a series of calluses at the base of his long fingers.

“Why?” I don’t mean to be difficult but, with the exception of my immediate family, I’m not used to people wanting to help me without an ulterior motive. As a matter of fact, I can’t remember a single instance where that’s happened.

His lips quiver with a tentative smile. Until he realizes I’m serious, then his amusement swiftly changes to confusion. “In case you need help––” He shrugs. “I don’t know––with anything.”

Yeah, the last guy that offered to help me was the manager of the car wash I worked at and he wanted a blowie in exchange. I’ll pass, thank you very much. “I don’t need help. I’m good, thanks.”

His eyes widen and he pulls his hand back. Then he runs both of them through his hair, a move that lifts his shirt to reveal a tiny slice of heaven. A smooth, tan strip of skin with a teasing tail end of a V that disappears under the band of his low-riding basketball shorts.

Considering the circumstance, this should not get my undivided attention. And yet it does because, well, it’s in my face and I’m a healthy, red-blooded woman. Also, it may have been a while since I’ve gotten naked with a man.

A clearing of a male throat lifts my eyes. Caught red-handed.

I expect some note of triumph on his face. It’s glaringly obvious Mr. Big Deal’s a major flirt and used to girls falling at his beautiful feet, and yet his expression remains strangely blank.