Nothing But Trouble (Malibu University 1)

“We’re going to be late,” she whispers in my ear and a shiver races over my skin, which is hot and tight and uncomfortable. She shoves the jacket off my shoulders and my hands slide up her bare thighs. We’re so good together. Like I knew we would be.

“Then we’ll be late.” One finger hooks around her underwear and pulls down. Rocking her hips, she lets me take them off.

Her slender fingers squeeze my shaft over my pants and a low groan slips out. I’m hard as fuck. A few strokes over our clothes isn’t going to cut it. I need to come. I need relief. I need her.

The pants get unbuttoned. The zipper comes down. Her cool hands slide beneath my boxer briefs to grip my ass. My dick gets free, standing erect between us.

Out of the drawer, I grab a condom and rip it open with my teeth, roll it on in a hurry because I can’t wait another minute to be part of her, to lose myself in her body, to forget everything and everyone outside of the two of us and this bathroom.

She’s all that matters, all that exists to me anymore. Let the world catch fire. Let it all fuck off.

Her head tips back and her dark hair sways. She sucks in a breath as I thrust inside of her. And them I’m gone, so gone, far away. With my mouth attached to her neck, I fuck her hard while she holds on to me tightly. I come as soon as she does, with the full weight of my body collapsing against her. And this small girl, a third my size, holds me up, holds me together.

I hug her tightly. She doesn’t say anything, just lets me hold her. I love her. I think I’ve loved her for a long time and didn’t know it.

Alice

Dallas and Brock follow in Cole’s car. The rest of the guys on the team meet us at the Episcopalian church in Beverly Hills. Inside, it’s wall-to-wall flower arrangements. The expensive kind. Not a single carnation to be found anywhere in the entire church.

A closed, lacquered maple casket sits in the middle. A glamorous picture of a young and very handsome Brian Reynolds sits up on an easel next to it. I can see the strong resemblance now. Not so much when I met him in person.

By the time we arrive, late, it’s already standing room only. Judging by the ages, most of the people here must be friends of the Dr. and Dr. Reynolds.

As we walk up the aisle, Reagan stops to hug and backslap a small black man with silver hair. His dark eyes move to me, and when I hold out my hand, he hugs me.

“Foz Whitaker. You must be Alice.” I hug him back and pull away far enough to speak but he beats me to it. “Brian told me all about you.”

Inexplicably, tears burst from my eyes. Embarrassed, I hurriedly wipe them away while Foz pats my shoulder.

“You better get on up there,” Foz tells Reagan and he nods in agreement.

As we continue up the aisle, I spot his parents for the first time since we got the call. Sitting in the first row, Deborah Reynolds’s expression is stoic. Her makeup flawless. Her hair a hip, carefully styled mess. The dress she’s wearing––tailored, black, and sleeveless––contours every inch of her slender body. It actually looks a lot like my dress with the exception of the price tag. I’m fairly certain hers had a few more zeros attached at the end.

Pat Reynolds is wearing a navy suit and his usual expression of boredom. As if he has somewhere better to be.

Can I say that I hate them? Is that allowed?

Noting our arrival, they move down the pew to make room for us. “You’re late,” I hear Pat Reynolds tell his son.

“Where’s your tie?” his mother adds.

Garbed in an ivory robe with gold trim, Pastor Peterman, who looks exactly like an older Brock Peterman, walks to the podium––or whatever you call those things. Clearly church is not a thing in my family.

The service is a short one. No mention of all the years of struggle, or the demons that haunted Brian. Only a passing mention of the pitfalls of human desire and how we should do our best to curb them. Along with a short list of his accomplishments in high school.

Reagan keeps hold of my hand on his lap throughout the service.

Once it’s over, we all file out slowly. The sun shines brightly in a cloudless sky, the air crisp and cool. I wonder if Brian is at peace now. I wonder if he can see us. I wonder about my mother. I wonder.

We all get in our cars and a long, fancy procession follows the hearse to the graveyard. At the grave site, we crowd around the casket. His parents take a seat while Reagan remains standing among his friends, with me by his side. Pastor Peterman begins to speak.