Nothing But Trouble (Malibu University 1)

Changing the angle, he drives his hips harder against mine. Two thrusts and I’m coming. A few more and he shouts his release.

Shortly after, he falls asleep holding me tightly. In the meantime, I send up a prayer of gratitude. I’ve never really prayed before, but I figure it’s never too late to start.

The next morning, I wake up with a renewed sense of hope nipping at my heels. It follows me around everywhere. In the shower where I wash my hair with Reagan’s department-store-brand shampoo while whistling a happy tune. Into the kitchen where I make us two omelets.

“I’m starving. What smells so good?” he asks in a husky voice.

“You’re always starving,” I remark from the doorway, holding his dish.

Not lately, crosses my mind. I take it as another indication that his mood is improving.

Lifting his head off the pillow, he aims a sleepy smile at me that I’m sure the fertility god invented because that smile makes me want to get undressed and ride him for the rest of the morning.

But I can’t, I remind myself. I have an eight thirty class, and later in the afternoon, the interview for the James Cameron internship. Besides, we have all weekend to make up for lost time.

Walking into the room, I hand him a plate and fork. “What time is your first class today?” I ask him while he digs into the omelet.

Glancing up with the fork halfway to his mouth, he says, “Not till later. Take the Jeep to school.”

Thank God. He’s let me drive before––that’s not why I’m grateful. It’s because frankly I’m a little sore from all the action last night. Reagan woke me at dawn for a very vigorous round two and walking all those hills does not sound appealing at the moment.

“Good plan.” Leaning down, I take his face in my hands, and tip it up to plant a kiss on his lips. “Love you.”

“Love you too.” I’m practically out the door when I hear, “Thanks for feeding me, Jersey.”

My morning classes go by quickly. By the time I glance at my shiny new iPhone again, it’s already one o’clock and I haven’t heard from Reagan.

Maybe he slept through his class again? Maybe Brock or Cole gave him a ride? Either way, it doesn’t sit right that he hasn’t texted me. At the very least, to inquire when I can meet him to return the Jeep.

Dora promised to drive me to the interview in Santa Monica at four so it’s important I return the car before then. I get back to the dorm and change into my black knee length-sleeveless dress and flats, watching the phone with a growing sense of dread. It’s three by the time I’m done putting on mascara and blush. Bile swirls nervously in my gut and it has nothing to do with the upcoming interview.

I call him and it goes straight to voicemail. Which means he turned off his phone. For a fleeting moment, the thought that he would harm himself does cross my mind. After last night, however, I quickly cast the thought aside. Reagan has never been able to hide his emotions from me and I would’ve noticed something as critical as him sinking even lower. Still, I’m not an expert and the thought circulates some more.

I call four more times and leave increasingly angry and worried voicemails. By three thirty, I’m worked up in a frenzy and text Dora that she doesn’t have to drive me to the interview. I’ll go to Reagan’s, and after making sure he’s alive and in one piece, I’ll make him drive me as punishment.

As I’m pulling out of campus, the thought strikes me to call Dallas. He may be home and can check on him.

“Hey, Alice,” Dallas answers on the first ring. He sounds subdued and Dallas is not often, if ever, subdued. Another bad sign. At this point my heart is practically jumping out of my chest and my hands tremble on the steering wheel.

“Is he there? Is he okay?” Anxiety makes me forsake manners and everything else.

A scary long pause happens before Dallas speaks again. “He’s gone.”

Gone? “What the fuck does that mean! Is he alive?” I scream into the phone. Somehow the car takes me on autopilot down Reagan’s street.

“Yeah, sorry. I mean he left. He texted me an hour ago that he was leaving and not coming back…to get rid of his stuff.”

I pull into the driveway and jump out. Brock is already there, holding the front door open. “Alice,” he says in a sober tone. “Alice, wait.”

I run past him without a word and march down the hallway to Reagan’s bedroom.

Dallas is inside, staring into the walk-in closet. He turns when he hears me, his expression the epitome of discomfort with a side of sympathy. I step inside the empty closet with my heart galloping inside my chest, the simple act of breathing nearly impossible.