Nothing But Wild (Malibu University 2)
You ever need someone to take that V-card off your hands let me know. I consider it my civic duty to make sure your first sexual experience is a great one…
Filthy images of our naked, entwined bodies flash in my mind’s eye and I may as well be standing in dragon fire. A blast of heat works up my neck and over my face, sweat beads along my hairline.
The last thing I need is to be reminded of my downward spiral into total humiliation. As if it wasn’t hard enough to look Dallas in the eyes before he knew with absolute certainty what a pathetic loser I am, now it’s impossible. The silver lining here is that all I have left is one more month of this class. Then I’m a step closer to never having to see him again.
Distractedly, I glance up from my tablet, the one I use to take notes in Larsen’s class, and find Dallas standing next to the guy seated next to me. He’s in his usual uniform: faded Malibu Sharks t-shirt, long basketball shorts, and pool slides. His hair is––as always––a beautiful mess. Except something is very different today. His arm is in a sling, his right eye is an interesting shade of purple, and his bottom lip is split and swollen.
Huh.
It takes me a minute to recover from the sight and within that timeframe all I do is stare. His gaze briefly catches mine and darts back to the guy seated next to me––Bryce, I think his name is.
“Is it?” he says, staring an icy hole in Bryce’s face. Bryce, for his part, looks genuinely confused at this line of questioning.
“Uh, yeah, dude, I’m sitting in it so I’d have to say it’s taken.”
Blank-faced Dallas continues. “Is it though?”
What the heck is he up to? Bryce steals a glance in my direction. To gauge if this is some coordinated effort, I’m assuming. Unfortunately, I have no answer for him other than to look just as confused as he does.
“I need to sit next to my friend,” Dallas continues. “She’s taking notes for me.”
Which is a barefaced lie. We are as far from friends as possible. But all is not lost because this is the part of the story where I find the fire in my belly––and my voice.
“We’re not f-friends.”
“Yes, we are, Dory. Don’t be mean,” he has the audacity to say. I catch him close to smiling and my anger kicks up two notches.
Bryce’s head bobs back and forth between us. I still have no idea what Dallas is up to, but I’m fairly certain that his intentions are not on the up-and-up.
“We’re not,” I repeat, wasting no time in correcting his false claim.
“You wanna pretend you don’t know me now? After everything we’ve been through?”
Brain damage. He must’ve hit his head. Maybe he’s concussed. Because he’s definitely lost his mind. It’s all I can come up with as an excuse for this strange behavior.
That’s when I realize everyone else within earshot has noticed the scene he’s making. Everyone and I mean everyone is staring. The bookends included who patiently wait for their cult leader in the aisle.
“I’ll move,” Bryce announces, as frustrated with this nonsense as I am. Standing, he gathers his things, forcefully shoving everything in his messenger bag.
“Great idea,” Dallas deadpans.
“D-don’t move,” I plead. Which doesn’t do any good.
As soon as Bryce shuffles past Dallas, he takes the newly-vacated seat. Long legs splayed, his damaged arm in the sling filling the space between us.
Ducking his head into the aisle, he gives the girls a patronizing little salute with his still-functioning hand, then turns that deadly grin on me. Dallas has always been a beautiful disaster, but with the split lip and black eye, he literally epitomizes the label.
“I can’t have them bumping into my injured arm. You’ll keep me safe, won’t you, Dory?” At first glance, he seems smug but then, for just a fraction of a moment, the act slips and he looks a bit lost, a little unsteady.
It’s apparent I won’t be getting him to move so I decide to make the best out of this terrible situation. Also, I’ll admit my curiosity is piqued.
“W-what happened to you?” I murmur, taking the opportunity to study his perfectly symmetrical profile while he pulls his books out of his backpack.
Turning to me, his smile drops and he runs his good hand through his sun-bleached hair, tugs on the ends. “You didn’t hear? I totaled my car.”
“The Porsche?” I ask, completely taken aback. He could’ve died. He nods. “You’re lucky to be alive.”
“That I am…” He sighs then and I know there’s more to the story.
“Is it b-broken?”
“Dislocated shoulder.”
His playing days are over. With only a few games left in the water polo season––including the playoffs––he won’t heal in time to play another game. And he’s a senior, which means he’ll likely never play again.