Nothing But Trouble (Malibu University Series)(4)
“I’ll grab it. Let me get you in the car first.”
Bad driver, as I’ve come to think of him, gently places me in the Jeep’s passenger seat, careful not to bump my sore ankle. Then he leaves to retrieve my backpack.
In the meantime, I take stock of my situation. Swollen ankle that has been steadily growing larger by the second. A busted car that will cost me serious dough. No way to get to and from my off-campus job at the Slow Drip coffee shop––a job that pays a portion of my living expenses. Also, one that I only started a few days ago, which means I have no leverage with the manager.
My father works for the U.S. Postal Service and my stepmom’s an emergency room nurse. Wealth and the Bailey name have never been synonymous. They’re doing the best they can to help me out. I couldn’t possibly ask them for more. It dawns upon me now that my parents will be worried sick with me so far away. Especially my stepmom.
My mood is officially damp. I don’t even want to contemplate the possibility of my ankle being broken. That would almost certainly signify the end of my dream. I would be forced to drop out.
“Here you go,” bad driver says as he hands me my bag. I waste no time ripping open the zipper to check on my equipment.
The thought of it being thrown to the ground makes me twitchy. It took me years to save up enough to buy my collection of cameras, forgoing Rutgers University for a community college so I could use my savings to make the purchase. Not only is it absolutely necessary if I want to make independent films and submit them to production companies and film festivals, it also functions as my savings account. I have a ton of money invested in them. My cameras are my safety net in case of a catastrophe.
“What’s in there?” He looks genuinely curious.
I shoulder-block his line of sight, shoot him a wary glare. I’m from Jersey––we think everyone is trying to steal from us. “My equipment.”
“Cameras?”
I slide an assessing glance over him. He looks like a Disney prince. Clean-cut, close shave. Expression open, stare earnest. He even has the requisite dip in the chin. All he’s missing is a red cloak.
The grimace comes naturally, so does suspicion. “Yeah.”
It’s a rare occasion that I don’t have some of it on me. At a minimum, I usually have my Leica in my backpack.
“Cool. Can I see?”
This prince is nosy. “No, you may not see.”
Fighting a grin, his white teeth, stark against his tan, bear down on his lower lip. “You a film major?”
This guy is awfully chatty. “Yes, are you in the NSA?” I fire back and watch his lips tremble. I’m glad I can entertain him.
The Jeep shoots uphill, making me brace against the door. As tempting as the prospect of ending up in this guy’s lap sounds, I’m starting to cold sweat from the pain in my ankle and getting anxious about the extent of the injury.
“Where are you taking me?”
He studies the open suspicion on my face. “To the medical center. Where do you think?”
“To dispose of what’s left of the evidence.”
He scans my face again and his gaze narrows in on something. It’s making me increasingly self-conscious. “You have some, uh…dirt stuck to your lips.” He motions with his index finger to his own mouth, pink and slightly fuller on the bottom. “And grass.”
Scorching heat rolls up my neck and blankets my face, which I’m sure is the color of a baboon’s butt. The Bailey curse. My pale skin keeps no secrets. Something I’ve learned to live with since the first grade when I told Brady Higgins that I liked him and he told me, and I’m paraphrasing, to take a hike because I look like Casper the friendly ghost. Last I heard, Brady’s still unemployed and living in his mother’s basement. Sometimes karma takes a while.
I flip down the visor and check the mirror. Not only does it look like I’ve been eating dirt and grass. He failed to mention the glob of white sunscreen stuck under my left eye. “Peachy. Thank you for so kindly pointing it out,” I mutter as I wipe it away with my fingers.
“You’re not from around here.”
“What gave me away?”
A smile full of mischief now permanently fixed on his obnoxiously handsome face, he looks me over again. “Where from? New York?”
“New Jersey.”
“Jersey,” he echoes as he slow-nods. “That’s…different.”
“Why am I getting the impression that different is not a good thing.”
“It’s not a good thing,” he clarifies, and for some strange reason my heart sinks a little. Gaze fixed on the road ahead, he adds, “It’s a great thing.”
Chapter 2
Alice
“I don’t think it’s broken,” the campus medical center doctor, a middle-aged man with full cheeks and kind brown eyes, tells me while he examines my leg. “But I do recommend you go to the ER and get an X-ray. I’m sorry, what’s your name again?”
From a prone position on the gurney, I snap up on my elbows, shaking my head before the doctor can even finish his sentence. “Alice Bailey and no, I really can’t afford a trip to the ER.” Without warning, he lifts my ankle to bundle it in a flexible cold pack, and as soon as it hits my skin, I squeak.