Nothing But Trouble (Malibu University Series)(6)

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.

He backs away slowly, leans up against the front door of the dorm, and holds it open. “Yeah…so…”

“Yeah, this was fun. Let’s do it again soon…ha ha. Or not.”

I’m hoping for a smile, a chuckle, something, anything. Instead I get…nothing. He blinks, expressionless. Not even a ghost of a smile. Only an awkward, grating silence. Wow, that got weird real fast.

“See you around, Alice from New Jersey.”

“Thanks for the crutches, the Reagan Reynolds.”

He gives me a lazy salute, and a moment later he’s gone, disappearing into the waning light of early evening.





Chapter 3





Reagan


What just happened? What in the fucking hell was that?

With my mind in overdrive, I pull the Jeep into the driveway of the beach house I share with three of my teammates. As if I don’t have enough shit to worry about. Now I can add nearly running over a girl with my car to the list.

I guess I should thank my maker that Alice Bailey isn’t the dramatic type. Although she definitely has a tendency for anger and sarcasm. The memory of her smart mouth puts a smile on my face. Goes to show you how totally fucked my life is that some chick calling me Dr. Moron turns into the highlight of my day.

The garage is open. Two cars sit inside. Dallas’s yellow Porsche and a white Range Rover I don’t recognize. Cole and Brock are out––their bikes missing. Which means Dallas has some girl over. I love the guy, but his dick’s given more rides than a N.Y. City yellow cab and I’m really not in the mood for company right now.

I park and stare at the phone sitting on the passenger seat. Anxiety climbs up my throat as I contemplate the call I have to make. Alice from New Jersey didn’t ask for a police report––or a campus security one for that matter. Problem is, Doc Fred will most definitely call my father so I might as well get the ass chewing over with now.

I pull up his number and pause, my finger hovering over the button. I’ll call him in an hour. After he’s had his second scotch. He’ll be in a better frame of mind then. Not a minute later, my phone rings and my father’s name flashes onscreen. And if that’s not a great big screw you from the universe I don’t know what is.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Have you called Jim Sullivan yet?”

Pat Reynolds has never met a greeting he liked.

“No, not yet.”

“What are you waiting for?”

It’s a forgone conclusion that I’m attending UCLA medical school next fall. It’s never even been discussed, simply accepted as a done deal as soon as I was old enough to apply to colleges.

Legacy. A word bandied about often in my family. I come from a long line of accomplished doctors. My great-grandfather helped establish Cedars-Sinai. My grandfather holds two patents on surgical instruments. My father is the head of the cardiothoracic surgery unit––my mother the head of dermatology. You get the idea.

Everyone assumes I’ll follow in my father’s and grandfather’s footsteps and specialize in cardiac surgery. An assumption I have done nothing to correct because the path of least resistance is the only way to keep the peace with my old man. And after the “great disappointment” my older brother has been to him, it all rests on me to “save the family name.” I’ve heard that speech more times than I care to recall. All of it simply an effort to stroke his own ego––my dad cares for little else.