The Deal

“I’ll walk you in.” I start to unbuckle my seatbelt, but she shakes her head.

“It’s fine. I don’t need a bodyguard.” She holds up her phone. “All prepped to dial 911, remember?”

A short silence falls over us.

“Well.” I stick out my hand. “It was a pleasure doing business with you.”

She stares at my hand like I’m a carrier for Ebola. I roll my eyes and withdraw the gesture.

“I work until eight tomorrow,” she says. “We can meet up when I’m done. You don’t live in the dorms, right?”

“No, but I can come to you.”

She blanches as if I’ve offered to shave her head. “And have people think we’re friends? No way. Text me your address. I’ll come to your place.”

I’ve never met anyone who’s so repulsed by my popularity, and I have no idea what to make of it.

I think I might like it.

“You’ll be the most popular girl on your floor if I came over, you know.”

“Text me your address,” she says firmly.

“Yes, ma’am.” I beam at her. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

All I get in return is a sour look and a flash of her profile as she turns to open her door. She hops out of the car without a word, then reluctantly taps on the passenger window.

Stifling a grin, I press the button to roll down the window. “Forget something?” I mock.

“Thank you for the ride,” she says primly.

And then she’s gone, her green dress fluttering in the night breeze as she hurries toward the darkened buildings.





7




Hannah


Normally I pride myself on having a good head on my shoulders and making sound decisions, but agreeing to tutor Garrett? Stupider than stupid.

I’m still cursing myself for it as I make the drive over to his house the following evening. When he cornered me at the Sigma party, I had every intention of telling him to fuck off and leave me alone, and then he’d dangled Justin under my nose like a carrot, and I caved like a cheap tent.

Great. And now I’m mixing metaphors.

I think it might be time for me to face a grim truth: I have zero common sense when it comes to Justin Kohl. Last night I left the party with the sole purpose of forgetting about him? and instead of doing that, I allowed Garrett Graham to fill me with the most destructive emotion known to mankind—hope.

Hope that Justin might notice me. Hope that he might want me. Hope that I might’ve finally met someone who can make me feel something.

It’s embarrassing how besotted I am with the guy.

I park my borrowed car in the driveway behind Garrett’s Jeep and next to a shiny black pick-up, but I leave the engine running. I keep wondering what my old therapist would think if she knew about the deal I’d struck with Garrett. I want to say she’d be against it, but Carole was all about empowerment. She always encouraged me to take control of my life and grab hold of any opportunity that allows me to put the attack behind me.

So here’s what I know: I’ve dated two guys since the rape. I slept with both of them. And neither of them made me feel as hot and achy as Justin Kohl does with one heavy-lidded look.

Carole would tell me that’s an opportunity worth exploring.

Garrett’s townhouse is two stories tall, with a white stucco exterior, a stoop instead of a porch, and a front lawn that’s surprisingly tidy. Despite my reluctance, I force myself to get out of the car and walk to the door. Rock music blares inside the house. A part of me hopes that nobody hears me ring the bell, but muffled footsteps echo behind the door and then it swings open and I find myself looking at a tall guy with spiky blond hair and a chiseled face right off the cover of GQ.

“Why, hello there,” he drawls as he looks me up and down. “My birthday’s not until next week, but if this is an early b-day gift, I sure ain’t complaining, baby doll.”

Of course. I should have known Garrett would be rooming with someone as obnoxious as he is.

I curl my fingers over the strap of my oversized messenger bag, wondering if I can make it back to my car before Garrett knows I’m here, but my dastardly plan is foiled when he appears in the doorway. He’s barefoot, clad in faded jeans and a threadbare gray T-shirt, and his hair is damp as if he’s just come out of the shower.

“Hey, Wellsy,” he says breezily. “You’re late.”

“I said eight-fifteen. It’s eight-fifteen.” I stare coldly at Mr. GQ. “And if you were implying that I was a hooker, then call me insulted.”

“You thought she was a hooker?” Garrett turns to glare at his friend. “That’s my tutor, bro. Show some respect.”

“I didn’t think she was a hooker—I thought she was a stripper,” the blond retorts, as if that makes it better. “She’s wearing a costume, for fuck’s sake.”

He does have a point. My waitress uniform isn’t exactly subtle.