“Thanks,” he said, smiling just enough to show that wicked dimple. Jesus, I could fall inside that dimple and never crawl back out. That dimple was going to be the death of me.
I watched as he flipped through his notebook. The pages had single words written across them, all landscape. Tool, Shitstick, Asshat, Douchebag, Buttmunch, Jizztissue. He stopped on a blank page and took the top of the black Sharpie off with his mouth. I was seriously going to make out with that Sharpie lid later. Then he started writing: Fuck—
“What are you doing?” I asked, suddenly both nervous and excited like I was about to be privy to something that might be a little bit bad but not so bad that words like expulsion or policeman could be brought up. The kind of bad that always seemed like it might be fun but also might be addictive.
“I always write notes for Donovan when he teaches to let him know how he’s doing. Fuckwaffle is not a note I’ve given him before.” When he finished writing the word, he held up the notebook as if he was scoring an event.
I was seriously giddy. “And you do this every class?”
“When Velasquez isn’t here. Well, sometimes when he is here I try to sneak in a note too.” Some other students in the row across the aisle flagged Weston so he’d show them today’s note.
How had I missed this before today?
Weston brought the notebook back in front of him and waved it around a few more times for Donovan, who didn’t even blink in our direction. If we were sitting farther up in the hall, I’d wonder if he could read it, but we weren’t that far from the front and the black Sharpie made it pretty clear.
Genius.
“Does he ever acknowledge you?” I asked, amazed at how stoic Donovan remained.
“Nope.” Weston closed the notebook and tucked it back into his bag. “It never gets old either. I must have a nine-year-old’s sense of humor or something. It’s like when you go to Buckingham Palace and try to get the guards to smile, you know?”
The farthest place I’d ever been from home was here. Even our one family trip to Mexico had been closer. “I’ve never been to Buckingham Palace.”
He looked at me then, really looked at me. Judged me, maybe, for never having been to England—the most basic of rich people places in the world. Did that matter to a guy like him?
A smile eased across his full lips. Ah, that dimple. “Then I’ll have to take you there.” He leaned close again and tugged my ponytail. “I’m Weston.”
I almost forgot how to breathe. “I know who you are. I come to your parties.” Or I used to. “I’m Sabrina.”
Almost simultaneously as I introduced myself, my name rang out across the hall in Donovan’s baritone timbre. “Sabrina. Care to share your thoughts on regulation and ethics? I know you have quite a few.”
My stomach dropped. I hated talking in front of a class, but more importantly, Donovan never called on students. Never. What the hell was his problem? We weren’t the first kids to be caught chatting during his lecture, surely.
“Fuckwaffle,” Weston whispered next to me, sending me into a fit of nervous giggles.
Thankfully, Donovan noticed the time. “Saved by the figurative bell. It looks like class is over.” The resentment in his tone was thick. “Grades for your corporate strategy and ethics awareness assignment will be on the portal by the end of the week. Remember this thesis will count for half your grade.” He seemed to be staring at me as he said this, most likely because he was still sore that I’d disrupted his lesson.
I scowled. I hated it when he looked at me like that, but I wondered right then if I’d miss it if he suddenly stopped. I had a feeling I would.
I wondered if he’d miss it if I stopped staring back.
“Do you have another class now?” Weston asked.
I pulled myself away from Donovan’s piercing gaze and found Weston holding my bag out for me. “Thank you. And nope. Break until two.” I shuffled into the aisle after him. “You?”
“I usually meet up with a friend for lunch.”
I nodded. I’d thought for a moment he was going somewhere with his questioning. Guess he was just being polite.
But then he cocked his head in my direction. “Join us?”
The friend, it turned out, was Brett Larrabee. I’d been aware of Brett from the parties at The Keep, but we’d never officially met, and I was glad for the introduction. An extremely extroverted, politically conservative, openly homosexual African American, Brett was an oxymoron, and I found him absolutely intriguing.
He was also quite a talker. He’d led us to a small Vietnamese café, that was surprisingly not busy considering how good the food was, and proceeded to monopolize the majority of the conversation while we ate.
I didn’t mind. I was happy just to be included on the excursion. Every few minutes I had to remind myself I was awake, that this wasn’t a dream. That I was actually sitting at a table making a fool of myself with chopsticks in front of Weston King.
“The DOW is down, the DOW is down, the DOW is down,” Brett said with weary distress as he scrolled through his financial app on his phone. Even though he talked a lot, he still managed to eat the fastest. He’d finished and had been playing on his cell for the last five minutes. “The Fed better not raise interest rates. It is not the time.”
“Dad says it’s coming soon,” Weston said, pushing away his plate.
“Oh!” Brett’s head popped up with the news of something he’d just remembered. “Did you hear about Theodore Sheridan?”
Theo. I dropped my sticks at the mention of his name. Fortunately, I’d dropped them so many times, no one noticed. Hopefully no one noticed my hands shaking as I took a sip of my water, my throat suddenly dry.
Weston considered a minute. “Nothing interesting I can think of.”
Then you didn’t hear the one where he almost raped a girl in front of your own porch? At least it was reassuring to know that Donovan hadn’t told all his roomies. Not that I’d thought he was much of the sharing type.
Brett bent over the table and lowered his voice. “He got busted with more than a kilo of coke.”
“And you’re just mentioning this now?” Weston asked, as if reading my mind. Maybe Theo wasn’t a close enough friend for him to consider it headline news, but it was to me.
That wasn’t something I cared for anyone to know, though, so I kept my head low, scooting noodles around in my bowl. I’d lost any appetite that remained the minute I’d heard his name.
“Huh,” Weston said, running his hand through his hair. “I knew he had a problem with blow, but what the fuck was he doing to draw attention to himself?”
“I don’t know, but he was charged with intent to sell.”
“Theo doesn’t need money. He got his entire trust fund at eighteen.”
“He’s saying it’s all cooked up charges or something. Whatever. Daddy Sheridan will get him off, but he’s out for the year here.”
“Crazy.”