Sloth (Sinful Secrets #1) (13 page)

He brings a hand to his heart. The intensity of a few moments ago falls away, leaving a thick blanket of charm that makes my chest feel fuzzy. “You wound me.”

I give a hoarse laugh. “You’re hot and everything. You’ve got a really sexy voice, you’re the kind of guy that people post in my slutty Facebook group but—”

His brows arch. “Slutty Facebook group?” An instant grin spreads over his face. “Cleo—tell.”

My face heats so fast, my eyes actually sting. I slam my palm against my forehead. “Never mind. Forget I said that. Please.”

“Are you an admin there?”

I take another step back and put my hands up again. “Slow down, Pervo. It’s not like you’re going to get to see. It’s a group for women. Smuffins,” I tell him, smiling just a little. I pull my shawl up and show him my long-sleeved black t-shirt, with its little, white Smuffin logo—an artful marriage of an “S” and a heart.

“That’s the logo?” He’s still grinning. Maybe smirking.

I laugh a little, real this time. “That’s the logo. It’s a women’s perv group. Totally amazing. Very fun. It’s more than that, too. It’s sort of like... a group of friends, who read and talk about girl shit. And smut.” I drop the shawl, feeling a little too exposed. “Anyway, they’d totally drool over a Kellan Walsh .gif, but that doesn’t mean I want to live with you. Or even screw you. No offense.”

“I am offended,” he says gravely. “You tell me you only like me for my looks, and they don’t even make up for my perceived... shortcomings? Is that it?” He looks mortally offended, and I scoff.

“You’re a—I won’t say what,” I hiss, “but we both know it.” I cut my eyes at him. “Let’s just put it this way: You’re the wolf, and I’m a lamb.”

“
Twilight
fan girl?” He makes air quotes around ‘fan girl’. His brows are arched.

“Familiar with the movie?”

We’re walking again, having fallen into an easy pace, still winding through the azaleas toward the Taylor building.

“
Book
,” he tells me. “Actually, book
s
.” He smiles a little, looking secretive—and way too handsome.

“Did you read it for a girl?”

“A woman.”

I rake my eyes down his body and try to imagine her: the woman-not-girl who got a guy like Kellan Walsh to read the
Twilight
books.

“Her name is Dr. Merchant,” he says, with a quirk of his lower lip.

“You took her ‘Guide to Modern Publishing?’ Color me shocked.”

“The blows keep coming.”

I snort, trying desperately to pretend my heart’s not pounding every time his eyes meet mine. Trying to pretend I think about him what I should: that he’s a liar, a phony, and a threat. “Why would you want to write and sell a book?”

Again, the eagle eye. I can’t tell what he’s feeling. “Maybe I was thinking of writing my memoir.”

I throw my head back. “A comedian, too!”

His lips twist into a smile; he’s smirking at me even as he shakes his head. “You think so low of me.”

I nod. “That’s why I’m not going to live with you. Or do you.”

He gives me a sidelong, thoughtful look. “You said you struggle with math?”

“I hate it. Why?”

We’re in sight of Taylor now. It looms above us, a dark brick building with two huge towers. Pines sway gently around it.

“I’ve got another deal for you.”

My heart thumps. “Oh boy.”

He holds a hand up. “What are you studying now? What specifically?”

“Intro to basic
antiderivatives
and—damnit, what are they called? Indefinite integrals! And I already know where you’re going with this. Even if you can perform lobotomies, I’m not changing my mind.”

“What if I enlighten you completely? Make you a math whiz.”

I snort. “No one’s that good.”

“I’m a finance major, Cleo. That means I’m a god at math. You need help, so let’s see if I can help you.” He catches my elbow with his fingers, and I look into his eyes.

“Give me two hours. Just two. If I don’t change things for you, then the deal is off. I’ll let you back out of our agreement from last night.”

My gaze dips to the ground. To our feet, standing so close together. I don’t know what would be the best move. All I do know is that he throws me off. He makes me nervous. “I have an officers’ meeting tonight,” I tell him lamely.

He waves at his clothes. “I have a trustee selection committee meeting. After that?”

I step away, drawing my elbow out of his hand. I’m not sure if I should sign on for the study session just to call his bluff, or if I should simply
run
. I smooth a hand over my hair, a nervous gesture I thought I left behind with freshman year. “My meeting isn’t over until seven-thirty.”

“I’ll be by to get you then.”

I rub my lips together, and finally work up the nerve to look him in the eye again. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

His face turns serious—gravely so. “It’s because of yesterday,” he says. “I scared you.”

“No shit, Sherlock. I thought I was getting busted. Then I find out you’re some drug lord. Yeah.” I shrug, feeling annoyed all over again. “That’s not fun.”

He lifts my hand and surprises me by kissing the back of it. “I know you’re surprised. I know I must seem—”

“Shady? Very.”

He shakes his head. “I can make this work for you. I can make it easy.”

Looking up into his earnest face, it seems improbable enough to almost make me laugh. “I don’t believe you, Kellan. I shouldn’t hang out with you, even to study. You stress me out.”

His face is unreadable again, his full lips pressed together. “If you’re as bad as you say, tonight will be the end of it. I don’t help you, you go back to dealing swag.”

“Or not dealing,” I correct. “That’s what will happen.”

“It won’t happen.” He rolls his shoulders and grins his arrogant grin. “I’ll be at your place at seven forty. Then, the library.” He narrows his eyes into a funny little winky face, then points his finger and thumb into a gun shape.

“I’m coming armed,” I call over my shoulder.

My heart is still pounding when I walk out of the garden, into the parking lot behind Taylor.

THE USC/ARIZONA GAME
goes to commercial, and I lean back against the couch in my living room. The ceiling in this room is striped with skylights, so I’m staring up at my reflection in the glass: my arms crossed behind my head, my sleeves rolled up to my elbows, so my forearms are on display. I shut my eyes and I can see my right one stretched in front of me. I can smell the grass. The dirt. The sweat. I can feel the gallop of my heart.

The game I’m watching now is recorded on DVD. It’s from the Trojans’ 2012 football season. In May, I ordered everything from 2010 forward, but I only started watching them last week.

I’m calling this game a loss for the Trojans. That’s the worst part of watching recorded games: the sense of inevitability when you can feel a loss coming. There’s no changing fate when it’s already been sealed.

And with that thought hanging around my neck, I turn the game off and reach onto the mahogany end table beside the couch. I keep a stack of post cards by the coasters where I sit my iced tea. Also a fountain pen.

Most of the time, after I pick a card and prop it on my thigh, I can’t write a word. My hand freezes. My throat feels thick, as I stare down at the paper. This time, like almost every time before it, my fingers, wrapped around the pen, are cold and still.

What can I say? I’ve got nothing for her.

Fury rises in me: sharp, then suffocating.

I crush the card—a picture of CC’s campus in autumn—in my fist and stab the pen into the couch cushion. I watch the ink spill out of it, creating a small, black cloud on the cappuccino suede.

I duck down over my lap and curl my arm around my head and take deep breaths. Now, before I lose my nerve, I grab a fresh, clean post card and try the pen’s bent tip against it.

I’m surprised it works. It’s my surprise that jars me into action, so I’m able to write a few words. Five... six... seven.

That’s all I can.

I fold the card into my back pocket, stand up, and stretch. I look at the stairs that lead from the living area up to my room. I could change clothes, but I don’t feel like trudging upstairs.

I walk into the kitchen, where I serve myself some ravioli and slam back a shake. I grab a few sticks of beef jerky for the road and a glass of sweet tea. I might be a Southern transplant, but I love this shit.

I grab my bag off the front staircase, then open the top drawer of the massive, Victorian-era table beside the stairs. I pull out a couple of notebooks, an extra calculator, and my old Calculus 1 text book. I sling the items into my bag and pull the front door shut without locking it or setting the alarm.

It’s a cool night—cool for September in Georgia. The air feels lighter than it has in months. It’s breezy on my cheeks; taunting me with all that I can’t have.

I press “unlock” on my Escalade’s key fob, climb into the front seat, and turn around so I can lean into the back. There’s a white laundry basket on the seat behind mine, filled with thick, pink fleece blankets. Manning must have dropped it off while I was watching the game.

I had to call and let him know I wouldn’t be at the trustee meeting—I dipped out early—and to bring it here instead. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised he did what I asked, when I asked for it. He’s my manager of operations, and efficiency is his middle name. Actually, Manning is. He’s Adam Manning Smith—and using an alias just like I am.

I can smell what’s in the blankets as I drive. I roll the windows down, jack the heat up, and listen to The Doors. And then the Dead. And then the Stones. And then The Strokes. And then nothing.

I’m too damn edgy.

Because I need her: Cleopatra Whatley.

I can’t decide if it’s her impertinence, her blasé, or my own urge to circumvent both and make her submit to me in every way—but I ache when I imagine her in the glass-walled room upstairs.

I park in the U-shaped lot behind the Tri Gam house and carry the basket under my left arm. I’m not afraid of getting caught. Not now. I’ve lost fear.

I open the front door and climb the old ass, creaky stairs like I own the place. The “executive suite” is on the front of the second story, arranged around a rocking-chair littered balcony that juts over the first-floor porch. If my sources are correct, there’s one door that leads to the “suite,” which houses all the officers’ bedrooms. I knock twice and listen to light footfall, hoping it’s Cleo’s.

The door opens, and Milasy appears. She’s got a pretty, oval face, with deep brown eyes and glossy, straight black hair. She sees me and smiles. “Kellan. How’s it going?”

“I’m here for Cleo,” I say. My lips are caught between a smile and a smirk.

Milasy looks me over. I can see the approval on her face, followed by her curiosity. “She’s got you doing her laundry?” She seems to think this is unlikely. Then her face lights up. “Is there a puppy hidden in there?”

I decide on smirk. “Not a puppy,” I tell her.

“Okay. Well come on in.” I step inside a small but nicely adorned living area, and Milasy points to a hallway just beyond the kitchen on my right. “She’s down the hall there, on the right.”

“Thank you, Milasy.”

My long legs carry me through the living-kitchen area quickly enough. The hall is short: only a few strides. I stand on the lilac carpet outside Cleo’s door and knock twice. When the door swishes open, I smell her before I see her: some kind of soft perfume that reminds me a little of tea leaves. At first, she’s just a curtain of dark hair. Then she swings it back behind her shoulders and I see her face.

Her green eyes are wide, long-lashed, and topped by thin, elegant brows. Her cheeks are high and always just a little pink. Her lips are slightly parted with surprise.

My cock stiffens.

“Kellan?” She’s holding a letter, which she lowers as her gaze sweeps me. She frowns at the basket, like she thinks I’ve got a snake inside.

I surprise her and myself, leaning over and rubbing my thumb along her lower lip. “Cleo...”

She jerks back. “Stop! And come inside, I guess.”

She steps back, and I step inside her room. The first thing I notice is it’s blue: green-blue. It reminds me immediately of the ocean, viewed from high atop a cliff. And that reminds me of home. My chest aches.

I roll my gaze around, noting a white iron bed with way too many plush blankets and quilts. It’s more blanket pile than bed. There’s a yellow dresser, topped with various frames, and a full-length mirror on one wall. A night stand with a delicate, yellow-shaded lamp, casting cheery, amber light across the room. A window, decked in gauzy red curtains. And on the ceiling, glow stars. Belatedly, I notice that the walls are dotted with canvases. I step closer to the nearest.

It’s an abstract painting: red, maroon, and purple. But something juts out of it. I lean in closer and realize there are strips of paper melded into the bold oil strokes. A quick glance around confirms that the other canvases are similar: lovely abstract art, with strips of paper—and maybe even small objects—melded in.

I reach out, compelled to touch, but at the last second, I sideline my hand to the wall outside the frame. I look at Cleo with my eyebrows raised. “Is this your art?”