Sloth (Sinful Secrets #1) (6 page)

“Minding your business, huh?” He tucks his lips down into a scowly, frowny, judgy look. He arches his brows. “Mind if I take a look in that bag?”

My heart forgets its rhythm. “What?” I swallow. “Is that a joke?”

He shakes his head. “No joke, Cleo.”

I take a step back and try to think fast. To look outraged. To treat him like the creep he clearly is. “Of course I’m not letting you look in my purse.” I shift my shoulder so the purse is more behind me. “I can’t believe you would even ask.”

I look him up and down, hoping to find him lacking in some way—but he’s flawless. Long legs with strong thighs evident through the fabric of his pants, abs so flat I could bounce a penny off them; shoulders that seem three times as wide as mine. And his face. I could look at it all day. Scratch that, I could glare at it all day.

“This whole thing is totally creeping me out, Walsh.”

His face is tight and serious. His voice is a menacing purr. “There’s a reason that I’m asking, Whatley.”

“What’s that?” I hold my head up high and pull out a look I used a lot in high school: the you-can-talk-shit-about-me-but-I-don’t-care-because-I’m-better-than-you special. Behind the look, my head is spinning. I watch his lips move, focusing more on them than on his words.

“I’m asking, Cleo, because I was told you were dealing drugs on campus.”

I could let those words sink in. Let them freak me out. I choose not to. Instead, I shove his words away and let my mouth move.

“Psshhh! Is that a joke?” An awkward laugh tumbles out of my mouth, and my head shakes frantically, like I’m starring in a reproduction of
The Exorcist
. “Me? Dealing
drugs
? I’d get kicked out of Triple Gam so fast my head would spin! Drugs are for losers.”

I shut my mouth and reel a little.
For losers?
God, I’m such an idiot! I loosen my shoulders and try to pull myself out of this. “Look, Kellan—Kellar? Walsh. I know your last name is Walsh, so that’s what I’m calling you.
Walsh
, I understand your stance on drugs. I’ve read your columns in
The Bobcat
.”

He writes a monthly column for the student newspaper. I hate his politics, which is one of the reasons I sometimes read his weekly column in the student paper—just to wave my fist at him. The other: his mug shot. It’s 2D amazingness.

He smirks, like he knows what I’m thinking.

“Yeah. I know how straight-laced you are. Except when you’re abducting my friends from bars.”

His brows shoot up. Every one of his features, from his flaring nostrils to his electric blue eyes, screams
warning
.

“Not abducting,” I quickly correct. “I mean... I guess they go with you.” My gaze, trained on his face, loses its footing and flits down over his chest. I jerk it back up.

“Here’s the thing, Kellan: It’s pretty shitty to accuse a random student of doing something that could get her expelled. Do you have some evidence you’d like to show me? Or are you just going on hearsay? And who made you the—”

He takes a smooth step toward me, and his nearness makes my legs forget their mission.
Move, Cleo, move!
But I’m too late. His hand has closed around the straps of my bag.

I try to side-step him, but his grip is strong. He snatches it off my shoulder.

“No!”

I lunge for him, but he thrusts the bag up over his head. As I jump up and down, cursing him and hitting his muscular arms and chest, the motherfucker has the nerve to laugh at me.

It’s a low laugh, the kind of laugh that settles in between your legs in other circumstances.

Not right now because he’s digging through my bag! He’s holding up a Mason jar! MotherFUCK! He frowns at it. This one has a light blue top. It’s for a Tri Gam.

His long arm holds it way above my reach and shakes it slightly.

“What’s in here?”

“GIVE IT BACK,
right
now! It’s
mine
!” I’m straight-up yelling, but he doesn’t even spare me a glance.

He shakes the jar again, and the round, half-dollar-sized buds inside the baggie bump against the glass. I clench my teeth.

He brings the jar down, and I make a grab for it. Instead of getting it, I get a fistful of his muscular shoulder. He laughs again.

“Cleo... Calm down.” He opens the lid and I freeze. My heart stops. My blood runs cold. “I assume you have an explanation for this... what do the kids call it? Weed?”

I drag a deep breath into my lungs. I blink frantically, frowning. Then I widen my eyes. Innocence. “Yes. Of course I do. It isn’t weed.” The words just roll out. Like a boulder someone pushed off a hill, once I’ve got my story moving, there’s no stopping me.

He arches a brow, and I grab the Mason jar from him. I hold it out in front of me and shake my head. “This isn’t weed.”

Arched brows. Pursed lips. “No?”

I shake the jar, causing the heady-sour scent of marijuana to waft up into my face. “You see... there’s actually a story here. An impressive story, about this... stuff. Not a story for the newspaper kind of story,” I babble. “More a fun times around the campfire sort of story. But trust me, this is definitely not weed.”

“No?”

“Nope.” I grin maniacally and open the baggie. I pinch off a piece of one of the buds with sweaty, trembling fingertips and hold it over my head, as if it’s a prize. “I made it in organic chemistry lab. It’s a project. That’s my major.” It’s not, but how would he know? “To catch criminals. It looks like marijuana, and it smells like marijuana...” I seal the baggie. Toss it up and catch it. “But it’s not. You want to experience my product in a hands-on way?”

I hold it out to him and find his face expressionless. He takes the bag. Unzips it. Inhales.

I’m counting on him to not recognize marijuana. I’m counting on him to be the bastion of morality he seems to be.

I’m counting on him to be gullible.

I’m not counting on that knowing smile. A wolfish smile. I’m not counting on the shrewdness of his eyes, or the subtle way he leans in.

His smile broadens, revealing sharp, white teeth. Another deep breath into the baggie; his wide shoulders rise, then relax. “You’re right. It does smell just like marijuana.”

I nod. “Got an ‘A’ on my project with it. Can I have it back now?”

He blinks. “I’m sure you did.”

I reach for the bud, but he draws it back.

“So what is it, exactly?”

“It’s an oregano-based herb. Kind of like, you know, oregano on steroids.”

He holds it up in the fluorescent light. The crystals on the buds glitter a little—promises of fun times for someone else, and cash for me.

“Wonder if it tastes like weed,” he muses.

“It doesn’t,” I say quickly. “So I’ve been told.”

He bites off a small piece. Frowns. Chews a few times on his front teeth. I swear to God, I almost faint. His eyes find mine. “It tastes like marijuana.”

“Like you would know.” I shoot him a ridiculing look—a sure sign that I’m all out of moves.

He holds up what remains of the piece he bit, then reaches into his pocket and retrieves a shiny Zippo. His mouth flattens and his brows scrunch in concentration. “I wonder if it burns like weed.”

I pluck it from his fingers. “NO! What’s
wrong
with you? You’ll set off the smoke alarms!”

He looks again into the bag then smirks at me. But it’s not a smirk; it’s like... a smug, aggressive look. One that says, “Got ya.”

“Cleo. You have four jars of this. Why?”

I lock my jaw and debate not answering. His hard eyes force me. “For class,” I breathe.

“I don’t believe you.”

“That’s not my fault.” I loosen my shoulders and recover some of my cool. I wonder if this would be easier if he weren’t so damn hot. A guy with a patchy goatee, or a guy with really bad acne,
him
I’d be schooling in privacy and all sorts of noble-sounding principles. “I’m sure someone like you could never see the point in creating a good synthetic. Pretty soon, this stuff will transform the drug market. Cops will use it all the time. My professor thinks it’s incredible.”

He laughs again, and I’m ready. I jump and snatch my overnight bag from his careless hand. The jars clink together as I whirl on my heel and dash toward the door, desperate to get away from him. Desperate to hide in my room for the rest of fall semester, curled in the fetal position, waiting for the hammer to fall.

I’m almost to the door when strong fingers close around my arm. He tugs me, so I’m forced to turn around. Holds me in place, so I have no choice but to look up, into his eyes.

“We both know this shit is real. Tell me who you got it from, and maybe I’ll forget this happened.”

Blood roars in my head. “Is that a joke? I get it from class, because it’s a class project, like I said.” I throw his hand off my arm.

He grabs my upper arm again with stern fingers. His eyes are wide and blue. “Like I said, I don’t believe you.” His face hardens. “If I catch you dealing on campus again, I’ll make sure you get expelled.” He stares into my eyes. “Do I make myself clear?”

I nod mutely.

He looks me up and down, from my pink sweater to my ass-hugging jeans. “I’d never have guessed. Someone like you...” He rubs his forehead, appearing thoughtful. “You know you need to empty that bag before you leave.”

“Yeah, right!”

“Maybe I ought to talk to Milasy. Let her know what kind of person is managing her chapter’s books.”

I’m outraged, but there’s nothing I can do. Stupid Mr. Perfect could never understand this. Why I would do it. Why I can’t just have Daddy buy me a fifty thousand dollar SUV. All he knows is his stupid rules.

I open the bag, and he points to the nearest table.

I can feel my heart flutter in my throat as I place the first jar atop the faux wood. I line them up in a neat row, and then I stare at them in disbelief. I can’t leave them here. I think of the money, and I kind of want to screech.

My gaze finds Kellan, standing with his arms folded. His model-perfect face is cold, as if
I’ve
wronged
him
.

“So...” I want to leave, I just want to leave, but I can’t. I look into his eyes, then at my jars. Then back at him, with hesitation—because I don’t want to see his traitorous face. I don’t want to know what he’s thinking, though I have to ask. “Um, you’re not really going to tell anybody, are you?”

His wicked lips curve up on one side. It’s not a smile, but something derisive and mean. “Get out of here,” he says.

I tuck tail and go.

I’M SORRY TO REPORT
, it’s been This Week Vs. My Self-Esteem.

What happened Wednesday night with Kellan Walsh... sucked. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit it shook me up. The loss of product, the hawk-like way he just made off with it. I keep blaming myself for not pressing the issue more—for not insisting it was fake marijuana and fleeing the scene or something—but deep down, I know I didn’t really have that option.

Obviously, he’s an uptight, rule-following prick who would have told Milasy everything he knew. And Milasy would have looked into the situation to keep Tri Gam’s good name intact. Honestly, I’m pretty sure Milasy already knows I deal, but she looks the other way because I keep it discreet. Or I
did
.

It bugs the hell out of me that, since that moment, I’ve done nothing but worry he’ll tell Milasy. What would Milasy do? Would she kick me out? She would have to, wouldn’t she? And what about Kellan Asshole Walsh? Is he like, BFF with our college’s president, Dr. Walker? Could Kellan go to some administrator and just get me expelled like
BAM
?

All day Thursday, I’m haunted by these questions. And by my rapidly dwindling stash. Kellan jacked so much of my shit, I’m almost out, and when I call Kennard Thursday afternoon (almost in tears, though he doesn’t know that) he tells me he can’t get me more on such short notice.

Perfect.

I spend some time pacing my room, fanaticizing about kicking Kellan Walsh between the legs. I bet it would be easy to make my mark because the size of the target would be... My face burns. Why does he do this to me? Why am I so aware of his body when I know he’s a first-rate bastard? Perfect Kellan has no idea what it’s like to need money so badly you’d go to the blood bank and sell your platelets. I bet he never saw the back of his mom’s legs bruised from sitting on the same uncushioned wood bench for twelve and thirteen hours at a time, with just two bathroom breaks per day. He’s never felt hunger cramps, or forced himself to eat something he hated because the need for calories meant more than the food’s taste. Aside from his obvious case of silver-spoon syndrome, he’s also an idiot, with no understanding of societal shifts. If he was smarter, he would know marijuana is no big deal. It’s going to be legal everywhere soon. It isn’t a real drug. It’s just some stupid herb. I don’t even smoke it. Too boring. It just makes me fall asleep.

These are the thoughts clanging around in my head Thursday night as I study for a calculus test and worry about how many customers I’ll lose because of my dry spell. I’m chewing on the tip of my ‘I Sloth You’ pen when I get a text from Steph.

‘Break into my room n get my birth control! Nitestand drawer!!! Double d8 going gr8! Bring to La Femme. Gonna need it 2nite. Please x10!!!’