Deeper (Caroline & West #1)(3)

Not to mention my heart, which is trying to escape my chest by flinging itself violently against my ribs.

West’s hand lands on my waist, steady and firm, and it’s stupid. My body is stupid. Because his hand feels kind of awesome.

Obviously I’m concussed. West is the one who hit me, probably, and he’s definitely the one who hit Nate, who—

Fuck.

Nate is sprawled out on the floor, bleeding from the mouth.

Worse, I can’t really bring myself to focus on Nate, because West’s other hand landed on my shoulder briefly, and now he’s lifting my chin. The blood makes his fingers slippery. I’m bleeding on him. And I like it.

This happens with West. He’s only touched me once before, but it isn’t the kind of thing a girl forgets.

God, there are so many, many reasons this is not good, though. Most of them aren’t even health-related. For starters, I’m not into guys who punch people. I’m not into guys at the moment, period. And if I were, I wouldn’t be into West, because West is trouble, and I’m allergic.

“You’re bleeding,” he says.

“You hit me.”

“Let me see.”

He tugs at my wrist, and I let him drag my hand away from my nose, because basically I will let West Leavitt do anything. It’s possible that he’s some kind of magical creature. I mean, he’s not. I know he’s not. He’s a twenty-year-old sophomore at Putnam College, majoring in biology. He shelves books at the library, waits tables on weekends at the Gilded Pear—which is the only fancy restaurant in Putnam—and works the overnight shift at the bakery in town. All that on top of at least a couple of shady, unofficial sources of income, plus classes, makes him busier than just about anyone I know.

He’s tall—around six feet, maybe a little taller—with messy brown hair, light blue-green eyes, and a great tan.

He’s a guy who goes to my college. That’s all.

But that is not all.

His face is … You know how they say human beings are more attracted to symmetrical faces? Well, West’s face is slightly off in every conceivable way. One of his eyebrows tilts up a little bit, and the other one is bisected by a thin white scar. His eyes are a color that isn’t actually a color, with these tiny little flecks that sometimes look shiny, and I don’t understand how that’s possible. His mouth is wider than it ought to be, which makes him look like a smart-ass every time he smiles or almost smiles or thinks, vaguely, about smiling. His nose must have been broken once—or maybe more than once—because it’s not quite where it’s supposed to be. It’s shifted a titch to the left. And honestly? I think his ears are too small.

When he looks right at me, I can barely make words.

That’s why I’m standing here, bleeding, letting him inspect my nose.

“Is it still there?” I ask. Only unfortunately it sounds more like Ib id till dere?

“Yeah. I think I must have elbowed you. It’s not broken, though.”

“How do you know?”

“It’d be bleeding more.”

He traces the bridge with one finger.

It doesn’t hurt anymore.

A groan from the floor draws West’s attention away from my face, at which point my nose resumes throbbing and I remind myself who’s groaning and why.

Nate’s lip is split. The whole front of his shirt is crimson and wet. His teeth are pink when he spits.

Pink teeth. That wakes me up a little.

That’s Nate, I think. West hit Nate. He’s bleeding. You’re bleeding.

My brain keeps offering up these declarations, one after another, as though I might eventually locate a story to string them all together. But whatever part of me is in charge of analyzing and processing data, it’s off-line.

Blood drips from my chin. I follow its path and see that it’s landed on the scuffed toe of West’s black boot.

“I need a paper towel,” I say.

West’s friend Krishna grabs him by the arm. “You have to get out of here.”

Krishna is tall, with dark skin and black hair and a frighteningly beautiful face. He’s also usually so laid-back that he’s right next door to comatose, so his urgency is a whiff of ammonia under my nose.

The students at the fringes of the crowd have all turned to look down the hall, where something is happening. Someone is coming.

West Leavitt punched Nate in the face.

I’m bleeding.

He’s still touching me, and I can’t think.

“Take care of her.” West is speaking to Krishna, but he’s looking right at me when he says it, his expression apologetic.

Krishna gives him a small shove. “Fine, dude, just go.”

West turns, glances at me one more time, and jogs down the hall. Krishna picks up my bag off the floor—I hadn’t even realized I’d dropped it again—and puts an arm around my shoulders. “Come on, we’ll find you that paper towel.”

“Do you think Nate’s okay?”

“I think Nate’s a dick,” Krishna says. “But he’s still breathing. Can you walk any faster?”

I do my best. We end up in a women’s bathroom on the second floor, Krishna standing by the door and propping it open with his body as I press a coarse brown paper towel to my nose and examine myself in the mirror.