Wrecked(43)

Richard


Anger is like caffeine. It fuels you.

And right now Richard rides a four--pack--of--Red--Bull buzz.

His mind flies over the possibilities, a heat--seeking drone on a quest. Library? Class? Dining hall? But, of course, he tracks Jordan down at the house. He’s in the Taylor common room.

He’s not alone. He sits on the couch next to Exley. The two of them, heads close together, laugh at something on Exley’s phone. They glance up quickly when he enters.

“Hey,” Jordan says, smile at the ready. “Just the man I was hoping to see.”

“That so?” Richard says. “And I thought I was looking for you.” Something in his tone melts the smile right off Jordan’s face. “We need to talk. Alone.” He aims the last word in Exley’s direction. The Doctor rises, slipping the phone into his back pocket.

“Great seeing you, too, man,” he says, slapping Richard on the arm as he passes out of the room. A little too hard. Richard chooses to ignore it. “Have fun,” Exley says. Is it his imagination, or does he wink at Jordan when he says that? Such an *. Richard waits to hear his retreating steps down the hall before he begins.

He doesn’t sit.

“Tell me,” Richard says quietly, “you did not go to that girl’s room this morning.”

To his credit, Jordan looks genuinely puzzled. “What girl?”

“Jenny.”

Jordan makes this noise like a snort. “You think I’m that stupid?”

Richard feels the tiniest hint of relief. “I don’t know. You tell me. Because someone went by her room this morning and wrote ‘Lying Bitch’ on her whiteboard.”

Jordan’s eyes open wide. He looks surprised.

And amused.

“Wasn’t me,” he says. “But if you find out who it was, let me know. I’d like to shake his hand.”

Richard’s disgust rises like vomit at the back of his throat. The guy’s not just annoying. He’s an *.

And yes: stupid.

“I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I wish your uncle were here right now,” Richard says. “He’d rip you a new one.”

Jordan no longer looks amused. He stands. He’s shorter than Richard. “Something bothering you, Richard? You seem a little worked up.”

“You think? Well, I’ll tell you something, Jordan. I am. And for some reason, you’re not. Which confuses me. Because you’re the one on trial for rape, while I haven’t done a damn thing! But somehow, I’m caught up in it! So yeah, I guess I’m a little worked up!” He’s surprised by his own voice, rising.

Jordan takes another step closer. Richard can practically feel his breath. “Number one,” he says, “I’m not on trial. For anything. This is a college hearing. Number two, I didn’t do anything wrong, either. And number three, you’re being a douche.” Jordan stumbles on the word douche. Almost stammers. He’s trying to sound tough.

What an incredible jerk. It occurs to Richard that it would feel really, really good to hit something right now. A wall. A punching bag.

Jordan’s face.

Somehow, Jordan can tell. He steps back, putting up both hands. “What the hell, man?” he says. “Seriously, what has gotten into you?”

“Guilt by association. That’s what. Do you know, someone asked me if I wrote on her whiteboard?”

Jordan suddenly looks very interested. “Who?”

He’s said too much. Anger has made him sloppy, and he’s firing in any direction. And the fact is, even though he pretty much can’t stand Jordan, he’s only half--mad at him. The other half is furious with Haley.

At least Carrie had reasons to be pissed with him: he said stuff that annoyed her. And she told him. Very up--front about all her issues with him, he had to give her that. But Haley? Suspecting him of bullying her roommate? Randomly unfair.

“Doesn’t matter who,” he says. “Somebody who knows what’s going on, knows I know you, and connected the dots. And here’s the thing: I don’t want to be connected with your crap anymore.”

Jordan connects the dots. “Hot math girl,” he says knowingly. “The one at the Grille. She knows Jenny?”

“I’m not in the mood to play guessing games with you,” Richard says. “Unless you want to play Who Wrote On Jenny’s Whiteboard? Oh, wait: you’d win that game, wouldn’t you?”

“I told you,” Jordan says, glowering, “I don’t know anything about that.”

“Yeah, right,” Richard says, shaking his head in disgust. “You’re just this swell guy who happens to always be in the center of some shit storm. Not your fault, right? Pardon me if I want to get out of the rain.”

Richard turns to leave the common room. He needs to leave before his anger explodes in ways that hurt him.

“So once you cool off,” Jordan calls after him, “my uncle’s in town. He wants to meet with us. I was planning to tell you: our interview with the investigator is the day after tomorrow.”

Richard wheels around. “You mean your interview. And please give my regrets to Uncle Hard--ass. I’m conveniently unavailable.”

Jordan’s expression darkens. “I don’t think that’s an option.”