Whatever It Takes (Bad Reputation Duet #1)(38)

“I’m closer to UPenn,” I say softly, “not Penn.”

Both of the brothers swing their heads to the backseat, and I swear camera flashes go off like crazy. The windows are only slightly tinted, so I wonder how much the paparazzi catch.

I feel my cheeks heat, but the color drains, their eye contact more and more intimidating. “Do I have…something on my face?” My voice dies, and by their rising smiles, I immediately regret speaking. I shrink into place.

Ryke tells me, “The only people I’ve ever heard say UPenn are people who never attended the University of Pennsylvania.” He pockets his car keys. “We all call it Penn. At least when we went there that’s how it was. Who the fuck knows what students are calling it now.”

He acts like he graduated decades ago, but he just turned twenty-six. I’m not that great at math, but I can subtract well enough to figure out that it’s been four years since he graced Penn’s campus.

Lo adds, “Most of the older faculty prefer calling it Penn over UPenn. It’s just tradition and it sticks with some people when you’re there.”

“But Penn State…”

“Is called Penn State,” Lo explains. “If you say, ‘I go to Penn’ around here, most people will assume it’s not Penn State.”

“And if they don’t, who the fuck cares,” Ryke finishes. He also flashes the middle finger to the cameraman outside my window. “He’s too close to her.”

“I’ll get out and go around to her door,” Lo tells him. “You pop the trunk and grab the first box.” At this, both of them open their car doors and climb out. Flashes bombard them, along with a barrage of voices.

I unbuckle and scoot towards the door that Loren nears.

“Back up,” Loren tells them before opening my door and letting me out. I squeeze between him and a camera lens.

“What’s your name?!”

“How do you know Loren and Ryke?!”

“Who are you dating?!”

My shoulders curve forward at each incoming question, and I clutch my backpack strap, pulling it closer to my body.

Loren leaves my side to grab my second cardboard box, and I follow close by, as instructed. I trip a little over my feet and barely catch myself, avoiding a collision into Lo.

Do not fall, especially on your brother that you recently met.

Unfortunately, I’m most clumsy when I’m nervous.

It’s a horrible attribute. I wouldn’t wish it on my enemy, but then again, I doubt my enemies would ever feel nervous enough to be clumsy.

Ryke slams the trunk closed, and then we head towards the sidewalk. A cameraman sprints in front of me and walks backwards as he films. “What’s your name?!” he asks over the other paparazzi.

“She’s my cousin,” Loren lies with a dark glare. “So watch what you say and do.” He stuffs a hand in his pocket, the action casual but somehow threatening.

About this time, we reach the sidewalk, a direct shot to the glass double doors of the apartment complex. Lo said they can’t follow us inside. So I practically hold my breath in anticipation of ditching the eight—no, twelve cameramen that flank us.

And then, the weight on my shoulder goes from slightly heavy to very, very light—followed by a crash and a crack! I freeze in place and look down at the cement, wide-eyed at my backpack’s contents.

Shit. The bottom of my backpack ripped.

And my laptop… I’m about to bend down to check it, but I notice other items that litter the sidewalk.

Like an extra T-shirt and shorts for overnight “crashing in my car” purposes. An extra pair of panties—these really childish looking blue pair with purple hearts.

Lots of highlighters, sticky notes, and pens.

What’s most abundant: tampons. And not just one or two. There is an entire box of pink plastic-wrapped applicators. I know this because I bought a box recently, dumped it into my backpack, and thought nothing of it.

I tense up, locked in a shell-shocked state, most likely ghostly pale.

My heart plummets, leaving a hollow hole in its place. My brother—a new brother—and his intimidating half-brother plant their gazes on me. And to make it worse: I’m surrounded by men with cameras who will no doubt post this on the internet.

I’m not ready to be a meme. Oh my God.

I can’t move. I can’t squat. I just stare like maybe this moment will rewind itself, and my jean backpack won’t rip apart.

“Oh shit,” one of the cameramen laughs.

I barely register Loren’s murderous glare, plastered on the camera guy. He shrinks back a little and holds up a hand in surrender.

And then Ryke sets down his box. What is he doing—

No!

He starts collecting my tampons like they’re pencils and not feminine products. I dazedly animate, like my legs belong to another girl—a higher force pulling the strings attached to my limbs. I kneel and quickly gather all the items, frantically stuffing them in my backpack’s side pocket that’s still intact.

Not a lot can fit there, so I bundle everything else in my arms. I decide to check the state of my laptop later, but upon glance, it seems okay.

“I can get that,” I practically whisper to Ryke, gesturing to the tampons and two comic books in his clutch. I’m not sure he hears me, but I outstretch my free hand, showing him that I’ll take it.