Nothing But Trouble (Malibu University Series)(10)

A mop of dark wavy hair falls into his almond-shaped, chocolaty eyes and he flips it aside.

“I think so,” I answer.

It’s a lie. I’m a dirty, filthy liar. I really haven’t. No clue whatsoever what I’m going to submit and it’s kind of freaking me out. This is major-league important and I’m being indecisive and I am never indecisive. “Have you?”

“Still debating between a short film I submitted to Sundance last year and something I worked on over the summer, an indie film that a friend of mine directed and I worked on as DP.”

He’s cute and accomplished and he knows it. I should probably stay as far away from him as possible. “Wow. Trying to psych me out already? Let the Hunger Games begin.” He chuckles and twin dimples pop up on his cheeks. I should stay away––buuut maybe I won’t. I mean, a girl can’t survive on passion for her craft alone.

I’ve always gone for the creative type. My high school boyfriend could be related to this guy there are so many similarities. Where Jack was moody and unpredictable, however, and as high-maintenance emotionally as you can get, Simon strikes me as much more easygoing. And easygoing is good.

He plays with the leather bracelets wrapped around his left wrist. “I was about to say if you need any help putting something together, all you have to do is ask. I have access to an Avid machine.”

A professional editing machine? I suck in a breath. Sexiest words in the English language. “Now you’re talking dirty.”

He flashes me an Instagram smile and Morgan rolls her eyes. She’s been low-key real-life trolling him since the beginning of the semester and I’m surprised he hasn’t picked up on it yet. “I didn’t see you in study group for Film Theory.”

Right. The study group that I desperately need to attend, that I can’t attend because it’s on Thursday nights on the other side of campus and I don’t have a car. That study group.

“My car died on me. And well, my ankle.” I lift it for his viewing pleasure.

His face twists into an adorably troubled frown. “What happened?”

The question induces an image of a dolphin tattoo to pop up. My ankle is still sore and the lack of sleep is making me moody as hell.

Flipper happened. Instead I say, “Long story.”





Reagan


“What’s up, Jersey,” I say, pulling the Jeep up in front of the film and television building. Alice Bailey, a.k.a. the hardest woman on the planet to track down, is presently speaking to a guy dressed in skinny jeans. I immediately don’t like the look of this dude.

Phone tree turned out to be an epic waste of time. No one I know knows this girl. Which is almost an impossible feat since I know everyone there is to know on this campus. No matter. Failure isn’t in my vocabulary and so here I am.

Pausing their conversation, they both glance at me and frown. I stand through the open top of the Jeep. Smile and wave. There’s no change in their expressions. It’d be funny if this dude hadn’t already crawled under my skin and made himself unfuckingwelcome.

She says something else to him and he stares down at her with a wolfish smile. Very shady. I don’t like it. Shady guy walks away and Bailey finally grants me her attention, a pointed look that lasts all of a second before she starts moving up the steep incline which leads to the Communications building. Naturally, I give chase, coasting the Jeep along the sidewalk.

“Did you fall down a rabbit hole?”

Her dark eyes flash. Yeah, she’s not amused.

“Okay…okay, that was the wrong thing to say. I can see that now. Seriously, though, I’ve been looking for you everywhere and I mean everywhere. Are you in the mob? Because you’re harder to track down than Whitey Bulger.”

Circumstances dictated that I resort to some questionable tactics. Like stalking. I’m not proud of myself, but when I don’t sleep shit gets real.

She stops, regards me curiously. I can see it on her face––she’s gearing up to tell me off. So I jump in and backpedal before she gets the chance. “That sounded stalkery as fuck but I promise my intentions are true.” My hand falls over my heart, as if I could dig it out and hand it to her as evidence that it’s not completely black yet.

“What do you want?” she queries, tone not nice.

“To drive you to class.”

“What do you really want?”

“I have a proposition for you. Let me drive you to your next class and we can discuss it.”

“A proposition?” She smirks. “That’s cute. Go away.”

She starts back up the hill, attempting to speed past me on her crutches and it almost makes me laugh. Almost. After doing thirty minutes of eggbeater intervals and passing drills with a weighted ball, I’m dog tired and in no mood for a lengthy debate.

“You’re getting a sunburn, Alice.” Ignoring me, she keeps moving. Annoying her may not be the best plan, but it’s all I’ve got. “Aren’t you tired yet? Those crutches look hard to operate.”

She bites her bottom lip to stop from smiling. Good news. I’ve managed to get a semblance of a smile out of her. The bad news is that it fades at record speed and she’s back to glaring at me.

“Alice…Alice…Alice…”

“Stop––stop saying my name.”