Nothing But Trouble (Malibu University Series)(27)

Long tan muscles. A dolphin tattoo on the outside of his calf. Brown hair.

That’s why I haven’t seen him all night. He was celebrating the victory at a private party of three. Or drowning his sorrows. Either way he was having a great time while I was worrying about him.

I’m stuck again, unable to move, shock and disappointment serving as lead weights strapped to my ankles. And even though I know I have no right to be upset, I’m devastated. Accomplished athlete usually equals a string of bed buddies. Hot, accomplished athlete means lower your expectations into a grave and throw dirt on top. But for whatever reason I wanted to believe he was different. That’s on me––my fault.

Weak-kneed, I lumber down two more doors. Guys like Reagan Reynolds don’t do girlfriends because they don’t need to, I remind myself. Not when he has so much being offered to him on a silver platter. Why would anyone choose to eat hamburgers and French fries every day, no matter how much they love hamburger and French fries, when they have a veritable smorgasbord of delights to choose from? They wouldn’t. And do I blame him? Hell no. I wish I could be him.

All the same, it’s time to stow this festering attraction someplace where it will never see the light of day again.

The urge to leave is a strong one. Mood bruised, I contemplate walking out the door and springing for an Uber with money I can’t spare. I can text the girls once I’m in the car. They’ll understand. First, I need to find a bathroom.

Grabbing the last knob on the right, I send up a prayer to the Lord to cut me a break and let this be it. Unlocked, the door swings open.

“Uhhh…sorry,” I mumble.

Lying on a bed with one hand tucked under his head and another clutching a beer bottle, Reagan tears his gaze away from whatever’s got his attention on the television and aims those go-green eyes at me.

No random girl is riding his dick, or his face. Blessed be the Lord.

“Bailey?” I don’t answer right away because I’m much too busy doing a full-on Alvin Ailey modern dance routine in my head.

My eyes fall on the tattoo on the outside of his calf. They slow-climb up his tanned legs, get past the long gray basketball shorts, skim over the black t-shirt, and reach his messy brown hair.

“Bailey,” he repeats more forcefully and this time my gaze snaps back to his face. His brow quirks and his mouth lifts into a weak smile.

“I was justlookingforthebathroom,” comes out a hot freaking mess.

This night is quickly descending into black comedy territory. I sound like a breathless twelve-year-old speaking to her first crush and he’s looking at me like I just grew a dildo in the middle of my forehead––familiar but at the same time out of context and confusing.

Reagan points to a door within his room. “You can use mine.”

Only now do I note where I am. And his bedroom is swank. Dark contemporary designer furniture instead of Ikea and hand-me-downs. Silky gray linens. Trophies lined up on top of a built-in bookcase…a bookcase. Wow. I don’t know anyone who lives this well, let alone a college student. “You live here?”

“Seems I do,” he replies flatly, his expression missing the carefree teasing smirk he usually wears. I should leave, turn around and excuse myself. That’s the smart thing to do. “Are you going to stand there acting weird all night, or are you coming in?”

I hop inside and gently shut the door behind me because, you know, I like to torture myself for a good time. “I’m not acting weird,” I say, hiding behind an annoyed tone. This profoundly witty comeback is followed by a sixty-second stare-off, which I end by hopping as quickly as I can to the bathroom.

I’m acting weird.

The bathroom is about as big as my entire dorm room. Maybe even bigger. And tidier––I’m ashamed to admit. I do my business, and afterward, simply because I cannot help myself, I trample his privacy by conducting a thorough examination of his personal items.

The cologne he uses is French and expensive. I take the top off, sniff. It smells like cedarwood and musk. The perfect blend designed to transform the entire female population into a pack of panting sex zombies.

His toothpaste is the whitening kind. Hey! Same one I use, I think to myself and officially flirt with rock bottom on the pathetic scale.

The designer shampoo is a brand you can only get at a department store. And last but not least, a pack of magnum condoms––ribbed for her pleasure. I shake the box and determine it’s still full.

Thy name is shameless.

After running the faucet to cover my tracks, I step out of the bathroom and find him sitting up against the padded headboard.

“Did you look through my stuff?” His smile is lazy and one-sided

“Hate to be the one to let the air out of your ego bag, but you’re not that interesting, Reynolds.” What’s left of my conscience tells me I’m going to pay for this disgusting lie at a later date.

My attention follows Reagan’s back to the television screen and any lingering amusement I was feeling over my snooping dies a sudden death when I see what’s playing. A home movie with the sound muted. Two young and very tan boys shove each other playfully as they stand at the edge of a backyard pool. They dive in and race head-to-head in an American crawl.

“My brother…” he tells me in a low husky voice. He has eyes only for the television. “Brian was eleven and I was eight.” Raising the longneck beer bottle to his lips, he drinks. “Want one?”