Nothing But Trouble (Malibu University Series)(28)

“No, thanks.”

“Have a seat.”

I slow-hop to his enormous bed and sit on the foot of it, back erect. The crutch falls to the floor and a hiss of satisfaction leaves my lips as I rub my aching armpit, the left one still bruised.

I can feel him watching me. The back of my head burns as if I’ve developed supernatural sensors for him.

Glancing over my shoulder, I find his head tipped back against the navy blue padded headboard and his blank stare moves from my ass, which is directly in his line of sight, up to my face.

“You’re not in danger, Bailey. Take a load off that ankle.” He pats the spot next to him on the bed with a gleam of mischief in his eyes.

“Only because you’re not driving.” He winces and I immediately regret my shitty joke.

I feel stupid declining. I’m the one that barged in and intruded in his sacred space, his bedroom. Playing the role of the virgin ingénue seems kind of dumb. So after a moment of indecisiveness, I scoot up and stretch out my legs, mirroring his position against the headboard. I’ll be twenty-one in a month. I’m a college junior. I can vote, for Pete’s sake. I can be cool about this.

The white denim miniskirt I borrowed from Zoe rides up. It becomes practically nonexistent once I’m fully on the bed. Trying not to draw too much attention to it, I fight with the hem.

“Having trouble with your skirt?”

If I can leave with just a little piece of my dignity intact tonight, it’ll be a miracle. “It’s not mine,” says the part of me that has no problem throwing Zoe under the bus to preserve even a smidge of it. And I am this close to adding, “I don’t know how it got on me.”

He takes another sip of his beer as he studies me. “How is it?”

“Too short.”

“I mean the ankle.”

“Oh. Better. Not as swollen.” I wiggle my bare toes that are poking out from the ACE bandage. “That doesn’t hurt anymore.” Female laughter drifts in, the sound of footsteps walking past his door.

“I thought the room before yours was the bathroom.” An involuntary smile spreads across my face.

“It’s Cole’s bedroom,” he casually informs me, not at all aware of where I’m going with it.

“Mmmyeah.” My face gets warm.

He eyeballs my profile and a crooked grin comes and goes. “Did Cole have company?”

“Mmmyeah.”

“More than one?”

I nod slowly. “An image that will stay with me forever.”

He chuckles and I flush to the roots of my hair. His amusement fades. It blends into a tension-filled silence. I’ve never felt at a disadvantage around him before.

Annoyed? Definitely. Amused? A lot. Vulnerable? Not till now.

Unable to bear it for very long, I find myself bridging the silence by babbling. “Why do you guys have the same dolphin tattoo?”

He makes a face. His mouth puckers. “It’s a shark…a shark, Bailey. As in Malibu Sharks water polo.”

Laughter builds in my chest, dying to come out. “But it’s got a cute little bottle nose.”

“It’s a man eater with razor-sharp teeth.” He fake chomps the air.

“The game was a lot of fun today. It was very…” What’s the word that won’t get me in trouble? “Dynamic.”

“Yeah?” He chuckles. At me, it sounds like.

“It’s exhausting just watching. You must be in great shape. I mean, you are in great shape, obviously. What I meant was aerobically. Like…you must have good lungs.”

Good lungs? Wtf, Bailey?? Just shut up.

“Was this your first sporting event?”

I swear there’s laughter in that question. Hidden, but it’s there. “Give me a little cred, would you. I went to a football game once.”

A coy smile appears. “I’m flattered.”

“I didn’t say I went to watch you.”

“But we both know you did,” he responds without missing a beat.

Shaking my head, I chew on my lower lip to impede the grin parting my lips. My attention returns to the screen, where more of the home movie plays.

“That was your brother today…at the game?” He nods. “I’m sorry,” I murmur.

He exhales audibly. “Yeah. Me too.”

The importance of the moment is not lost on me. He’s trusting me and I need to tread carefully. I don’t want my sympathy to be misconstrued for pity. I’m fairly certain he wouldn’t appreciate it. Hence, I carefully contemplate my words before speaking, clear my throat, and start.

“How long has he––”

“Since high school––” he says beating me to the finish line, his gaze far away as the movie ends and the screen goes dark. “A long time.”

“Your parents must be worried sick.” Which is entirely true. Whose parents wouldn’t be anxiety ridden over a son being a drug addict and, judging by Reagan’s brother’s appearance, living on the streets.

Reagan snickers. There’s no real humor in it, though. It’s dark and cynical and makes me dread whatever else he’s about to say. “They were worried. For about a minute. They tried to fix the problem and when their best efforts failed they gave up on him.”