Nothing But Trouble (Malibu University Series)(8)

I pop the top off my beer, lean back against the counter, and exhale tiredly. “I screwed up today.”

“Welcome to my life.”

“I was driving down Severson after practice and I glanced at my phone for a split second, thinking it was Brian calling––it wasn’t, by the way, it was Jordan. And I almost ran someone over.”

Looking unfazed, Dall takes a long pull of his beer. “Who?”

“New girl. Alice Bailey. A film major.” A smile tugs my lips away from the edge of the bottle at the memory of the glare she aimed at me when I asked to see her cameras.

“And?”

“I took her to see Fred. She twisted her ankle, looks pretty bad. She might’ve torn something.”

“Might have? Didn’t she go to the ER?”

“She refused. Said she couldn’t afford it.”

He nods. “And you’re worried she’ll sue.”

Leave it to Dallas to know where my head is, one of the reasons why we’re so good in the pool together. I tip my beer bottle in his direction. “You’re spooky. You know that, right?”

“Everybody has a gift,” he deadpans.

Having money has its perks. No doubt about it. But it also has some major drawbacks. The minute we were born, my brother and I were taught to safeguard our reputation, our family name, and our trust funds. It was imprinted in our minds with all the subtlety of a jackhammer. And we were reminded of it every time we made a new friend, dated someone outside our social circle, or stepped out the door.

I’m not saying everyone I come in contact with has bad intentions. That’s how my father thinks and I’ll never be that guy. However, the suspicion that I could become someone’s living blank check is never far from my mind. Especially after what happened to my brother.

“I don’t know…” My gut tells me Alice Bailey is not interested in money. “She didn’t ask for a police or campus security report. I can’t get a read on this girl. Except that she doesn’t like me very much.”

Most girls jump at the chance to stroke my ego. This one couldn’t wait to insult me. And something tells me she was holding back a lot more. Recalling the mix of interest and repulsion on her face teases another reluctant smile out of me.

“She wouldn’t even take my number, acted like I was a walking open sore to be avoided at all cost.” A less confident man would’ve sustained a serious ego blow. Good thing I’m not that guy.

“Maybe she’s not into dudes.”

Pausing, I considered it. Then I recall her staring at my junk in the hallway. “I don’t think so. She might hate me, but I definitely caught her checking out my package.”

D nods thoughtfully. “Don’t worry about it till it’s time to worry about it.”

He’s right. I’m always looking to jump in and get my hands dirty. Maybe it’s time I learn to keep my hands in my pockets. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.” I rub the back of my stiff neck.

“What are you gonna do?”

I think of what my father said. He’s always there, hanging over me like a black fucking cloud. I have to pick my battles with him or lose the war.

“Nothing…for now.”

The front door opens and Brock wanders in. He halts at the threshold of the open kitchen and takes in the scene.

“Nutella sandwich?”

A confused frown pulls at my face. How is it I’m the only one not in the know here?

Dallas smiles and Brock adds, “Karen and Jill?”

“Just Karen. Jill had soccer practice.”

Brock chuckles.

Two minutes later, Cole walks in and scans the walls and the refrigerator. Then he pins the three of us with a deadly glare. “Which one of you motherfuckers broke into my Nutella stash?”





Chapter 4





Reagan


A nagging sense of guilt wakes me abruptly at 2 a.m. It’s the third night in a row this has happened so there’s no guessing why. Whatever that gene is that allows you to give a shit about other people––the gene my father lacks––I seem to have inherited double the Reynolds family’s share. And presently, it’s screaming in my ear with a megaphone that I’m the reason for this girl’s problems and therefore somehow need to fix this mess if I ever want to sleep again.

I grab my phone, log on to Sharknet, the school’s social networking site, and begin searching for any sign of Alice Bailey…and come up empty. Wtf.

Facebook? Her profile is on private. Snapchat? Yeah, she’s not on Snapchat. Insta? Random artsy pictures. Not a single one of her. This might not even be her. There are like…a million Alice Baileys. Devastating because I am fairly certain I won’t get a minute’s peace until I sort this out.

I jump out of bed and march down to Dall’s room, pound on his door. “Phone tree!” I move on to Brock’s, then Cole’s. “Wake up. Phone tree!”

They shuffle out of their bedrooms, rubbing the sleep from their eyes.

“What the fuck, dude? I have a history exam tomorrow morning,” Cole gripes. “Today actually.”

They make their way to the living room and crash onto the oversized couches.

“This better be good,” Brock grunts.