Home > Nothing But Trouble (Malibu University #1)(2)

Nothing But Trouble (Malibu University #1)(2)
Author: P. Dangelico

I’m adjusting my backpack when I hear a second car approaching. Out of the corner of my eye I catch a flash of black paint and an oversized, deep tread tire. A Jeep Wrangler comes barreling toward me and everything goes slo-mo, my life flashing before my eyes.

There’s no time to think. All I can do is react. Instinct takes over and I dive for safety. It feels like I’m falling forever. Until, finally, I land on the grass running along the asphalt––and, unfortunately for me, slide to a stop on my face.

I’m lying motionless, trying to discern if all my parts are still attached to my body, when a series of sounds register. The screech of tires. A door slamming shut. And the soft thump of running feet.

“Are you okay?” a deep male voice queries. A big hand gently falls on my shoulder.

The only thing I’m absolutely certain of is that my face broke my fall.

“Does it look like I’m okay, asshole?” I barely manage to get out with my mouth smothered in dirt and grass. I can taste it. Disgusting.

I hear a quick snort. Then a murmured, “Don’t move. I’m calling 911.”

“No!”

I’m pretty sure the only thing injured is my pride right now and in no way can I afford any emergency medical care. I’m currently on the bare-bones-only-deploy-if-you’re-dying plan and my savings account is allocated to other semi-important stuff like food. “Who taught you how to drive? Your blind nana?”

“You were standing in the middle of the road,” the same voice asserts with undisguised amusement underpinning his bullshit claim.

He carefully pries my backpack off and I roll over, onto my back, blinking up at the head looming over me. Bad driver’s face is obscured by the sun.

“I’m going to call campus security,” he states with the confidence of someone who is seldom rebuffed, his voice deep and granular. Also, strangely soothing. That’s weird but whatever. I probably have a concussion.

“I said no. It’ll just be a waste of time.” Time that I do not have to waste.

I attempt to sit up, and his hand moves to my back, helping to guide me. Brushing my hands off, I examine my palms––scratched up and dirty. My knees––skinned and bloody. Grass and dirt sticks to my face. I can feel it. Particularly to my lip gloss. This stuff is worse than superglue. I try to brush it off with the back of my hand to no avail.

“Wrong––I was standing on the side of the road.” I refrain from adding, “dipshit,” as I am apt to do when I’m angry, and in this case, in pain.

“Let me see your ankle.”

As soon as he mentions ankle, it starts to throb. And I mean really throb. “Are you a doctor?”

The sarcasm is strong now, percolating behind every thought, simmering under every unspoken word waiting to be unleashed. I can control myself, however. I’m not a complete idiot. I’m stranded and injured and the stone-cold fact is that I need this guy’s help right now. I’ll save the verbal ass kicking for later.

“No, but my parents are.”

His parents? I couldn’t make this up if I tried. Let’s get this out of the way––this school is filled with a bunch of pampered rich kids.

I glance up and at first the glare makes me squint and hide my eyes behind my hand. Then his head moves against the sun and I get a clear view of a face that would make even my cousin Marie consider going straight. A cleft accents his chin, nice lips, high cheekbones, a strong jaw line. In other words, features you usually find on billboards peddling underwear.

But his eyes…fucking A, excuse my French. Vivid green framed by thick dark lashes. A one-two punch to the sternum, knocking the wind right out of me. If I wasn’t on my ass already, I would currently be in the process of falling on it.

I’m staring. I know I am and yet I really don’t care. He almost killed me. Attempted vehicular manslaughter means I get a free pass to stare.

“So that makes you…what? A doctor by birthright?”

Just because my vagina is blinded by his good looks doesn’t mean my head stops working. Although the throbbing sensation in my lower leg is another matter altogether. That’s definitely inhibiting my ability to think.

“I’m premed if that makes you feel better.”

“Not even a little,” I grumble. A beat later I’m screaming in blinding pain. My ankle feels like it’s being stabbed by a hot knife.

“I think you sprained your ankle.”

“Thanks, Dr. Moron. Maybe try not poking it!”

He battens down another smile and rakes chestnut brown hair out of his eyes. “Let’s go.”

That’s all the warning I get before I’m scooped up. One minute I’m on the ground and the next I’m hovering high above it, an infant cradled in the arms of a handsome giant. Who smells of chlorine? I’m fairly certain it’s chlorine.

“Whoa.” My head spins and I’m not sure if it’s due to the heat, the near-death experience, or vertigo.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. I think so.”

“I won’t drop you,” he says, readjusting his grip. “You can loosen the chokehold you have on me.”

My gaze flickers to his. Traffic light green eyes flash amusement. I get stuck in that gaze for a while. His irises remind me of those cartoon swirling wheels intended to hypnotize.

Green means go. Green means go, Bailey.

I must’ve hit my head. That’s the only plausible explanation.

“You’re sure you’re feeling alright?”

The rasp knocks me out of my spell. I peel my fingers off his neck and realize my fingers have left a red welt on his warm, bronzed skin. Jesus. “Sorry,” I mutter.

“I’ll survive.”

Something feels off. I’m forgetting something. “My stuff!”

“I’ll grab it. Let me get you in the car first.”

Bad driver, as I’ve come to think of him, gently places me in the Jeep’s passenger seat, careful not to bump my sore ankle. Then he leaves to retrieve my backpack.

In the meantime, I take stock of my situation. Swollen ankle that has been steadily growing larger by the second. A busted car that will cost me serious dough. No way to get to and from my off-campus job at the Slow Drip coffee shop––a job that pays a portion of my living expenses. Also, one that I only started a few days ago, which means I have no leverage with the manager.

My father works for the U.S. Postal Service and my stepmom’s an emergency room nurse. Wealth and the Bailey name have never been synonymous. They’re doing the best they can to help me out. I couldn’t possibly ask them for more. It dawns upon me now that my parents will be worried sick with me so far away. Especially my stepmom.

My mood is officially damp. I don’t even want to contemplate the possibility of my ankle being broken. That would almost certainly signify the end of my dream. I would be forced to drop out.

“Here you go,” bad driver says as he hands me my bag. I waste no time ripping open the zipper to check on my equipment.

The thought of it being thrown to the ground makes me twitchy. It took me years to save up enough to buy my collection of cameras, forgoing Rutgers University for a community college so I could use my savings to make the purchase. Not only is it absolutely necessary if I want to make independent films and submit them to production companies and film festivals, it also functions as my savings account. I have a ton of money invested in them. My cameras are my safety net in case of a catastrophe.

“What’s in there?” He looks genuinely curious.

I shoulder-block his line of sight, shoot him a wary glare. I’m from Jersey––we think everyone is trying to steal from us. “My equipment.”

“Cameras?”

I slide an assessing glance over him. He looks like a Disney prince. Clean-cut, close shave. Expression open, stare earnest. He even has the requisite dip in the chin. All he’s missing is a red cloak.

The grimace comes naturally, so does suspicion. “Yeah.”

It’s a rare occasion that I don’t have some of it on me. At a minimum, I usually have my Leica in my backpack.

“Cool. Can I see?”

This prince is nosy. “No, you may not see.”

Fighting a grin, his white teeth, stark against his tan, bear down on his lower lip. “You a film major?”

This guy is awfully chatty. “Yes, are you in the NSA?” I fire back and watch his lips tremble. I’m glad I can entertain him.

The Jeep shoots uphill, making me brace against the door. As tempting as the prospect of ending up in this guy’s lap sounds, I’m starting to cold sweat from the pain in my ankle and getting anxious about the extent of the injury.

“Where are you taking me?”

He studies the open suspicion on my face. “To the medical center. Where do you think?”

“To dispose of what’s left of the evidence.”

He scans my face again and his gaze narrows in on something. It’s making me increasingly self-conscious. “You have some, uh…dirt stuck to your lips.” He motions with his index finger to his own mouth, pink and slightly fuller on the bottom. “And grass.”

Scorching heat rolls up my neck and blankets my face, which I’m sure is the color of a baboon’s butt. The Bailey curse. My pale skin keeps no secrets. Something I’ve learned to live with since the first grade when I told Brady Higgins that I liked him and he told me, and I’m paraphrasing, to take a hike because I look like Casper the friendly ghost. Last I heard, Brady’s still unemployed and living in his mother’s basement. Sometimes karma takes a while.

I flip down the visor and check the mirror. Not only does it look like I’ve been eating dirt and grass. He failed to mention the glob of white sunscreen stuck under my left eye. “Peachy. Thank you for so kindly pointing it out,” I mutter as I wipe it away with my fingers.

“You’re not from around here.”

“What gave me away?”

   
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