Page 16 of Wicked Fury

“Look,” I start, softening just a bit, “I know this place can be overwhelming, but I’ve got your back, alright? Consider me your unofficial guide to surviving St. Charles University. Go Spartans!”

“Thanks,” she says, and something in her gratitude feels warm, real—a sharp contrast to the usual chilly encounters I have with people just looking to use me for notes or a quick study session.

“Let’s start with the basics,” I continue, the reluctant mentor in me taking the reins. “Avoid the cafeteria meatloaf, never trust a frat boy’s ‘homemade’ punch, and never, ever, get on the wrong side of the library’s head archivist.”

Nicole laughs, a bright sound that cuts through the academic drone, and I can’t help but think that maybe this won’t be such a chore after all. Maybe.

I grab Nicole’s textbooks, flipping through the pages with a practiced eye. My fingertip traces the edge of the paper, leaving faint indentations where I mark the chapters she needs to digest—political theories that make my head spin on sleepless nights. “I’ll send you my notes,” I murmur, the words tasting like a commitment I can’t back out from. A promise to an almost stranger who has no idea how deep my rabbit hole of responsibilities goes.

“Really?” Nicole’s voice percolates with a hopefulness that seems untarnished by the grind of college life. It’s oddly refreshing, and it makes me feel something that might be a smidge of guilt for my earlier irritation. “That would be amazing, Iris. I know you’re probably swamped…”

Her voice trails off as she takes in my haphazard bun that would never fly if my father saw me and the circles I’m pretty sure are playing peekaboo beneath my lashes despite the concealer’s best efforts. I flash her a grin, all teeth and no joy, yet somehow she buys it. She always will; they all do.

I bat away her concerns with the ease of a cat flicking its tail. “Inconvenience isn’t in my vocabulary.” A lie wrapped in a smirk, but it quiets the worry lines forming between her brows. “Besides,” I add with a half-cocked eyebrow, “helping you gives me an excuse to revisit this stuff and not look like a total fraud when I spout political ideologies at parties to impress the unimpressible.” My lips twitch into a semblance of a smile, one that doesn’t quite reach my eyes.

Nicole chuckles, a light and airy sound that flutters around the room like a butterfly in a jar. “Well, when you put it like that, I’m doing you a favor.”

“Exactly.” And for a moment, the tension rolls off my shoulders, eased by the simple exchange of playful banter. Nicole’s alright—a bit too chipper maybe, but alright. And helping her? Well, it’s a distraction. A reprieve from the chaos of thoughts that haunt me, the ones that whisper Lincoln’s name with every heartbeat, taunting me.

I tuck a loose strand of hair back into the messy constellation of my bun and gesture for Nicole to follow me as class ends. I see Professor Hastings watching me and the look of approval that passes his features as I lead Nicole out of the classroom.

“I have a few free minutes if you want a quick tour,” I say to Nicole as she tip taps, trying to keep up with my strides in her kitten heels. I reach down and straighten my dress and wait for Nicole to catch up and then lead her through the maze of St. Charles University’s campus with a confidence I don’t quite feel. The sun is a relentless spotlight, casting sharp shadows on the concrete as we weave between buildings.

“Over there’s the library,” I say, pointing at the monolithic structure of stone and glass. “It has the best nooks for studying—or napping. Trust me, you’ll need both.”

Nicole’s eyes scan the building, her lips curving into an appreciative smile. “Looks peaceful.”

“Only on the outside,” I quip, my smirk a well-worn armor against the onslaught of academia lurking within those walls. Our footsteps echo in tandem as we approach the student center next, the scent of brewing coffee and the din of voices reaching out to us.

“Here’s where you can drown your sorrows in caffeine and sugar,” I gesture toward the bustling cafe, “or sweat them out in the gym upstairs.”

“Sounds like my kind of therapy,” she observes with a laugh, and I’m struck by how easy this feels. Her presence doesn’t grate on me like I expected; instead, it’s almost soothing, like she knows exactly what to say and when to say it.

We’re traversing the quad now, the grass beneath our steps green enough to tell you it was bought and paid for handsomely, when Nicole leans closer, her elbow nudging mine conspiratorially. “So, any tips on landing a hot football player boyfriend like yours?”

The words hit me like a blitz attack, jarring and unexpected. For a split second, I’m lost, disoriented, wondering if the heat is getting to me, making me hallucinate conversations I never had.

“Boyfriend?” My voice sounds like a strangled note, played on a broken instrument.

Nicole’s laugh peals out, light and teasing, a stark contrast to the sudden tightness constricting my chest. I blink, the world sharpening into focus as Nicole’s words linger in the air like a bad aftertaste. “I don’t do boyfriends,” I snort, pulling my defenses tight around me. “Especially not ones with shoulder pads and the ego to match.” The hint of sarcasm in my voice could etch glass.

Nicole cocks her head, a frown creasing her brow. She smells like citrus—a sharp, tangy scent that somehow makes her question feel more invasive. “Not to be weird and stalkery, but I noticed you at the ceremony the other day…” she trails off, her eyes doing a quick dance of confusion. “You were giving that killer speech, all confidence and badassery. Then there was him, Lincoln Blackwood? I asked this girl sitting next to me…I think that’s what she said his name is. You two seemed…close. Anyway, he’s really hot.”

“Close?” It’s a bitter laugh that escapes, a reflex. The memory of Lincoln’s touch is a ghost on my skin. “Yeah, geographically maybe.” I shove my hands into the pockets of my dress, the fabric crinkling under the pressure. “He’s my stepbrother,” I admit, the words tasting like vinegar on my tongue.

“Stepbrother?” Her eyes widen, and I can almost hear her thoughts click into place like puzzle pieces. “Oh, wow, sorry. I just assumed?—”

I cut her off, forcing a shrug that feels heavier than it should, “No harm, no foul.”

My smile is a weapon I brandish, hiding the tremor that betrays me. Can she hear the way my heart stutters, an out-of-tune piano in a silent hall? I pray she doesn’t notice the blush that threatens to bloom across my cheeks, hot and revealing.

“Anyway, enough about the campus king,” I say, steering us clear of treacherous waters. My voice crackles with forced cheer, as if I’m tossing confetti over a minefield. “Let’s focus on your hunt for Mr. Right—or Mr. Right Now.”

Nicole looks at me expectantly like a cat on the prowl. I can’t help but add fuel to her curiosity. “Lincoln’s got an arm that could land a football in the next state, and a head so thick you’d think it’s made of the same stuff they use in black boxes.” I let out a laugh, but it’s brittle, like thin ice over a winter lake. My fingers find my lip, biting down to steady the flutter in my gut. The last thing I need is to spill secrets that aren’t mine to share.

“Sounds like a real catch,” Nicole murmurs, one eyebrow arching in amusement. She leans back slightly, her eyes scanning my face like she’s trying to read between the lines of a particularly spicy novel.

“More like a cautionary tale,” I snark back, feeling the tension coil tighter around me. I’m dancing around the edges of truth and scandal.

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