Page 40 of Brazen Criminals

But should I pursue it? Hell no.

I really fucked up with Bryce, and I don’t trust myself not to make shitty choices again.

With a sigh, I take the last few bites of my breakfast, annoyed that I’m thinking about dating a week after a legit terrifying breakup. I either need to run more or have a bit more “me time,” because my hormones must be going crazy.

Gah! If I really think about it, I probably have a crush on both Walker and Jansen, with RJ growing on me too.

Two major problems:

I like three guys at the same time

I live with these guys

Irritated, I make another pot of coffee with my own grounds, washing my breakfast dishes as it brews. I fill up my water bottle, pour the coffee in my travel mug, grab my bag, and walk to the bus stop.

The long journey lets me finish up my modern lit work for the week. I don’t look around for friends as I stumble off the bus. Last week I texted the three people I know at the business school and none of them are in this class, so I’m flying solo.

Hyper competitive doesn’t even begin to describe the top business school students; I don’t want to draw a target on my back, so I take my time choosing my seat in the large auditorium. I end up in the middle section off to one side, close enough to see, but far enough from front or center to look like an overachiever.

The room fills as I pull out a new notebook and pencil. At exactly 10:30, Professor Gleim takes the floor. An older woman with deep smile lines and bright eyes, I instantly know this is going to be my favorite class this semester.

Sure enough, five minutes later it’s confirmed: clear expectations, set rules for grading, consistent workload, a teacher willing to laugh—it’s perfect. As a bonus, Professor Gleim is structuring the lecture like a law school class—we’re supposed to read the assigned cases, have opinions, and be ready to answer any questions she might pose.

She passes out the syllabus, a seating chart, and a small, stapled case study. “You have twenty minutes to read and interpret. We’ll discuss it after the break. Be back by 11:00,” she says.

I dig into the article, highlighting important points with a pink highlighter and adding notes in my notebook as I go. It takes eleven minutes to finish reading the case, and another five to rewrite the salient points in my own words. Finished a few minutes before the break, I follow other students out of the room. There’s a coffee shop upstairs, but I still have my travel mug and no money, so I decide on a leisurely walk around the mini quad across the street.

The air is cooler and drier, reminding me that winter will be here sooner than any of us would like. Lying on the green for a few minutes, the sun warm on my face, I hear a derisive snort nearby. Paranoid, I make sure my skirt hasn’t ridden up or anything, but I’m decent. I look around, but no one is nearby. Weird.

All too soon, I abandon my sunbeam and head back to the classroom, ready to see how I’ll do in my first ever law school-style grilling. I’m planning on working for the FBI, but if they won’t take me, I would love to go to law school, only I’d never be able to afford it.

I slide into my seat moments before the interrogation begins, questions interspersed with short lecture components. Raising my hand, one question after another, trying to get my daily participation points, I finally get called on.

“Ms. McElroy? Based on what we’ve already determined the purpose of the law is, do you feel the defendant has a legal right to contest his treatment in this case?”

I swallow. Showtime. “No, I do not. The law is a way to codify social norms and expectations, while his actions are directly counter to those norms.” The professor smiles, and my heart does a little happy dance in my chest. There’s a familiar snort behind me and I’m turning toward the back to see who keeps scoffing at me today when the professor calls, “Mr. Westerhouse, you disagree?” and I’m looking right at Trips.

He scowls at me for a moment, his face unreadable, before turning to the professor. “Yeah. The law may have initially been meant to keep society running smoothly, to lock in social expectations, but the law is what is written, not what is intended. Unless there is a law saying the defendant can’t, then he has a right to argue his case in court.”

The professor is smiling, looking between the two of us like we’ve both brought her cake. “Ah. And isn’t that the question? Where does the line between social expectations and the law lie? This is the issue we will come back to again and again in this class, but for shorthand, we call it the ‘reasonable person test.’ Would a reasonable person, in a given circumstance, make the same assumptions about the intent behind an action? Would a jury of one’s peers understand where the law fails and social norms, otherwise known as common law, take over?”

The professor continues, and I hurry to copy down the important details, while Trips’ gaze sears into my back. I glance over my shoulder, his eyes locking onto mine. I stare back, raising a brow in question, and a corner of his mouth turns up. He nods at the teacher, like I’m keeping him from his notes, and I roll my eyes as I turn back to my notebook.

A full semester with Trips glowering behind me, jumping on my words, fighting with me in front of his business school friends? Lucky me.

I sneak another look back, inspecting his posse—the men in dress shirts casually unbuttoned at the neck, the women with razor-sharp parts in their hair and perfect manicures—and immediately peg him as one of the “finance bros.” The accounting students love to hate them, mainly because they are obsessed with two things: grades and money. And the only reason they’re obsessed with grades is they can cash them in for the best internships, which will let them access all that yummy yummy hedge fund money. Trips as a finance bro is so logical it’s almost laughable.

Class ends, but I don’t rush out, taking a minute to organize my bag. Trips goes down the stairs before me, the rest of the finance bros trailing him. He must be a top dog. He catches my eye from the bottom of the auditorium, crossing his arms and lifting his chin. I huff and shake my head, avoiding him for now.

By the time I’ve packed my bag, he’s gone. I sigh and trudge to the bus stop, the breeze suddenly cold on my back.

Chapter 23

Jansen

Twoweeksintothesemester, and I’m about ready to burst. I either need a distraction or to steal something. It’s like every car on the street flashes with a “pick me, pick me!” sign. RJ has a thingamajig that lets me jump newer cars, but he can only hack certain makes and models. I invited him for a quick lift on Thursday, but he shot me down. Figures. At least there are a few junkers around campus—I haven’t taken one yet, but my fingers twitch every time I walk past.

It’s Saturday afternoon, and I’ve already gone climbing with Walker, done an hour of tai chi, completed a full flame meditation, and finished grocery shopping. There’s a quiz on Monday afternoon I could study for, but otherwise, I don’t have anything to do.

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