Page 82 of Corrupt Me

Those piercing blue eyes ensnared mine over his shoulder. “People who want to hurt you.”

I followed him into the hallway. “Me?” I swallowed, my throat constricting. “Why would anyone want to hurt me?” I thought back to the first week on campus. The weird threat. The guys in the ally. They’d been looking for Tristan. “What did you do now?” I accused because this being Tristan’s fault was the only thing that made any sense to me.

I wasn’t a criminal.

I couldn’t have possibly wronged someone enough for them to want to hurt me unless forgetting to return my library book was considered criminal. Then I’d be guilty on several accounts.

He shook his head, a salty scoff breezing through his nose. “It doesn’t matter. You’re not safe here. We need to go until I can deal with this.”

We were in front of my door. I was half tempted to wait and see if he would produce his key card to open my room. “Go where? I have classes tomorrow. I can’t just leave.”

Frowning, he waited, not patiently either. “You can. And you will if you value your life.”

My hands trembled slightly as I pulled out my key card and inserted it into the slot. “Tristan, you’re starting to scare me.”

The man had no empathy. He swung my door open and ushered me inside. “Good. I want you to be scared. We can stay at a hotel nearby, and I’ll drive to school.”

Everything was happening so damn fast. “We? You’re staying with me?”

Setting my bag down on the floor, he kicked my door shut. “I told you. I’m not leaving you alone.”

“For how long?” I pressed, my mind processing at a slug’s pace.

His eyes swept over my room. He’d only been inside once before, but that had been in the middle of the night when I’d had one of my famous nightmares. “Until I figure out how to fix this fucking mess,” he said.

Was he talking days? Weeks? Months? He was uprooting my entire life yet wouldn’t give me any information. I was supposed to blindly trust him. Oddly, something inside me told me to go. “What about Sam? I can’t leave her here.”

“She’s not in any danger. It’s you they are looking for.”

“This is absurd. I haven’t done anything.” I narrowed my gaze on him. “What have you gotten yourself mixed up in?”

“Pack a bag, and make it quick. We need to go. Don’t let anyone in. I’ll be back in ten, and you better be ready.” After unloading a slew of orders, Tristan slipped back into the hallway, leaving me alone with my scrambling thoughts.

Fuck me.

I scrubbed a hand over my face and did what he said, tossing random clothes, shit from the bathroom, and my laptop into a bag. The severity of the situation breathed down my neck, andthe worst part was I didn’t even know why I was running. This wasn’t just absurd. It was fucking crazy.

True to his word, Tristan darkened my doorway ten minutes later. He snatched my packed bag from the floor, the black tee he’d changed into lifting slightly and flashing part of the tattoo on his lower back as well as something that resembled…a gun?

Holy. Shit.

It didn’t just resemble a weapon. It was one. And it looked very real. Nothing like the mace or taser Sam carried. The charcoal steel was tucked into his waistband. Tristan’s brows lifted in my direction. “Ready?”

No. I wasn’t fucking ready. But what choice did I have? “Why do you have a gun?” I asked, my eyes darting up to his eyes.

Firm lines of seriousness crinkled at the corners. “Protection, Shortcake. The people we’re dealing with won’t ask nicely. They won’t ask at all.”

Of course, they wouldn’t.

twenty-four

Sam was going to be pissed. We wouldn’t be having that talk, not just because I didn’t have a phone but was also no longer on campus. Tristan drove us to the seediest hotel I’d ever seen. If his goal was to blend in with the thugs hunting us, he succeeded. I hadn’t expected the Four Seasons, but I also thought I’d be sleeping on a bed that wouldn’t give me an STD just by looking at it.

“It’s not that bad,” Tristan said, reading my expression.

I eyed the motel sign. Neon letters flickered, most of the bulbs burnt out, leaving just “EL” glowing in pink. A few old, rusted cars were scattered in the parking lot, and the building itself was grimy with peeling paint and dim lights flickering in the windows. Underneath the name sat a letter board with a greeting, but the message was impossible to decipher; half the letters had fallen off or were crooked. “Tell me this is part of your plan,” I muttered, the sign flickering as if it were minutes away from burning out.

“What plan?” he responded.

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