Page 23 of Brick Wall
I didn’t move back to Bainbridge, Maryland looking for love, or even lust. I came here to hide out and heal from the drama of last school year. I came to get to know my Uncle Hudson better, and to earn my degree. This isn’t home anymore; it’s just a stopping point. I need to keep my eyes on the future and away from distracting memories of Gym Shorts Hottie. God, I never even got his last name. Or his first, really. JT stands for what? John Taylor? Jacob Tyler? Josiah Thaddeus?
I shake my head and take a fortifying sip of my iced white mocha. JT’s name doesn’t matter because I’ll never see him again. Our majors are totally different, and though this campus isn’t huge, it’s not tiny, either. Besides, my experience with the opposite sex has taught me this much: if it’s not right in front of their faces, it’s not on their minds. For all I know, JT’s like his buddy Jake. He’s forgotten me already and moved on to the next flavor of the week.
That shouldn’t bother me at all. And it doesn’t. Nope, not even a little bit.
CHAPTER 8
JT
The first thingI notice when I wake up is the noise.
It’s music, kind of. Some asshole has the volume cranked as high as it’ll go, and it’s one of those songs where all the lead singer does is yell. He’s backed up by electric guitars screeching and grinding while a crazed lunatic is wailing on the drums.
The second thing I notice is the sharp pain in my shoulder. I spend most of my waking hours training for and playing hockey, so I’m no stranger to injury or discomfort. But this feels weird. I peel my eyes open and…this is not my room. It’s not my bed—it’s not even a bed.
I’m lying naked in a bathtub.
And that’s when it hits me: Maggie’s gone.
I don’t know her last name, her major, or even where she’s from. But I know she was here with me last night. I know the way her body feels next to mine, the way she moans when I’m driving into her, the way she bites her lip when she’s trying not to come.
The pain in my shoulder persists, and that’s when I realize I’ve wedged myself up into a corner and that the faucet is burrowing its way into my deltoid. Carefully, I exit the tuband snag my basketball shorts off the floor. Pulling them on, I slip my feet into my slides while simultaneously looking around for any trace of the girl who flipped my world upside down last night.
The door is closed, but the makeshift barricade is gone. The first aid kit is still on the floor, an empty condom wrapper lying beside it. Oh shit—I panic until I see that the condom itself is in the tub. At least I had enough forethought to take it off. I grab some toilet paper and discard it as discreetly as I can under the bandage wrappers in the trash can. After washing my hands, I put everything back where I found it, or at least where it would logically go. I highly doubt these guys do an inventory of the bathroom in their basement, but I don’t want to be a dick.
I take one last glance around, hoping for some clue my Cinderella left behind, but there’s nothing. It’s still early, though, so unless she snuck out in the middle of the night, she might be around. Her ankle’s got to be throbbing by now, and there’s a good chance it’s swollen, too. I meant what I said last night: I’ll carry her sweet ass around campus just to keep her from hurting herself further.
But first, I have to find her.
The music gets louder the closer I get to the main floor, and when I walk upstairs, I play it off like I’ve been passed out on one of the sofas for the past few hours. From the looks of it, that’s what these guys have been doing. And some of them look like they’re still drunk, so I’m pretty confident no one knows exactly what Maggie and I were up to last night.
It’s not that I care what a bunch of frat boys think of me. It’s the idea that one of them could talk shit about Maggie that has my blood near boiling.
“Briiiick!” Ollie’s voice is way too chipper for ass o’clock. I can hear him loud and clear, but he’s nowhere to be found.
“Dude! You want a smoothie?” he asks, popping up out of goddamn nowhere like a whack-a-mole.
If only I had a mallet.
In typical Ollie Jablonski fashion, he doesn’t wait for an answer. He just plows ahead. And in this case, that means turning on the blender.
A collective groan rumbles through the room. No one’s too happy with Ollie right now, but as he pours me a glass, I have to admit the guy makes a hell of a blended beverage. I drink it down, trying not to guess what the hell is in it, then set my empty glass on the counter. I’m about to tell Ollie I’m heading to the gym for a workout when a meaty fist lands on the counter next to my hand next to my abandoned cup.
“Shut that fuckin’ thing off,” the guy with the fist grumbles. “But first, gimme some. My head’s fucking pounding.”
Ollie just laughs. “It’s all that tequila, Toad. That shit’s your kryptonite.”
“Aw, fuck. I drank tequila last night? No wonder my mouth tastes like I licked my own asshole.” Toad hangs his head and mutters his thanks as he takes the drink Ollie offers. He doesn’t notice the shot of liquor Ollie mixed in, and I’m sure as hell not in the business of telling Toad any secrets, including the fact that I heard him take an hour-long piss last night while I was balls deep in the hottest girl I’ve ever seen.
He makes short work of the smoothie, slamming the cup down like he’s playing beer pong then emitting a mighty belch before stumbling off to find his bed or maybe another toilet.
He’s a class act, this guy.
Ollie’s busy making more drinks, so I take the opportunity to quietly duck out of the room. Unfortunately, my luck seems to have run the fuck out.
“Brick, where the hell you goin?” Ollie calls. “Gimme a hand, dude. My smoothie business is booming.”
“Can’t,” I answer. “I gotta get to the Den for a training session.”
