Page 10 of Heartbreak Kings
I scoffed gently. “It takes a lot more than having a woman around to make me feel threatened. Besides, you’re much easier to look at than these fools. Look at them.” I gestured around in mock-annoyance, though really, many of my associates could have used the attention of an excellent tailor.
She snorted. “I didn’t think Dr. David Morrison’s son would have a sense of humor,” she confided as the rest of the class filed in.
I maintained my smile, but just barely. She had already started researching some key players around campus, including me, apparently.This is going to be tougher than I thought.
“I get it from my mother,” I countered without even blinking, and she laughed a little. “I wasn’t aware you had heard of my father.”
“Well, he owns most of fraternity row, so the name gets bounced around on campus now and again.” She was teasing me. Testing me. Seeing if I was just friendly or just trouble.
I shrugged. “We’ve little in common besides the name.” Dad was far older than Mom, an old-guard conservative with courtly manners and a predatory business sense. I was less concerned with tradition and far more with making my mark on my own terms. “He would have a far bigger problem with your being here than I ever could.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “So, what side does that put you on? He owns your fraternity house.”
The challenge annoyed me a little. “Yes, he owns the building. But not its occupants. Especially not me.” I kept my smile on.
“Good. I like a guy who can think for himself.” Her eyes twinkled as she turned away when the professor walked in.
Meanwhile, I was suddenly dealing with a happy little catch in my chest. I caught my smile widening and schooled it back down to something more placid, a little concerned. I couldn’t tell why she affected me so much, but she did. And that was dangerous.
I’m really going to watch it with this one, I thought as I settled in to listen to the opening lecture.
Chapter 5
Sabine
The second Blakestarted circling my periphery, I felt it. Not just because he was one of the most famous seniors on campus, but because I remembered him. Personally. It had taken me a while to put a name to a face, but once I had, I had been on high alert for his return.
He had been at the protest that had scared Mom the first day I had moved in to the dorms. He hadn’t held a sign; he hadn’t shouted; he had hung back, aloof in his black leather jacket, dark hair swept back, amusement quirking his Cupid’s-bow lips.
He had done nothing to impede or intimidate us. In fact, he had laughed at the one guy who had. If I hadn’t known better, I would have assumed he was a student journalist covering the protest. He had been just that, detached.
He was also sexy as hell, something I hadn’t been able to appreciate under the circumstances. In that sea of angry faces, his calm interest had stood out, but so had his looks. He was big and sleek, muscular with a deep voice and air of authority I found just as compelling as his intense gray eyes. When he had spoken to me, I had felt my toes curl as his deep, purring tones caressed my ears.
I had still kept my head. But our brief conversation stuck in my mind all day and most of the night. Just like the curve of his sexy smile. And that was a problem.
Every talented journalist did her background research. After taking photos of almost thirty of the guys regularly giving me problems and doing image searches on them, I had compiled folders on each one of them. What I had learned reminded me of a recent sociological study done on abusive, sexist male gamers; they were the closest thing this campus had to underachievers.
Most were here because of rich parents or other connections. None had successfully arrived on academic merit, scholarships, or achievement-based grants. Few if any had extracurricular activities or had anything besides “single” set on their Facebook profiles. They had academic and code of conduct warnings. They had social issues. Some had criminal records for public outbursts, harassment, or stalking.Having rich parents had smoothed the road for them considerably.
Something about Blake’s presence at the protest had reminded me of another similarity between many of my antagonists. Of the thirty-one guys I had files on, twenty-three had pledged Alpha Omega in the last three years. Twelve were members. The lowest-ranked, lowest-performing members, all first-year, most probationary or on notice.
I almost wanted to slip back into the school’s files online to see if I had missed anything, but I had taken too much of a risk doing that the first time. I didn’t particularly care about the ethics of it—an excellent journalist took certain risks—but if they caught me in this case, they would expel me. That could end my career. No way was I letting that happen.
The link between poor performance, insecurity, and hating women was right there for anyone with the right background reading to see plainly. I could probably write one hell of an exposé about it. But I felt like my very presence and refusal to back down was stirring people up enough. I’d just start working on a book on the subject, publish it once things simmered down. I also worried I might get sued by an overprotective parent of one of these assholes.
But I had bigger things to worry about than planning a future book as revenge for what I was going through. I walked around with the lid firmly clamped down on my simmering anger, refusing to dwell, studying even harder in response. I was going to crush these guys academically instead of letting their behavior make me falter. Ultimately, aside from on a personal-safety level with some of them, I wasn’t worried about any guy on that list.
But Blake Morrison? He worries me.
He and four others ran Alpha Omega. They might not have sent the men protesting against me, but they had ties to them.
I sat back in my chair and stared at my screen, where I had brought up a few photos of him from the campus newspaper. Confident, aloof, his smile just a touch too arrogant, he looked every inch a rich guy’s princely son. His beauty had annoyed me at first, before we had spoken. He never seemed to take a terrible picture, have a bad hair day, or miss a chance to look just a bit more well dressed than the surrounding men.
It was subtle dominance-signaling, backed up by his height and powerful build, and that voice that shook me down to my bones. I didn’t like dominant men, especially when I didn’t know what their real motives were. And most especially when they made me weak in the damn knees. He had so much charisma that I fell for it even as I knew I was doing so, even as I tried to stay objective. Even after understanding that he might be part of the same group of men that wanted me gone—and might be untrustworthy because of it—he had still caught my interest way more than I ever wanted him to know.
He even smelled good. I don’t know what his aftershave was, but I doubted my dad ever could have afforded a bottle. Lime and spices, with a note of bay leaf. He had taste in his scents, like in everything else.
Why the hell is he interested in me?
