The Cruelest Stranger Page 23

  Fortunately Aunt Bette was more tenacious than the pneumonia, but things were looking dicey for a while.

  “Your dinner’s ready,” I tell her as I lead her into the next room. “Fletcher’s Deli. You’re lucky. Got the last of the Irish potato soup.”

  I get her situated at the table before retrieving her soup and turkey club. Normally I’d make her a quick dinner myself, but I lost track of time at the library tonight.

  “How was your first day back?” she asks as I peel the plastic wrap from her disposable soup spoon. “What classes did you have?”

  “Anthro, Hospitality Design, and Interior Lighting,” I say. “And they were fine.”

  “Can’t believe you’re almost done.” Aunt Bette smiles to cover the uncertainty in her eyes. “Seems like yesterday you were just starting.”

  She knows I can’t stay here with her forever.

  In four months, I’ll be flying the coop.

  And while I’ve loved our time together—especially since it’s the first time in my life I’ve ever felt like I truly had a home—I can’t stay here forever.

  Last summer, I interned for a local designer named Kira Kepner. Just last month, she contacted me, saying she’s been wanting to open a location up north in Malibu and she thinks I’d be the perfect designer to lead that team.

  I almost choked when she gave me the salary.

  I haven’t told Aunt Bette yet, but I’m going to accept the offer.

  Working for someone like Kira while I build my portfolio and having a cushy income to pay the bills is more than I ever could have dreamed for myself at this point. Most interior design grads start out at the bottom, clawing their way up to prove themselves, all the while dealing with juvenile drama and salty competition and making the kind of money that necessitates a part-time job and a couple of roommates to help pay the rent—at least in this part of the country.

  California isn’t cheap.

  But now that I’ve lived here for almost four years, I can’t imagine living anywhere else, and I sure as hell have no plans to return home.

  Missouri is great if you like farms and cornfields, if you’re into the Chiefs and the Royals and the Cardinals, if you can’t live without friendly folks with Midwestern manners, and if you gravitate toward the idea of living on the same street your whole life and raising a family of five with your high school sweetheart.

  But those have never been my calling.

  I’ve always wanted … something else.

  “Aren’t you going to eat?” Aunt Bette asks.

  “I had a granola bar on the bus,” I tell her.

  She rolls her eyes before tearing her sandwich in half, placing it on its waxy paper wrap, and sliding it to me. “I’ll be damned if I sit here having a proper meal while you’re wasting away on chocolate chips bars.”

  I take a bite, but only because I know she won’t let it go. “Thank you.”

  I enjoy taking care of Aunt Bette, but sometimes I think she enjoys taking care of me more. She never married, never had kids. I’m the closest thing she’s ever had to a daughter. In fact, not long after I moved in, she told me one night over bourbon-spiked coffee that she wished she would’ve known all those years ago what I was going through—both before living with Uncle Michael and Aunt Elizabeth … and after.

  She said she would have moved me out here sooner, would’ve taken me under her wing and given me a real home.

  But it’s okay.

  She didn’t know. She couldn’t have known.

  And at least we have now.

  I finish the rest of my half of Aunt Bette’s sandwich. “I should head back, going to check my email and head to bed early.”

  She snorts. “Well, don’t go to bed too early.”

  “As long as you don’t stay up too late,” I tease her back before disappearing down the hall.

  As soon as I get to my room, I pull my laptop from my bag and connect it to the charger on my desk. I wait for the light to turn green before gathering my hair into a messy ponytail and heading to the bathroom to wash up for bed. When I come back, I change into a faded t-shirt and cotton pajama bottoms.

  The shuffling of Aunt Bette’s feet down the hall is followed by the sound of her laughter. She says something else, though I can’t make out the words. She must be on the phone with one of her girlfriends. They always call each other around this time of night, and tomorrow is Bunko day at Sheila Carlisle’s house.

  I carry my laptop to the bed and climb under the covers, opting to check my email before calling it an early night.

  Most students my age are living in campus town apartments, sitting around their kitchen islands shooting the shit with their bestie roommates over takeout pizza, putting their homework aside to catch up on the latest episode of The Bachelorette, helping each other decide whether to swipe left or right on the newest dating app.

  While my college experience living off-campus has been less than typical, I wouldn’t trade it for the world. I love living with Aunt Bette. She’s my spirit animal.

  And she’s been better to me than anyone ever has—better than I probably deserve if I’m being honest.

  I flip the lid of my laptop open and tap in my password. The screen flashes to life and I double-click on the PVU email icon on my desktop.

  Five new emails.

  I go through them, starting from the bottom. Most of them are campus-wide emails, reminders about deadlines and policies or upcoming events.

  Delete, delete, delete …

  But it’s the last one that catches me by surprise.

  TO: davenport.irie@pvucampusmail.edu

  FROM: gold.talon@pvucampusmail.edu

  SUBJECT: Hey lucky ;)

  MESSAGE: Just touching base … if you ever need to get a hold of me, my number is 555-8851.

  Unimpressed yet indubitably amused, I shut the lid, fling my covers aside, and return the computer to the charger.

  Does he actually believe that knighting me with some stupid nickname and using a wink is the way to my heart? And my God, he must be so proud of himself for finally finding a way to get his number in my hands after all these years.

  I roll my eyes when I return to my bed, the image of Talon high-fiving his football player buddies filling my mind. But that image is quickly replaced with other images—actual ones—of Talon over the years.

  Talon at parties, surrounded by girls.

  Talon’s picture plastered on the front page of the PVU Daily during football season.

  Talon on bus signs, the face of the PVU Tigers.

  Talon eye-fucking me in passing by the campanile last fall … it was so penetrating and intense I lost my train of thought as I was mid-conversation with a friend and almost tripped over a crack in the sidewalk.

  Sliding under my covers, I close my eyes tight and remember the cinnamon scent of his breath against my ear, the undeniable heaviness of his stare. I imagine what his hands—calloused and rough—might feel like in my hair, his thumb tracing my jaw as he claims my mouth like a man who’s been starving for that very kiss his entire life, a man about to make a meal of me.

  My stomach reels and my heart hitches and my skin is hot to the touch.

  Every part of me comes alive when I think of Talon Gold.

  The man is pure sex, power and dominance, and he could give me one hell of a night, I’m sure of it. But my guilty-pleasure reveries are as close as I’ll ever get to letting him have his way with me.

  Just as he has his reasons for wanting me, I have my reasons for not wanting him …

  … and my reasons are rooted deeper than he could possibly begin to understand.

  Chapter Four

  Talon

  “Irie, hey.” I rise from my seat in the back of the auditorium Wednesday morning, making a show of waving her down and getting her attention though we’ve yet to make eye contact.

  Everyone around us stares—at me and at her. Some cruel. Some curious.

  The heat is on. She can’t keep ac
ting like she doesn’t see my little production.

  “Irie, over here,” I say, hands cupped around my mouth.

  She finally glances up, gives the smallest of nods to acknowledge me, and then heads my way.

  “Saved you a seat,” I say when she gets closer. “Figured we should sit together again. You know, since we’re partners or whatever.”

  I offer her a wink, like we have some kind of inside joke now, but I get crickets.

  Irie lets her messenger bag slide off her shoulder before taking the chair to my left. She smells cotton candy sweet with a touch of vanilla and her nails are painted a different color today—the palest of pink. The gold studs in her ears from the other day have also been replaced, this time with oversized tortoiseshell hoops.

  I don’t know why I notice these things about her. If it were any other girl, I couldn’t care less. But with Irie, it’s like I’m always trying to see what I can glean from all her little quirks and details.

  Over the years, I’ve watched her style morph from semester to semester. I’ve watched her hair change from platinum to brunette to her natural caramel blonde and back. I’ve watched as she’s drifted from one circle of friends to another—spending her time with economics nerds and English majors one year to the artsy-fartsy designer wannabes the next.

  Sometimes I think she knows exactly who she is.

  Other times I think she hasn’t got a clue.

  She might be surprised to know she isn’t alone in that.

  Some of us are just better at hiding it.

  “You get my email?” I ask, referring to the one I sent on a whim Monday night. It was a desperate move and I fully own that, but after seeing her that morning, I couldn’t get her out of my head the rest of the day. I couldn’t stop thinking about what she smelled like and how her eyes almost smiled every time she looked at me even if her lips were not. I couldn’t stop obsessing over seeing her again … and I let my impatience get the best of me.

  The instant I sent the damn thing I cringed—physically cringed.

  I don’t know what it is about her that throws me off my game every damn time.

  And who the fuck uses terms like “touch base?”

  “Yep,” she says, hunched down as she retrieves her notebook and pen. Everyone else around us has their laptops out, prepped and ready to take notes when class starts in a few minutes, except us.

  “Good deal.” I tap my pen against my notebook, remembering I still have her hot pink one in my bag. I forgot to give it back last time but in my defense, she couldn’t get out of here fast enough.

  Professor Longmire flicks the lights off down in front, turning the auditorium dark except for the glow of the projector screen.

  It makes me think of being at the movies, which then makes me think about the fact that I can’t remember the last time I took a girl on an actual date. There was this one chick freshman year … took her to dinner and a movie on Friday night … and by the time Monday rolled around she’d all but broadcasted to the entire school that we were dating—as in boyfriend/girlfriend.

  Twitter. Facebook. Instagram. Snapchat.

  She made it as official as she possibly could, hashtagging the hell out of my name in every combination she could think of as well as posting a selfie she took of the two of us when I wasn’t looking.

  Fucking. Psycho.

  I swore off dating after that and decided to focus solely on football with a side of academics.

  A week later Irie Davenport walked into my life, and she’s been dancing circles around my mind ever since.

  Professor Longmire drones on about some ancient civilization down below. Irie scribbles notes as fast as she can, pausing every so often to chew on the cap of her pen. She looks so serious, so deep in thought, like she’s in her own world.

  I try to focus on the lecture, but sitting next to Irie is a constant distraction.

  Every time she crosses and uncrosses her legs, every time she softly clears her throat or tucks her hair behind her ear, every time she so much as shifts, the world around me blurs into the background and my attention draws to her like a magnet no matter how hard I try to redirect it.

  It also doesn’t help that we’re in the midst of an unseasonably warm January day and she’s currently in nothing more than a strappy cotton tank and cut-off jean shorts that showcase her long, toned legs.

  What I wouldn’t give to have those legs wrapped around me …

  And they will be.

  Eventually.

  I steal another glance from the corner of my eye. Sweet Jesus, I don’t even think she’s wearing a bra. My palms flash hot as I imagine the feel of her creamy tits against them, and my cock strains against the inside of my jeans.

  Longmire finishes his lecture after an hour, flicking on the main lights without any kind of warning. My eyes sting until they adjust and Irie gathers her belongings like she’s got a plane to catch in some terminal in BFE.

  “Oh, one more thing before you go,” Longmire says. “Every Friday in recitation, there will be a ten-question quiz on the week’s lessons. I highly suggest you study for these as half the questions are essay.”

  I glance at Irie, who doesn’t seem the least bit fazed by any of this.

  Quizzes have never been my strong suit. Shit, who am I kidding? Academics have never been my strong suit. But I’ll be damned if I look like a C-average moron in front of my partner.

  In front of her.

  Following Irie toward the exit, I catch her before she disappears into the crowd like last time. “Hey, we should probably study for that quiz.”

  “I knew you were going to say that,” she says as we walk together, her emotionless stare focused ahead.

  “Tomorrow night,” I say.

  She’s quiet at first, striding through the crowd to the building’s exit, but I keep up with her, damn near shoulder to shoulder.

  “All right,” she says, exhaling. “When?”

  “Six,” I say.

  Her lips press together. “Fine. We’ll meet at the library.”

  I’m sure she assumed I was going to invite her to my place, but my loudmouthed roommates would ruin this careful song and dance we’re in the midst of in two seconds flat by making some smart-ass comment.

  I can’t risk that.

  We step into the daylight, sneakers soft against the sidewalk. People gawk at us walking together, and a couple of girls size her up with envious scoffs, though Irie doesn’t seem to notice. Or if she does, she doesn’t care.

  “Cool. It’s a date,” I say.

  Irie shoots me a look. “No, it’s not.”

  Her full cherry lips wrestle the smallest hint of a smirk.

  I give her a wink and then I head west to my next class.

  I don’t care what she says, it’s a date.

  And it’s going to be the hottest fucking date she’s ever had.

  END OF SAMPLE – AVAILABLE NOW!

  About the Author

  Wall Street Journal and #1 Amazon bestselling author Winter Renshaw is a bona fide daydream believer. She lives somewhere in the middle of the USA and can rarely be seen without her trusty Mead notebook and laptop. When she’s not writing, she’s living the American Dream with her husband, three kids, the laziest puggle this side of the Mississippi, and a busy pug pup that officially owes her three pairs of shoes, one lamp cord, and an office chair.

  Winter also writes psychological suspense under the pseudonym of Minka Kent. Her debut novel, THE MEMORY WATCHER, was optioned by NBC Universal in January 2018 and her book, THE THINNEST AIR, was a #1 Amazon Kindle bestseller and a Washington Post bestseller five weeks in a row. Her newest book, WHEN I WAS YOU, debuted at #1 in the Kindle store and was an Amazon Charts bestseller.

  Winter is represented by Jill Marsal of Marsal Lyon Literary Agency.

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