Chapter Two Cromwell

Chapter Two

Cromwell

Jefferson Young University, South Carolina

Three months later…

I knocked on the door.

Nothing.

I dropped my bag to the floor. When no one answered, I turned the knob and let myself in. One half of the room was covered in posters: bands, art, a Mickey Mouse painting, a bright green shamrock painting—the themes were all over the place. It was the most random thing I’d ever seen. The bed was already messed up, black duvet cover bunched at the foot of the bed. Potato chip packets and chocolate bar wrappers littered the small desk. Used paints and brushes were strewn all over the windowsill.

I was a slob, but not this much of one.

To my left was what was obviously my bed. I threw my overstuffed bag on the floor beside it then collapsed on the bed. It was tiny, my feet almost hanging off the end. I took my headphones from around my neck and put them over my ears. Jet lag was kicking in, and I had a crick in my neck from where I had slept in a funny position on the flight.

Just as I was about to turn my music on, someone flew through the door. My eyes slammed onto a tall guy with blond, shaggy hair. He was wearing long shorts and a sleeveless top. “You’re here!” he said, putting his hands on his knees, catching his breath.

I raised a single eyebrow in question. He held up his hand for me to wait, then came closer and held out his hand. I shook it, reluctantly. “You’re Cromwell Dean,” he said.

I sat up on the bed, kicking my legs off the side. The guy pulled a chair from under his desk and brought it next to my bed. He spun it and sat down, resting his arms on the back. “I’m Easton Farraday. Your roommate.”

I nodded, then pointed to his side of the room. “Your decoration is…eclectic.”

Easton winked and smiled wide. I wasn’t used to smiling people. Never knew why people had reason to smile so much. “That’s as good a word as any for me, I suppose.” He got off the chair. “Let’s go.”

Running my hand through my hair, I stood. “And where the hell are we going?”

Easton laughed. “Hell, boy. Gonna take me a while to get used to that accent.” He nudged me in the arm. “Girls ’round here gonna be flipping out over it.” His eyebrows danced. “That and the fact that you’re a famous DJ and all. You get pussy by the truckload, huh?”

“I do all right.”

Easton put his hands on my shoulders. “You lucky bastard. Teach me your ways!” He walked to the door. “Let’s go. You’re gonna get the Easton Farraday tour of Jefferson Young.”

I looked out of the window at the quad. The sun was boiling hot. I was from England; no one was used to getting that much heat exposure. Technically, I was from South Carolina. My mum was from here, but I’d never known the place. We moved to the UK when I was only seven weeks old. I might have been American born, but I was British through and through.

“Why not?” I said, and Easton led me out the door.

I followed him down the corridor. We passed a few people, and every one of them said hello to Easton. Hand slaps, hugs, and winks were handed out to both boys and girls from my new roommate. I saw the guys eyeing me weirdly. Some obviously trying to suss me out, others clearly recognizing me.

Easton tipped his chin at a guy and a girl approaching. The guy looked at me. “Shit. Cromwell Dean. Easton said you were coming, but I thought he was just full of it.” He shook his head. “Why the hell are you here at JYU? It’s all anyone can talk about.”

I opened my mouth, but Easton answered for me. “For Lewis, right? Everyone who ever picked up a damn instrument is here for him.”

The guy nodded, like I’d answered his question, not Easton. “I’m Matt. Easton’s friend.” Matt laughed. “You’ll soon see that you’re rooming with the most popular guy on campus. We’re small-time at this college, but this guy’s mouth is big. Took all of three weeks for everyone to know him freshman year. Only a few more before the faculty, seniors, and everyone in between knew his name.”

“Sara,” the redhead next to Matt said. “You’ll no doubt be drafted into our group.”

“You gotta spin on Friday,” Matt said.

Easton groaned and punched Matt in the arm. “I had a plan, Matt. You gotta work up to asking that shit.”

My gaze darted between Matt and Easton. Sara rolled her eyes at them, and then Easton turned to me. “We got an old abandoned barn-slash-warehouse thing a few miles off campus. Old alumnus owns the land and the barn. He lets us use it for parties. Ain’t many places around here to party—we had to get creative. It’s all rigged up. One of the seniors from last year went all out with lights, a dance floor, and a podium. Wanted to piss away Daddy’s money for cheating on his mom. Place is a college dream.”

“Cops?” I asked.

Easton shrugged. “It’s a college in a small-ass town. Most of us are from the local areas. Jefferson never had a big pull for anything but being cheap for locals’ tuition, until Lewis came this year. Most of the cops went to high school with someone here. Old friends. They don’t bother us.”

“We kind of have a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ situation with them. The Barn is far enough away from civilization that ain’t no one complaining about the noise,” Matt said.

My head was throbbing. I needed a cigarette and about fourteen hours of sleep. “Sure,” I said when I saw three sets of eyes all watching me, waiting for my answer.

“Holy shit!” Matt threw his arm around Sara’s shoulders. “I can’t believe it. Cromwell Dean is spinning at the Barn!” He turned to Easton. “It’s gonna be epic.”

Easton saluted, then put his hand on my shoulder. “Gonna give Crom a tour. Catch you later.” I followed Easton down the stairs that led to the quad. He took a deep breath when the humid air slammed into us like a freight train. Easton spread his arms. “This, Cromwell, is the quad.” People lounged on the grass, music playing from phone speakers. Students were reading, chilling out in couples. Again, everyone said hi to Easton. They just outright stared at me. Guess that’s what happens when you transfer in sophomore year to a rinky-dink university from another country.

“The quad. For chilling, skipping class, or whatever,” Easton said. I followed Easton to the cafeteria, then the library—which he told me wasn’t for reading books but for shagging behind the stacks. We got to a truck. “Get in,” he said. Too tired to argue, I got in, and he pulled out onto the road, heading away from the college.

“So?” he asked as I lit up a cigarette and took a deep drag. I closed my eyes as I exhaled. Nine hours on a flight without nicotine was a bitch.

“Share the joy, Crom,” Easton said. I passed him a cigarette. I wound the window down and looked out at the sports fields and small stadium for the American football team.

“So?” Easton repeated. “I get Lewis is a big draw for you, but even so, your life is made, isn’t it?” I rolled my head against the headrest to look at him. He had a tattoo on his arm. Looked like a star-sign symbol or something. Never understood why people only ever got one. The minute I got my first, I booked in for the rest. A ton later and I still wasn’t finished. I was addicted.

His speaker was playing a playlist from his phone. As if on cue, one of my mixes came through. He laughed. “In case you were wondering, that was just God backing me up on my question.”

I tipped my head back and closed my eyes, just taking in the smoke. “Did a year of uni in London. It was okay, but I didn’t want to be in England anymore. Lewis invited me here to study under him. So I came.”

There was a brief silence. “But I still don’t understand. Why finish at all? You have a career that’s taking off. Why bother with college?”

A knife in my stomach twisted, my throat clogging up. I wasn’t going there. So I just kept my eyes closed and my mouth shut.

Easton sighed. “Fine. Be a mystery. Just add that to the list of things the chicks will get wet over.” He shoved my arm. “Open your eyes. How can I show you the sights of Jefferson Town if they’re shut?”

“It can be an audio tour. The way you never shut your mouth, you could make some serious coin doing it.”

He burst out laughing. “True.” He pointed at the small town we were entering. “Welcome to Jefferson. Founded in 1812. Population two thousand.” He turned down what had to be the main road. “You have all the usual places.” He said that in a horrendous English accent, which I assumed was for my pleasure. “Dairy Queen, McDonald’s, all that stuff. A few country bars. Some small diners. A coffee lounge—has some pretty good open mic nights if you’re looking to chill. Some good local talent.” There was a cinema that had four screens, some touristy stuff, and finally, we passed the Barn. It was exactly that, but Easton promised me inside resembled something you’d find in Ibiza. Having played in Ibiza the most out of anywhere I’d spun, I doubted that. But it was a place to play, and in this town, it was something.

“What are you studying?” I asked.

“Art,” he replied. I thought of the posters and paintings on the wall of our room. “I like mixed media too. Anything with color and expression.” He cocked his head my way. “I’ll be running the lights on Friday. You on the decks, me on the lights. It’s gonna be sick.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Think of all the chicks we’ll get.”

Right then, all I could think of was sleep.