Chapter Seventeen

I know there's no escaping Three, especially when I'm trying to finish my article on Claude's Holidays for Everyone for the next edition—and last of the semester. So after my final round of interviews for my story, I head to the Torch office to put the finishing touches on it. And it has nothing to do with knowing Three spends Monday afternoons in the newsroom, and I want him to know I'm not avoiding him.

The office is busy when I step inside. Three is at the grunt desk, hunched over his computer. I take in a deep breath through my nose as I start toward my seat, pausing to set my bag on the floor.

"I would weep to be your chiropractor," I say as I drop into my chair.

Three's fingers freeze on his keyboard. Then he straightens and yawns, stretching his arms above his head. "You know, Evans, I think you might've been one of those Catholic schoolteachers in a past life." He settles in his seat, angling toward me. "All that sit up straight, ruler-over-the-knuckles type of stuff."

"If you can find a ruler, I'd be happy to try it on you," I reply sweetly.

He mock gasps, clutching his hands to his chest. "Not my moneymakers."

I roll my eyes, leaning over to grab my laptop from my bag. As I set up, I notice Three is smiling to himself.

I'm relieved. Clearly Three and I are on the same page: we are not talking about Friday night.

We work side by side in silence as the office empties. Mel stops by briefly to get an update on my article, and then Sabina pauses on her way out the door to mention she'll be posting an ad for a new grunt first thing next semester. The others follow slowly, until it's just Christopher, Three, and me remaining.

"How late can you stay tonight?"

My heart jolts at the sound of Three's voice. When I glance over, his expression is bland, fingers moving swiftly over his keyboard.

His gaze slides toward me, hands stilling. "Do you need to check your schedule?"

"I'm free," I say. "Why?"

"We have a story to work on." He taps his computer. "I have new stuff to show you. And I want you to write up the portions about your roommate. You know more than I do, and you can pull from my original article for anything else you need."

I almost sigh in relief but catch it just in time. The last thing I need is for Three to think my mind went anywhere else. "Fine."

Christopher stops at our desk then, glancing from Three to me and back. "Aren't you two leaving?"

"We have a lot to do," Three replies.

Christopher eyes us. Reluctantly, he says, "Fine. Please remember to lock up before you go."

"We do this all the time," I say.

Christopher stares at me, then turns to Three with an unreadable expression. Three smiles back.

Christopher sighs, turning toward the door. "What do I care? Just don't go near my desk."

"Wouldn't dream of it," says Three.

Christopher shoots him one last look from the door, then leaves.

"So, what new stuff?" I ask as soon as we're alone.

Three leans his elbow on the arm of his chair, angling toward me. "I was thinking about what Ellie said. Theta Kappa just had an alumni weekend, and if this goes higher than the brothers, there might've been something in the house to point at who's involved. So after you left the other night"—I hold my breath, but he doesn't even pause—"I started looking around."

I hold up a hand. "Wait a second—"

Three keeps speaking. "I gave it some thought, and it wasn't the worst idea—"

I stand, my chair flying back and hitting the desk behind us. "You gave me all that shit about how stupid and dangerous it was, and then you turned around to steal all the glory—"

"I can't steal glory on my own story, Evans," Three says, getting to his feet. "You didn't find anything anyway, and you were about five seconds from getting caught on your own when I found you—"

"Thank god you were there to rescue me." I put a hand over my heart. "My hero."

"I guess next time I should let you get caught."

"Assuming there's a next time you even know about."

"A next time you do something stupid that'll get you into trouble?" His smile is arrogant as he leans back against the desk, crossing his arms. "I'm sure it'll be soon and impossible to miss."

"You act pretty superior for someone whose big idea was put your hand up my shirt."

His smile drops. "It worked, didn't it?"

"Slightly better than kissing me outright. I guess I should thank you for sparing me the nightmares."

"Nightmares!" He barks out a laugh, tossing his head back. I look away so I don't have to stare at his exposed throat. I can't tell if I want to kiss it or tear it out with my teeth. He drops his chin again, so I don't have to dwell on it too long. Except now he's fixed me with a dark look that makes something warm flash through me. "Nightmares?"

I shrug, giving him a bland smile as I lean in, bracing my hands on the desk so he won't notice they're shaking. "Just being honest with you."

"Oh, is that what you're doing?" He tilts his head, the corner of his mouth pulling into a smirk. "And what's this?" He indicates the dwindling space between us. "Is this you angling for nightmare fuel?"

We're so close, we're nearly touching. I can't look away from his face, even though I know my brain is writing everything out on mine: Touch me, touch me, touch me in big, bright, bold letters across my forehead.

He huffs out a laugh that brushes along my neck like a touch. "You could have just asked nicely, Evans."

I let out the smallest, tiniest gasp as I feel the slow slide of his tongue along the curve of my jaw. Then his teeth come down lightly on my earlobe, and I grip the edge of the desk so hard, I'm worried it might crumble in my hands.

His cheek brushes mine as he murmurs, "That should keep you rich in nightmares for weeks."

He pushes my arm aside, moving from between me and the desk. I collapse back against it, flushed and winded. As he starts packing his things, I feel the flare of nerves that he's messing with me again, pushing our game of chicken beyond the limit. But the red creeping up the back of his neck gives him away.

I need to see his face.

I'm not sure which of us is more surprised when I grab his sleeve. As he turns, I'm gratified to see the flush in his cheeks and the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

You can't hide from me,I want to say.

But I don't get the chance to speak, because Three drops what he's holding, backs me up against the desk, and kisses me.

I think my knees evaporate completely. It's the only explanation I have for how I end up perched on the edge of the grunt desk with my legs curled around his hips. We are frantic hands and small gasps of breath, and I am carefully cataloging the way he flicks his tongue against mine and how he groans into my mouth when I tug his hair between my fingers and the pressure of his hands cupping the backs of my knees and sliding up my thighs and trailing around to my back just to press me closer.

And I think maybe it might be nightmare fuel after all. Because when I finally push him away—if only to save myself the humiliation of having him pull back first—and grab my stuff—if only to spare myself having to watch him leave—I realize that this will probably never happen again. That I can't let it happen again. Because a kiss in the middle of an argument with a boy who has admitted to getting turned on during arguments is not a real kiss. I knew what I was doing. Angling for nightmare fuel?

Absolutely.

And as the door to the office swings shut behind me, I can't decide if it was a mistake. Not because I regret it.

But because I know I will probably never get another kiss that good in my entire life.

During finals week, the library turns into Grand Central Station, people coming and going in droves. Table space becomes prime real estate, and reserving seats is strictly prohibited. I've witnessed few places more cutthroat, and the extended hours seem to only make it worse. Now we're aggressively studying and sleep-deprived. No one more than me, after I finished my shift at midnight last night, had two finals today, and was back in for another late night shift.

Now I'm discreetly trying to study for statistics while I monitor the help desk, splitting my concentration between ignoring the painful awareness that this final will decide whether I pass or fail the class and looking out for Scott, who could appear at any moment and catch me in a lack of dedication to my job.

I'm clearly very bad at splitting my concentration, because I'm in a full-on nervous sweat about the dwindling number of days I have to gain an understanding of a subject that is an entire mystery to me when Scott comes up behind me and says, "You're not supposed to be studying while clocked in."

I whip around, flipping my notes shut at the same time. "Sorry. I was just checking one thing—you know—to make sure I was remembering correctly."

He isn't swayed. "Put it away, please."

I'm crouched down, stowing my notes in my bag, when a quiet voice squeaks, "Excuse me."

I straighten, nearly bumping my head on the underside of the desk. A girl stands on the other side, chewing at her lip.

"Can we help you?" Scott asks. He's lingering now to keep an eye on me.

I'm starting to think things can't get worse when I catch movement out of the corner of my eye and spot Three crossing the lobby, heading straight for the help desk.

Then the girl says, "Um, there's a man on the third floor. He's, uh, watching something…"

My stomach drops. So not just worse but much, much worse.

I look over at Scott, who sighs.

"… inappropriate," the girl finishes. Three steps up behind her, waiting patiently. I avoid his gaze like it might turn me to stone.

"Thank you for letting us know," Scott says to the girl. He turns to me. "Please go ask him to leave."

"But I'm… working the help desk," I say weakly. My cheeks burn as Three witnesses this particular humiliation.

"I think I can manage for a few minutes." Scott waves me toward the elevators. "Go on."

I look at the girl, whose eyes have widened.

Three clears his throat. "Sorry, what's going on?" His voice sounds different than usual, a thread of authority in it that makes even Scott pause.

He recovers quickly, though, offering Three a professional smile. "Nothing to worry about. What can I help you with?"

Three doesn't answer, directing his next question to the girl. "What happened?"

She clearly has zero defenses against someone like him, because she answers right away. "There's a man on the third floor watching… porn." She whispers the last part, glancing worriedly at me.

Three's brow furrows as he takes this in, nodding slowly. He turns, pinning Scott with that look that has, many times, made me feel like a cornered animal. But now I'm the rabbit spared, watching him close in on other prey.

"So there's a man on the third floor watching porn," he says in that same voice. "And you think this"—he indicates me with one hand—"is the best person to handle that?"

"It's fine," I say quickly, rounding the desk. I'm worried how this might bounce back onto me when Three finally lets Scott out of this conversational chokehold. "I've done it before."

Three's expression narrows further. "How many times?"

I don't dare look at Scott. "This is the fourth."

Three blinks at me, disbelief washing away everything else on his face. He turns to Scott again. "Four times, you've had her do this?" He doesn't give Scott a chance to answer before he looks at me again. "And did you find out if he's a student? Did you get his ID? Report him to campus security?"

I gape at him. "I…" This time, I do look at Scott.

"He's been told that if he continues this behavior, he'll be banned," Scott says. "Now, I don't think we need to—"

"Don't move," Three says, pointing at me. He pulls out his phone, taps at the screen, then lifts it to his ear. "Hi, I'm in the main library, and there's a man here watching porn. The employees said he's been warned several times. How do we go about having him removed?" He listens for a moment, nodding. "And you'd just need to speak to—sure, of course. Actually, if you hold on a second…" He holds the phone out to Scott. "It's for you."

I'm rooted to the spot as Scott takes the phone, turning away to speak quietly. Three leans over the desk, listening.

The girl beside me whispers, "Um, do you think I need to wait here?"

I shrug. I'm not even sure who's in charge now—Scott or Three. Judging by the look on Scott's face as he returns Three's phone, I think it might be Three.

"Campus security is on the way," Scott says tightly.

"Great, thanks!" the girl squeaks, the words nearly lost as she rushes to the elevator.

Three gives Scott his best fuck you smile. He leans against the help desk, making it clear he isn't going anywhere until this is resolved.

I do my best to look like I don't know him.

A campus security guard comes through the front doors a few minutes later, a man who looks a little older than my parents. He heads toward the desk, nodding at all of us. "Which one of you called?"

Three raises a hand. "But she's the one who's been dealing with him." He tilts his head at me.

I hate that it feels nice to have him defer authority to me. It's especially sweet when Scott's face reddens.

"He's on the third floor. I can show you."

"How many times has he done this?" the guard asks.

"This is the fourth, but he's escalating." Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Three suppress a smile. I ignore him. "The first few times, there was no one around, or only a few people. But now he's doing it in the middle of a crowd during finals week. That's a huge audience." I glance at Scott, feeling, for once, a little powerful. "I'd hate to guess what he might do next, and I don't want to be the one to kick him out when he does."

"No, you call us if he comes back." The guard looks at Scott. "Like you should have done to begin with."

Scott's face reddens even further. It feels like a victory, even knowing all I've done is dig myself into a deeper hole of his dislike.

Or, I guess Three started digging for me. I simply accepted the second shovel.

Three trails us to the elevator. While we wait, he leans down and murmurs, "Escalating. You really do watch too much TV."

I glance at the security guard, whose mouth presses into a small smile.

"Don't you have somewhere else to be?" I whisper over my shoulder.

"Nowhere in particular," Three replies pleasantly.

When the elevator delivers us to the third floor, the guard steps out first. I spot Porn Guy immediately at a back table, one of the security cameras' only blind spots, and discreetly point him out. The girl who reported him is at the table beside his, and her eyes widen when she sees the guard coming.

Three takes my hand and pulls me around the corner, silencing me with a look when I start to protest.

"You can report him to security if he comes back," he says, "but if he thinks about retaliating, I don't want your face to be what he remembers."

I peek past him as the guard marches the man to the elevator. "I've kicked him out before. He already knows my face."

"And now he knows it one less time, which can't hurt anything."

"How nice of you to worry about me."

"It's not about you," he says. "It should've never been you to begin with. I don't understand how they don't have a fucking protocol for this." He blows out an agitated breath. He won't meet my eyes, his gaze focused straight over my head.

"They're gone," I say.

Three waits a moment, visibly calming. Then he says, "I have something for you." He swings his backpack around and unzips it, digging out a packet of papers.

I blink down at it as he passes it to me.

"It's my study guide for stats." He clears his throat. "I made a copy."

"For me," I say slowly. I lift my gaze to his face.

He nods, his mouth tightening.

I purse my lips, offering it back to him. "No thanks."

He frowns, catching it before I drop it. "No thanks?" I turn toward the stairs, and he follows. "You're not taking it?"

"I don't need it."

He lets out a disbelieving laugh. "Come on, Evans, I know that's not true. I have an A. Let me help—"

I whirl on him as we reach the next landing, whispering fiercely, "Stop trying to apologize."

He jerks his chin back. "What are you talking about?"

"This"—I motion to the study guide—"and that." I wave a hand at the floor above us. "I don't need your help, and I don't want your apology."

I start to turn, but he blocks my way, ducking his head so we're eye level. "What exactly do you think I'm trying to apologize for?"

I open my mouth, then shut it quickly. Glancing away, I mutter, "You know what."

"I definitely don't, because I have nothing I'm sorry about." He grabs my wrist and shoves the study guide into my hand again. "Your pride isn't worth retaking this class. Follow this exactly, and you'll pull at least a C on the exam. You don't even have to thank me."

He turns and starts down the next flight of stairs. I stare after him, any retort locked in my dry throat. By the time I stagger down to the first floor, he's long gone, leaving me with nothing but my angry boss awaiting my return and a hundred million thoughts running through my head, most of them starting and ending with the words I have nothing I'm sorry about.