Looking for Trouble (Nashville U Book 1) (15 page)

The pillow being thrown around hits me this time, and soon we’re all collapsed on my bed giggling. Once we’re all able to catch our breath, Peyton stands, smoothing down her messy hair and straightening her clothes. When she’s done, she pulls me up so I’m standing in front of her and wraps her arms around me, giving me a quick hug. She pulls back and smiles. “I need to get home and make sure Wyatt and Clay haven’t eaten everything in the apartment. Plus, I’m sure he didn’t do any of the laundry and having clothes tomorrow is necessary,” she says wryly.

She waves to Becca before shutting the door. Becca looks at me and grins. “Now that she’s gone, you can tell me the real story. You slept with Clay didn’t you?”

I flop onto the bed and cover my face with a pillow, so my scream doesn’t bring the entire building to our door. At the sound, Becca sighs. “I guess that’s a no.”

Lifting the pillow, I grin back at her. “That was a definite no. And, on that note, let’s get something to eat. I’m starving.” It’s been a while since Clay brought me home, and I couldn’t eat much of the food he bought for me. She’s still pouting, but she follows me out of our room.

The dining hall is only a couple buildings away from our dorm, and it’s still early enough that while they are serving, they aren’t super busy. We’re there before any of our friends too, so dinner will just be Becca and me, which means I won’t have to tell the Clay story again. I don’t doubt that by tomorrow my “unable to keep her mouth shut” roommate will have told everyone we know about last night. She’ll also add a few embellishments I’m sure. Filing all of it away to deal with tomorrow, I try to enjoy the tasteless meatloaf being served tonight. At least it looks better than the enchiladas Becca’s eating.

Clay

Class today was about three shades past awkward. At first, I didn’t think Kat showed up for class, but then I saw the back of her head sitting two rows from the front of the room. I can’t believe she’s avoiding me. We left things on a good note, or at least I thought we did. It might be she’s embarrassed over the getting drunk thing. It could be the show she put on, even if she doesn’t know I was listening. Or, maybe she remembered playing tonsil hockey with a douchebag. It’s also entirely possible she remembers how I taunted her into the act. It wasn’t one of my better moments.

The lecture finishes and the room begins to empty like someone just pulled the fire alarm. There are probably close to seventy people in here, the room packed to capacity, and I wonder if she’ll get out without me seeing her. I watch closely as people make their way to the door closest to me, but I don’t see her. I stay in my seat until the room is empty, but she never appears. Finally, I have to admit defeat. She either went out the other door or she hid among the people trying to make their way out.

I don’t see her in the hall, nor is she standing out front. Sighing, I head for my car, and still no Kat. I’m tempted to text her, to ask what the deal is, but I don’t want her to know it matters to me. I don’t want her to get the wrong idea, to get the idea I’m into her or something. Pulling my phone out, I start to text her, but then think
screw it
. Why am I even worrying about her anyway? It’s not like we’re friends, but I don’t believe we’re exactly enemies anymore either. Placing my phone in the cup holder, I take off for the gym. A few hours spent lifting weights and running on the treadmill are guaranteed to tire me out to the point I won’t think about her anymore.

It’s still pretty early, and the gym is pretty dead. Aside from an older guy riding a stationary bike in the corner, no one’s using any of the other machines. There are a couple meatheads lifting weights, but I head for the treadmill first. I insert my earbuds and turn the volume up loud. Bass heavy rap music fills my ears, and I begin to run. I love the feature on my phone app that changes the music based on my speed. It doesn’t take long before I’m lost in the motions of my feet hitting the conveyor.

I’m so focused on the thumping coming through my earbuds, making sure I’m moving fast enough to keep this music going instead of paying attention to what’s going on around me. When the emergency stop is pulled on the machine, I almost jump out of my skin. I have to scramble to grip the sides of the machine in order to stay upright. Yanking my earbuds out of my ears, I spin around to cuss out whoever dared interrupt me.

The words die on my lips when I see Marcus standing to the side, arms crossed over his chest and a pissed off look on his face. “I’ve been waiting to hear from you.” Even though he’s trying to act angry, the smile tipping up one side of his mouth proves him a liar. He steps closer and holds out a hand for me to shake.

“Sorry,” I say, clasping his hand. “I’ve been thinking about what you said.” Not exactly, but what else am I supposed to say? Sorry, I’ve been too busy fantasizing about a girl I have no business getting a boner over?

Marcus nods, “I get it.” I’ve been avoiding Marcus since Liam said he wanted to talk to me. Aside from one visit he made to my apartment, I’ve succeeded. I know what he wants, but I’m still not sure if I want to give it to him. If I’d been thinking straight today, I would have waited until later tonight to come to the gym.

“Look, Clay, you’re a decent fighter. I can make you better,” he says matter-of-factly. “Just think of all the money you could make.” The fact that he’s trying so hard to get me involved in his side business is what finally makes me realize beating the guy who put his hands on Kat at the club that night was a bad decision. Not that he didn’t deserve it, but Marcus has been trying to get me to fight for him since I was a freshman and this just gave him more leverage against me. I have a temper, and I need an outlet for all the excess energy that builds up when I’m not playing football, but I’m not interested in illegal fighting. We’re not in the movie
Fight Club
.

Resting my elbow on the side of the treadmill, I rub my temple with the tips of three fingers, and sigh. “I don’t fight for fun, Marcus. You know that. It’s not like we haven’t talked about this before.”

He puts an arm around my shoulders and steers me closer to the boxing equipment. “Clay, my boy, just think about it. Fighters are friggin’ hot right now. You’d get money, women, recognition.” Marcus gestures at the two sweaty, muscular guys sharing a punching bag in the corner. One is holding the bag for the other, and as we stand here watching, they switch. “There’s no downside if you partner with me and let me manage you.”

Groaning inwardly, I pull away from him, scrubbing both hands down my face in frustration. Marcus hates getting turned down—–for any reason. I pity any woman who says she doesn’t want to date him. He probably goes all stalker on them, keeping the restraining orders he receives as some freaky sort of love note. He’s still talking about the possibilities if I choose to be one of his fighters, but I’ve checked out of the conversation. The perks he’s talking about are already available to me. I have money, girls have always been easy for me, and I don’t need any more recognition. I’m a college football player, and not to be conceited—even though I have good reasons to be, but I’m pretty damn good. I don’t tell Marcus, not that he wouldn’t understand, but I’d rather fuck than fight to get rid of any excess energy. If I can’t fuck, working out is a good substitution. I can’t get laid if some giant, over-muscled, ape beats my ass and breaks half the bones in my body.

“You’ll at least think about it, yeah?” Marcus asks, enough steel in his voice to let me know he doesn’t want to hear “no.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose and count to ten. “Yeah,” I finally capitulate, “I’ll think about it.” Marcus grins, thinking I’m one step from saying yes, so I try to slow his roll, holding out a hand in warning. “Thinking doesn’t mean doing, Marcus. Fighting isn’t my bag unless it’s necessary. Fighting for sport? It’s not necessary.”

Marcus waves off my words and turns to head back to his office, leaving me standing in the middle of the boxing area. I walk to the ring, studying the equipment the trainers and fighters use. I’m suddenly not in the mood to work out, so I make my way to the locker area to take a hot shower. My head was already messed up when I came here, and Marcus only made it worse.

Kat

I could feel Clay’s eyes on the back of my head throughout the entire hour-long lecture. By four, I was crawling out of my skin and practically ran out of the room.
Okay, so I totally ran
. At least I had the forethought to ask Becca to meet me on the opposite side from where Clay parks. I don’t know how I’m going to face him long enough to get this project done. I was fine when he dropped me off Sunday, or at least, I wasn’t freaking out. No, that came a few hours later when Peyton showed up and she and Becca started giving me the third degree about spending the night in his bed. I haven’t seen her today because I’ve been in class, but she starts in the second I’m beside her.

“So …” she starts, avoiding looking at me as we walk towards our dorm. “I might have mentioned to Scarlett and Annabelle that you spent the night with Clay.”

“You did
what
?” I shriek. “I didn’t spend the night
with
Clay. We slept in the same apartment. It wasn’t a big deal.” Becca shrugs, and I groan. “Dammit, Becca. You know this!” Why would she do that? Never mind, I know why. I met Scarlett and Annabelle last year when I moved in with Peyton. At the time, they lived in the dorm room directly below us. The girls are complete opposites, of each other, and of Peyton and me. Scarlett is loud and outgoing, while Annabelle is very closed off and most of the time only speaks when you ask her a direct question. Thanks to rumors around campus, I’ve heard she was raped, but she’s never confirmed it, and there’s no way I’d ask her outright. No one talks about it in our little group, and since rumors around hear run rampant, you can’t put much stock in them anyway.

Ignoring my last exclamation Becca cuts her eyes to me and says, “It is a big deal. When has Clay Mitchell ever done something nice for someone?”
Well, she has a point
. Sort of.

“He’s done nice things for me before.” I’m not sure why I’m defending him since most of the time he’s doing his best to torment me.

She scoffs. “Yeah, he’s done nice things for the past, what? Week? Maybe two? I’m sorry, Kat, but every time he starts to act like a decent human being, he does three things that show he’s not.” Becca has a point. With Clay, it’s like, one step forward, three steps back. He’ll do something that makes me think maybe we can work together, get this project done, without killing each other. Possibly even end up as friends … but then, it’s like he realizes he was nice to me, so he does something douchey to make up for it.

Regardless … “Becca,
why
did you have to say anything? As if there aren’t enough rumors today with all the people who saw him
carry me
out.” I can feel a tension headache brewing behind my eyes. I had at least six people ask me outright about leaving the party with Clay, and no less than three times that many stopped talking every time I walked into class. If I’m not careful, that STD comment I made at the frat party is going to come back to bite me in the ass.

“I wasn’t trying to start a rumor.” Becca waves off my concerns. “Anyway, you can explain it to them now. I told them we’d meet them for dinner. After, we can hang with Peyton at Wyatt’s practice.” She’s completely nonchalant, like she didn’t blow Saturday night completely out of proportion. I’m so angry with her when we get to the dorms I leave her standing beside her car. I don’t want to spend dinner trying to explain everything to Scarlett and Annabelle, so while Becca takes her things upstairs, I head for their room.

Scarlett answers my knock. Today she’s wearing her flaming red hair in pigtails, making the black tips more noticeable. With the way she does her hair and makeup, she looks like a doll. It helps that she’s short too, at least compared to me. All my female friends, aside from Peyton, are shorter than me. I always feel like the odd man out. My eyes travel down her outfit and I wish I was as one-of-a-kind as she is. She’s wearing a burgundy tank top with a cross design matched with black skinny jeans that look like they’ve been shredded across the thighs and a pair of Doc Marten’s. A leather cuff around her wrist has a matching cross, and she has little crosses hanging from her ears too.