Page 85 of Wicked Little Secret
“How about you meet me on the east side of campus?” I ask. “I’ll pick you up and we can have dinner. Outside of town.”
“I should finish coursework from my other classes,” she says after a beat. “Maybe next time?”
Just like that, she’s fixing her clothes and gathering her things. I stand back, putting on a composed front, hands in my pockets.
She kisses me goodbye, though it does nothing for the tension cording through me.
The lasso’s back, cinching tighter and tighter.
“Next time,” I remind myself. “There’s always next time…”
Friday rolls around, and Nyssa’s absent from class. I’m distracted throughout the duration of it. So much so, other students take notice. Katelyn Wicker raises her hand to question if I’m in the middle of a heart attack. A few others in class laugh.
But I give a withering look that makes her shut up on the spot.
It’s no heart attack that has me clenching and snarling. It’s the absence of the person who has been on my mind almost every waking moment.
I send texts that go unanswered. Calls that go straight to voicemail.
She’s avoiding me.
But why?!
Dean Rothenberg catches me once class lets out, falling into step beside me. “Theron, how about you join me and some of the other board of trustees for cigars tonight? Your father won’t be making it, but you would be a fine stand-in. We’ll be discussing how we’ll approach the campus-wide paranoia about Valentine.”
“No.”
A single one word answer that’s cold and succinct.
It’s to the point enough that there’s no room for objection. The dean watches me stride down the rest of the corridor as if he’s too shocked to figure out what else to say.
I don’t give a damn.
The only thing I give a damn about is Nyssa Oliver and where the fuck she is.
Why would she skip my class? All of her Friday classes, according to her AirTag. Is she sick? Hurt? Does she need me?
I stride straight toward my car, tossing my leather satchel into the passenger seat. I pull my phone from my pocket and log onto her cloud.
Her social media provides no updates. Neither do her emails.
Her texts are a different story.
hey bby, still good for 8? Scarlet Room?
Yes. 8 works. I’ll be there.
A bell clangs inside me. It rings and rings until I feel my entire body vibrating with the sound. I clench my phone in my palm and glare at the screen.
“Who the fuck is this?” I growl.
I’m off in a tear.
My BMW veers into traffic with a squeal of rubber and protest honks from other cars nearby. For the first few miles, I’m not even sure where the hell I’m driving to. I’m driving just to drive. A maniac on the roads, I cut off others and flout common courtesy and traffic rules.
It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve spiraled after the object of my affection’s suddenly become distant.
“Who have you been with?” I snarled, blocking her path. “Why won’t you tell me what’s going on?”