Page 10 of All That Glitters

“What’s your history with Sinclair?”

My brows rise at the forward question.

“You’re friends, aren’t you? Ask him.”

Nash gives me a pointed look.

“Have you ever watched those videos of guys deep-sea fishing?”

I blink in response. He chuckles.

“The fish they go for are huge and strong. Sometimes they pull a guy overboard, other times they make the boat half sink.” My eyes widen at his description. “Getting personal information out of Jameson is like deep-sea fishing. It’s going to take all the effort you’ve got, and you’re not leaving unscathed.”

He’d never been that way with me. Jameson was always the type to encourage talking it out. Even after the betrayal. Even after the night where everything changed … The moment that is the real problem lurking beneath the surface of my mind like a shark ready to attack. The memory I refuse to delve into.

I shake my head to clear the murky waters.

“And this is my problem, because …?”

Nash’s grin shifts into a smirk.

“Because judging by the far-off look you just got, he’s different with you. Or at least was.”

I cross my arms.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Jameson and I aren’t anything but reporters on the same paper.”

“That’s how you’re going to play this, hmm?” He dips his chin, taking a step back. “All right, good to know. I got your number, Red.”

I get the feeling he isn’t talking about my phone number.

My leather messenger bag bounces against my hip as I walk through the library, nursing my fourth coffee of the day. Jasmine forced me to chug a glass of water and take one of her meal preps with me to the library before she let me near the coffee machine. It was a good call, as much as I grumbled over it. With how anxious I’ve felt since Jameson’s practice earlier, caffeine on an almost-empty stomach would be a recipe for disaster.

I round the corner where my favorite table is and smile when I find it empty, as well as the one next to it. There have been a few times when Jameson has invaded the space I’ve designated as mine. It infuriates me and guarantees that I won’t be as productive as I need to be. Which cannot happen tonight.

I’ve got an algebra quiz this week that I’m almost certain to fail, a fifteen-page report on The Count of Monte Cristo due tomorrow that I’ve barely started, and the article for the Thrasher hanging over my head. My doom is as imminent as a blonde in a horror movie. Even so, I have to try to survive.

The sound of my messenger bag hitting the table is akin to dropping a bowling ball on hardwood. Such is the life of an English major. I’m forever fated to have back problems because all my professors insist on students buying and annotating print copies of books. Even if said copies are the size of my head. I love the smell of paper as much as the next reader, but I wasn’t built for this kind of physical labor.

I set down my coffee and then dig in my bottomless pit of a bag to find the container with my dinner. The box warms my palm as I tug it out. Jasmine heated it up for me while I changed into sweats to prepare for my library campout. I open the container, and the scent of garlic and cheese makes my mouth water. She made some sort of puff pastry roll that looks like a less-sad Hot Pocket. Which is what I would be eating if it weren’t for her.

The first bite rejuvenates my soul, and I use the mood boost to venture back into the abyss and get my copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. No colorful tabs decorate the edge. There are very few notes in the margins. Because while I love annotating books, I rarely give myself the time when it comes to required reading.

There’s this evil part of me that refuses to do almost any of my assignments in a timely manner. My brain has become attached to this system I’ve built for myself over the course of my academic career. Why take the recommended two weeks for a paper when I can do it all in two days? Or even less, if I’m feeling particularly villainous. I pinch the bridge of my nose, closing my eyes. I don’t know why I’m like this; all I know is I keep ending up in these situations. It’s my brain’s favorite travel destination. My souvenirs are shaking hands and a tension headache. The latter is already winding up the back of my neck.

A loud thump startles me. My eyes fly open. Once my heart realizes there’s not a mountain lion at the table across from me, I’m able to glare at Jameson properly. I’d prefer the lion.

“Why?” I question through clenched teeth.

He pulls out his copy of The Count of Monte Cristo and holds it up. Somehow, it looks less gigantic in his hand. He drops it back onto the table, and I flinch at the sound.

“This is a library,” I hiss, as if I hadn’t just made the same sound with my bag.

There aren’t many students in this quiet corner of the library. The pair of tables are next to a niche selection of medical journals. Since finding this place last semester, I’ve only ever seen one person pull something from the shelves. They put it back immediately after. Anyone else in the vicinity that could be bothered by us bowling with books have headphones on.

“Really? I thought I was in the gym,” Jameson replies dryly before sitting down in the chair that faces me. There’s a span of two whole tables between us, but he might as well have pressed his forehead to mine with how invasive his presence feels.

A memory of that night pops up unbidden. I douse it with gasoline and break out a mental flamethrower.