Bad Judgment (7 page)

Justine

I whirl around in the hallway to face him as my stomach sinks to my feet and the burning heat of mortification fills me.

Ryker stalks toward me, stopping a foot away.

Seriously, Universe? How is this even fair?
Of all people . . . why him?

“What the hell are you doing here?” Ryker asks again.

My eyes dart from him to Marvin’s office door. It won’t take Ryker long to guess why, if he hasn’t figured it out already.

“None of your damn business.” And it’s not.
Nothing
about me is any of Ryker’s business.

“That’s where we disagree.”

Screw him
. I don’t owe him any explanation. Striding forward, I intend to sidestep him, but he wraps a hand around my wrist. Before I can yank it free, he spins us both and pins me against the wall.

Memories of the back hallway at the bar bombard me, but I shut them down.
I need to get out of here.

“Let me go.” I shove both hands against his chest.

“No. Because someone needs to have a come-to-Jesus talk with you. See, I know for a fact that you lost your scholarship, and I also know you’re too fucking smart to think stripping for your tuition is a good idea.”

“It’s none of your business what I do for my tuition.”

“You get up on that stage and I’ll carry you out of here myself.”

I have to grit my teeth to stop from telling him I couldn’t even get a job as a stripper. Before I can think of a suitable reply, Marvin’s office door flies open.

“What the hell? You better get the fuck off her, man.”

Ryker drops his hold on me instantly and steps back.

Marvin storms closer, looking from me to Ryker and back to me. “You okay? I’ll get security to haul his ass out of here.”

I shake my head. “I’m fine. It’s . . . a misunderstanding. That’s all.”

Marvin glares at Ryker. “You lay a hand on any woman in this place, and I’ll take you apart myself.”

“He’s fine, Marvin. It’s all good. I’m gone.”

I don’t wait for his response. Call me a coward, but I need this night to be over.
Now
. So I bolt.

Merica’s never going to believe any of this
. . .

Justine

Professional Responsibility isn’t anyone’s idea of a good time, but it’s a required class. For some crap reason, it’s only offered on Friday afternoons, which means any chance at a three-day weekend is eliminated if you also happen to have a Monday class, which I do.
For now.

I don’t know why I’m holding on to hope and continuing to go to class, but I can’t give up. This is where I belong, and I’m not ready to let go. Not yet. I’ll keep coming until they throw me out.

I study the seating chart on the PowerPoint slide until I find my assigned seat. This professor is old school and goes strictly alphabetical. I can’t stop myself from checking the
G
’s.

Grant, R.
Two rows ahead of me on the opposite side of the room.

Of course he’s in this class. Why would I expect anything else? I tell myself I’m not going to look in that direction, but obviously I fail. He’s leaning back in his chair, fingers laced behind his head in a casual
I don’t give a shit
pose.

King of the Douche Bags,
I remind myself.

Professor Babcock waits until the time ticks over to one o’clock. She assigned reading in advance, and she wastes no time diving into the first case. With my two-year-old laptop at the ready, a gift with my defunct scholarship, I take verbatim notes as she discusses the general rules of professional responsibility.

She rattles on for twenty minutes before looking down at her copy of the seating chart and calling on a student for the first case.

“Mr. Grant, go ahead with the facts.”

My attention, like everyone else’s seated behind him, goes to the back of his head, which is now lowered over his closed laptop. I’ve been in enough classes over the last two years to realize this isn’t normal Ryker behavior.

“Sorry, Professor Babcock, I’m going to have to pass today.”

Spoiler alert: There is no passing in law school. At least, not in this one.

“Excuse me, Mr. Grant?”

“I said I have to pass. I haven’t read the case, so I don’t have the facts.”

Professor Babcock’s tone borders on incredulous. “You haven’t read the case.” It’s not a question.

“No, ma’am.”

“And do you have some excuse for why you failed to be prepared for this lecture?”

“Not one that’s going to get me any sympathy.”

I think every mouth in the class drops open in shock.
What the hell is he doing? Trying to piss her off?

Babcock bristles behind the lectern. “Feel free to exit the room right now if you’re not interested in participating. You can always take this
required
class again next semester when you’re feeling more engaged.”

Wow. Just. Wow.

I don’t know what the hell has gotten into him, but this is a completely new development.

Ryker wraps a hand around his unopened laptop and grabs his backpack with the other. “Thanks for the tip.” He walks out of the silent room, the door slamming behind him.

“Holy shit,” Leslie Pope, the girl beside me, whispers. “Did that just happen?”

Holy shit is right. Ryker might not be a 4.0 student, but he’s far from stupid, and what he just did qualifies as idiotic.

He was at the strip club last night. Maybe he’s still drunk?

The rest of the class passes without any more fireworks, but in the back of our minds, we’re all wondering what the hell happened to transform Ryker from regular cocky law student to idiot asshole.

As soon as class is dismissed, gossip runs rampant as most of the students, including Merica and me, head downstairs to the café
. Did you hear about Ryker Grant walking out of Professional Responsibility? Did he do that in any other classes? Is he smoking something? If so, where can I get some?

The questions run the gamut and it seems no gossip is off-limits. For some strange reason, people keep coming to me for answers, like I have some.

“He’s always asking you out,” Merica says when I complain about the third person to ask me if I know what’s going on with him.

“He
was
. Past tense and over with.”

Merica eyes me sharply. “You don’t think he was working up to asking you out again when you made a break for it last night?”

When I’d called her on my drive home from the Vu, she’d practically deafened me with how loudly she’d laughed. There had been no sympathy, only relief that I wasn’t taking up stripping as a part-time job.

“I have no idea, but I sure wasn’t sticking around to find out. Besides, let’s not pretend I’m upset about this change of pace.”

I pretend that last bit isn’t a lie. My pride still stings from being stood up last summer after he kissed me.
All I want is an apology, and then I can move on.

“Riiight,” Merica drawls, sipping on her can of Diet Coke. “I would call bullshit, but you’re so far in denial it won’t do any good.”

I don’t dignify her words with a response. We both know she’s right.

“But seriously, do you have any idea what the hell that stunt was? His dad is going to be
pissed
when he finds out. Didn’t you say that he’s got grand plans of Ryker going on to clerk for the Sixth Circuit Court of Appeals? Or even the US Supreme Court? I don’t think all the favors in the world are going to help if Ryker decides he’s had enough of ‘playing at law school.’”

It was common knowledge in Justice Grant’s chambers that he had lofty aspirations for his son, and up until today, I would have said that Ryker was falling in line with what his father wanted.

Leslie Pope sidles up between Merica and me. “So you know how Ryker walked out of PR?”

“Mm-hmm,” I mumble. Given that I was sitting beside her when it happened, the question is ridiculous.

“I heard from Kristy Horner that he hasn’t taken any notes all week. She’s got some history with him, so she notices these things.”

We’re all aware of Kristy’s “history” with Ryker. She’s made no secret of the fact that she considers him to be her property. She also doesn’t like me a whole lot, because apparently she considers me competition. She should thank me, in my opinion, because I’ve purposely gone out of my way
not
to be competition.
And I’m definitely no competition now.

“Really?” Merica prompts her, giving me the side-eye me like no other. “What else did Kristy say?”

Leslie lowers her voice as if someone is going to overhear her. “Apparently he hasn’t even opened his laptop in a class yet. It’s like he’s deliberately trying to fail this semester. Kristy said she’s worried about him.”

“If Kristy’s so worried, maybe she shouldn’t be spreading gossip around,” Merica says, letting her trademark snarkiness bleed over into her words.

Leslie shrugs. “I’m just telling you what she told me.”

“That’s pretty big speculation considering we’re only a week in. Maybe he’s just bored with this first-week-of-class song and dance.” Why am I putting out some kind of explanation for this? It’s not like I care either way what Ryker is doing or what the gossips are saying, as long as it doesn’t include me.

“I heard from Heath Whitehouse, who clerked with him all summer in Justice Bryant’s chambers, that he was totally apathetic from day one. It’s like someone flipped a switch. He went from being normal Ryker without a care in the world to a real prick.”

“Aren’t you just full of gossip today?” Merica sips her Diet Coke again and meets my gaze.

“Didn’t you have an externship with Ryker’s dad last semester?” Leslie asks me.

I nod.

“Did you find out anything about him that could explain this?”

“He didn’t come up as a topic of conversation.” My tone is dry, and I hope she picks up on the fact that I’m over this conversation.

“Then I guess this remains an unsolved mystery,” Leslie says with another shrug. “Anyway, I gotta get going. I’m heading up north with a couple of my undergrad sorority sisters for one last weekend of fun. Talk to you Monday!”

We watch Leslie bounce away, apparently thrilled that she has shared all the gossip in her arsenal, and Merica pushes aside her now empty can of Diet Coke.

“I’m ready to get the hell out of here. You?”

“More than ready.” We both gather up our backpacks, and Merica tosses her can in the recycling bin as we walk out of the café.

“Are you coming over tonight for the
New Girl
marathon?”

I debate my options. Sitting at home and thinking about all the things I can’t change, or hanging out with my best friend pretending my problems don’t exist. Choice number two is the clear winner.

“Absolutely. See you at seven?”

“Perfect. I’m ordering pizza, so come hungry.”

“You know I will.”

Justine

An unknown number shows up on my phone, and out of instinct and caution, I let it go to voice mail. Yes, I screen all my calls.

As soon as the voice mail pops up on my notifications, I check it.

Part of me hopes to hear Ryker’s familiar deep voice, but I slap that part upside the head. But shockingly, I’m not that far off.

“Justine, I’ve been thinking a lot about your predicament, and I want to make sure you’ve found a suitable solution. Feel free to come by my chambers before six tonight if you’d like to discuss it.”

He doesn’t even say his name, and he doesn’t need to. I’d recognize Justice Grant’s voice anywhere.

I wonder if he’s already heard through the grapevine that Ryker walked out of class. As a member of the board of trustees, I imagine that word travels pretty quickly to his ears when something happens concerning his son.

For a second I feel a flash of pity for Ryker, but it evaporates just as quickly. Because his dad is a trustee, he doesn’t have to worry about paying for tuition. And yet he still walked out of class today like the entitled jerk I’ve called him more than once. Who does that?

Doesn’t he realize how good he has it? He drives around in his Camaro, has the latest and greatest MacBook and access to opportunities most students can only dream about, and now he’s spending week nights at the strip club, walking out of class, and apparently is willing to throw it away?