Shame (Ruin #3) (10 page)

“Thanks…” She lay down on the pillow. “…for everything.”

Guilt stabbed me square in the chest as I gave a curt nod and shut the door behind me.

What the hell was I doing?

I had no flipping clue.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“He tried to commit suicide,” Mel said numbly the next day.

I’d just been discharged from the hospital, and she was driving me to my penthouse, the one place I’d let her see that wasn’t owned by good ol’ Dad, though he’d paid up-the-ass for it to keep his dirty little secret happy.

“So?” I shrugged, tossing a pain pill in my mouth. “That’s not the first time it’s happened. Surely won’t be the last. Think of it as us helping groom him for life.”

“Tay!” Mel shook her head. “We can’t — I can’t… I can’t keep doing this. It’s not fun. I mean, can’t we just do normal things like go to the movies?”

“What’s really bothering you?” I asked, finally turning toward her ghostlike face.

She chewed her lower lip and looked down. “I got in.”

“What?”

“I applied to college, Tay. I got in.” —
The Journal of Taylor B.

Lisa

I
RUBBED MY
eyes and gripped my cell phone. Blurry vision and caked-on mascara, not a good combination. Finally, the fuzziness of the screen dissipated, and I was able to see the time.

Six in the morning.

I set the phone back on the stand and groaned. The last thing I wanted to do was get out of the most comfortable bed I’d ever slept in and take the walk of shame down the hall and let my professor — ha! — my sexy professor — drive me to school.

I groaned again.

He’d been right. The morning hadn’t made it better, but I did feel like I had a bit more energy to tackle the day. I sent a quick text to Gabe so he knew I was all right and slowly rose from bed.

Yawning, I padded over to the door and quickly peered into the hall to see if I could hear any movement or indication that Tristan was up.

Nothing.

Just as I was about to go back into the room, I looked down. A pair of jeans, white T-shirt, and TOMS shoes were sitting in a neat pile on the floor; a yellow knit cap topped off the pile with a note attached:

For you.

That was it. Just…
For you.
Cryptic, even though I knew they couldn’t be from anyone but Tristan. When I went to pick up the pile, I noticed a toothbrush stashed beneath the shirt, along with some toothpaste.

The guy was either used to one-night stands or… yeah that was all I had, used to one-night stands. People didn’t look like Tristan Blake and not have one-night stands. Besides, clearly he was important, had loads of money, and lived in paradise.

I lifted the clothes to my nose to make sure they didn’t smell like some other chick’s perfume, only to get caught by a throat clearing.

“Have I somehow given you the impression that I’d give you someone else’s clothes?”

Slowly I lifted my gaze. Tristan stood in front of me holding a cup of coffee, and wearing nothing but a pair of gray track pants that rode low on his hips. He blew across the cup. My knees again decided it would be a good time to shake a bit as I took in his perfectly sculpted chest and abs.

“Coffee?” He tilted his head and handed me the other mug.

“Yeah.” My voice was hoarse. “Thanks, and sorry. I was just making sure—”

“You were just making sure they weren’t some other girl’s clothes that I’d stashed after a cheap one-night stand and forgotten to return.” His smile was one of amusement not irritation. “Do I really look like that type of guy?”

“Yes.” I gulped. “Sorry, but you kind of do.”

“I guess kissing you didn’t help that particular assumption.” He grinned then stepped toward me until I could feel the heat of his body and almost taste the coffee on his lips. “But I think you’d be surprised to know it’s only two.”

“Two?”

He flashed a grin. “Figure it out.”

With one last teasing wink, he spun on his heel and walked down the hall, calling behind him. “Shower and meet me downstairs for breakfast. Pretty sure you have a class in a few hours, and the last thing you want to do is piss of that prick professor of yours… again.”

Heat invaded my entire face as I leaned against the door frame. Awesome. Good to know I told the actual professor that I thought he was an ass to his face and then kissed him.

I was so getting kicked out of school.

Either that or… I don’t know, going to hell?

My eyes strained to see Tristan as he rounded the corner to his room. If I was going to hell, I’d at least get an eyeful on the journey.

****

By the time I managed to make myself presentable, I already felt like I was running late. Something about Tristan’s controlling demeanor had me rushing through the shower like I was going to get scolded if I didn’t dress fast enough.

“Bacon?” his warm voice asked the minute I stepped foot into the kitchen. “I assumed you’d want more coffee, but I wasn’t sure what you normally eat for breakfast, so I kind of fixed everything.”

A white towel was on one shoulder while he hovered over the stove. His back muscles flexed through his crisp white shirt. My eyes lowered to his tight dark-wash jeans and just stayed there for a minute, not necessarily staring, more like… okay, so I was staring. It was weird. I’d never been the type of girl to check out a guy like that. I’d been surrounded by beautiful all my life.

But Tristan was a different type of beautiful. He was controlled, orderly, yet, at the same time, chaotic. Yeah, it made no sense to me either.

“Lisa?” Tristan looked over his shoulder.

I jerked my gaze up and felt my cheeks blush again. “Yeah?”

“You didn’t answer.”

“I was, um…” I chewed my lower lip. “Thinking about class.”

“Which class?” he teased, his eyes scanning my body heatedly before returning my gaze.

“Yours.” I swallowed and regained my confidence as I took a seat at the breakfast bar. “Ever since getting scolded, I’m super paranoid about being early.”

“Scolded.” Tristan handed me a plate and started piling bacon and potatoes onto it. “If I was scolding you, you’d know it.”

“Why do I feel like that’s a double meaning?”

He shrugged. And that was it. No flirtation. Nothing.

We ate in silence.

And I wish I could say it was awkward. But it wasn’t. He read the newspaper; I asked him random questions. We both drank our coffee, and, once I was finished, I loaded the dishes in the dishwasher — even though he’d tirelessly asked me not to help. By the time I knew what was happening, we were driving toward school.

Nervousness attacked me the minute we pulled into a parking spot. I had a half-hour to go back to my dorm room, grab my stuff, and go to class. His class.

“Lisa,” Tristan turned off the car and stared straight ahead. “It was fun but—”

“But you’re my professor. I know.”

“Right.” He drew out the word slowly. “I just…” His face scrunched up with what I could only assume was anger; a muscle in his jaw jumped. “I’m a bad idea.”

“So it’s you, not me?” Smiling, I kept my voice light, trying to bring back the playfulness and ease of the morning.

“Yeah.” He nodded curtly. “That’s a good way of putting it. Our relationship is best served as a strict teacher-slash-student relationship. Hell, it was a bad idea even coming down here in the first place.”

“To the party?”

“To the school.” He sniffed and pressed his lips together in a firm line. “You should get to class.”

“But—”

“Lisa.” He finally turned, his face indifferent. “We’re done here.”

“Excused like a toddler.” I nodded, hurt that he would treat me that way after holding me last night, kissing me, making love to me with his mouth. Teacher or no teacher, I still deserved some respect, right? “You treat all your one-night stands this way?” Maybe that was too far, but whatever.

“Had you kept your mask on, that may have happened, but now that I know who you are…”

His voice trailed off, and I couldn’t help but finish it with “What you are.” Guilt and shame hit me square in the chest, replacing the irritation I’d initially felt. He didn’t need to know the details. It either scared guys away or made them think it was an invitation for something more.

I opened my mouth to speak but had nothing. I was hurt, angry, feeling a bit rejected… a
lot
scolded. And the worst part was I knew he was right. He didn’t owe me anything. But I wanted him to; I wanted him to say that that one night was enough to make me like a drug to him. Enough to make him want to break rules.

But I knew that wasn’t my reality, not my life.

Guys didn’t do that for girls like me; they never had, never would. It sucked, because I’d seen guys like Gabe and Wes ready to fight wars for the girls they loved. Music and TV would have you believe that every girl has a hero; she just needs to find him first.

It was not true.

It would never be true.

“Right.” I bit my lower lip to keep it from trembling and unbuckled my seatbelt. When I slammed the door behind me, I fought tears the entire way to the dorm. Confusion was at the forefront of my mind. He’d kissed me with passion. I knew he felt what I felt, that weird unexplainable pull. But that pull isn’t ever enough, not when you have the entire world stacked against you.

Not when your dead ex-boyfriend still mocks your every waking moment and nightmare. Not when his voice is all you hear when doubt creeps in.

“Never enough,” he whispered.

“I own you,” he taunted. “Who would want you anyway? You’re damaged, so damaged you’re lucky I even touch you.”

I shuddered as the voice got louder and louder, the laughter more menacing. “Even in my death, you’d be mine. Every time a man touches you, you’ll think of me, of what we shared…”

Tremors wracked my body, and, by the time I reached my dorm room, I was ready to puke.

I ran up the stairs and pulled out my key, only to find that my door had been broken. I pushed it open and gasped.

The word
Whore
was spray-painted across my wall… and on the table was a dead rose. With trembling fingers, I picked up the note next to it. Black angry block letters were scrambled across the white paper.

Now your shame will be broadcasted for all to see.

I dropped the note like it was on fire and backed into the couch, bumping my knee and nearly falling over.

“Sucks,” a voice said from the door. I looked up to see my RA standing there, arms crossed. “Sorry, Lisa. Someone called the dorm last night to say you were staying somewhere else, so we weren’t concerned for your safety. But it still sucks. You up to file a report? Campus police want to know.”

“Yeah,” I croaked. “Just let me get my bag.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I never went to college. Didn’t want her to go either. It meant she was finally thinking of a life away from me, even if she didn’t admit it. It meant it was almost time for my grand finale. Funny, in that moment, I wasn’t even pissed! I was excited, so excited to put my plan into place. The plan I’d carefully constructed since the beginning. It was going to be epic. Too bad I wouldn’t be around to see it — then again, people would eventually find out why. Find out that my death? Would be on her hands. —The Journal of Taylor B.

Tristan

T
HE BLACK, ANGRY
writing stared back, mocking me. My lesson plan was in English — after all, I’d written it, but nothing looked familiar. It may as well have been crisscrosses and smiley faces.

Getting Lisa out of my head wasn’t working. I hated that I’d hurt her feelings, hated myself for getting involved. What the hell had I thought would happen? I’d teach for a semester, find out what I came to find out, apologize while still gaining revenge for his death, and move on? I’d never been heartless, but during all the planning, the reading, the scheming, I’d never added her into the calculation.

I’d assumed she’d be different.

Not perfect.

Not absolutely, mind-blowingly perfect from her teasing nature to her addicting lips — damn. She could be my poison, and I’d drink from her cup, embracing sweet death if only for another taste.

Shaking, I pulled out my prescription and took the daily amount, pissed that I had to, pissed that it controlled my life — pissed that I’d let it.

I checked my phone. Father had called and, of course, her. I’d catch up with them later on in the week. Right now, it would be impossible to mask my emotion. My father would think I was off my medication, though I’d never given him any indication that I was the type to stop taking my meds. I was the good son, the perfect son. The one who crossed his
Ts
and dotted his
Is
; the son that was groomed for bigger and better things.

The son he’d actually wanted.

As opposed to the one he’d damned to hell.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“What?” Mel asked. “You’re really quiet.”

I shrugged. “Well, it’s just… it’s funny, I guess, that they would want you… I mean, you have shit grades, and, let’s be honest, you’re not that smart.”

Mel’s eyes filled with tears before looking away. “I got a really high score on my ACT.”

I laughed out loud. “Well, that explains it.”

She grinned. “I studied really hard.”

“No.” I shook my head at her innocence, at her trusting nature. “I mean, clearly they messed up and swapped your scores with someone else’s. It’s the only explanation.” —The Journal of Taylor B.