TAMING THE ALPHA STREET RACER

BANG.

BANG.

BANG!

I jolt up, roll off the bed, and smack the floor with a grunt.

“Open this fucking door, Riv!”

A fourth bang, enough to cause the dorm door to rattle like another hit would rip it off its hinges.

I groan, tangled in my blanket, my head pounding like someone hit me with a fucking sledgehammer while I slept.

Then, the stupids bangs return.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

“You hear me?! I know you’re in there!”

Adam.

Shit. Shit.

I blink, dazed, heart thudding. The dorm room spins once before it settles. I’m on the floor, half-naked, wrapped in a blanket, wearing only my underwear.

Nelly, my roommate's side of the room is clean enough to let me know she’s gone for her morning class.

Bang.

I jolt.

“You psycho bitch! I saw the video—”

The video?

My eyes dart around, my brain too foggy to understand how the fuck I got here. The first thing I notice is my tank top, crumpled on the floor, stained with blood. Right beside it...

I gasp.

A black leather jacket. Not even close to anything I own. It was on the racer last night, what the fuck is it doing in my dorm room?

I yank my gaze away.

Not now.

I have bigger problems, Adam is at my door, talking about a video which probably contains evidence of me and Tamara vandalizing his car.

Another slam at the door. “And Tamara. She’s a dead bitch too! Both of you think this is funny?”

Yup.

We’re busted.

I scramble to my feet, blanket dragging behind me, chest bare and heart in my throat. The last thing I remember is grabbing a bottle out of Zero’s fucking cup holder, stupidly gulping its content without asking what it was, and then… Blackout.

Probably the most reckless decision I’ve made my entire life.

I don’t remember him dropping me off, not even getting into my own bed. Just brief flashes of his eyes, his mouth, the car, his hand gripping my thigh in the back seat, his tongue dragging between my folds while my fingers dug into his hair.

I bite down on a groan and snatch a hoodie off the back of my chair, shoving my arms into it. It smells like coffee and sweat.

Nelly’s.

The clock by my bed blinks: 8:37 AM.

“Fuck me.”

I’m thirty minutes late for my first class. My professor is a dick and locks doors after ten.

Adam persists at the door, “I swear to God, Riv—”

The knob rattles violently.

I croak, voice hoarse as shit. “I need you to go suck a dick, Adam.”

His voice explodes through the wood. “YOU RUINED MY FUCKING CAR!”

“You cheated on me. What did you think was gonna happen?”

“You’re going to pay for this, Eden, I swear to God.”

I don’t answer.

Then after that, silence.

I’m ruffling through my closet the very next minute, throwing on whatever. Jeans tugged up. Hair twisted into a bun that’s already falling. I brush my teeth in seconds, and clean my face with wipes. Books into my bag, shaky fingers, mismatched socks.

Doesn’t matter.

I don’t look back.

I swing the door open.

Adam’s not there anymore.

Good.

I’m flying down the hallway before I can think twice. I hit the lot, half-ready to see my car wrecked like I had done Adam’s, but no.

It’s just as I’d left it. I yank the door open, slam it, start the engine.

Then, out of nowhere, Adam appears. His blond hair is wild, eyes are bloodshot, he's screaming and pointing at me like a madman.

I can barely hear him through the windows, but I already know he’s cursing like a bitch.

I rev the engine.

He slams his palm on the hood. “YOU THINK THIS IS FUNNY?”

My hands tighten around the steering.

He looks like he’s about to lose it.

I rev again.

Adam eyes widens as he realises what I’m about to do, but I don’t give him the chance to move before I gun the car, tires shrieking.

He staggers back, and I swerve past him, close enough that the mirror nearly clips his face. His arms flail, feet scrambling.

In the rearview, I see him spin, red-faced and shaking, his mouth wide as he shouts, "ARE YOU FUCKING INSANE?!"

~~~

Professor Langston does not tolerate lateness.

Three years in his class have made that painfully clear. He once made a girl cry for showing up an hour late. Told her she could wipe her tears on the drop slip he was about to file on her behalf.

So when I glance at the time on my phone and see 8:59 a.m., my chest tightens.

“Shit.”

I shoot off down the corridor, shoes squealing on the floor. Everything is a blur. My mind is already bracing for the drop slip with my name on it.

Room 206, top floor, left wing.

I take the corner too fast. My shoulder hits the wall, I trip, and I crash into someone with full force.

I don’t get the chance to brace myself, my knee smacks something hard, and my phone flies from my grip. Their bag hits the ground, contents spilling across the floor…. books, wires, a black sketchpad.

“Shit. I’m sorry,” I say quickly, dropping to my knees to help.

“It’s fine,” he says calmly, already crouched across from me.

I grab a book first, then the sketchpad. Something catches my eye as he leans in. A silver chain dangling from his neck, hanging from it is a small glinting pendant of a wolf.

I pause.

Stare a second too long. But he tucks it back inside his shirt before I can get a better look, then reaches for the last item.

Our hands touch.

I freeze.

His fingers are rough and moist. And though the contact only lasts a second, it jolts through me like a wire touching water.

I look up.

His eyes meet mine.

Sea-glass green.

Brows puckers over them.

“You always run through people on your way to class?” he asks. His mouth quirks up slightly in a small smile.

“Only when I’m trying to avoid dying in Langston’s class,” I mutter, standing.

His brow lifts. “Langston? Literature major?”

“Advanced Literary Perspectives and Global Narratives,” I say, trying to catch my breath. “Monday mornings kill me.”

He stands with me. He’s very tall, and lean, dressed in a loose oatmeal hoodie and worn black jeans.

“Didn’t think lit majors ran like that,” he says.

“I don’t have time for this,” I breathe. I swing my bag over my shoulder and glance down the hall.

Almost there.

“Hey,” he says behind me.

I don’t stop.

“Hey. Wait.”

I turn the corner.

Room 206 comes into view.

My heart’s fucking sprinting.

I stop at the door for half a second. Just long enough to wipe my sweaty hands on my jeans, then I open it.

The room is fucking silent.

Everyone looks like they just got their asses handed to them: slouched over, eyes glazed, I can hear the sniffles of a sobbing girl in the corner. A few heads lift, but no one really reacts.

Not even a snicker.

Weird.

I step in quietly, glancing toward the front, already preparing myself to see Langston. His tired, balding head, his ugly corduroy jacket.

But then he turns.

And it’s not Langston.

My legs stop working.

For a second, I forget how to breathe.