Bide (The Sun Valley Series Book 2)
Bide: Chapter 7

“Shit, shit, shit.”

A light breeze whips against my bare legs as I rush across campus, teasing the hem of my dress and flashing everyone in my path. If I hadn’t woken up late, I would’ve been able to coordinate my outfit with the blustery weather. Instead, I rolled out of bed with barely twenty minutes to spare before my first class of the semester, and my only choice was to throw on the first thing I saw.

I knew I shouldn’t have gone out last night. Just a couple of drinks, I’d told myself. You deserve it.

Honestly, at this point, I should know better; a couple is never a couple. Every time, a single vodka cranberry turns into ohh, let’s have a cocktail and before I know it, bottom-shelf liquor shots are scorching my throat and my inhibitions are on the floor and the contact lenses improving my vision might as well have evaporated.

Pro; I wasn’t quite drunk enough to try and fail at seducing kind men in a dingy bathroom.

Con; I did, unfortunately, bring yet another unworthy opponent home.

In and out of the apartment in under half an hour, last night’s conquest once again made me wonder if this bad sex epidemic is campus-wide or specific to my unlucky self. I can’t even remember the guy’s name, and I don’t feel bad about it; it’s an unwritten, steadfast rule in my mental hook-up handbook that if you don’t make me come, I don’t have to remember your name.

Plus, it’s not like I need to remember it. A guy who tasted like onion rings and clearly viewed me like a blow-up doll? Yeah, it’s safe to say I won’t be calling him up again.

I shove lamenting thoughts of mediocre sex to the back of my mind as I rush into class, barely making it on time. With a relieved sigh—I fucking hate being late—I slip into a seat near the back, my thumb already spinning the ring on my pointer finger. It’s a two-hour class; my worst enemy. Too still for too long with too little occupying my mind.

It seems I’m not alone in my dread; the chair beside me groans in unison with the girl flopping onto it, her tight expression mirroring mine. I watch her out of the corner of my eye, trying not to chuckle as she curses beneath her breath, dropping her bag on the floor with a loud thump and smoothing back messy dirty blonde hair with a huff.

“Rough morning?”

Head whipping to face me, the grimace playing across her lips deepens. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only to someone who’s had an equally rough morning.”

The girl huffs a laugh. “You trip up a flight of stairs and fall on your ass in front of a very cute group of boys?”

“No.” A corner of my mouth tips upward. “But I did flash a few sprinting across the courtyard.”

Another chuckle morphs into a groan as my classmate slumps, voice low like she’s half talking to herself. “I don’t even wanna take this class.”

Preaching to the choir. “Introduction to Political Theory isn’t for you?”

Her snort says it all, as does her eye roll. “My dad’s the professor and my ‘I don’t give a shit about politics’ speech hasn’t quite gotten through to him yet.”

I commiserate, “My mom’s an artist so she’s making me take an art class.”

She side-eyes me, mouth curled in amusement. “You didn’t inherit the gene?”

“Stick figures are the extent of my artistic capabilities.”

“A woman of real talent.”

Snorting in amusement, the girl twists toward me, extending a hand. “I’m Pen. Penelope, actually, but no one calls me that.”

“Luna.” I accept the oddly formal greeting. “You a sophomore too?”

Pen nods, the only response she has time to give before a door creaking open cuts her off, followed by thudding footsteps as a man strides into the room, coming to a stop behind the desk center stage. Who I’m assuming is our professor—Pen’s dad—takes his time setting up his laptop, silent except for the sound of loud, overdramatic typing that every teacher seems to master. When he finally lifts his gaze to scan the room, it snags on Pen, head dipping in the slightest acknowledgement.

Weirdly, I swear it lingers on me too. Just for a second, so quick I definitely could’ve imagined it, as well as the flicker of something I can’t quite name but could be mistaken as recognition. The moment is over before it begins, and I brush it off as my mind playing tricks on me—God knows that’s not a rarity.

“Professor Robert Jacobs,” the man begins with a brusque introduction, and more than one girl in the room sits up a little straighter at his surprisingly husky voice, interest suddenly peaked.

“Remind me to thank the hiring committee,” someone in my vicinity mutters.

“Is it just me,” another voice adds, “or do the staff get hotter every year?”

“Jesus Christ.” Pen groans beside me , twisting to glare at whoever’s eyeing up her dad. I feel her pain—growing up with a young, attractive mom was my own personal hell at times.

Jacobs is objectively good-looking, I guess, if I were into men old enough to be my dad with a very noticeable ring wrapped around his finger. But definitely not my type. Although, these days, I’m not entirely sure what that is.

I never used to be a fan of lean, long-haired men nor the quiet, nice guy yet here I am, mind wandering toward the very epitome.

Jackson.

I like it all on him.

Even the shy thing, I like. I like how nervous I make him. And not in the uncomfortable, harsh way I usually enjoy, the kind that feels like karma for years spent crossing roads or avoiding going out alone after sundown or carrying mace in my purse just in case some entitled asshole got too handsy. That feels like balancing the scales.

This, how Jackson reacts around me, feels different. Nervous in the most lovely way.

He’s like karma but the good kind I’m not sure what I did to deserve. He proved it when he rubbed my back and tied up my hair and, after the entire contents of my stomach were flushed down the toilet, proceeded to scoop me up off the dirty bathroom floor and tuck me in his shirt.

A shirt I still have. I woke up in it the morning after, unsure where it came from but obsessed with the scent wrapped around me. Clean and fresh with a faint hint of grass clinging to the fabric, like laundry hung up to dry outside. I can’t recall a night since that I haven’t spent wrapped in the soft cotton.

I didn’t recall everything right away, just flashes of warm touches and a kind smile. But the moment I walked into that art store and saw him, I remembered but I feigned ignorance because I was too mortified to mention it considering the enormous fucking fool I made out of myself.

I was drunk and fumbling and reeking of vomit yet he called me beautiful. Beautiful. Not hot or sexy, which I firmly believe is the worst compliment in the world/ It makes me cringe every time it’s screamed in my ear over the noise of a club or slurred at me over the counter in Greenies.

No, he called me beautiful in the most endearingly earnest way. Hands fidgeting and cheeks flushed. Unable to look me in the eye. I’m not someone who gets all weak in the knees and weepy at such simple complimentary words but God, I was practically swooning.

I haven’t dwelled on that long enough to figure out why. I don’t plan on it. I plan on waiting for the odd little crush to pass, for my mind to fixate on something else.

I can only hope it happens soon.

“Assholes,“ I grumble, mentally sticking my tongue out at the retreating backs of the frat boys vacating Greenies. Two hours flirting my ass off and entertaining their advances and flashing my cleavage on purpose—because, you know, feminism on hold when it comes to earning tips—only for them to massively lowball me.

Two dollars. Six of them clad in fucking Ralph Lauren polo shirts and goddamn boat shoes and requesting top-shelf whiskey—because, obviously, Greenies screams high quality liquor—could only spare two goddamn dollars.

Ass. Holes.

Allowing myself a moment longer of bitterness, I stuff their sad tip in my pocket before getting back to work.

It’s busy as hell today, just the way I like it—time goes quicker that way.

Plus, I’m on shift with Amelia, as usual, and I can hardly complain about spending the evening in the company of my best friend. Especially when I have particularly interesting entertainment in the form of the most notorious player on campus simpering at her with puppy-dog eyes.

She’s got the guy spellbound without even trying, and I would only be prouder if she wasn’t still inexplicably in love with a big dumbass.

It’s easier to focus on Nick—Nicolas Silva wasn’t a hard name to source—than his company. Not the young blond guy who reminds me of a puppy but the walking pair of cheekbones beside him. Every time I sneak a glance at Jackson, my amusement fades, replaced by sweaty hands and this weird twisting sensation in my stomach that I’d rather not put a name to.

No, instead, I shake it off and blame it on dehydration.

I’m chugging a bottle of water when someone calls my name, and for a split second, bashful hope tickles the back of my neck. That is, until I turn around. A not-so-silent groan builds in my throat when the guy from last night sets his forearms on the counter with a heavy thump, every inch of visible skin slick with drunken sweat. “I had fun last night.”

“Well, that makes one of us.” My words are a quiet grumble but even if I shouted them in his face, I don’t think he would hear. Currently, all his attention is directed south of my face, honing in on the minimal cleavage my uniform tank top allows.

Lacing my fingers together and squeezing, I force a smile. “Can I get you anything?”

Besides a mint.

“Another round.” The man who’s name I don’t feel an ounce of guilt about not remembering smirks, and I wrinkle my nose at the disgustingly obvious innuendo. “Of drinks, obviously.”

My only response being a grim nod does nothing to deter the guy; I can practically see the gears in his brain churning as he prepares another dirty comment he, luckily for me, never gets the chance to spill.

The brush of another shoulder against his isn’t that hard, only momentarily knocking him off his already precarious balance, but it’s enough to direct his attention from me to the guy squeezing in beside him. “What the fuck?”

“My bad,” Jackson holds his hands up in surrender, faking a guilty expression and purposefully not looking at me. “Sorry, Billy.”

I gape at the pair, not because they seem to know each other or because of Jackson’s sudden miraculous appearance, but because of the name Jackson just uttered.

Billy?

I banged a Billy?

God, no wonder I didn’t remember his name. Blocked it from my memory, obviously. Definitely wouldn’t want to associate sex with a name that conjures up an image of an old man with a beer gut and goatee.

Fucking Billy’s face morphs from angry to calm in the blink of an eye. “Jackson,” he greets, pulling him in for one of those bro-hugs. Jackson smiles and indulges him but when he grips the counter, I notice his white knuckles. And I notice how he slaps Billy on the back a little harder than necessary before pointing in Nick’s direction, encouraging Billy to amble away and do the whole bro greeting thing again without even a backwards glance at me.

I just watch, a little perplexed by how fucking smooth that was.

Jackson.

Smooth.

Interesting development.

He doesn’t linger to accept praise and gratitude like most knights in shining armor would. He tries to leave without a word but I stop him. “Did you need something?”

Jackson turns slowly, just as slow to raise his gaze and finally, finally, graces me with those beautiful eyes. Dark brown, with hints of gold that glint when the light hits them just right. He must be feeling generous because he indulges me with that voice too—no nodding or head shaking like I’ve become accustomed. Deep but quiet with a rasping quality that sends a shiver down my spine every day. “Coffee, please.”

Unashamedly, I take my time filling a mug with dark liquid. Feeling selfish, wanting his presence longer, even if he’s not saying a word. It’s… comforting. Warm. Like a little slice of calm. When I eventually slide the drink his way, I wave off the money he offers. “It’s on me.”

You save me from leering men, you get free coffee.

Jackson’s lips purse, unimpressed yet undeterred as he drops what more than covers the cost of a measly black coffee in the tip jar. A dip of his head and he’s gone, scurrying back to his friends without a backwards glance.

And what do I do? I watch him go like a fucking creep because I think we’ve silently established staring is our thing.