Page 4 of Reckless Temptation

“I thought you had an exam to cram for,” I said, not worried about scolding her. She liked to joke that my academic attitude needed to rub off on her more often.

“Nah. It was postponed. Ergo, I’m taking a night off and getting a drink with Heather.”

“Hi!” Heather said in the background.

“Ah.” I fought a yawn.

“And thehimI’m talking about is none other than Nick Grant.”

I groaned, rolling my eyes at the mention of the campus’s bad boy.

“He’s so hot.”

“More like he runs hot,” I replied. I’d never met him, but I’d heard the same stories she had. “As in hot headed.”

“Such a rebel,” she added, tacking on another sigh.

“And probable dropout,” I reminded her.

“Eh, whatever. There’s no harm in checking out some eye candy every now and then,” she preached.

Yeah, right.“Whatever you say,” I replied airily.

With the pile of books and my aging laptop charging in front of me, I resisted another yawn. I wouldn’t have anoworthento ogle bad-boy art students.

I had too much at stake. This internship would be the first solid step at securing my law career. It had to be.

2

NICK

Red paint swirled down the walls of the sink. Inky black mixed in as I held my right hand under the blast of water. Tuning out the Stone Temple Pilots blaring in the background and the laughter of the other artists in the studio, I stared as the crimson hue darkened and glistened.

The rinse water turned deeper.

More metallic.

Like blood.

The illusion of it jarred me from zoning out—again.

Scowling at the sink before lifting my head to avoid looking at the blood-like colors I’d mixed, I rinsed my hands off faster. Rougher with the soap and brush, I hurried. I wished I could just as easily scrub the reminders of blood from my brain, too.

Grief was weird like that.

At the oddest moments, a memory could whip up, grip me, and kick my ass. Being dragged back to the recall of my dad dying never felt good.

I didn’t want to move on from him.

Nor did I want to forget him.

Living in the present was nothing but a fucking platitude that I was sick of hearing, though. So, the more I shoved this anger and resentment and guilt back into the lockable compartments of my black soul, the less I’d need to take up my stepdad’s advice to go back to therapy. Or just “talk” to someone.

What would talking do? It wasn’t like it would soothe the sting of losing my dad.

Existing in this limbo with festering rage didn’t seem to be doing much for me either, but I’d continue to eke out a life the best I could.

“Yo! Nick. You told me to give you a heads up when it’s?—”

---