Page 17 of Deep End

“Hey,” I say when she picks up. There’s noise in the background. Hopefully she’s still on campus.

“Hey! Everything okay?”

“Kind of.” I think I can hear music. “The locker room door is doing that thing again, and I can’t find any staff.”

“Oh, shit. Hang on—I’ll . . . give me a second.”

What comes next is muffled, like her phone mic is pressed against the fabric of her shirt. I pick up a brief exchange between Pen and a deep, male voice, but only make out two words:someoneandelse.

“Vandy? Hey, could you . . . could you call Luk? Or any of the other captains? We all have keys.”

But isn’t Lukas with you?I almost ask. Before I can, everything clicks into place.

“Oh.” I pause for too long. “Sure, I will,” I say, with no intention of doing so. First of all, I don’t have his number. Secondly—fuckthat. My nonconsensual involvement in this relationship is maxed out. I’m not calling Lukas because Pen is—

“Actually, I’ll text him your number and tell him myself, okay?”

Shit. “I don’t want to bother him.”

“He’s the captain. Part of the job description. Just sit tight, he’ll be there ASAP.”

Thirty seconds later, I’m considering drowning myself in the pool, when my phone pings with a text from an unsaved number.

CHAPTER 9

UNKNOWN:On my way

I stare into the abyss of those three words—and boy, does the abyss stare back.

Does Lukas know why Pen won’t come herself?

I close my eyes and lean back against the wall, taking several deep breaths. This will be over soon. A pinch of discomfort is well worth the obscene amount of lo mein I’ll stuff inside my face once I’m home.

I can be brave. I can beanythingfor noodles.

Lukas arrives less than ten minutes later, damp hair falling on his forehead, a single pair of keys dangling from his index finger. He approaches with the relaxed, long-legged gait of someone who’s at peace with the universe. I stare at him staring at me, not quite sure how to make myself stop.

Notable fact of the day: he’s wearing shoes.

It occurs to me that one of us should probably say something—hiorhow are youoryou ruined my night, shithead—but for indecipherable reasons that don’t fully have to do with nerves or discomfort, neither of us speaks for too many seconds. Until:

“Want to get it out of the way?” he asks.

Rich. That’s what I’d call his voice. Rumbly, maybe. “Get what out of the way?”

“The elephant in the room.”

I swallow. Is he referring to . . . ?

“The one with the ball gag in his mouth.”

Laughter pops out of me. “Wow. Ball gags?”

He shrugs. “Not really my thing, actually.”

I stop myself from saying,Not mine, either, because—it’s not like hecares. Still, the knot of tension between us loosens. “Maybe the elephant’s just . . . blindfolded?”

He nods slowly. “And tied up.”

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