Page 81 of Manhattan Tormentor

When I’m finally alone, I sack out on the couch, grinning like an idiot. I’m so fucking excited for my college life. To get stuck into my NYU classes. My engineer goals haven’t changed, they only veered off course a little.

Hooking up my phone, I answer a text from Raene first, she’s bragging about finally having the house all to herself. Then I call Thatcher.

“If you’re not busy stalking Camilla Dragna, get your ass over here, and bring beer.”

Pizza, beer and gaming. It’s how I spend the next week acclimatizing. I need a little fun before the hard work begins. Though, I’m kind of a freak because I can’t wait for classes.

The day after. “The guy at the counter wanted to know if I was your boyfriend.” Thatcher informs as he plonks an ice coffee in front of me, before taking his seat. On instinct, I glance over to see a dark-haired guy looking my way.

“I bet he’s DTF.”

He could be down to fuck or down to fucking tango, and I still wouldn’t be interested. Not a flicker anywhere in my body as I check him out.

Finn fucking Maverick has ruined me for any future dating.

“I told him we were serious, but if he wanted to fight me in a dual for you, I was fine with that.”

I snort at Thatcher’s idiot grin.

“Thanks, sweetheart, when should we tell our parents we’re getting married?”

Thatcher cackles and adjusts the chunky red scarf around his neck. Along with the Versace jeans and Tom Ford jacket he’s also wearing, he’s such a fashion plate. The result of going with his famous model and now designer father all over the world since he was born. “Wouldn’t that be some incestuous shit right there, they’d freak out.” He means because back in the stone ages, his former model father dated mine. He found that nugget out when we were kids and he was going through his dad’s photo albums. Weirder still that our families are close. I’ve never asked if it is a keys in a bowl situation when they get together. No son needs that freaky picture in his head.

“The guy is lapping you up, Sage, you’re not gonna talk to him?”

“It would be a waste of my time because I’m not interested in him.”

“College is for wasting time with stupid hook-ups.”

“Tell me how many college hook-ups you’re having.”

He half-grins and I already know the answer. “I’m being selective.”

“Sure, bud. So you’re not waiting for Camilla Dragna to notice you.” Thatcher is gone for that woman and she doesn’t know he exists.

“I’m playing the long game is all,” he shrugs. I’ve met no one as confident as Thatcher, and that includes my big ego brothers. If anyone gets the girl, it will be him.

Emailing my professor, I half-listen as Thatcher tells me about the textile and sketching classes he’s taking. He wants to be a fashion designer, so he’s aiming for a bachelor’s degree in visual arts. He’s interned with his dad’s clothing company for the past three summers.

“Ugh, look alive, asshat alert.” He says in a chilled voice. I look up in time to see Bates Samson striding throughCafé Bean. In a coffee shop full of people, his eyes clock me first. Surprise eases out into something I can’t read. I’m unbothered by his presence. Though seeing him automatically puts Finn into the forefront of my mind. And I’ve done all I can these past months to forget him.

I worried even going to NYU, knowing he’s there too. But I refuse to change my life.

Our classes are probably in different ends of the building, chances of seeing him are slim.

It’s hard not to notice Bates across the room as he seats with a bunch of other people. My stomach is in knots hoping the next person through the door isn’t Finn.

What we had is over and has been for a while.

He never came to see me in the hospital, didn’t call me when I was home.

I only remember parts of the car accident. It was Thatcher and Raene who filled in the blanks and told me how Finn took charge that night.

But he never came to see me, my importance in his life made clear after that.

“I gotta split if I want to be early handing in my assignment. Why the hell can’t I email them like normal people? The Professor is a relic who hasn’t gotten over stone and chisel being a thing of the past.” Thatcher complains, shoving books into his messenger bag. “Don’t forget the party this weekend.”

I’ve already forgotten it, but nod anyway. The party scene will never be something I’m into. Thatcher knows me too well when he adds, “I’m texting you the details. Don’t delete it.”

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