Page 27 of Fourth Wheel
He reaches for my hand, but I hold up my double-fisted beverages and feign an apologetic smile.
“How do you like school?” he asks, slowing his pace to match mine as I traverse the yard in wedges.
“It’s awesome,” I answer honestly. “I love my school and my program. I’ll definitely stay out there for law school, as long as I can get in.”
“You go to University of California, right?”
“I go to UC Berkeley,” I correct.
“Oh. But that’s still in California, right? So the parties must be pretty cool?”
I open my mouth to tell him that I haven’t attended a single college party since starting at Cal, then think better of it.
My major is in legal studies, and I’m double-minoring in gender and women’s studies and political science. I’ve consistently taken eighteen credit hours a semester since the second half of freshman year. I have neither any interest in nor any free time to party.
I’m not a hermit. I have a group of girlfriends I met my freshman year in the dorms, and we get together for drinks on Thursday nights. But I mostly hang out with my cohort for my major.
But none of that is worth explaining to Travis. He doesn’t actually care. And I don’t really want to share that part of my life with him.
“Yep.” I pop thePfor emphasis and pray he doesn’t realize I’m mocking him. “Awesome parties.”
“Well, let’s just hope this California girl still has a thing for this Ohio boy, because I’ve been looking forward to tonight all week.”
My eyes are involuntarily rolling as a scream catches our attention. Saved by the… what? Fight club?
There’s a group of guys circled up next to the far end of the barn. We’re close enough to hear them yelling and cussing, but too far away to make out what’s actually happening.
Travis looks at me with wide, questioning eyes. “I wonder if they’re taking bets.”
Typical. He would be the type to want to throw down dollar bills instead of fists.
“Let’s go see,” I relent.
We head toward the ruckus, and I finish off my vodka lemonade, discarding the cup in a pile of empties on a picnic table.
By the time we’re close enough to see anything, the circle’s closed in, making it hard to distinguish what’s actually happening. I’m not about to get close enough to catch an elbow, and I doubt Travis’s wallet could protect me if I got mixed up in their little game.
“Hold on,” I mutter as I backtrack a few feet. I grip the edge of the picnic table to keep myself steady in these stupid shoes, then carefully step onto the bench to get a better look.
The first thing I see is a guy flying backward as he takes a punch to the face. Fuck. That had to hurt. I grit my teeth as another guy winds up and hits the same man in the side, causing him to double over on impact.
I have to hand it to the human punching bag. I’m surprised he stayed on his feet after that one-two combo.
Travis tries to join me on the bench, but his body weight makes the whole picnic table teeter. I’m not about to go down with the ship—or be in a position where he conveniently has to stand behind me—so I step up onto the table portion.
Now that I’m higher up, I have a clear view into the circle of mayhem.
My heart jumps into my throat and my stomach plummets out my butt now that I can clearly see who just took those hits.
Shit.
The man who’s starred in every one of my R-rated fantasies over the last week is hunched over with both hands covering his head as some asshat beats on his back.
Dempsey.
Fuck.
Except as he stands up, I see that his hair’s longer. He looks different. Sure, he’s bloodied and beaten. But that’s not the man I thought it was. My gut twists in realization.
