The Deal (Off Campus #1)(22)

Needless to say, it's a depressing hour and a half.

After class, I'm dying to finish my conversation with Justin, but  Garrett has other ideas. Rather than let me linger-or rather, let me  make a beeline for Justin-he firmly takes my arm and helps me to my  feet. I steal a look at Justin, who walks briskly down the aisle as if  he's trying to catch up to us.

"Ignore him." Garrett's voice is barely audible as he guides me out the door.

"But I want to talk to him," I protest. "I'm pretty sure he was going to ask me out before."

Garrett just plows forward, his hand like an iron vise around my  forearm. I have to sprint to keep up with his long strides, and I'm  annoyed as hell when we emerge into the cool October air.

I'm tempted to look over my shoulder to see if Justin is behind us, but I  know Garrett will chastise me if I do, so I resist the urge.

"What the hell?" I demand, shaking his hand off me.

"You're supposed to be unattainable, remember? You're making it too easy for him."

Aggravation rumbles inside me. "The whole point is to get him to notice  me. Well, he's noticed me. Why can't I stop playing games now?"

"You've piqued his interest," Garrett says as we walk down the  cobblestone path toward the courtyard. "But if you want to keep his  interest, you need to make him work for it. Men like a challenge."

I want to argue with him, except I think he might be right.

"Just play it cool until Maxwell's party," he advises.

"Yes, sir," I grumble. "Oh, and by the way, I'm canceling on you  tonight. I'm exhausted from our marathon last night, and if I don't get  some sleep I'll be a zombie for the rest of the week."

Garrett doesn't look happy. "But we were going to start the hard stuff today."

"Tell you what, I'll email you a sample essay question, something  Tolbert would come up with. Give yourself two hours to write it, and  tomorrow we'll go over it together. That way I can get a sense of what  we need to work on."

"Fine," he concedes. "I've got practice in the morning and then class. Come over at noon?"





  

"Sure, but I've gotta be out of there by three for rehearsal."

"Cool. See you tomorrow then." He ruffles my hair as if I'm a five year old, then saunters off.

A wry smile tugs on my lips as I watch him go, his silver and black  hockey jacket plastering to his chest as he walks into the wind. I'm not  the only one looking-several females also swing their heads in his  direction, and I can practically see their panties melt away as he  flashes that rogue grin around.

Rolling my eyes, I head off in the opposite direction. I don't want to  be late for rehearsal, especially since Cass and I still haven't reached  an agreement about his ludicrous choir idea.

But when I walk into the music room, Cass is nowhere to be seen.

"Hey," I greet MJ, who's at the piano studying sheets of music.

Her blond head pops up, a strained smile on her face. "Oh, hey." She pauses. "Cass isn't coming today."

Annoyance erupts in my belly. "What do you mean he's not coming?"

"He texted me a few minutes ago. He has a migraine."

Yeah right. I know for a fact that a bunch of our classmates, Cass  included, went out for drinks last night, because one of them texted me  an invite when Garrett and I were watching Breaking Bad. It's easy to  put two and two together-Cass is hung-over and that's why he bailed.

"We can still rehearse, though," MJ says. This time her smile reaches  her eyes. "It might be nice to run through the song without stopping to  argue every five seconds."

"Yeah, except whatever we do today, he'll just veto tomorrow." I plop  into a chair near the piano and pin her down with a hard look. "The  choir idea is bullshit, MJ. You know it is."

She nods in defeat. "I know."

"Then why didn't you back me up?" I demand, unable to mask my resentment.

A blush appears on her pale cheeks. "I … " She gulps visibly. "Can you keep a secret?"

Shit. I don't like where this is going. "Sure … "

"Cass asked me out."

"Oh." I try not to sound surprised, but it's hard to hide it. MJ is a  sweet girl, and she's certainly not unattractive, but she's also the  last person I'd consider Cass Donovan's type.

As much as I loathe him, Cass is drop dead gorgeous. He's got the kind  of album-cover-friendly face that will sell a lot of records one day, no  doubt about that. And look, I'm not saying the plain girl can't get the  hot guy. I'm sure it happens all the time. But Cass is a pompous,  image-obsessed jerk. Someone that superficial would never be caught dead  with a mousy thing like Mary Jane, no matter how sweet she is.

"It's okay," she says with a laugh. "I know you're surprised. I was too.  He asked me before rehearsal that day." She sighs. "You know, the choir  day."

Annnnd all the puzzle pieces swiftly slide together. I know exactly what  Cass is up to, and it takes some serious effort to swallow my anger.  It's one thing to coax MJ into backing him up during our fights, it's  another to lead the poor girl on.

But what am I supposed to say to her? He only asked you out so you'd support all his crazy ideas for the showcase?

I refuse to be an asshole, so I paste on the most polite smile I can muster and ask, "Do you want to go out with him?"

Her cheeks go even redder, and then she nods.

"Really?" I say skeptically. "But he's such a diva. Like, giving Mariah Carey a run for her money diva. You know that, right?"

"I know." She looks embarrassed now. "But that's only because he's so  passionate about singing. He's actually a nice guy when he wants to be."

When he wants to be? She says it like it's the endorsement of the year,  but the way I see it, people should be nice because they are, not  because it's a calculated move on their part.

But I keep that opinion to myself, too.

I adopt a tactful tone. "Are you afraid that if you disagree with his ideas, he'll renege on the date?"

She winces. "It sounds pathetic when you phrase it like that."

Um, how else does she want me to phrase it?

"I just don't want to make any waves, you know?" she mumbles, looking uncomfortable.

No, I don't know. At all.

"This is your song, MJ. And you shouldn't have to censor your opinions  just to make Cass happy. If you hate the choir idea as much as I do,  then tell him. Trust me, men appreciate a woman who speaks her mind."

Yet even as I say the words, I know Mary Jane Harper is not that woman.  She's shy and awkward and spends most of her time hiding behind a piano  or curled up in her dorm room writing love songs about boys who don't  return the sentiment.





  

Oh shit. Something suddenly occurs to me. Is our song about Cass?

I'm icked out at the thought that the emotional lyrics I've been singing for months might actually be about a guy I loathe.

"I don't hate the choir idea," she hedges. "I don't love it, either, but I don't think it's terrible."

And in that moment, I know without a doubt there's going to be a  three-tiered fucking choir standing behind Cass and me at the winter  showcase.





13

Garrett


I'M WORKING AT the kitchen counter tonight, frustrated as fuck as I read  over the practice essay Hannah "graded" for me earlier. She left my  house with orders for me to redo the paper, but I'm having a tough time  with it. The answer is simple, damn it-if someone commands you to murder  millions of people, you say no thanks, I'll pass. Except going by the  criteria laid out in this bullshit theory, there are pros and cons for  both sides, and I can't wrap my head around it. I guess I suck at  putting myself in someone else's shoes, and that's kind of  disheartening.

"Question," I announce as Tuck wanders into the kitchen.

"Answer," he replies instantly.

"I haven't asked the question yet, asshole."

Grinning, he washes his hands at the sink and then ties a neon pink  apron around his waist. Logan, Dean and I gave him the frilly  monstrosity as a joke for his birthday, on the argument that if he was  going to be our mother hen, he might as well look the part. Tucker  countered by insisting he's masculine enough to pull off any item of  clothing we throw his way, and now he wears the damn thing like a badge  of macho honor.

"Okay, I'll bite," he says as he heads to the fridge. "What's the question?"

"All right, so you're a Nazi-"

"Fuck that," he interjects.

"Let me finish, will ya? You're a Nazi, and Hitler has just ordered you  to commit an act that goes against everything you believe in. Do you  say, cool beans, boss, I'll kill all these people for you, or do you say  fuck off, and risk getting killed yourself?"

"I tell him to fuck off." Tuck pauses. "Actually, no. I put a bullet in his head. Problem solved."

I groan. "I know, right? But this asshole-" I point to the book on the  counter "-believes that government exists for a reason, and citizens  need to trust their leader and obey his orders for the good of the  society. So in theory, there's an argument to be made for genocide."