Page 32 of Shake You

“What the fuck is this?”

Apart from the baritone boom of his voice, the normally deafeningly loud and animated room was eerily still and silent. So much so that you could have heard an ant fart, as everyone watched on in rapt silence, waiting for the drama to unfold. I had a momentary lapse in confidence at my very public move in confronting Bear, but clearly it was too late for that. I couldn’t just yell out “nothing to see here” and shuffle away. Once I’d started, I needed to commit.

“It’s a ream of blank paper.” I was pretty sure that wasn’t what he meant, so I made sure to make my tone as patronizing as possible.

“What I meant was, why did you just throw it at me?”

“I didn’t throw it, I dropped it. Why? It’s symbolic. Of what? Well, funny you should ask.” He hadn’t, but I thought I’d save him the time and effort and cut to the chase. “It represents the article I was working on looking into the inner workings of the supposedly defunct, but actually not at all so, Cygnus Dei. This is what remains of it on my computer. Now, you wouldn’t happen to know anything about this confusing and disturbing turn of events, would you, Mr. Hamilton?” I spat his name out as though it was coated in fiery hot chilies, and setting my tongue alight.

“No I wouldn’t, but even if I did, Ms. St George”—his voice was sharp as a knife—“I’ll be damned if I would discuss it here with every Tom, Dick and Shirley looking on. And for that matter, I’m not discussing anything here with you.”

He cast a sideward glance at his table mates—a guy I knew to be Drew Cavanagh, Xavier Cross’s best friend, and two other guys I didn’t recognize, but judging by the abject horror on their faces, I was willing to bet were also members of Cygnus Dei. Drew nodded almost imperceptibly, and Bear began striding across the cafeteria.

I stood stunned in place for a moment, struck by the enormity of what I’d just done. For someone who normally avoided confrontation and anything that would draw any kind of attention my way—blending in unseen was a great skill to have as a journalist—I actually couldn’t believe that I’d willingly made myself the object of three hundred people’s curious stares, and, more than likely, campus gossip for some time to come. I hadn’t just stepped outside of my comfort zone, I’d thrown myself out of my comfort plane without a parachute.

So much for quietly continuing to pull the article together and not letting the bastards know they were getting to me. Standing in the hall at that moment, I began to wonder if I was losing my damned mind.

Finally, it was Drew’s booming voice that kicked me out of my reverie. “What the fuck are you goons all looking at? Mind your own business; show’s over folks.”

It took a few micro moments, but everybody reluctantly turned away from the spectacle I’d created and got back to whatever it was they’d been doing before my outburst. Or at least pretended to. Their hushed and tentative tones suggested that they were either still keeping an ear out for further developments, or they were talking about what had just happened. More than likely, most were doing a combination of both.

I hurried out of the room, in urgent and desperate need of fresh air. I suddenly felt like the walls and roof were coming in on me, and I was struggling to fill my lungs properly. Whatever crazy combination of rage and adrenaline had carried me through to that point had most definitely worn off, and I was imploding. I had to run the last few feet of the massive room, convinced I was about to vomit, or black out, or do something equally humiliating. I needed fresh air. Stat.

I burst through the double doors of the cafeteria and out into the atrium, barely making it fully outside before I doubled over, hands on knees, desperately sucking in whatever short, shallow breaths I could muster.

“What the fuck was that?” His voice had me jumping a foot in the air.

“Jesus! You scared the holy crap out of me.”

“Why? It’s not like you didn’t know I was in there. You just got done with making an epic public spectacle of me. Did you think I was just going to go about my day and we’d never speak of it again?” He was as angry as I’d ever seen anyone: pacing the atrium with his hands balled, and a vein throbbing at his temple. He was a big guy as it was, but now he seemed to have grown to twice his usual size, and the anger gave a hard edge to his beautiful features that I hadn’t noticed before. “Seriously, what the fuck were you even thinking?”

It was a legitimate question, and one to which I genuinely wasn’t sure I knew the answer. Not that I was going to let him know that.

“I was thinking that I was sick of being bullied. The photo, the feather, and now my files. What next, a horse head in my fucking bed? I won’t be intimidated. I won’t let your actions shake me. In fact, the more you assholes try to dissuade me, the more I’ll know that there’s a story here that needs to be told, and that I’m the right person to tell it. I should thank you really—this is all great training for my career as an investigative journalist.” I still felt winded, stopping my rant momentarily to draw in another stunted breath.

“It’s not easy—quite the contrary, in fact. It’s hard, sometimes it’s downright dangerous, life-threatening even, but they say nothing in life that’s worth doing is easy. The hardest stories are the ones that most need to be told. The world doesn’t need another article about what purse the celebutante du jour is currently carrying.”

I watched him as he observed me. He’d stopped pacing, and was staring at me quizzically, a deep frown furrowing his brow. He took two giant strides toward me, easily closing the gap between us.

“What did you just say?” He towered over me as he spoke. Though he pretty much towered over everybody except a few of his teammates, so I guessed he was used to being the big imposing giant. I didn’t like the feeling of being dwarfed by him, though. It felt way too easy for him to crush me physically, just like he and his friends were trying to crush me in other ways. I wasn’t scared exactly, or at least that’s what I told myself, and wanted him to believe. I was definitely intimidated by the sheer scale of him, and I was sure that he knew he had that effect on people—surely he didn’t walk around that ridiculously good looking, and physically perfect, and not know he was an intimidating figure, both on and off the field.

“That I’m sick of being bullied?”

“No, after that?”

“I won’t be dissuaded?”

“No before that. What photo?”

“The Polaroid you left in my room to warn me off. Where all this creepy stalky shit started. Surely you can remember that long ago, or is your short-term memory shot to pieces? Maybe you’ve taken too many jolts to the head playing ball, and disturbed too much of the gray matter up there to retain such simple information?” I stretched up and tapped at his forehead as I spoke.

Big mistake. Huge.

I’d more than once been surprised by how on point his reflexes were, especially for a guy of his size. This was another one of those times. He snatched at my hand, closing his fingers around mine like a Venus flytrap around its prey.

“Don’t touch me.” Where the fuck did he get off with that hypocrisy?

“Ouch that hurts.” I squirmed in his grasp like a grade schooler.

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