Stoking the Fire (Salus Security #1) - Teodora Kostova Page 0,6
company is writing my assignments for me. He’s mentioned it often enough. What he doesn’t know is that English is, and always has been, my favorite subject and the only subject I’m actually good at.
My phone vibrates again. I walk inside the building, hurrying down the corridor to the lecture hall, removing my gloves, hat and scarf and stuffing them in my bag. Opening the door, I can see that the class has already started. Everyone looks at me, including Professor Allsop who dramatically pauses in the middle of the sentence to glare at me.
“Sorry I’m late,” I mutter, then quickly make my way to the back of the hall, finding a space to sit. Thankfully, there’s nobody sitting nearby.
The professor continues speaking, deciding to ignore me completely. When he turns to the whiteboard and starts writing, I seize the opportunity to look at my phone.
Alec: Zach, tell me you’ll lock your door.
I roll my eyes and type back furiously.
Me: OMG I will. Can’t talk. In class.
I turn off my phone and finally start paying attention to the class.
I go off campus for lunch. My favorite deli is right around the corner, and they know how I like my pastrami on rye—lots of spicy mustard, an extra pickle, and coleslaw on the side. I’ve been coming here since the first day of college, and now nearly four years later, I still haven’t had enough of their sandwiches.
Angelo hands me my order with a wink. I take the tray, leave a generous tip in the jar at the register, and make my way to the back of the deli. It’s lunchtime, so it’s busy, but I spot an empty seat in the corner and lunge for it.
Before I dig into my food, I take a picture of the sandwich and post it online, tagging the deli. As I eat, I scroll through my notifications and messages. Alec hasn’t texted again, but he’s usually busy during the day. His private security company is really taking off, and his new client is Gordon Kade—an environmentalist and filmmaker currently causing quite a stir in Hollywood. In the past month, we’ve only seen each other in the evenings after he gets off work and comes to my place. I can count on one hand the nights we’ve spent apart.
I’m getting used to falling asleep in his arms. And that is dangerous. Because when he gets tired of me—which he will; everyone always does—and leaves, how am I supposed to deal with an empty bed again?
I shake my head, dispersing my anxious thoughts. I have other things to worry about right now, like exams, which start next week and for which I’m entirely unprepared.
The notifications keep coming, too fast for me to keep up. I scroll through the comments, feeling the usual scowl forming on my face. Everyone has an opinion on something about my personal life, and they always feel the need to express that opinion under every post I make, or—even worse—by sending me a DM. I don’t check my DMs, not anymore. But I can see the number growing every day, and I can bet my left ball that most of them are from trolls.
Zach Van Dorf slumming it in a deli.
Eww, meat, gross.
He only posts pics of his food because he has no friends in college.
How much did they pay you for that tag?
People are starving and multimillionaires post pictures of food. Nice.
Nobody fucking cares about you, Zach, fuck off.
I go out of the comments section, my hand clutching the phone tightly. The sandwich has lost its taste, and I leave what’s left of it and push it to the side.
The desire to prove them wrong floods every cell of my body. I do have friends. I have a gorgeous man in my bed every night. I have good grades. I do care about people less fortunate than me.
My heart rate speeds up and I can feel an anxiety attack building inside me. My hands shake as I collect my things, my feet carrying me out of the deli on an instinct. Outside, I take a few deep breaths, the crisp air filling my lungs. I can feel my pulse calming as I imagine the sounds of the waves and the warmth of the sand under my feet. I count backwards from twenty, my eyes focusing on the nearest lamp post as my anchor point.
The anxiety attack recedes, but the anger inside me doesn’t.