let those words sink in. Let them freak me out. I choose not to. Instead, I shove his words away and let my mouth move.
“Psshhh! Is that a joke?” An awkward laugh tumbles out of my mouth, and my head shakes frantically, like I’m starring in a reproduction of The Exorcist. “Me? Dealing drugs? I’d get kicked out of Triple Gam so fast my head would spin! Drugs are for losers.”
I shut my mouth and reel a little. For losers? God, I’m such an idiot! I loosen my shoulders and try to pull myself out of this. “Look, Kellan—Kellar? Walsh. I know your last name is Walsh, so that’s what I’m calling you. Walsh, I understand your stance on drugs. I’ve read your columns in The Bobcat.”
He writes a monthly column for the student newspaper. I hate his politics, which is one of the reasons I sometimes read his weekly column in the student paper—just to wave my fist at him. The other: his mug shot. It’s 2D amazingness.
He smirks, like he knows what I’m thinking.
“Yeah. I know how straight-laced you are. Except when you’re abducting my friends from bars.”
His brows shoot up. Every one of his features, from his flaring nostrils to his electric blue eyes, screams warning.
“Not abducting,” I quickly correct. “I mean... I guess they go with you.” My gaze, trained on his face, loses its footing and flits down over his chest. I jerk it back up.
“Here’s the thing, Kellan: It’s pretty shitty to accuse a random student of doing something that could get her expelled. Do you have some evidence you’d like to show me? Or are you just going on hearsay? And who made you the—”
He takes a smooth step toward me, and his nearness makes my legs forget their mission. Move, Cleo, move! But I’m too late. His hand has closed around the straps of my bag.
I try to side-step him, but his grip is strong. He snatches it off my shoulder.
“No!”
I lunge for him, but he thrusts the bag up over his head. As I jump up and down, cursing him and hitting his muscular arms and chest, the motherfucker has the nerve to laugh at me.
It’s a low laugh, the kind of laugh that settles in between your legs in other circumstances.
Not right now because he’s digging through my bag! He’s holding up a Mason jar! MotherFUCK! He frowns at it. This one has a light blue top. It’s for a Tri Gam.
His long arm holds it way above my reach and shakes it slightly.
“What’s in here?”
“GIVE IT BACK, right now! It’s mine!” I’m straight-up yelling, but he doesn’t even spare me a glance.
He shakes the jar again, and the round, half-dollar-sized buds inside the baggie bump against the glass. I clench my teeth.
He brings the jar down, and I make a grab for it. Instead of getting it, I get a fistful of his muscular shoulder. He laughs again.
“Cleo... Calm down.” He opens the lid and I freeze. My heart stops. My blood runs cold. “I assume you have an explanation for this... what do the kids call it? Weed?”
I drag a deep breath into my lungs. I blink frantically, frowning. Then I widen my eyes. Innocence. “Yes. Of course I do. It isn’t weed.” The words just roll out. Like a boulder someone pushed off a hill, once I’ve got my story moving, there’s no stopping me.
He arches a brow, and I grab the Mason jar from him. I hold it out in front of me and shake my head. “This isn’t weed.”
Arched brows. Pursed lips. “No?”
I shake the jar, causing the heady-sour scent of marijuana to waft up into my face. “You see... there’s actually a story here. An impressive story, about this... stuff. Not a story for the newspaper kind of story,” I babble. “More a fun times around the campfire sort of story. But trust me, this is definitely not weed.”
“No?”
“Nope.” I grin maniacally and open the baggie. I pinch off a piece of one of the buds with sweaty, trembling fingertips and hold it over my head, as if it’s a prize. “I made it in organic chemistry lab. It’s a project. That’s my major.” It’s not, but how would he know? “To catch criminals. It looks like marijuana, and it smells like marijuana...” I seal the baggie. Toss it up and catch it. “But it’s not. You want to experience my product in a hands-on way?”