Knowing she’ll get right into it, I quickly open my backpack and pull out a notebook and a pen, flipping to the first empty page.
I’m right because almost as soon as she discards her things on the desk, she takes the podium. “Some of you may know me, but for those of you who don’t, my name is Dr. Judith Stevens, and I’ll be leading your Shakespeare Seminar. I hope you all read the requirements for this class. Over the course of the semester there will be three pop quizzes, and you’ll be required to hand in three critical essays, while the final essay will be a comparison of your work thus far. The final essay has to be handed in on our last class before spring break.”
Murmurs start spreading through the room.
“I know, a bit unusual, but I’ve found it works the best since it leaves you enough time to prepare for finals and forces you to work continuously. Attendance of this class is mandatory; every student has a right to miss two classes, but if you’re going to miss more you either have to let me know, or you’ll be missing ten percent of your grade. Are there any questions?” She makes a sweep of the room, but nobody says anything. “Good. My office is always open, and you can find my consulting hours on the department’s webpage. Now that’s settled, tell me, what do you know about William Shakespeare?”
A girl in the front row starts talking almost immediately, and it doesn’t take long for other people to join the discussion. I listen carefully, jotting down notes I think might come in handy. Two students from the class, the girl who was the first to speak up and another student, are just in the middle of discussing the question of Shakespeare’s authorship when from the corner of my eye, I see the door open. I turn around just as Nixon Cole slips inside, and apparently, I’m not the only one.
“Mister…” Dr. Stevens looks at Nixon with her brows raised in a silent question. He flashes her his cocky grin, the same grin I’ve come to realize he flashes to everything with a vagina in hopes of charming them off their feet. Sadly? In most cases, it actually works.
“Cole,” he supplies. “Nixon Cole.”
“Who does he think he is?” I’m not a person prone to fights, but something about Nixon Cole makes me want to slap him. It has from the very first moment I met him, and the need hasn’t diminished since then.
Heidi covers her mouth, but I can still hear her soft giggle. “He’s Nixon-fucking-Cole, babe.”
I roll my eyes at that and continue in a sarcastic whisper. “Cole. Nixon Cole.” What mockery. “He’s like a total attention whore, that’s what he is.”
“Well, Mr. Cole.” Dr. Stevens gives him a hard onceover. I wonder what she sees when she looks at him. A football player? A student? A jokester? A womanizer? The guy has too many faces to count. I wonder if any of them are actually real. “I’ll let you slide this time, but this is the only time. Next time, don’t even bother to come through this door, because I will throw you out on your ass.”
“Thank you.” He flashes another one of those smiles of his. “It won’t happen again.”
Not wanting to try his luck, he nods and starts walking toward a group of guys a few rows below the one I’m sitting in. They’re chuckling, at which he just shakes his head.
Figures.
Boys and their antics.
“Dude, what the hell?” one of them asks.
“He’s always late. Fuck, he’ll probably be late to his own funeral.”
They all burst into laughter at that, but not Nixon. I know because my eyes are still glued to him as I watch him walk toward his friends. That’s why I see him stop mid-step, almost like he’s frozen in time. His smile disappears, a grim shadow falling over his face. It lasts only a heartbeat if that, but I see it, then time restarts, and he’s back to his usual self.
Nixon punches the guy in the arm as he takes his seat. He opens his mouth to say something, but whatever it is is lost because the discussion continues.
But my mind isn’t on Shakespeare any longer.
It’s on Nixon Cole.
What the hell was that?
Chapter Two
NIXON
I’m a vision of a choir boy for the rest of the class, making sure to take notes and keep my mouth shut if I’m not asked a question. Hell, I even joined the discussion at one point and if it’s to be judged by the tip of her lips, Dr. Stevens liked what I had to say.
I’ve heard stories about her before, and they all ended with one conclusive point: do not get on her shit list. If you do, you’re never getting off of it. Basically, you’re screwed.
I’m just packing my shit to go and get something to eat before practice when I see a glimpse of dark hair followed by a whiff of cinnamon passing by me. Lifting my head, I scan the space. It takes me a moment, but I finally see her as she’s exiting the classroom.
Yasmin Hernandez.
She’s walking in a hurry—I don’t think I’ve ever seen that girl walk slower than in a half-run—with another girl I don’t recognize close by her side as they discuss something. Pulling the zipper on my bag closed, I throw it over my shoulder.
“Later,” I say to the guys and leave without waiting for an answer.
The hallways are buzzing with activity, completely opposite to the silent graveyard that it was when I was coming in. I keep my eyes on the crazy bun of curls on top of her head as I move through the students.
As soon as I get outside, the cold air blasts in my face, my body shivering from the impact.
“Yasmin, wait!” I call after her, but she doesn’t turn around.
I’m not sure why I expected a different outcome. Yasmin’s been nothing but hostile toward me since the moment Callie introduced us last semester, and she’s done her best to stay away from me. Not that we run in the same circles or anything.
Except now we have a class together, and our best friends are dating. Between the two, she won’t be able to avoid me any longer.
Yasmin and her friend speed-walk for a while, and then at the next crosswalk, Yasmin waves goodbye, and they go their separate ways. I should continue after the other girl since that’s the way to the cafeteria, but of course, I don’t do it.
“Yasmin!” As soon as she’s within reach I wrap my hand around her wrist and pull her to face me.
“What?” she asks, a scowl painted between her brows.
So she did hear me; she just chose to ignore me. I’m not sure if that makes me feel better or worse. What it does is intrigue me. I don’t remember the last time I had such a hard time getting somebody to just talk to me.
Her chocolate eyes throw daggers at me, but her body feels tense under my touch.
What exactly is her problem? We’ve barely been in each other’s company an hour, if that, combined. Callie insists that it’s not me, it’s all the jocks Yasmin has a problem with, but I’ve never heard her talk like that with Hayden, so I call bullshit on that theory. No, it has to be something else, and I’m determined to find out what.
“I thought it was you I saw in English class just a while ago,” I say, choosing to start this conversation on a light note.
“Well you sure as hell made sure everybody knew you were in class, Mr. Cole. Nixon Cole.” Yasmin puffs a wavy strand of hair out of her face.