“Honestly, I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Why didn’t you say anything to the dean?”
“I was about to, but it seemed like you didn’t want her involved. I won’t tell her what I saw if you don’t want me to.”
“That’s weirdly thoughtful of you,” I say. “Why so chivalrous?”
He shrugs and smiles. “It’s what I would want. Besides, I’d hate to be on your bad side. It looked like you were on the verge of going for her jugular.”
“That is possibly true,” I say with a half smile. “So, yeah, if you could keep what you saw between us, I’d be grateful.”
“Grateful enough to clue me in?”
I study his face, trying to make out the reason for his interest. Simple curiosity? Concern for my, or his, safety? Something else? I do see concern, but I’m more worried about the curiosity.
“It’s too dangerous.”
Wait, what did I just say? Crap! I meant to say “it’s nothing” or “just a prank” or anything else that would put him off. Not “it’s freaking dangerous and you should definitely be interested now.” Is some errant part of my psycho-girl psyche trying to show off for him? Without permission? I mentally smack that part of me back in line. Unfortunately, it’s not in time to avoid piquing Tyler’s curiosity even more.
“Really?” he says. Yep, definitely more interested. “Well, if it’s too dangerous for me, it’s certainly too dangerous for you.”
I glare at him, though it’s hardly his fault that some ridiculous pubescent impulse hijacked my mouth.
“Maybe I should tell the dean,” he says. His expression reads as cagey. He might not have any intention of telling the dean, but then he steps back a pace or two like he’s going to make good on his threat.
“Wait,” I say, and then change my mind. “Maybe I don’t care that much if you tell the dean.”
“If that were true, you wouldn’t have asked me to wait.”
Ugh, what is wrong with me today? Maybe the rat spooked me more than I thought. Or it’s hormones. Stupid fear-triggered hormones! My dad’s out there. And there are dead rats in my locker. I do not want a rookie, cute or otherwise, underfoot. But the last thing I need is to have the dean breathing down my neck.
“Look, I appreciate your concern, Tyler, but I can handle it.”
He bends his head closer to mine. “You shouldn’t have to. At least, not without help.”
There’s something unreadable in Tyler’s expression, which bugs me. People are generally open books. You can tell what their motivations are in a single exchange, if you know what to listen for. That said, I’m used to being the pursuer, not the target.
“Do you even know my name?” I ask.
“What does that have to do with accepting my help?”
“It has to do with me trying to figure you out. Why are you so insistent on helping me?”
He doesn’t answer right away, but it’s not because he doesn’t have an answer. I can see it there, hovering just behind his eyes.
“Honestly?”
“Yes, please.”
“This is going to sound kind of strange, but …” He pauses, and … blushes? Really? There’s only a hint of pink, but it’s definitely there, on his perfectly sculpted cheekbones. “You didn’t scream.”
“I didn’t scream?”
“When you saw the rat.”
I struggle and fail to come up with why this is a compelling reason to want to help me. Not just want to, but really want to. Enough that he’s blackmailing me for the privilege.
My doubt must be evident on my face, because he continues his explanation. “There’s something about you. Something different.” His eyes linger on mine too long. “I want to find out what it is.”
Okay, that’s unusual. As is the way my heartbeat stumbles when he says it.
“I don’t need help,” I say, and swallow. It’s a losing battle at this point, but so was the Alamo.
“Not even from someone who can potentially ID the guy?”
“You haven’t given me any reason to trust you,” I say.
“I haven’t given you any reason not to, have I?” he says.
I remain skeptical, but he does have a point.
“Besides,” he says, softening his tone. “If something like that happened to my sister and some guy could help her out and didn’t, I’d have a problem with that.”
And my insides have officially melted. For those of you keeping score at home, that’s game, set, and match to Tyler. My inner grifter throws her hands up in disgust.
“What exactly did you have in mind?”
“Meet me tomorrow at the Ballou? I can ask my wide receiver to sketch the guy in the black coat. His senior project is figure drawing.”
“What time?” I ask.
“Four?”
I nod reluctantly. His smile widens, flashing his blindingly white teeth. The late bell rings and students scramble into classrooms.
“See you tomorrow, then,” he says with a wink. “Julep.”
“It’s time to call the cops.”
Around five o’clock the Ballou rapidly loses patronage. St. Aggie’s folks have, for the most part, all shuffled home for dinner and family game night and the perpetual gloating that comes with the extremities of privilege. No one else in the surrounding community seems to need overpriced, froufrou stimulants, or at least, not of the coffee variety. My own coffee was legitimately purchased this time—by Sam, but it counts.
“So you said.” I roll my eyes at Sam over his double-chocolate-hold-the-whip mocha. “But we both know why I’m not going to. It was just a rat, Sam.”
“Yeah, now. But what happens when you ignore the warning? You have to assume the worst.”
“Whoever’s behind the redecorating of my apartment can’t possibly know about my dad’s note.” I lower my voice in the unlikely event someone is around to hear us. My new friend Barista Mike is the nearest human, but he’s wiping down the bar and seems lost in his own thoughts.
Sam leans forward, lowering his voice to match mine. “They apparently don’t need to know about it to think you have something they want.”
“What if they’re just trying to keep me quiet rather than trying to get something from me?”
“It doesn’t matter why they’re harassing you. It just needs to stop.”
“It does matter if I intend to stop them myself. If I can figure out what they want, I might be able to find out who they are.”
“Find out who who is?” Heather Stratton slides into the seat between me and Sam at the small wooden table. “Are you talking about the rat thing? Paula filled me in. She said Rachelle had a fit.”
Rachelle must have been the one who screamed. Figures. She’s always such a drama queen.
“It was more of a surprised squeak,” I say, taking a sip of my coffee. Bleh—hazelnut. Barista Mike is still on the steep syrups learning curve, apparently.
“Do you know who did it?” she asks in full gossip mode.
It’s clear she thinks our business relationship gives her a backstage pass to Team Julep, which would be annoying if I actually knew anything. Since I don’t, it’s merely amusing.