Nobody disliked me. No one. I was always the mediator, the dudiest dude, friend to plants and animals, the chill one. No one in my entire fucking life had hated me before Rand Charles. Which triggered me, for some reason. It made me ache to punch his stupidly perfect, arrogant, GQ-cover-model face with its movie-star blue eyes and ridiculously coiffed blond hair.
There was a crunch and I looked down to see a breadstick crumbled to dust in my fist. I didn’t even remember grabbing it from the basket. Dobbs leaned over and spoke in my ear. “Breathe, Jax. You’re kinda purple? Don’t let that idiot get to you. He’s so not worth it.”
It’s not worth it. That’s the advice I’d given to others in so many situations. I never lost my temper, never. Except with Rand.
He smirked at me, a look that seemed to say, Not so cool now, are you, Jax? Like he got pleasure getting a rise out of me. Like somehow it showed me up as a fake or something.
I shouldn’t have said it. Really, I shouldn’t. But in extremis, man. “Glad we agree on something, Rand. Because the last person on Earth I’d want to do a road trip with is a pretentious, rich, vain, planet-polluting, entitled asswipe fracker like you. Shit stain on humanity, man.”
Rand’s face went blank and slowly bloomed with red. There was a stunned silence around the table. I realized I’d gone too far, just as Rand had minutes ago. Great. I’d taken back the who’s-the-asshole crown from him.
I almost threw my napkin down and left in shame. But one look at the sad faces around the table made me remember that this dinner wasn’t about me. And it wasn’t about fucking Rand Charles. It was about SMT becoming the goddamn college Quiz Bowl champions in the entire US of A. My frat brothers had worked their asses off for this, and they deserved more from me than a hissy fit, to quote my mom.
I forced a chuckle and looked at Sai. “Man, I don’t know if you guys noticed it when you were at the table, but that Smith guy from Harvard? The look on his face when Sai rang in on the Persia question was total shock. Like he meant to buzz in, but he hadn’t even gotten the message from his brain to his hand. He couldn’t believe you beat him to it.”
“Really?” Sai beamed.
“Oh hell yes,” I said.
“You definitely had Harvard running scared,” PJ put in. “There was a lot of this.” He mocked a wide-eyed stunned expression, his gaze darting around. And damn, it was accurate.
“They totally looked like that!” Bubba crowed.
Dobbs laughed. “Saweet! All hail the Sai-ber Attack. I hope they caught that on the tape. I hardly ever got to look at the other table. It went by so fast.”
“Funny how it can go so fast and you still feel every second when you’re in the middle of it.” Jesse shuddered. “I mean, I’m really proud to be on the team, and you all rock. But, fuck, I’m glad it’s over.”
“Aw, honey!” Dobbs leaned over to give Jesse’s cheek an exaggerated kiss, and everyone around the table told Jesse how great he’d done, being thrown into Quiz Bowl only in January, and talking about some of the science questions he’d gotten today.
After that, the conversation felt normal again. Happy. Which is what the guys deserved. I vowed not to look at Rand. All night. And if he spoke, I’d ignore it. I wouldn’t let him throw me off again.
My mom was big on practicing our “gratitudes.” And, sure, I was grateful for the win. I was grateful for my SMT housemates. I really did love the fuckers. Every one of them. But right then, I couldn’t think of anything in the world I was more grateful for than the fact that I was graduating from UW Madison in two weeks.
And then I’d never have to set eyes on Rand Charles again.
Chapter Three
Rand
Damn. I loved driving. Everything in me unclenched and breathed out. Philadelphia was three hours behind me and all around were spring-green rolling hills broken up by stands of newly leafed trees, blossoms, and an occasional view of rushing water. My idea of a good time. No one asking my advice or expecting anything of me. I’d be in heaven if I just could get that damned litany out of my head.
…pretentious, rich, vain, planet-polluting, entitled, asswipe fracker.
Just because I hated Jax didn’t mean he was entirely wrong. At least about the planet-polluting fracker part. Yes, I might be a barely twenty-two-year-old who’d added a minor in environmental science to my business degree in the hopes of helping my father’s company make better choices in the future, but at the moment, I was the son of one of America’s most successful independent energy entrepreneurs, and my father had big plans for me. I didn’t fight against them that hard because I knew I could have more influence on the inside. My father, who barely got out of high school, wanted me to get a prestigious MBA—the best credentials his money could buy. I was good with that. The environmental sciences minor was for me. And for American Eagle’s future, whether my dad liked it or not.
But what really bothered me about what Jax had said was the fact that he knew. I didn’t go around campus talking about American Eagle or my place in it. Not that I was ashamed of it, but it’d either sound like I was bragging about our wealth—or I’d spend half my time arguing with people who had strong opinions about fracking and oil, and there was no way to win that debate. Especially considering that my father and I didn’t even agree on the subject, and I didn’t want to appear to be a turncoat. But somehow, Jax knew. The moment he’d said that at the pizza place, I’d been shocked, and yes, I’d felt shame. Fuck that. It wasn’t that simple, particularly in my life, and anyone who said otherwise didn’t know what they were talking about.
I rolled down the window and took a deep breath of fresh air. There was a tang of cowshit somewhere in the vicinity and a wisp of apple blossoms. In other words: perfect. The countryside was so serene, I’d happily have pulled over, walked into the woods, and just kept going. But you couldn’t hide in the country and keep the sharks from eating you. You had to get in there and swim with them if you wanted to make the world less crappy, and I was about to plunge into the shark tank.
Gradually, I started seeing houses and structures that indicated I was approaching Williamsport, a small town, but still the largest metropolis near the oil shale fields in Pennsylvania. The state had slipped pretty far down on my father’s company’s list of profitable sites, the decline in the industry hitting it hard, but my dad had a soft spot for Pennsylvania since it was among his earliest investments. Plus, he’d been pretty successful in avoiding environmental incidents, so sick kids were a big deal. One of his policies was he always put himself in front of the press for good news or bad, not relegating it to minions, and I admired that.
Press vans parked at the curb in front of the old 1920s downtown hotel where my dad stayed in Williamsport, and picketers with signs saying Down with Fracking and Fuck American Eagle, a reference to my father’s company American Eagle Energy, not some cross-species hanky-panky, marched on the sidewalks. Rather than cut through them to drive up to the valet, I skirted around the hotel and pulled into the self-parking lot. Less chance I’d be seen.
I managed to get out of my car, grab my overnight case and my suit in its bag, walk into the hotel, and approach the elevators, but a huge mass of reporters and television cameramen were gathered near the doors. I stopped, stepped behind a potted palm, and glanced around for the stairs. When I spotted the Exit sign, I sighed. Eleven flights. Oh well, morning exercise. I slipped into the old stairwell and began to trot. Somewhere around floor ten, I slowed to a walk to catch my breath.