Page 19 of Don’t Say You’re Sorry (Hawthorne University #2)

ADAM

E aston’s going to be late for class if he doesn’t come down soon. Chewing my lip, I glance at the clock on the kitchen wall again. The others left half an hour ago. Carter got a lift with Nate and Xavi, who were going to drop him off at the bar where he left his car last night.

Just as I’m about to go get Easton from upstairs, he walks into the kitchen, refusing to look at me as he grabs an apple from the fruit bowl. The lack of pep in his step and the dark circles under his eyes tell me he got about as much sleep as I did last night.

“You still giving me a ride?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say, holding out the to-go cup of coffee I made for him. “Here.”

He glances at the cup, but still won’t meet my eyes as he takes it, careful not to touch my fingers with his. “Thanks,” he mutters. “Let’s go.”

He walks out of the kitchen and turns left—the opposite way to the front door.

“Where are you going?” I call.

“The garage is this way.”

Confused, I follow him through the house and into the garage.

He flicks the lights on, and I freeze mid-step, my eyes widening at the lone car on the left.

“Is that…?” It’s my car. The one Michael was supposed to sell after I moved to London.

He did sell it. He told me so. He sent me the money so I could buy a new one. “Did you buy my car back?” I choke out.

The black Audi R8 our parents bought me for my birthday four years ago idles. He fiddles with something in the pocket of his gray hoodie. After a moment, he takes the key out, tossing it to me before ducking his head and heading for the passenger side.

I don’t move. Running my thumb over the jagged edge of the key, I glance down, a laugh sputtering out of me when I see the keyring it’s attached to. A hot dog.

“Are you gonna unlock it or…?”

I shake my head, my forehead scrunching as my eyes water. “Easton…”

“It’s just a fucking car, Adam. Don’t make something out of nothing.”

It’s not just a car. A lot of the moments from the best year of my life were spent in this car. We had our first kiss in this car. We laughed, fought, joked, fucked, ate, watched movies at the drive-in… The memories in this car are priceless to me.

Is that why he bought it?

“Adam,” he says.

I hit the button on the key, the sound of the car unlocking bouncing off the walls and echoing through the silence. He opens the passenger door and climbs inside. My feet are still frozen, refusing to move.

It’s not until he opens the door and says, “Get in or I’ll find my own way there,” that I finally walk around to the driver’s side and climb in next to him.

Wordlessly, I start the car, my fingers curling around the steering wheel as the engine purrs to life. It smells like it’s been cleaned recently. This week? Did he get it ready for me while I was in London, knowing I’d be back? I resist the urge to ask.

“How the hell did you afford this?”

“I didn’t. My dad did,” he says numbly. “I worked for him the summer you left as payment.”

God. Why would he do that for me after what I did?

Again, I don’t ask. Instead, I whisper, “I love this car.”

“I know.”

“Thank you,” I say. “I’ll pay you back.”

He turns his head to look out the window. “Forget it.”

“You all right?” I ask, glancing at Easton every few seconds as I drive him to campus. “E?”

“Yeah.” He won’t look at me again. “Why?”

“I don’t know. You seem…” Quiet. Distant. Sad.

It doesn’t escape me that he’s been acting like this since last night. Since he came on my dick and told me I’m still the only guy he’s ever been with.

He plays the happy-go-lucky guy well, but underneath all those smirks and laughs and taunts, he’s broken. He’s broken because I broke him.

When I pull up next to his car in the car park, he doesn’t move or say anything. He just stares straight ahead through the windscreen, a vacant look in his blue eyes.

Just as I’m about to ask if he wants to talk it out, vent about me to me, he takes a breath, plasters on a cocky grin, and opens the door.

“Thanks for the ride, little brother. Have fun at your interview later.” He climbs out of the car and takes a couple steps, then comes back, lowering his head to look at me through the open window.

“But not too much fun,” he warns, playfully narrowing his eyes before he walks away.

I don’t move a muscle until he disappears through the main doors.

Mick is not at all what I expected. He sounded older on the phone, but he looks about twenty-five.

Six-two, six-three, maybe. Dirty blond. Nice jaw.

Hot as fuck. The way his hard gaze keeps flicking up at me from my résumé—held in the middle of his empty club—makes me shift on my feet, my cheeks heating under the low lights.

“I know it’s a little…bare,” I say awkwardly. “I’m an artist. I’ve been working for myself for the last few years. I can give you a great reference though.”

He doesn’t laugh. “Do you have any bartending experience?”

“No, but I know my way around a bar.”

“Oh, really? What’s in a Tom Collins?”

“Gin.”

“…and?”

Fuck . “Uh, lemon and club soda.”

“Good guess,” he deadpans. “You forgot the syrup.”

I shrug, giving him my best smile. “Three out of four isn’t bad, is it?”

He sighs. “You got any weird tattoos or scars I should know about?”

I refrain from making a face at him, confused as to why he’d need to know that. “I have a tattoo here.” I tap my chest with my finger. “It’s not weird.”

He tips his chin at my shirt. “Let me see it.”

I look around. What the fuck kind of interview is this?

He barely said two words to me when I came in here and asked for Mick.

He walked over, confirmed my name, gave my form a quick once-over, and took my ID and the résumé I was holding to read it.

He didn’t show me to his office, instead choosing to conduct this interview in the middle of the dance floor. And now this.

Still, I want this job, and Frankie knows Mick, so I’m sure he’s not that much of a creep. Which is why, after hesitating for a moment, I decide to roll with it and lift my shirt up to my neck.

Once again, he gives my body a quick once-over, then nods. “Sunshine,” he says as I lower my shirt. “One of Frankie’s boys has a tattoo just like that. Is it the mouthy one or the cute one?”

I clench my jaw. “The cute one.”

“Is he yours?”

Yes.

I press my lips together, unsure how to answer. I can’t say yes, but I’m not telling him no.

“He’s my…stepbrother.”

Mick cocks his head at me. “Okay then. Can you dance?”

“I…” Jesus. Why? “Define dance.”

He gives me an unimpressed look. “Move your hips and look hot.”

“Oh. Um. Sure.” If he asks me for a demonstration, I’m leaving.

He stares at me for a long moment before he says, “Okay, look. I’m a boy down and short on time, so I’m gonna be straight with you.

I like Frankie, I like the way you look, and I like your accent, which is the only reason I’m still standing here talking to you.

Work a shift for me tonight, and if you don’t completely fuck it up, I’ll give you the job. ”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Tonight…?” Meaning I won’t be able to go to Easton’s game.

“Is that a problem?”

I try to hide my disappointment as I shake my head. “No.”

“Good. Go see Megan over there.” He tips his chin at the dark-haired girl setting up for the night behind the bar. “She’s your supervisor.”

“Oh, that’s just what I need,” Megan says dryly, not even bothering to look up from her task. “Fresh meat.”

“Don’t scare him off, Megan. I like this one.”

“Yeah, I bet you do,” she says under her breath as Mick walks away.

Two hours later, the club is open and filled with people, the multicolored strobe lights flashing in time with the beat of the music.

It’s taking me some time to get used to trying to learn how to do something new when I can barely hear myself think, but I’m getting there.

I’ve only fumbled one bottle of whiskey so far, and I managed to catch it before it smashed, so I’m considering that a win.

I don’t think I’m as incompetent as Megan thought I would be because her hostile energy from a couple hours ago has morphed into something more pleasant.

She’s even smiled at me a couple times since I managed to make someone a Tom Collins without forgetting the syrup.

“The Tom Collins won you over, didn’t it?” I shout to her, wiggling my brows as I pour some tequila shots for the group in front of me.

She laughs, coming up beside me to take the bottle of tequila. As she pours, she says, “Make me any cocktail without peeking at your little cheat sheet over there, and I might be impressed.”

“Name it.”

“Singapore Sling.”

I give her a flat look. She cracks up.

“Come on,” I say. “Give me an easier one.”

“Mai Tai.”

Grinning, I grab the rum and get to it, even managing to pull off one of her fancy bottle flips. Topping the drink with a lime slice and a cherry, I hand it to her with a little dramatic bow.

“Not bad.” She discreetly takes a sip.

“Are you allowed to drink that?”

“Mick doesn’t mind us having one or two. Just don’t let anyone see you just in case.”

She holds the drink out to me in offering, but I shake my head. “I’m good, thanks.”

She sets it behind the bar, checks her watch, and pulls out her phone, using her free hand to serve another patron.

I’m not one to pry, but when she turns her phone sideways and props it against the Mai Tai I made her, I can’t help but peek.

And when I see the live video playing, I do a double take—she’s watching Easton’s game.

“You’re a Hawks fan?” I ask.

“My little brother’s number three. Bryson West.” She tips her head at his face on the screen. “Which one’s your brother?”

“Easton Miller. Number twenty-one. He’s my stepbrother,” I correct her.

“I know Easton.”

Not that well, I hope.

I cringe at the unbidden thought. Maybe working here isn’t the best idea, after all. I can’t keep wondering if every girl in here has found her way into Easton’s bed. I’ll go insane.