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A MASSIVE BALL OF FURRY DOOF

QUINN

3 Weeks later…

I feel eyes on me nearly every second of every day lately. I do not doubt that my newfound paranoia is nothing more than mere anxiety; my subconscious telling me I should care more about the death of my father.

I should, but I don’t.

The regrets he told me I’d have are nonexistent, and I am not sure what that says about me.

Anxiety is funny like that; you’ve decided you don’t care about something very much but the parts of your brain you can’t access and your central nervous system team up and give you a big ol’ the fuck you don’t in the form of neurosis and heart palpitations.

Regardless, my days since his murder have been tinged with a lingering sadness that I have no control over, one that most definitely wasn’t present just three weeks prior. It’s an odd, disconcerting feeling, and it clings to me despite my best efforts to shake it off.

Our relationship was fraught with undercurrents of bitterness and tension on both our parts. He was my father, yes, but I can’t seem to summon any genuine grief about his death, aside from the persistent, unaccountable melancholy. Instead, my dominant emotion is one of relief—relief that the college managed to start classes on time despite the brutal beating and subsequent murder of the dean that had taken place on campus.

I need school because I love it, and because it’s the last obstacle standing between me and my trust fund. Even though he’s dead, his influence lingers—his stipulation that I have to graduate to get the money is still binding. The faster I get through it, the sooner I can put everything about him behind me. Every delay, every tragedy, feels like another barrier between me and the life I’m so close to starting, a life where I can finally have a place of my own for me and Kronk, and maybe even a better car than the clunker I currently drive. So I’m relieved, not just because classes are starting, but because the countdown to my freedom is still ticking.

The grounds don’t feel any more haunted than they have always felt despite this new cloud lingering over the usual bustle and energy of early September as everyone tries to move on from the shock of his murder.

Cypress sprawls across Hallow Ridge like a fortress, its vast campus dotted with ancient oak and pine trees that stretch high into the sky.

Hallow Ridge itself is a quaint town, just a few streets lined with shops and cafes. The real reason Cypress seems to dominate the landscape isn't that it's necessarily big compared to other universities, but because the rest of Hallow was built around the college.

Cypress was initially established to serve the children of wealthy families, many of whom had amassed their fortunes through questionable means. This environment created the perfect backdrop for the rise of The Assembly, an influential group that played a significant role in shaping the community’s development. As these affluent families settled in the area, it began to transform. Over time, the once barren surroundings evolved into a small but thriving town, bustling with activity and steadily growing around the college.

Every winding road seems to lead to some foreboding peak, and the students who come from larger cities tend to find the dense forests suffocating.

I love being hidden away from the rest of the world by the imposing mountain range that surrounds Hallow.

As I make my way up the winding sidewalk, tall bushes with unruly branches brush against my arms. The building at the top of the hill is isolated and quiet, except for the occasional rustle of leaves. As I approach the front, a small cemetery comes into view, tucked between the tall trees. The gravestones are worn and discolored by time and weather, standing out against the greenery surrounding them.

The college’s first president had grand plans for the small liberal arts school, and many of his dreams eventually came true. However, during his lifetime, his hopes were crushed when his daughter was found murdered in her dorm.

Death and decay are apparently the Cypress U mascots.

The lingering mystery of who strangled her with her own necklace and shoved the pendant through her carotid still haunts the campus, especially for those studying in forensic science or criminal justice programs, not to mention the med school students— because what the fuck?

Even after 320-some-odd years, the unsolved case is a gnawing fixation for many of the students and faculty. It’s been rumored that her death was at the hand of The Assembly; they don’t tend to like it when their members attempt to leave.

When you’re in, you’re in for life—a lesson I can only speculate my father learned the hard way very recently. His arrogant belief that he was untouchable, that the law didn’t apply to him, seems to have extended to the very society that made him feel this way. I can only assume his sense of invincibility finally caught up with him. The protection he thought he had—the favor he believed would keep him safe—ultimately came to an end.

The thought flits into my mind—how easily it could have been me. I guess I’m not the only one who has always been well aware of how little I meant to my father. At least this time that fact did me a favor.

How easily history could have repeated itself…

The weight of Ophelia’s untimely death can be felt all over campus, but it is most palpable at the cemetery where her memorial stands. The stone face bears a somber expression, casting a long shadow over the surrounding graves.

Most everyone avoids taking the route that winds around this particular rise, which is why it’s my favorite path to class and where I walk Kronk every day around noon.

My dog is a big, fuzzy goofball with a sleek black-and-tan coat, though you’d never guess how cute his personality is from the way he carries himself—like he’s always on duty, ears up and eyes sharp, looking like he’s ready to protect me with his life. But really, he’s a softie, always nudging my hand for pets or getting distracted by squirrels.

Kruz says I should make sure he does his business elsewhere before we come here because the last thing I want is for him to shit on someone’s grave and anger the spirits, since Hill Place is rumored to be haunted.

I've never felt the shiver down my spine like everyone else says they feel as they near the gates—or any other part of the school—and I don't believe in ghosts. It’s just a fat bonus that we rarely run into anyone.

Growing up, the cemetery behind my house was my playground. I spent hours every day weaving through rows of gravestones, tracing my fingers over the weathered dates and whispering to the names engraved on each one. The air was heavy and still just like at Hill Place. To me, it was simply an extension of my backyard, and the one place I could go that seemed to be out of reach of my parents; it was too much of a burden for them to trek outdoors to hunt me down, and my nannies didn’t give a single flying fuck as long as I spent my time unseen and unheard. The constant presence of death did not faze me; I was immune to ghost stories and still am.

Maggie doesn’t seem to mind either.

She’s wrapped snugly against my chest, cozy despite the bite in the air this time of year. The wind tugs at my long dark hair, whipping strands around my face. Kronk pulls at his leash as we make our way down the serpentine path along the edge of the slope.

This is my fourth year at Cypress U, and Maggie is the third baby I’ve been a nanny to during my time here. I try not to grow attached because each stent has been brief, but it’s been extra difficult this time because Maggie is so tiny and so darn cute. She’s got these big, curious eyes that seem to take in everything, and her chubby cheeks make her look like a little doll. Her hair’s just starting to come in, a soft, wispy blonde, and when she attempts a giggle—this high-pitched, squeaky sound—it’s impossible not to smile.

I’ve previously cared for a wild-as-fuck toddler and an 11-month-old who loved nothing more than pulling hair and yanking at my nose ring.

Maggie is hands down my favorite.

Her parents are both professors consumed by their careers. Despite the recommended six weeks of maternity leave, her mama was back at work in what seemed like an instant. Today, she’s four months old. This means I’ve spent almost three months loving her with every fiber of my being, only for her parents to tell me this morning they’re cutting expenses. Grandma is in, and I am out.

Part of me doesn’t buy it. I think when I refused the time off they offered when dear old Dad kicked the bucket, they were probably more worried about my mental stability than anything. It’s not normal to react in the way I have, but I won’t try and fake it or hide how I feel. If they knew what kind of person he’d been, they’d feel the same.

The loss of my job was icing on the cake. I started my day off in a bad mood after having spent most of the night poring over theoretical explanations and offender behavior regarding multiple victim homicides for a case study analysis assignment. I finally submitted my hard work in the wee hours of the morning, only to wake up a few hours later to a super curt email: This is wrong. Fix it.

I thought learning about homicide and serial homicide would be fun . Studying the minds of those who dance on the edge of life and death reveals the most profound truths about human nature.

However, in-depth examination of empirical research makes my eyes cross, and my professor seems like a downright ass. I haven’t even met the man yet, but so far, his assignments have been fucking killer—no pun intended—and he hasn’t even deigned to upload the first lecture video, just assigned reading.

Which is fine, just not my preference.

We’re nearing the bottom of the hill when Kronk tugs at his leash again, this time harder, jerking me forward with the momentum. My hand flies to grip Maggie’s back even though I have her wrapped so securely she isn’t going anywhere.

He’s definitely spotted a squirrel darting across the lawn. His leash strains against my grip, digging into my palm with each tug. His sheer strength threatens to pull us both off balance and I prepare to let him go and hope for the best or else he will drag me across campus like the rag doll he thinks I am, which would be per usual and all good and fine except for Maggie.

With one arm wrapped around her, I desperately try to unwind the rope. It’s wound so tightly around my hand to keep him close to me that I’m not sure I can release it before he pulls us over and drags us to whatever he has his sights set on. I attempt to rein him in, tugging him back toward me as he continues to yank me forward.

It digs harder into my palm. “Kronk. Pfui !”

It’s cool to teach your dog commands in Czech until you have to yell at them like a psychopath in public. It garners a lot more attention than one would think.

My face burns hot with embarrassment as he pulls me along, ignoring my protests. He’s very well trained and typically does as I say, but he can’t seem to fight against his baser puppy instincts that tell him to herd when a small squeaky animal is trying like hell to run far, far away from him.

We’re approaching people eating lunch at the picnic tables outside the student center, which is exactly what I didn’t want to happen.

People are staring.

They’re staring as he pulls me.

Staring as I yell every swear word I can think of in Czech, and some in English.

And staring as I spin, losing hold of Kronk and tripping backward over the edge of a metal bench, landing flat on my ass.

Onto the lap of the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen.

And his sandwich.

There are definitely condiments on my sweatpants now.

I am temporarily rendered speechless; half because I am mortified and half because there is a deep chestnut curl that’s fallen haphazardly across the man’s forehead. I can’t pull my eyes away long enough to gather my thoughts.

So I sit there.

Gaping, mouth dropped open.

On his lap.

Speechless because… he has nice hair?

He has a nice chest too. I would know because my hand is on it.

I snatch it away once I realize and cup the back of Maggie’s head, still mouth-breathing on this man who is staring back at me with a bemused look on his face.

The soft gurgle of her first-ever real laugh pulls me from my stupor. Her joy at my humiliation causes me to huff a small laugh too.

I look down at her smiling up at me from her baby carrier and gather myself before peeling away from the man’s lap.

“Let me help,” his deep voice skates across the skin at the base of my throat, his large hand settling just above my hip bone. There is an electric current that starts at his touch, creating a magnetic force I didn’t think possible between two people who have not yet spoken two full sentences to one another.

He stands, setting me on my feet when Kronk trots back over with a half-eaten 6-inch sub between his furry jaws. I groan as my eyes dart from person to person in the space around us. I’m not sure who he stole it from, but I’m guessing it was probably the blonde staring daggers at me from across the courtyard.

I turn away from her, my eyes raking over the man’s solid torso. You don’t see many students all dressed up on a Tuesday morning, but he makes a cable knit sweater look nice. I’m suddenly painfully aware of my baggy sweats and my threadbare Paramore t-shirt, but looking pretty is not a tax I pay to exist in the same space as nice-looking men.

Even if it was, I would still have fresh spit-up dribbling down the front of my clothing and massive amounts of dog hair clinging to my leggings at any given moment.

“Your dog is pretty cute.” Kronk swallows the remainder of the sandwich whole and stares up at him. My dog is the picture of innocence as he scratches behind his ear. “But this makes me extra thankful that I am a cat person.”

I’m wishing right about now that I was a cat person. Or a gerbil person. Or a snake person. Anything but the person who belongs to this massive ball of furry doof.

Alas .

Kronk knows my anger is short-lived as he plops down next to me, his large body leaning against my leg. His big brown eyes ask forgiveness as he nudges my hand with his snout. Despite my frustration, I can’t resist petting him, and a small smile tugs at the corners of my mouth.

“You are such a jerk.” He licks leftover mayonnaise from the tip of his nose and I roll my eyes toward the sky. Maggie coos from her place against my chest and I’m momentarily zapped of what little energy I have left.

I plop down on the metal bench and breathe out the longest sigh.

Surprisingly, the man whose lunch I just ruined takes a seat too.

“Sorry about your sandwich,” I cringe.

“Eh. I asked for no mustard and guess what they put on it?” He tosses the remnants in the trash bin next to where we’re sitting and fixes his eyes on Kronk, who has settled between his legs and is resting his big head on his thigh.

“He doesn’t understand the concept of personal space.” I pat the side of my leg to draw Kronk away from him, but he side-eyes me like I’m not his literal mother. “He’s a good boy. So freaking smart. But he’s also stubborn,” I say with a laugh. All of those things are understatements.

“He’s perfect.” He smooths Kronk’s fur down the length of his back, his obscenely pillowy lips tilting into the hint of a smile. There’s something about him that makes me think he’s older than most other students—the subtle laugh lines framing his eyes add an unexpected gentleness to him.

Something warm weaves its way throughout my ribcage, a familiar feeling but not one that’s been triggered by very many men. “Yeah. He is.”

“How old is he?” A wet spot has formed on his pants from Kronk’s slobber, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Three. I found him under a park bench when he was just a puppy. I wanted to murder whoever abandoned such a small, sweet baby. I probably should have taken him to the shelter since I haven’t ever really had a place of my own for him here in my cramped dorm room, but we’ve made it work. I couldn’t let him go when he’d already been cast aside once.”

I don’t note aloud that I feel a kinship with him for that reason. Abandoned besties.

Kronk is oblivious to my trip down memory lane, still enjoying all the attention he’s receiving from his new friend. “I bet you’re both glad you decided to keep him.”

“I haven’t regretted a single moment of it.” I smile, and Kronk seems to understand I’m talking about him now because he worms behind my legs and lays beneath me under the bench.

Maggie has drifted off and her hot breath fans across my chest as I brush the fine strands of her hair back with my fingertips.

I feel a set of curious eyes on us. “Your baby seems pretty perfect too.”

I smile at him. “She is, but she’s not mine.”

“Oh.” He almost seems disappointed.

I kiss the top of Maggie’s head. “I’m her nanny. For now, anyway.”

“I see.” His lips purse as if he wants to ask something else, but he holds back.

We sit for a beat longer before he checks the time on his phone, then pockets it as he stands. “Gotta get to class.”

“You should let me buy your lunch tomorrow.” The words spill out before my brain has a chance to catch up. “You know. Because of the sandwich.”

His eyebrows furrow and his jaw feathers in hesitation, but it melts away as if he’s made a split-second decision. “Sure.”

He takes his phone back out and holds it in front of him. I shift in my seat to fish mine from my pocket and tap it against his. Our screens glow as they connect and we swap contact info.

I look down to find that his is just his first name, and his contact photo feels almost inappropriate to have on my device. Not that there’s anything wrong with it. It’s just that his face is split in a broad grin and he’s so attractive it hurts.

I pull my eyes away and flick them to where he’s standing. The real thing is even more inappropriate. No man who looks like this should be allowed in public with their sweater sleeves rolled up to their elbows, and veiny forearms on full display for all the world to see.

I force my mouth closed and smile. “See you tomorrow, Jack.”

He smirks as if he can read my mind. “Yeah. See you.”