Lessons in Faking (Hall Beck University #1)

Chapter 35

CHAPTER 35

222, 221, 220—I came to an abrupt halt, seeing Room 219 before spotting Blake on one of the chairs opposite.

“Oh,” I stuttered, for God knows what reason. “Hey.” My eyes slid back to the closed door of the room, only vaguely aware Blake had settled in beside me as the epitome of calm.

“I didn’t think you’d actually come,” was the first thing he said to me. “Now I feel bad for not thinking you’d actually come.”

His words made a halfhearted huff escape me. Some of the tension in the air and my body evaporated. “Does this make me pass your background check, then?” I asked. My eyes only flickered toward him to make sure he got the reference to our conversation in the bar. The amused smile on his lips told me he did. God, it felt like an eternity since that night.

“Athalia.” He chuckled softly. “You passed that so long ago, you shouldn’t even be thinking about it anymore.” Then, he gestured to the door. “I didn’t tell him you’re coming.”

“Seeing as you didn’t think I was, that makes sense.”

Blake huffed, nodding. “Sorry again.” And the silence that followed after I waved him off lingered.

I think he was waiting for me to go in. I think I was, too. Three times I’d been just about to make the first step, and three times I’d changed my mind, then only swayed lightly in the direction.

Blake cleared his throat again, nodding to himself before he returned to his previous seat. “By the way,” he began, halfway there already. “The drugs are kind of… intense.” He seemed almost amused by that. “Which is why I’m out here, and not getting my ear chewed off in there—he can’t seem to shut the fuck up.”

And then I just moved. I stopped thinking, stopped overthinking , and grabbed the handle, completely unprepared for what would meet me inside.

I think I held my breath until my eyes fell on McCarthy and he looked… not all that bad.

Lying on the bed, the white hospital shirt covered his upper body; the blanket the rest of him, feet tucked in. Fat bruise on his cheek, and not a sign of a broken rib— although I wasn’t sure what signs of a broken rib I could have picked up on.

“Oh God.” It made my eyes snap back to his, concern furrowing my brow. “I’m dead,” he said. “I’ve gone to heaven?” Now his tone had adapted a questioning note, as if asking himself if he deserved to be in heaven in the first place. “Or hell,” he corrected after a long, thoughtful pause.

“You think I’d get into heaven?” I huffed, amusement mixing with relief as I stepped toward him. It was so easy: slipping into sarcasm and irony and jokes, even when the situation didn’t demand or even appreciate it.

He smiled a wide, loopy smile, his head rolling to the side to follow my every move until I stood right beside him.

“Fuck no,” he snorted. “If anything, you’re the reason I’m down here now.” His brows rose, and despite the statement that was supposed to be an insult, he reached out his hand to interlace his fingers with mine, smiling up at me as if he’d just declared his love, instead of called me a demon and the reason he’d ended up in hell.

“Ouch.” But I wasn’t the least bit offended. “How are you?”

“Don’t lie—” he huffed in drowsy amusement, his head tilting. “You were always hoping I got injured one way or another. This is just a delayed manifestation of that.” His smile was teasing, yet a little uncontrolled.

“That’s—” outrageous, awful… true . “Not true,” Was what I settled for. Dylan snorted in amusement.

“You cheered every time I got fouled.” He thought for a second. “Or missed a shot.” God. I had, hadn’t I?

My eyes narrowed in on that. “Did Henry tell you that?”

“No one told me that,” he stated matter-of-factly. “I saw—” He cut himself off, debating whether to go on. “Since you picked your brother up from practice the first time, I asked what your name is and he told me to fuck off , it’s all I’ve been doing.” He shook his head. “Thinking about you, I mean. Noticing you. When I walk into a room, it’s like second nature to look for you . It’s no different when I’m on the field. I look through the stands until I do, or I don’t see you. I didn’t even know why.”

My breath caught in my throat, and I wondered how much of that his sober self would have admitted. Right now, he seemed content with his words, a lazy grin on his lips at the memory.

“Well…” I shrugged, trying to ignore the guilt gnawing at every fiber of my being. “Wren might’ve rubbed off on me. You should’ve seen how excited she was when she told me about that time you got punched in the face.”

His face lit up at the memory, strangely enough. “Oh!” He swooned, head falling to one side as he squeezed my hand. “You should’ve seen how I defended your honor!”

The haze of the memory or the amount of drugs made sure he didn’t pick up on the confusion lacing my features until I asked “What?”

His attention startled to me. “What?”

“ My honor?”

“Yes, yes,” he rushed out. “That’s what I just said—” He cut himself off, brows drawing together in confusion again. “I’m speaking, right? My lips are moving? Words are coming out of them?”

I snorted. “Yes, McCarthy. Words are coming out of you. They just don’t make any sense. What does my honor have to do with you getting knocked out?”

He gasped, and I blamed it on the drugs. “I did not get knocked out,” he asserted, offended by the accusation. “Took it like a champ to get Baker—” I assumed that was the punch er . “A red card after he couldn’t stop running his mouth.”

The memory alone seemed to rile him up enough as he went on. “ Pressley, where’s your hot sister? Pressley, mind giving her my number? Pressley, your sister this, your sister that — and Jesus Christ , I needed him to shut up. Your brother did, too. He was about ready to knock him out, by the looks of it. But it was only halftime, and we couldn’t afford it. Him off the field, I mean.” A smug grin returned to his face when he shrugged, eyes falling on me again. “So, I stepped up. Pissed Baker off enough to take a swing at me.”

He was full-on grinning now, lost in the memory. Entirely ignoring (or too high to notice) the stunned expression on my face, the fact I was speechless. Again . I cleared my throat, blinking away the adoration swelling in my chest. I couldn’t deal with what his words did to me right now.

“How are you?” I repeated.

He smiled at that, patted the side of his bed, prompting me to sit with a sigh. “Like a 200-pound, 6’4 Harvard guy tackled me.” His head fell back into the oversized pillow, a lazy smile on his lips as his eyes stayed on me. “Go on,” he urged. “Ask me what happened.”

I couldn’t suppress the smile when I did. “What happened?”

“A 200-pound, 6’4 Harvard guy tackled me.” He seemed pleased. “Which had me end up on such a heavy load of drugs, I’m still not sure you’re actually here.”

“And what if I am?”

“Then I’d be very happy about that.”

“If I weren’t?”

“I’d need to talk to my therapist about why I’m hallucinating the girl I’m supposed to hate into my hospital room.”

Supposed to.

My stomach turned, twisted, then released, all in the span of a few seconds. I felt giddy, and nervous, and I hadn’t felt like that since I’d bought my first really expensive bag. An actual giggle escaped my lips before I managed to catch it. Eyes shifting, throat clearing to get it together, I shrugged. Casual.

“Probably because you’ve had the best sex of your life with her,” I suggested thoughtfully, proud of the laugh that hurled out of him, only to feel guilty when he flinched in pain. “Sorry,” I managed to say. “Seeing how funny I am, this is going to be hard.” He laughed again, flinched again.

“See?” I said sheepishly, and Dylan waved me off with the hand that didn’t still hold mine, eyes rolling, lips splitting into a grin.

“I heard she had a terrible time,” he said in amusement, a brow raised. “ Awful , if I remember correctly.”

“She might’ve been… exaggerating.”

“Is that why she’s here?”

“Perhaps.” I shrugged. “Or perhaps she feels bad for thinking you were ghosting her when you were actually in the hospital.” The confession kind of just slipped out. “And trust me—” I hurried on. “She feels so bad, she promises to actually help you the next time you’re cooking. She’ll do it all by herself, if you want her to.”

McCarthy managed not to laugh at that, instead snorting in amusement and skipping the part where he hissed in pain. “You’re so romantic,” he pointed out sarcastically. “It’s what I love most about you.”

I felt like I should’ve been more apprehensive about a loaded statement like that. What I love most about you tended to entail there was any love at all. It usually went: I love you, but what I love most about you is (blank) .

And maybe if he’d said it like that, if he’d spelled it out, made it a big deal—maybe then it would’ve freaked me out. Though, honestly, in hindsight, I think we had both said I love you to each other in our own ways that day in the hospital. Maybe that’s why I’d been completely fine, not startled, not nervous. Just happy. Content. Grateful.

I huffed in amusement, my hand grabbing his a little tighter in mine. “Can you say that again when you’re not high as a kite?”

Dylan grinned when he nodded enthusiastically. “Sure I can,” he boasted. “I’ll say it until you don’t want to hear it anymore.”

“And that’s a promise?” I wondered, as amused as I was curious.

“A threat.” He winked very wonkily, and I blamed it on the drugs. Again.

My head tilted lightly. “That’s one hell of a commitment, Dylan.”

His lips split wider at his name on my lips. Then, he shrugged.

“Well,” he began. “I’m a pretty reliable guy, Athalia.”