Camryn Quinn is finally getting what she wants...sort of. Moving into a dorm and away from her not so supportive father is a good first step, but like everything with him, it comes with strings. She must attend the college of his choosing for at lea...
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The elevator pings delivering me to the third floor and then I make my way to the door directly at the end of the hallway. My gaze narrows on the black slab that leads into my brother's apartment like if I concentrate hard enough, it will give me what I need without actually having to cross the threshold.
I could hear music blaring from the elevator. Something with a deep bass and inaudible lyrics. I wasn't one hundred percent, but now that I'm standing here, I know for a fact that it is coming from beyond Cal's door.
It was one thing for me to agree to come to this university in the first place, knowing my dad is always lurking around the campus. But it's a whole different story to have my brother here too. It only makes sense though. State's program is the best in the league, and Cal's the best quarterback.
Our relationship has been complicated the last few years, and me showing up at his door on a random week night feels more unnatural than I'd like to admit.
I drop my head for a second and take a deep breath. I attempt to muster up the courage to knock on the door, even though I have no desire to be a part of whatever lies on the other side. But desperate times call for even more desperate measures.
I knock three times in quick concession with no answer. I could knock again, but I'd risk injuring my knuckles to produce something loud enough to be heard over the song I don't know. I pull my phone out to call Callan instead. Just as I swipe to my most important contacts and press his picture, the door swings open. I'm met with the white t-shirt covered torso of a person who very clearly isn't my brother. Callan could take all the steroids on the planet and his muscles wouldn't look like that. My eyes scan upwards to put a face with the body. A thick neck meets the collar of the shirt, and I nearly gasp when I have to crane my neck even further to see more of him. I'm already five foot nine, but the arch in my neck means he's well over six foot.
Strictly for context clues about who this might be, I continue to let my eyes graze over every inch of him. Sure, I could probably guess that it's one of my brother's friends who probably also plays football, but something about this guy doesn't scream organized sports.
Maybe it's the brown hair trapped underneath a backwards ball cap, the strap high on his forehead. The locks cascading down the back of his neck in messy waves, stopping just past the collar of his t-shirt. Or maybe it's the pair of bluejeans fitted to his muscular thighs, neglecting to conform to the fact that it's easily ninety degrees outside. On his feet, the pointed toe of a brown boot is poking out beneath the boot cut fabric. Again, a questionable choice considering the current conditions outside.
Most guys my age, my brother included, prefer to dress in baggy clothes or jerseys for a team they don't even support. Most guys my age also don't have tattoos covering both arms. This guy either doesn't give a shit about fitting in with his friends, or he feels the need to show off the outline of every single muscle and piece of art he has.
