When I wake up, she's gone.
It's like having a claw hammer buried in my skull.
I dive out of bed with a bellow, clutching at the sheets like I'm going to find her hidden in there. Where the hell did she go? Where the fuck did she go?
The anger has returned with a vengeance in her absence.
I scratch at my chest until blood shows up in angry welts. When she was in my arms, the snakes were kept at bay. Now she's gone and they're bigger, more vicious.
"Stella!"
I rampage through my apartment, knocking trophies off shelves. Pictures of me with the university president, the governor. People who mean nothing to me.
There's just her now. There's only her.
Just before I reach the kitchen, I stumble to a stop in front of a picture of my father. Standing beside me as confetti rains down, the marching band behind us, batons raised. Gone. The only other person to ever mean anything to me. Gone. The snake fangs dig into my stomach with more force and I almost go down on my knees. Need her. I need her here now.
Do I even have her phone number?
My laughter doesn't hold a single note of amusement. I brought her here to live with me last night and I don't even have her phone number. Just an email address. I slide down the wall and bury my face in my hands, trying to breathe through the chaos in my head. Think. Think.
It's not an easy feat. Thinking. I haven't gotten my cock into her yet and every cell in my body is blisteringly aware of that fact. When we walked through my door last night, she was clinging to me, so trusting, her angelic face softened in sleep and I couldn't do it. I couldn't spread her legs open in my bed and fuck her the way I need to. Rough and fast.
She had an orgasm from a couple licks of her nipples.
Sex with this girl is going to be phenomenal. I'm salivating for it. I'm planning the next fifty positions I'm going to take her tight little body in. And there will be fifty more after that. Fifty more, fifty more, fifty more until the end of time, because she's mine. She's the antidote to the ugliness growing inside of me, so where the hell has she gone?
Surging back to my feet, I tear at my hair, frustration burning up my esophagus—
But then I see the note.
There is a paper with words on it taped to my refrigerator.
I don't breathe until it's in my hands. Until I've read the daintily written script.
Good morning. I have political science at 8:20. Hope I see you later. -Stella
"Hope I see you later?" I growl. "You hope?"
Political science. I have no idea which building. Which lecture hall. There are barely any clues to go on here and I want to find her. Immediately.
I slap the note back onto the refrigerator so we can have a very serious discussion about it later. Preferably when she's stuffed full of my cock, not a stitch of clothing on that body of hers. And I'll inform her in no uncertain terms that there is no hope involved. There are no maybes in this relationship. She's going to see me later every day for the rest of her life.
Not even bothering to attempt to calm myself down, I find my phone on the counter and dial administration, asking for the dean by his first name. The man wears my jersey number on the sideline at games, so the secretary doesn't hesitate to put me straight through.
"Gage," he answers, immediately. "How did the tutoring session go with Ms. McCartney? If you don't like her, we can find you someone else—"
I interrupt him with a hoarse laugh. "That won't be happening. She's perfect."
Understatement.
She quiets the demons inside of me. She grounds me, makes me feel like more than a wounded beast. She's soft and horny and…I think she's a little broken, like me. If she can help me glue together the shit show I've made of my life, I can do the same for her. I will. She'll never go another day without being touched and treasured.
Need my hands on her now.
He chuckles happily. "That's wonderful to hear. Only our best and brightest tutor for the star quarterback. We can't have you missing the championship game over one failed class."
That comment shoots a spear into my stomach and without turning around, I can feel that picture of me and my dad staring me in the back. If he knew I was not only failing a class, but that I'd gotten arrested for vandalism, he would be appalled. He isn't here anymore, though, is he? He checked out and now I'm supposed to continue on as if everything is normal. As if the outcome of a fucking football game matters.
Right now, in this moment, there is only one thing that matters and every second that passes without her is unacceptable. I won't be able to think straight until she's back in my arms. "I need a favor," I say, cooling my hot forehead on the stainless steel of the refrigerator. "I need a copy of Stella McCartney's class schedule."
A beat of silence passes, the dean beginning to stutter. "I can't just…that's private information, Gage. If she wants you to have it, can't she just give it to you?" He laughs. "There isn't a girl on campus that wouldn't be thrilled to have you so interested—"
"She's not other girls." My temper is rising, hot and sharp. Uncontrollable. I want to pick up the refrigerator and throw it across the room. A clammy layer of sweat has formed on my back. I'm a mess and she's my lifeline. I want the calm back. "I don't even think she has a phone, so I can't text and ask where her class this morning is located. Send me the schedule."
"Ah. Huh." He's still uncomfortable. There are rules against this kind of thing because of stalking. And yeah, he's probably right not to give me her schedule, because I will absolutely be stalking Stella. Crazy, considering females have never been more than a temporary diversion to me. Not this one, though. Not this one. "You're putting me in a tough position here, Gage," says the dean, his leather chair groaning down the line. "It's unethical."
"So is my off-campus apartment paid for by the university. Technically, wasn't that considered a gift, so I'd come play football here?"
He coughs. A few more seconds go by. When I hear the tapping of keys, my fist that was preparing to bash in the cabinet door relaxes. "I'll send it from a private email. Please keep this between us."
"Yeah. It's our secret," I say, hanging up.
What's not going to be a secret? The fact that Stella is mine.
I'm going to make that infinitely clear this morning.