You Belong to Me is Book 2 in the Ikana College series. It can be read as a standalone, but Book 1, Tangled Up in Blue, is also available here on Inkitt!😍
Brenna
The curtain rod I just ripped out of the flimsy drywall barely misses my head before it clatters to the hardwood floor.
I topple off the dresser, landing on my side on the flowery material I was once so proud of. For a moment, I just lie there, feeling my heart pounding in my chest.
“So. . .I take it you don’t like the curtains?”
For a second, I freeze, not looking up, trying to process the husky voice with the distinct Okie twang. I know it’s not Hunter. His voice has been lodged in my head for three years. I wouldn’t have any trouble recognizing it.
“I’m Buick, by the way,” the voice drawls.
Buick. What a stupid name.
That was my first reaction when I saw the text from Buick Crenshaw a couple of weeks ago confirming an available room in the rental house where I’m now sprawled on the floor.
I’d instantly recognized the address he sent. And I did need a place to live. But until that moment, I never considered moving back to this house.
Suddenly, though, it seemed like Fate had intervened.
Here was the perfect opportunity to face my fears and maybe get a shot at figuring out what really happened here. All I had to do was reach out and grab it.
I finally look up toward the voice as I push up to a sitting position.
Even though it’s deep and gravelly and kind of hot-sounding, I’m expecting to see some dweeby hick who matches his dumbass name.
But it’s not a dweeb standing there.
Instead, I’m looking at nearly movie-star-level perfection: a face with a square jaw, hard-planed cheekbones, gold-brown eyes that radiate heat. The non-dweeb also has dark, close-cropped hair, broad shoulders under a starched white shirt, muscled forearms sticking out of rolled-up sleeves, and long legs clad in crisp jeans.
My new roommate is gorgeous.
My breath gets stuck in my throat, and the rest of me feels like I’ve been standing too close to a fire.
I don’t even know how long I sit there on the floor with my mouth hanging open, like an idiot. But gradually, I become aware there’s a hand right in front of my face: a big, strong-looking hand, its fingers outstretched.
“Need help gettin’ up?” says unacceptably attractive Buick.
There’s a hint of sarcasm in his words. More than a hint, actually.
Unnerved, I scramble to my feet without taking his hand. Being 60 pounds lighter makes it easy.
Buick is giving me a quizzical look. Then his sizzling eyes run slowly over my body, and it suddenly feels like a whole butterfly migration is taking flight in my stomach.
It’s something I’m still getting used to, having guys look me up and down like that with a hunger they don’t bother trying to hide. Usually, it freaks me out. Or pisses me off, depending on the situation. And the guy.
This time, I don’t quite know what I’m feeling. I am tingling all over. It’s like all those winged things inside me are skittering along every nerve ending in my body.
And there’s an ache somewhere deep inside. I think that’s what it feels like.
Or maybe it’s more like an itch I just can’t scratch. Something is happening to me, that’s for sure. Or someone. And I’ve just moved in with him.
Not good.
I scowl to hide my discomfort as I watch Buick shift his gaze back to the curtains crumpled on the floor.
How the hell do I explain these curtains? How do I tell my new roomie that the ivory material covered in roses I once thought was so pretty almost sent me into a panic attack the moment I walked into my old room?
“So I’m going to have to charge you for this,” Buick says, pointing at the curtains. “Why did you tear them down?”
Good question. I can’t, of course, tell him the real reason.
The late afternoon sunlight is streaming in, and I feel sweat running down my chest. As soon as I got to the house a couple of hours ago, I’d cranked up the window air conditioner in my room as high as it would go.
But it’s no match for an Oklahoma August.
I wipe a hand across my forehead and take a breath, more as a delaying tactic than anything else. Then I gesture at the curtains and the wall.
“I’ll patch up the holes, repaint, put the rod back up.” No way I’m going to answer his question directly. “And I’ll replace the curtains. I know how to do it. I know how to do a lot of stuff like that.”
There it is again. That desperate-for-approval tone. Even without actually apologizing for anything and everything like I used to, I can’t seem to completely rid myself of the old, pathetic insecurity.
Embarrassed, I look at the floor and notice that two of the screws meant to hold the rod in place are lying only about an inch from Buick’s scuffed-up cowboy boots.
Cowboy boots are not something you often see at Ikana College.
I mean, we are in Oklahoma. But Ikana’s this urbane little island in the middle of the state. You’re much more likely to see guys wearing loafers around here.
Buick’s cowboy vibe—not to mention his ridiculous hotness—makes me curious about him, even if I don’t want to be. Who is he? What on earth is he doing at Ikana? And why is he named after an old person’s car?
It suddenly strikes me as pretty stupid that I hadn’t even bothered to check him out before I agreed to move into the house. All I’d cared about was that Hunter was still living here. Buick was only the oddball name attached to a text.
The beautiful man with the oddball name is staring at me. Then his perfect mouth curves into a crooked smile.
“Oh…kay,” he responds to my list of qualifications with a nod and another touch of mockery in his voice. “New roomie Brenna can fix shit as well as tear it up. Good to know.”
Irritated by his tone and by the friggin’ swarm setting my insides on fire, I stand there twisting my hands, trying to decide what to say next. I can feel myself blushing.
What the fuck is happening here?
“Yeah, so anyway, welcome, good to meet ya,” Buick goes on, sweeping one hand out to encompass the room and my partially unpacked boxes.
“You’ll meet our other roomie, Hunter, at some point. He keeps weird hours so who knows when that’ll be. His stepdad owns this house and—”
“I know all about the house,” I snap, taking refuge in a snotty attitude as my stomach clenches with anxiety and it feels like my throat is closing up at the mere thought of seeing Hunter again. “I used to live here.”
Not really what I intended to say, but he was bound to find out eventually anyway.
I’m praying Buick didn’t notice how the end of my sentence came out sounding wobbly.
I’d almost thrown up at the toxic mix of shame and humiliation that seemed to clog my throat when he mentioned Hunter.
I thought I could handle moving back into this house. But maybe I’ve made a big mistake.
“Who else is living here now?” I go on in a rush.
I already know Hunter will be one of my roommates, but I hadn’t bothered earlier to ask about others.
Buick doesn’t answer right away. He is standing there with his mouth formed into a surprised O.
I try to enjoy the fact I’ve obviously thrown him for a loop, but the way his eyes are drilling into mine has me busy putting out internal fires and silently lecturing my traitorous body.
This has got to stop.
Buick shakes his head slightly, still recovering from the surprise; then he shrugs.
“It’s…um…it’s just you, me, and Hunter at this point. I haven’t been able yet to get anybody interested in the little room at the top of the stairs.”
There’s a long moment of awkward silence.
Fuck. I’d assumed there would be at least one other person living here.
“So…” Buick goes on, finally putting things together, “if you lived here before, you must already know Hunter. And my brother-in-law, Blue. Right?”
Now it’s my turn to be surprised.
“Blue Daniels is your brother-in-law?” I ask, ignoring his question about Hunter.
“As of about two weeks ago, yeah.”
“Wait. . .”
It’s taking me a few moments to process what he said. I’d read online that my old roommate Blue got out of military prison not long ago and had married the girl from the famous Cooke family.
The two of them were all over the news a few years ago.
Something about the Army and Afghanistan. Blue did something really bad, and soldiers had died because of it. I’d been shocked when I heard about it. Blue always seemed like such a nice guy.
I remember seeing online the girl he was in love with, her face etched in agony at his court-martial. I search my memory for her name, and it finally comes to me: Keegan. Keegan Crenshaw.
“Oh!” I say, making the connection. “Keegan Crenshaw. She’s—”
“My sister.”
“Oh!” I sound dumb, but I keep talking.
“So that means you’re part of the Cooke family, the Cooke ranch?”
Now I understand the boots.
“Virginia Cooke is your grandmother?”
“Yeah,” Buick says, a shadow crossing his face. “Was my grandmother. She passed away.”
Another awkward silence. I suppose I should offer condolences, but I don’t. Instead, I shift my feet and focus on the dresser against the wall. Another awkward silence ensues.
“Yeah, so the furniture in here is yours to use,” Buick says, running a hand over his head and giving me another searching look. “It was my sister’s, but…well, she doesn’t need it anymore.”
“She…uh…she lived here with Blue, right?”
Buick nods, and one side of his mouth quirks up in a wry grin.
“Yeah, back before they ended up all over the internet. They’re out in California now. Blue got some kind of record deal.”
He shakes his head, his smile deepening.
“I guess he’s going to be famous. Or more famous than he already is.”
Out of nowhere, I feel this fake, simpering smile show up on my face. I have to force myself to frown to get rid it.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Buick is staring at me, probably waiting for an explanation for my presence here. But he’s not going to get one.
My scalp is suddenly itchy. I slide my palms down my shorts, then raise them to the back of my head and, without even meaning to, start walking around in a tight circle.
I’m desperate to go for a run. Running calms me down; running can help me get through almost anything.
“Okay, well, I’ve got a lot to do before tomorrow morning,” I say abruptly.
I need to get this guy out of my room. And I do have a lot to do. Besides finishing my unpacking, I need to study. Even though I’ve got an ulterior motive for being in this house, I still want to succeed in my classes.
After all this time, I want to finally earn my degree.
I’ve been out of school so long I’m worried I won’t be able to keep up. I have to repeat all the classes I was taking when I dropped out. I’ve already bought the textbooks, and I want to get started reading them right away.
Buick takes the hint and turns partway toward the door.
“Yeah, me too,” he says. “First day of class and all.”
There’s that hint of sarcasm again.
I can’t help wondering what his major is. But I don’t ask.
Instead, I bend down and curl my hands around the curtain rod. I want to get the whole thing out of the middle of the floor until I can throw out the curtains and repair the wall.
But the rod, one of those old-fashioned solid wood ones, is heavier than I expected.
“Let me help you,” Buick says, stepping closer to me and easily lifting the rod and its curtains to his shoulder.
He’s wearing some kind of cologne; it smells fresh and kind of smoky. And I again feel like I can’t breathe. Again my heart is pounding hard.
For a moment, the room gets blurry.
“I’ve got it!,” I snap at him, wrapping my hands around the rod that’s resting on his shoulder and trying to pull it away from him while shaking my head to clear my vision.
The rod, of course, lurches toward the floor.
For fuck’s sake.
“Just let me have it, dammit!”
I don’t really mean to bite his head off. But I’m flustered, trying to get the rod away from him without getting too close.
I’m well on my way to an actual panic attack. I can feel it coming. And that freaks me out even more.
Something about Buick Crenshaw is messing me up big time.
How am I going to share a house with him, if this is the way I react?
I’ve managed to get the rod completely on my own shoulders, but I can’t keep it balanced. It’s wobbling, and those damn curtains are sliding back and forth.
My new roomie is standing there staring at me like I am batshit crazy. Which is pretty much true.
And then my feet get tangled in the curtains, and the rod teeters to one side, slapping the floor before I manage to hoist it up again.
I step back and turn toward the wall, and the rod swings around with a whoosh.
“Jesus!” Buick growls, ducking just before the rod would have clocked him in the head. "Watch what you’re doing."
He wraps his fingers around it and instantly, I’m no longer struggling to hold on.
“Wasn’t trying to hit you with it,” I mutter, sounding pissy.
Now we’re each holding an end of this fucking curtain rod. Buick is at least five inches taller than me, so the extra weight on my end is biting into my shoulder.
There’s yet another horribly awkward moment of silence between us.
“You’ve got quick reflexes, I’ll give you that,” I finally quip, adding a smirk.
I’m trying to soften the situation. Even I realize it would be best not to get off on the wrong foot from day one.
Buick doesn’t say anything for a moment, just stands there studying me. Then a smile climbs slowly up his face.
“Yeah,” he responds, “I’ve gotten pretty good at ducking horse kicks over the years.”
Mr. Rich and Rugged probably uses that smile to great effect every time he unleashes it. Probably gets him anything he wants.
Of course it gets him anything he wants. Why wouldn’t it?
He pulls on the rod, again trying to shift it away from my shoulder to his.
I guess he’s just trying to be a gentlemen. It shouldn’t be a big deal to let him carry the stupid thing for me.
But my whole body feels vulnerable and weak, and I sure as hell don’t like that feeling. I only know one way to deal with it.
“Stop pulling it away!” I bite out the words. “Just help me set it on the floor by the wall. I’ll take care of it later.”
I tighten my grip on the rod as the grin fall’s off Buick’s face. My own face is burning; I’m so friggin’ embarrassed.
Why won’t he just get the hell out of here?
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, “you’re touchy.”
We shuffle toward the wall then, each bending over to set the rod on the floor.
“Thanks,” I say tersely when we’re both standing again.
Unbelievably, I can feel the prick of tears in my eyes. I look at the floor, blinking furiously.
You are not going to fucking cry. Raise your goddamn head, you worthless crybaby. Look him right in the eye.
This is what I do now, whenever I start sliding back into being the pathetic girl I used to be. I drill-sergeant myself out of it; the harsher and more profane I can be, the better.
I raise my eyes to Buick and stare daggers into his beautiful face.
The sunlight pouring through the window accentuates the deep golden color of his eyes. They remind me of the chunks of amber in a necklace Memaw once brought back for me from a cruise she took with my grandpa.
It was the only trip I can remember them ever taking; it was during one of my mother’s stable periods when they thought they could trust her not to kill my sister and me through neglect. Or something worse.
My dad had been gone for a year by then, off enjoying his twenty-something girlfriend, pretending we didn’t even exist.
Mom’s bit of stability didn’t last long.
“Okay, well, see you around, I guess,” Buick says stiffly, stepping carefully around the flowery ivory puddle on the floor.
I notice part of a footprint—mine—on one of the roses.
He hesitates a moment, still staring at me with his amber eyes.
There’s something about those eyes, something in them that makes me want to dissolve in their depths; there’s something about this man that makes me want to step into his strong arms and stay there forever.
Seriously. Fuck. That. Stupid. Shit. You dumb bitch.
“Yeah. Okay. See you.”
I sound rude, and for a split second, I feel bad about that.
It’s not Buick’s fault the new-and-improved Brenna needs to double down and act like a total asshole to avoid sliding back into what she was before.
There’s strength and power in being an asshole, as I’ve learned from Hunter. I need to hang on to that.
Buick rolls his eyes and shakes his head, then throws a last, inscrutable glance at me as he walks out the door.
I sag against the wall and cover my face with my hands.
Obrigado pela leitura!
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