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Authors: Nicole Williams
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immediately, taking a step back. “As a resident advisor it’s my responsibility to report any kind of attacks on campus.”
“You had no right,” I said through clenched teeth. “It’s none of your business what happened—”
William cleared his throat, obviously wanting to cut in.
I didn’t secede right away. “Don’t even think about saying he only did it because he’s looking out for my best interest.”
“I wasn’t,” William replied. “I was going to agree with you. It was none of his bloody business.”
Paul uncrossed, crossed, and uncrossed his arms again, obviously unsure what to say and knowing we were right. He looked away, just in time to see a security guard, probably only a few years older than me, charge into the room. Just from the look on his face, I knew this wasn’t going to go well.
His eyes locked on me, studying me as if I was more a chalk drawing than a living, breathing person. “You the one that got jumped?”
I didn’t think my blood-matted hair and debris ridden clothes needed an answer, but he was waiting for one. Not the brightest crayon in the box.
“Yes,” I said, offering nothing more.
“Name?” he asked, marching towards the couch.
“Bryn Dawson,” I said it like a question. “Yours?”
His march turned to a strut. “My frat brothers used to call me the beaver charmer when I was a student here a few years back,” he smiled at William and jumped his brows in a you know what I mean kind of way.
Just perfect. A former student who couldn’t hack it in the real world now dressed in a uniform and on a head trip. Just when I thought my luck couldn’t plummet any farther south.
“Do you expect me to call you beaver charmer?” I asked, just barely able to contain my laughter when I heard William choke on his.
“Only my friends and the ladies call me that,” he said, hooking his thumbs under his belt. “You can call me Officer Simchuk.”
Officer? Had the standards for gaining the title of officer fallen to driving a minivan and sporting a flashlight as a weapon? I take it back . . . this guy was on a major head trip.
“So we’ve established who the victim is here,” he said. I imagined him checking off his list of what to do at the scene of crime. Crime scene investigation for dummies.
“What’s your story, pal?” he tilted his chin at William and studied our positioning on the couch. “You the boyfriend?”
“No,” Paul answered immediately, stepping forward. “He’s the one that found her.”
“He’s the one that saved me,” I edited.
“Does our savior have a name?” Simchuck asked, grabbing a metal chair and twirling it to him.
“William. William Winters,” he answered, focusing his attention back on my head. Simchuck grabbed a writing pad from his chest pocket, licking his finger before rolling it open.
“Which dorm are you assigned to,” Simchuck asked him.
William paused before answering, “I live off campus, actually.”
“Are you done yet?” I whispered up at William.
“Two minutes,” he whispered back, his mouth just outside my ear. Goose-bumps ran up my back, blossoming on my neck. I was hoping he’d be too consumed to notice, but right then he scrolled his fingers from the base of my hairline down to the collar of my shirt More goose-bumps . . .
Simchuck’s chair screeched as he turned to Paul. “And you are?” he asked with an edge of sarcasm, viewing him head to toe. “Captain America?”
I had to turn my head so Paul couldn’t see my smile. From Paul’s cleft chin and blinding smile, to the way he was standing with arms crossed and legs spread wearing his OSU letterman’s jacket as if some superhero garb, Paul could have been an identical twin.
“Funny,” Paul said, crossing his arms tighter. “Paul Lowe.”
“Great.” Simchuck continued scribbling away. “How are you involved?”
“I was the one who called you,” Paul answered, puffing out his chest.
“Super job, Captain,” he
“You had no right,” I said through clenched teeth. “It’s none of your business what happened—”
William cleared his throat, obviously wanting to cut in.
I didn’t secede right away. “Don’t even think about saying he only did it because he’s looking out for my best interest.”
“I wasn’t,” William replied. “I was going to agree with you. It was none of his bloody business.”
Paul uncrossed, crossed, and uncrossed his arms again, obviously unsure what to say and knowing we were right. He looked away, just in time to see a security guard, probably only a few years older than me, charge into the room. Just from the look on his face, I knew this wasn’t going to go well.
His eyes locked on me, studying me as if I was more a chalk drawing than a living, breathing person. “You the one that got jumped?”
I didn’t think my blood-matted hair and debris ridden clothes needed an answer, but he was waiting for one. Not the brightest crayon in the box.
“Yes,” I said, offering nothing more.
“Name?” he asked, marching towards the couch.
“Bryn Dawson,” I said it like a question. “Yours?”
His march turned to a strut. “My frat brothers used to call me the beaver charmer when I was a student here a few years back,” he smiled at William and jumped his brows in a you know what I mean kind of way.
Just perfect. A former student who couldn’t hack it in the real world now dressed in a uniform and on a head trip. Just when I thought my luck couldn’t plummet any farther south.
“Do you expect me to call you beaver charmer?” I asked, just barely able to contain my laughter when I heard William choke on his.
“Only my friends and the ladies call me that,” he said, hooking his thumbs under his belt. “You can call me Officer Simchuk.”
Officer? Had the standards for gaining the title of officer fallen to driving a minivan and sporting a flashlight as a weapon? I take it back . . . this guy was on a major head trip.
“So we’ve established who the victim is here,” he said. I imagined him checking off his list of what to do at the scene of crime. Crime scene investigation for dummies.
“What’s your story, pal?” he tilted his chin at William and studied our positioning on the couch. “You the boyfriend?”
“No,” Paul answered immediately, stepping forward. “He’s the one that found her.”
“He’s the one that saved me,” I edited.
“Does our savior have a name?” Simchuck asked, grabbing a metal chair and twirling it to him.
“William. William Winters,” he answered, focusing his attention back on my head. Simchuck grabbed a writing pad from his chest pocket, licking his finger before rolling it open.
“Which dorm are you assigned to,” Simchuck asked him.
William paused before answering, “I live off campus, actually.”
“Are you done yet?” I whispered up at William.
“Two minutes,” he whispered back, his mouth just outside my ear. Goose-bumps ran up my back, blossoming on my neck. I was hoping he’d be too consumed to notice, but right then he scrolled his fingers from the base of my hairline down to the collar of my shirt More goose-bumps . . .
Simchuck’s chair screeched as he turned to Paul. “And you are?” he asked with an edge of sarcasm, viewing him head to toe. “Captain America?”
I had to turn my head so Paul couldn’t see my smile. From Paul’s cleft chin and blinding smile, to the way he was standing with arms crossed and legs spread wearing his OSU letterman’s jacket as if some superhero garb, Paul could have been an identical twin.
“Funny,” Paul said, crossing his arms tighter. “Paul Lowe.”
“Great.” Simchuck continued scribbling away. “How are you involved?”
“I was the one who called you,” Paul answered, puffing out his chest.
“Super job, Captain,” he
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