Uncharted Territory (The Compass Series Book 3) (2 page)

Like, what the hell do I need to do to get some attention around here? I’d experimented with failing, but the censure from my parents and teachers both had almost killed me. I hate that sick, queasy, want-to-puke-but-can’t-quite feeling of getting in trouble. I just wanted recognition. Someone to see me with something other than an “Oh, you again,” look on their face.

So when my Econ 101 professor had announced that someone had ruined the curve for the first quiz, I’d thrilled and tried to tamp down the anticipation. Yes, I’d studied my ass off, going far above and beyond what we’d been told would be covered. Yes, I’d felt good about it, but it didn’t mean…

“India Burke,” Professor Yusok had said. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’d suggest getting her in your study group at any cost. None of you were actually supposed to get above a C on this. I want you getting used to seeing those lower letters some of you are unfamiliar with. What do you want, India? Coffee? Cookies? Someone to do your laundry?”

God that had made me happy. Not the attention that came after it—that had been mortifying—but for a moment, that starved and aching desire had been sated.

But now the beast has been awakened from its fast and it wants more. Always more.

I take my cell out of my pocket and try my dad. The phone rings and rings, and when I get to the voicemail, it’s full. I don’t know where he is or what he’s doing. Probably slumped over a bar somewhere in London. Or Hong Kong. Maybe I’ll try later. Then my finger hovers over one of my other few contacts. There’s a good chance this will go badly, but some stupid optimism makes me click.

My pulse races. Are there people out there who don’t get nervous when they call their mothers? There must be. But I’m not one of them. What was I thinking? I start to pull the phone away, having come to my senses. That’s when she picks up.

“Hello, Indie.”

“Hi, Mom.”

“Lucia’s almost ready for me. What’s the problem?”

I roll my lips between my teeth. Right, Lucia, her beloved colorist. Probably my own fault for my mom thinking something’s wrong. It’s true I don’t call often unless I need something. Even when I was at home, I avoided her at any cost. But I don’t need anything today.

“Nothing. I just wanted to tell you I got an A on the first econ quiz. I ruined the curve.”

I know I shouldn’t sound quite so gleeful—my classmates who hadn’t begged me to study with them had definitely been plotting how to poison my coffee—but I can’t help it.

“Indie…” Exasperation. That’s what she should’ve called me. My name might as well be a synonym for how she says it. “That’s nice, dear, but what did I tell you about that? No man wants to be with a woman he knows is that much smarter than him.”

Right. I’m not supposed to
be
vapid, but I am supposed to act that way. The better to manipulate people. Even when I’m wildly successful, she still thinks I’ve failed. My throat starts to tighten around the disappointment—in her but also in myself. I should’ve known better. When will I learn?

“Have you been on any dates this week?”

“No,” I mumble as I wrap my free arm across my ribcage.
Stupid, stupid.

“And why not? You’re pretty enough. Someone must’ve asked you.”

I don’t honestly know why they do. I try to think of how to respond, but I’m rescued.

“Lucia’s calling me. I’ve got to go. Shall I make you an appointment for this weekend? We could go together. Lucia could take care of you while Anthony does my blowout for the symphony benefit. I’ll call Ivy and see if she can’t join us.”

“No, I have to stay at school.” That and when have I ever let my mother dictate the color of my hair? Never.

“Fine. And please, Indie. Tone it down.”

I swallow hard around my frustration and end the call, my buoyant mood crushed and my head in the middle of a cloud. Dammit. God-fucking-dammit. I have a shit ton of work to do, and I won’t be able to do it if my brain is fogged with bitterness.

The wood door of the dorm is heavy on its hinges as I pull it open. It’s one of those super-solid ones that would slam in a really satisfying way if there weren’t some mechanism preventing it from doing exactly that. I can’t even slam a goddamn door properly. The storm particles are gathering in my skull, the electricity pinging around and creating conditions I won’t be able to weather. Not without a soul-wringing cry, anyway.

Rey. Maybe I can go see Rey.

I know it’s technically his job. He’s supposed to look out for us first years, make sure we’re not going to have some kind of nervous breakdown. But his attention still makes me feel good. Not bothering to drop my things off in my room, I tread down the hallway until I reach his door. It’s closed. It’s hardly ever closed. Maybe he’s not there? But I hear voices.

I should go, let him have some privacy, but the craving won’t stop.

My knuckles rap tentatively on the door, and a second later, Rey’s slim, strong frame fills the doorway. “Yeah?”

I shrink back at his tone. I’m used to impatience, but not from him. A man I’ve never seen before peeks over his shoulder. The guy has wild red hair, looks closer in age to my parents than me, and he smirks.

“Who’s this, Walter? She’s a pretty little thing.”

I fold my arms across my ribcage, but stop when I realize I’ve drawn the man’s attention to my chest. I pull at the orange cotton of my shirt until it stops clinging, and he laughs.

Rey doesn’t respond to the man but looks me in the eyes. “Later.”

His voice is flat. Though the broadness of it should dull the impact, it hurts as much from him as something razor sharp from anyone else.

“I—”

“I said go.”

The storm cloud gathers tighter in my head, ready to burst. No “little one,” not even “India.” If he’d said my name, it would’ve been easier to take. But nothing. As Rey closes the door in my face, I hear his words to the redheaded man. “You don’t want her, Brandy.”

No one does.

*

A couple of
hours later, my tears have been exhausted and I’m lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling. I should work. I need to work. I’ve got a paper due on Friday I really need to start because I want to see another one of those lovely red As next to my name. Approval in the form of ink soaking into the paper. I hope it bleeds through, marks all the pages. I’m about to roll off my bed when there’s a knock at the door.

Whoever it is, I don’t particularly want to talk to them. I want to wipe off my face, shove my crap in a bag, and head to the library to get on this paper. I wait, hoping they’ll leave if they think I’m not here. But there’s more tapping, this time slow and steady.

“I know you’re there, India,” Rey says. “Please let me in.”

I’d like to tell him to fuck off. I don’t owe him a damn thing. But he’s my last, best hope for an actual friend here, so I scrub a fist over my cheeks and open the door. I try to block the doorway with my body, but he could push past me with zero effort. He doesn’t though.

“Can I come in?”

I look away, not wanting him to read my mind the way I suspect he can sometimes. Then he’s dropping to one knee and spreading his arms wide. “Or I could serenade you with apologies in the hallway. It’s up to you.”

He clears his throat and starts to search for a note, his voice strong and deep, resonating in my bones.

“Oh my god.” My cheeks burn bright. This is absolutely mortifying, and there’s not even anyone in the hall to hear him. Yet. “Jesus, just come in, please.”

His smile is contagious, spreading all the way from the edge of his taut, shapely mouth over to mine. But he’s not getting unqualified glee, even though I’m thrilled he’s here. Am I so fucking desperate for the smallest drop of affection or interest that I get giddy over someone walking a few yards down a hallway? I roll my eyes to let him know his antics haven’t entirely won me over, but wave him in.

I close the door behind him and sit on my bed while he stands in front of me, leaving enough space between us that I don’t feel like he’s looming. He’s careful with his body, uses it as a tool, unlike most of the guys here. If they’re aware at all, they use their physicality as a weapon.

“What do you want?”

“I want to apologize. I didn’t mean to snap when you stopped by earlier. I made you feel bad, and I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s fine.”

He steps forward, takes my chin between his fingers, and angles my face until I’m forced to look at him. “It’s not and I’m sorry.”

Part of me is tempted to pull away, but I like the way he’s touching me. I want to accept his apology, but I’m not sure I would if he weren’t making me. “It’s okay. You probably don’t want to introduce one of your stupid little frosh to your friends, I get it.”

“Brandy’s… Yeah, I guess you could call him my friend. But I’m not embarrassed by you, India. Not even close. I think you’re the bee’s knees, and he would, too.”

His ridiculous old-fashioned compliment makes my chest tight with a smothered laugh.

“The bee’s knees, huh?”

“Yup.” He drops a kiss on my forehead and lets go of my chin to sit next to me on the bed, tucking me under his arm. “I’ll introduce you to Brandy sometime. If you want. But I can guarantee the guy’s going to try to get in your pants. Bit of a horndog, that one.”

I wrinkle my nose. Maybe Rey was right to shoo me off.

“Who is he, anyway?”

“It’s a long story, and I came here to see you, not talk about him. So did you stop by to say hi or was there a specific reason?”

I can’t help the shake of my head, a denial that it had been important. Maybe if I tell myself that enough times, it’ll stop feeling that way. “It was stupid.”

“Your feelings aren’t stupid, little one. Not a one and not ever. What’s up?”

A spark of danger sizzles in my head. What if he blows me off, too? How hurt am I going to be? Is it worth the risk? I prepare myself for the inevitable smackdown, or maybe just a brush-off, while I reach into my bag to drag out that precious piece of paper. I hand it over and wedge myself into a corner of my bed, between the wall and the wooden frame of the headboard, seeking support from inanimate objects that won’t let me down.

A faint smile lights up his face, and something inside me glows. His dark eyes skate over the rest of the page and get wider.

“You got an A.”

“Yeah.”

“On Yusok’s first quiz?”

“Yeah. Did you have him?”

“I did. And you know what I got on this?” Rey doesn’t give me time to guess, just barrels on. “I got a D. Like everyone else in the class who didn’t get an F. No one gets an A on this, India. No one.”

He looks at me with that probing gaze that makes me kind of uncomfortable. It’s like he’s trying to figure me out, and I’m not used to that. Not used to anyone thinking there might be more to me than what I show. To be fair, I work damn hard to make people believe there’s not. If the intellectual intimidation doesn’t keep them away, the snarky dismissal does.

“Thanks,” I mutter, snatching the paper back before I let myself swim in his approval and admiration.

“Do you have time to celebrate?”

“Um…” I want to say yes, but I’ve wasted my afternoon on stupid tears. If I want to finish this paper well and by the deadline—and I want to do both of those things, if only to see that look on Rey’s face again—I don’t have time.

“And by celebrate, I mean pack up your books and come to my room so we can bust our asses on the next big thing? We’ll get pizza, and when we can’t take it anymore, we can watch
Point Break
.”

“
Point Break
?”

“Have you never experienced the majesty that is Keanu Reeves’ Johnny Utah?”

“No.”

The incredulous expression on his face makes me giggle. “Oh, little one, I have so much to teach you. Come on. What do you need—these?”

He’s bounded off my bed and is gathering up the books on my desk and my laptop. Just like that, Rey’s bright chatter clears the last of the fog.

‡

Year One

I
’ve been at
school for a month. I’ve got my routine down to a science, and outside of classes, it’s heavily weighted toward Rey. I can’t quite explain it, but somehow I feel more myself around him than I’ve ever felt in my whole life.