Good Grades & Mystery Games (North University Series Book 2)

It only took my dad twenty-four-hours to call me asking for an update on the situation with Scarlett after the game, even though we just started working together on the project. Well, ‘working together’ is a bit of a stretch. It’s more of us sitting in silence so we don’t piss the other one off.

My dad has given me nothing to work with, meaning I have to coax some starting information out of Scarlett when I get the opportunity.

All I know is that her dad, Mateo, has been in the hospital for a few weeks now in an intense coma, meaning he’s been hooked up to machines to keep him alive. It’s worrying for both of our businesses since he is the head of Voss and right before he fell ill, there were a few dodgy articles about the business and a new drug called Tinzin that had been linked to the Voss’ clothing and accessories.

It alarmed both of our companies because even though we sometimes play dirty, drugs and smuggling are something we don’t mess around with. Ever. It’s too much of a coincidence that he suddenly can’t speak on the matter the second that it starts to gain more popularity in the press.

Scarlett and I are sitting in the school library in one of the collaborative study sections on a long brown bench. There are not many people in this section as people prefer the silent study zones. She’s sitting across from me, her posture scarily straight, her deep brown hair slicked straight down her back, with one of those black ribbons in her hair tying half of it back. She always has one of those and I can’t figure out why. Is she secretly a ballerina or some shit? Because considering her basic outfit choices, the ribbon that she sports and her posture, I would not have pegged her for a business student. Obviously, the Prada loafers say otherwise.

We’ve been sitting in this uncomfortable silence for almost half an hour. I’ve tried to concentrate on the homework I’ve needed to finish up for most of that time, but I’ve been spending my free seconds glancing up at her instead. I don’t think she’s looked at me once since we’ve sat down.

“Are you going to read the textbooks or just stare?” she asks, not looking up from her laptop.

“As much as you think I’m annoying, I think the same about you,” I say, because two can play that game.

“Awh thanks,” she says, finally looking up at me.

Maybe it was better when she was looking down because now she’s got one of those fake smiles plastered across her face, those hazel eyes staring straight at me.

“Wasn’t a compliment.”

“Sure, it wasn’t, big guy,” she replies, looking back down at the laptop. She huffs, typing angrily. “How long is it going to take you to do your homework? You always hand it in early.”

“Didn’t know you paid such close attention to me,” I say back, tilting my head.

“I don’t,” she retorts, looking up again and holding my stare. “I only know because Anderson doesn’t let me hear the end of it when you hand in your work before me.”

I always hand my work in early. It takes off the stress of trying to rush it before the deadline. I’m a mess as it is, I don’t need unnecessary anxiety about deadlines and grades on top of that.

“I’ve just got a lot going on right now. So, excuse me if it takes me a little longer to finish my work before starting on the project. I was being serious when I said my grades have slipped,” I admit, finally finishing the sheet I’ve been staring at for nearly a week. I shove it away into one of my textbooks, glad that I don’t have to look at it anymore.

“Oh,” she says, closing her laptop. Unlike the aggressive texting, she gently closes it, looking up at me. “Is the last assignment why you’re stressed? Everyone was raging about it, but I finished it last week and it wasn’t too much trouble. Maybe you’re losing your touch.” She shrugs innocently, glancing around the room. If I knew any better, I’d think that was her trying to be nice. She has an annoying tendency to talk too much to anyone.

But I don’t know any better, so I smile.

Big mistake. Because our eyes connect and when she sees the grin on my face the faint, barely-even-there sort of smile on her lips fades and she presses her mouth into a thin line, rolling in her pink lips.

“Thanks for the concern, but I’m fine. It’s just family stuff. You can understand that, can’t you?” I say and I know I hit a nerve when her body goes rigid. Her hands freeze for a few seconds before she clears her throat and continues to write something down. “Oh, come on, Angel. You can drop the act and stop pretending you don’t know.”

We’ve never openly discussed what has happened with her dad. Not many people were supposed to know about Tinzingate and if you do, you clearly have a bias.

My family thinks it was Mateo, using the coma to cover up the smuggling, while others in the company continue supplying it, hoping that when he wakes up everyone has forgotten about it. I’m sure her family don’t think it was him. Especially with the big Papa-Bear energy he gives off, you wouldn’t suspect him. I’ve seen him squeal like a little kid before, but if it’s not him, then who could it be?

Scarlett keeps her gaze on her paper, not looking up at me. I almost miss the way she mutters, “So what if I know? It doesn’t mean anything.”

Good. At least she’s talking. I lean further in, ensuring that there is no one else nearby. Most of the people in here are zoned out with headphones on and wouldn’t be disturbed even if the fire alarm went off. “I’m not going to tell anyone. If that’s what you’re worried about.”

She drops her pencil, folding her arms across her chest against the thin black top she’s wearing. “I’m not worried about that.” But from the shift in her body language, there’s something else that she’s not sharing.

“Then what’s your problem?” I ask.

“Nothing,” she says, sighing as she drops her arms from her chest, fiddling with the sheet of paper. I know we’ve spent the better half of two years verbally attacking each other, but I can tell that talking about her family is a vulnerable thing and I almost feel bad. Almost. “You’re just going to think I’m crazy.”

I snort. “I already think you’re crazy, Angel.”

“Gee, thanks,” she mutters, adding, “Why am I even talking to you about this?”

“Scarlett,” I press. The use of her full makes her freeze up. I hardly ever say it, but from the way that she is about to deflect, I need to draw her back to the conversation.

Just keep her talking, Evan.

“Listen, I’m only telling you this because none of my friends would understand and it’s all hypothetical anyway. Just a hunch,” she begins, pinning me with a defiant stare and I nod. “I don’t think my dad getting ‘sick’ was an accident. I don’t know how I’m going to prove it since I have no evidence, but I need to find out what happened. It’s probably nothing, but I can’t let it go.”

She’s confirming what I thought I knew. The Voss’ don’t think it’s an accident either, but they don’t know if it was self-inflicted or if someone purposely poisoned him.

“And you have no leads?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “None.” When I don’t say anything, she blinks at me before her face becomes panicked, her eyes widening. “What? What do you know?”

“Nothing. I swear,” I say quickly and I’m telling the truth. I’m having to figure this out alongside her. “But, you know how this looks, right?”

“Yeah, I know,” she says, almost frustrated as she groans. “But it wasn’t him. I know it wasn’t him. He would never try to put our family and his business at risk.”

“Are you sure?” I ask.

“What are you getting at, Branson? My dad is a good guy and he’s a lot nicer than yours. So don’t try and act like he isn’t.”

God, she’s so defensive about her family. I love my family too. I’m protective over them when I feel like it, but, the truth is, we haven’t felt like a family in years.

After my mom left and it became just me and my dad, everything just felt…. cold. Nothing has felt like the warmth that my mom had. Where everything just felt okay and I didn’t have the heavy darkness is my chest, constantly weighing me down.

“I- I wasn’t. I was just-” I sigh, shaking my head. With the pointed look she sends me, that wasn’t going to get me anywhere. “Forget it. We should start to get to work on this.”

“Yeah. Forget I said anything,” she mumbles, opening her laptop again.

“Great.”

“Good.”

“Perfect.”

“Fan-” She hits the key on her laptop extra hard. “-Tastic.”

Jesus, this woman is going to be the death of me.

We get through an hour of being in each other’s presence without screaming at each other. This is a good start. At least now what I already thought has been confirmed and I feel a little less on edge. Still, I need more. We manage to brainstorm a few ideas for the project, disagreeing on most things, until she calls it a day and I’m grateful to have some alone time to think of a plan.

Should be easy, right?