Red: Burning Desire (Spectrum Series Book 7) Read online

  “I already told you and Mother that I’m not going to college!” I shout after him, following him. He presses the down button and stares straight ahead, as if I’m not talking to him. “Hello! I am right here, and I’m staying here!”

  “No, you aren’t.” His voice fluctuates, rising.

  “Yes, I am!” I scream in frustration. “I’m taking some time to myself to do what I love! College is not my passion or what I want to pursue! Art is! Traveling is!”

  He snaps in my direction, seething with each word he spits. “And how do you expect to pay for hopping from country to country? Buying expensive art supplies? We’ve been leaving money in your account, just to entertain your ridiculous dream to travel from coast to coast. But you’ve been wasting precious time that should have been spent furthering your education. Your mother and I have decided to cut this shit right now. Effective tomorrow, you will be attending college, whether you like it or not.”

  Silence lingers in the air between us, and the tension is thick. I keep my mouth shut and my hands clutched in fists at my sides. I want to hit him. I want to hit the world that believes going to college to be stuck inside four walls with your head stuck in a book is more important than creativity and pursuing what makes you happy. I want to hit everything in sight. But most of all, I want to hit myself, because without their funding, I won’t be able to afford anything. I won’t be able to buy paint and easels and drinks for girls to use as muses. I won’t be able to be myself.

  The negatively charged air becomes so intense that when the elevator dings and opens its door and he climbs on and tells me, “I’ll be waiting downstairs,” and the doors shut—I snap and punch the wall.

  Chapter Two

  If you ever want to know what hell on earth feels like, take a plane ride from Italy to America—an eleven-hour trip—with a wailing baby on board. Want to really feel the sizzle? Make the mother new, having no idea how to soothe her infant. I’m usually an upbeat, positive person, but being ripped from my content life and being crammed between a sweaty overweight man and a sick woman who constantly sneezes on me can suck every optimistic cell out of a person.

  I still can’t get over what my father did, even though I doubt he was the sole master behind this wicked decision. My mother can be even harsher, stricter, more overbearing. He’s usually the middle man between her and me, ready to jump in when the fight gets too hot and heavy. But she’s either pushed him over the edge or he snapped himself and got fed up with his only child actually enjoying how he were living and went through this course of action. Forcing me into school.

  I would say it’s sick and unforgiving, but I wouldn’t want to raise the bar too high and jinx myself. I have no way of seeing into the future. I can only brace myself for it, and even then, it will never be enough for me to survive their one-track minds. Once they have something made up, they will not deter from it for even one inch, especially my mother. Where my father is a Pomeranian that barks a lot, my mother is a vicious shark once she gets a whiff of blood or a disobedient child; they mean the same to her.

  “Mr. Wells, we’re here,” the chauffeur my parents hired to drop me off like a little boy being taken to his first day of pre-school announces. Is he going to hold my hand as he walks me up to the class too?

  I stop my witty thoughts before they can grow. This isn’t his fault; he’s just doing his job. I shouldn’t act like a dick to him, even if it’s just in my head. I sober up from my train of thought and smile at him through the rearview mirror.

  “Thanks for the ride, sir.” I slide out of the black town car and grab my suitcases from the trunk. Shutting it, I tap it for him to leave, and he waves shortly inside the car before driving away. I watch the car drive down the block before jogging onto the curb. I finally take in my surroundings.

  I’m standing in front of what I can only assume is a fraternity house, my references being shitty teen movies I’ve had the pleasant experience of watching. I’m more of a horror film kind of guy, so I expect Jason to come clambering down the white-painted porch, wielding his famous machete as I walk up the path of the house. The house itself has dark blue paint and bushes with colored Solo cups hidden in them. Greek letters are printed above the open door. I notice the A is crooked and wonder if it will set the tone of my staying here. I hope not. I pray not.

  My plan is to serve my time here then fly back to Italy to resume my painting. But it doesn’t even have to be Italy. I can go to Seoul, or Dubai, or London. I haven’t been to London in a while. Overall, it doesn’t matter where I end up. I could throw a dart on a map and be satisfied, whether it means I’ll spend a month sailing the Red Sea or camping in Iceland…as long as I am somewhere that I have never experienced. I want knowledge of other cultures. I want a wide variety of food I never knew about. I want what this place could never offer me—not in a million years.

  But until I find a plan to have an unlimited amount of money in my hands so I can travel the world without my parents nagging me about school, I will have to stay put and continue being their little boy puppet for a while.

  Inside, I let out a whopping sigh and run a hand over my hair. The foyer is ordinary, and I can see the open layout of the house. It seems like a mini-mansion. There are loads of framed photos of group pictures of guys in khakis and t-shirts with the fraternity name printed in capitalized letters. I pass the living room, where a large group of guys are laughing and playing some shooting game. I peek into the massive dining room, then head into the attached kitchen. Corian countertops, wooden floors—pretty normal for an area I was expecting to be overflowing with beer cans and condoms.

  Guess I just have to wait for the first party. Which, according to teen films, are weekly.

  Yay.

  I’m walking back into the open area in the middle of the house, looking around aimlessly in an attempt to familiarize myself with the place, when something hard and fast hurtles into my chest. I throw my arms out to stabilize myself and whatever flew into me, my head spinning. I work quickly to re-adjust myself before I can bust my ass and take a step back.

  “Watch where the hell you’re going, prep!” I hear her before I see her, but when I do, my jaw slackens and I feel woozy all over again.

  A girl a few inches shorter than me glares up at me. She has untamed blonde hair that she pushes back with black-painted fingers. They’re chipped and curl into little fists at her sides. I quickly look down at her attire: a ripped black tee, dark jeans, rugged combat boots, and a leather jacket with lots of zippers and pins, so I can focus on her face. She has these naturally reddish, puffy lips. On the right side of her lower lip is a lip ring, and she has the most breathtaking blue eyes that nearly take up her entire face. They each have a massive ring of eyeliner, and above her left eye is a piercing. With her heaven-high cheekbones and dusty pink cheeks, she looks like a Barbie doll got a bad-ass makeover.

  I try to speak, but it’s hard for some reason. It feels like a brick is sitting prettily on my chest. And I frown because this isn’t me. I can make a girl swoon just by looking at her from all the way across the room. I never have any problems striking up a conversation about anything. Ever. Yet it feels like my tongue is a cherry and it’s tied up like a dainty pink bow.

  She leans forward and snaps her fingers up at me. “Hello?” She waves her hand, then steps back and gives me a look that electrifies my organs and makes me melt. “I think you’ve got another slow one this year, Mikey.” Who is she talking to?

  “Who’s the first one? And I keep telling you: it’s just Mike.” A guy with dark brown skin and a charming half-smile sidles up next to her, passing me. He gives me an apologetic look.

  “That little kid who got lost going to his room. You know the one. And your name is whatever I say it is.” Then she nudges his side harshly, her eyes never leaving mine. Her lips tip upward in a slight smirk. She’s messing with me; she has to be.

  Then why don’t you speak, dummy?

  “To be fair, it is a large
room—” Mikey or Mike sighs.

  “It’s the first one upstairs; the kid’s a dope!” she exclaims. “And this one’s the next in the crazy-bin lot.”

  “I thought he was slow,” Mike says. I’m going with Mike. The Mikey thing sounds like it’s their thing.

  “He can be both; get with the times, Mikey,” blonde beauty scoffs, glancing at him. And when those eyes of hers shift over to meet mine, my breathing kicks up a notch and I find the ability to speak. Only after a freaking eternity.

  “Are you guys gonna keep talking like I’m not a foot away?” I squish my eyebrows together in a joking manner, shoving my hands in my khaki shorts.

  They stare at me, look at each other, then back at me.

  “Maybe,” they say in unison.

  I crack a nervous smile. “Great. Not weird or anything.”

  “Sorry, man. We’re just messing with you.” The guy laughs and reaches forward. I meet his hand halfway and give him a firm handshake, unable to take my eyes off of her. Her smirk grows, and she tilts her head. She slips her tongue out of her mouth and plays with her silver lip ring. My eyes stare at the action for a beat too long, and she’s full on mocking me with a smirk.

  “I’m Mike Freeman, and this is—” he begins, gesturing to the girl as he steps back.

  “Someone who doesn’t give a fuck,” she cuts him off with an oversaturated grin. She’s obviously pissing with me, and I laugh lightly, nodding. Even though she called me slow and crazy, I kind of dig this girl.

  “Well, Mike and Someone-Who-Doesn’t-Give-A-Fuck, I’m Noah. Noah Wells,” I tell them, and Mike chuckles, but mystery girl merely stares at me. Her gaze is intense and looks like she’s analyzing me from the inside out. I should fidget under a seemingly rude stranger’s gaze like this, but all I can do is the same. And smile. Smile fondly. She snorts, and I don’t know if it’s because of me or the loud clambering sound thumping behind me.

  “Red! Red, Red—RED!” a voice screeches.

  “What’s the rush, buttercup?” Mystery Girl has her eyes fixated on something, or someone, behind me.

  I look over my shoulder. A tall girl wearing a golden sequined top and a matching hijab comes clambering down the tall steps, almost falling because of her seemingly slippery flats. Luckily, Mystery Girl grabs her wrist and pulls her upright before she can face plant.

  “Brandon just texted. We’ve gotta go!” says the girl with wide brown eyes, yanking her friend toward the door. I wonder how much she likes this Brandon to risk tumbling down a set of stairs and breaking her neck.

  “Him again?” Red, I’m assuming, spits with a disgusted expression as she lets her friend drag her to the door. “Really, Majesty?”

  “Yeah. Now, pick up the pace!” Majesty—a unique name, though I’m not too surprised it belongs to her—cries. Before they disappear out of the massive house, she throws over her shoulder, “And don’t forget you totally owe me, dickwad!” Then the door slams shut and the obnoxious sound of automatic guns and cheering from the living room fills the house without the girl’s squawking.

  “And that, my friend, was Red Sylvetti and her insane friend, and your roommate Tyler’s adopted sister, Majesty. National Treasure, the both of them, don’t you think?” Mike smiles at me.

  “Sure are.” I smile back, and he chuckles, nudging me and nodding to the stairs. I follow him to the top and let my burning curiosity shine through me. “So, Red…is she usually that mean?” I ask in a joking manner, shoulders hunched and teeth bared.

  He chuckles the ideal way, in a way that tells me he’s used to being asked that. “I could lie and say no, but I’d be lying.” Looking back at me as I glide my suitcases along the polished wooden floors, he says, “She’s a real fireball. Rude and crude and…punchy when she gets mad. But she’s a good person up close, that is if she lets you that close…” He trails off, and I sense muffled words on his tongue. There’s more to it, to her, but he stops in front of one of the many rooms and knocks, even though it’s cracked open slightly.

  “This is you and Ty. He can be a bit of a douche at times, a major slut most of the time, honestly, but he’s the greatest friend I have here,” he tells me with a small smile.

  “I can handle douche. Slut will take a while, but I think I’ll manage.” I laugh, and he does too and pushes the door open when we hear an “open,” though it’s muffled.

  When he pushes open the wooden door, I come face to face with the large room. Incredibly spacious, it holds two double beds and study desks. The walls are a light blue, and there’s an industrial ceiling fan, but it looks brand new. There’s a small shaggy blue rug on the floor and blue camouflage bean bag chairs. To my immediate left is an empty bed and area, but to my right is a guy standing on the half-made bed. He’s taping up a poster of Cristiano Ronaldo, alongside other athletic legends like LeBron James, Eli Manning, and Babe Ruth.

  “Hey,” I say, and he looks over his shoulder, a small roll of tape in his mouth.

  He mumbles something and, as Mike plops into one of the beanbag chairs, finishes taping up the poster. “There we go, legend.” He pats the soccer ball on the poster before jumping down and landing in front of me, hand out for me to shake. “And you get to meet another legend. Tyler Carter, but—”

  “Ty! Where the hell are you?” a feminine voice yells, followed by loud heels stomping. And it’s coming this way.

  Tyler’s eyes widen, and he turns to Mike, who’s trying to hide his face behind his hands. “One last time. I promise! You saw how she almost ate my freaking head off last time!”

  Last time?

  I hold back a laugh as I listen to them talk while plunking my suitcases on my bed. I pop open one of them and pull out my mini-security safe. I slip my watch and passport and important documents inside before locking it and sitting on the bed to watch the events unfold. I feel bad for wanting a bucket of buttery popcorn and 3D glasses.

  “And you want me to deal with her?” Mike gasps.

  “Come on, man! Just one more—” Tyler begins to plead.

  “I. Am. Going. To. Murder. You!” the girl threatens, her heels sounding closer by the second.

  With frantic eyes, Tyler scrambles into the closet, leaving a very pissed off and groaning Mike, who now has to deal with a girl raging with a blood lust. The door kicks in, and she walks in, all five feet, eight inches of her. She threatens to skin Ty alive for texting a girl named Brenda. Her colorful vocabulary precedes her tight shirt and short skirt. Lofty, platinum curls fly around as she curses him out via Mike—poor, poor Mike—and promises to get him when he least expects it. When her long-winded rant is over and she’s left blushing like two apples dropped in snow, she finally notices me, gives me her name and number, via her mouth, before sashaying away.

  “Well,” I say, turning to Mike when the door slams shut after her, “Lyndsey is a radiant ball of sunshine,” I say sarcastically.

  “Tell me about it,” he says as Ty walks out of the closet, wiping away invisible sweat off his forehead. “I’ve saved this prick’s ass more times than I can count.”

  “Sure you can count that high?” Ty laughs.

  Mike stands up, facial expression deadpanned.

  Ty swallows and walks over to me. “So! I was saying.” He stretches out his hand. “I’m Tyler, but you can call me Ty—I prefer it. And you are…”

  “Noah.” I take his hand, give it a shake. “Noah Wells.”

  “Well, Noah Wells, are you ready for the most wicked parties this here fraternity has to offer?” He stretches his arms out in a “look around” gesture. By his smug expression, I’m gonna reckon their parties are notorious.

  “Depends.” I shrug.

  “On?” Mike raises his brows.

  I smile. “What kind of tea you’re serving, of course. And can I bring my Sunday bonnets? Or are you guys more of a church-hate kind of establishment?” I joke, and thank God they have senses of humor and laugh.

  “We’re more of a booze and drugs and girls
kind of establishment,” Ty says, then looks to Mike and nods with a smirk. “I like this kid.”

  “‘This Kid’ is right in the room. Hello.” I wave my hand a little, grinning. But on the inside, I’m wondering if I’m maybe invisible today.

  “Right. Kid. We’re gonna go set up. Come down and help after you get settled in.” Mike pats my shoulder.

  “I’ll be there soon,” I promise, then watch them slip out of the room, Ty conspiring about hiring a bouncer for the night to keep Lyndsey out fading as they reach downstairs, and I turn to my suitcases. As I unpack, I think: my parents may have thrown me in this place, but that doesn’t mean I have to do anything they want me to. I’m in college, fine. I’ll experience everything it has to me, minus letting it bog me down like I’ve feared. I’m going to live the American freaking dream.

  Chapter Three

  Hours fly by with a certain buzz around the house. Everyone is excited for the party, it seems. Guys are dousing themselves in cologne to mask their musky scent after doing push-ups in preparation for the party. Something about getting themselves pumped up.

  College guys are weird, I decide as I watch one guy run up and down the stairs, claiming he is going to get so much pussy tonight. As I pass him, I think to myself, I hope I never become him. It must get tiring getting so amped up for what may be the very thing they came to college for—the party.

  Which, when it hits ten o’clock and people begin pouring in, starts out with a whopping bang. Girls wearing short skirts and dresses, faces covered in too much makeup, flood the living room area, claiming it as their dance floor. And like an exhibit unlocked in a zoo, the guys snake behind them and claim their victims.