Free Kiss Me If You Dare by Nicole Young Page A

all had to prove ourselves on our own merits. What had Denton said? Words meant nothing. Only actions.
    The bus jerked to a halt in front of the campus fitness center. I waved goodbye to the gang and grabbed a quick shower in the locker room before heading to my next class.
    The relaxing flow of water washed over my aching muscles. It felt so good to be working on a project again. I lathered my hair, picturing what was happening back at my lodge in Michigan. Maybe Puppa was there cutting grass today. The yard wasn’t much of a lawn, mostly woods, so it would just take a few minutes of his time. I hoped he’d weed whip the foundation too. I hadn’t gotten to it yet this season, and it was already out of control when I left. One quick phone call would ease my mind. Soap bubbles crowded the drain as I rinsed. Better not. Brad made it plain that I wasn’t to contact anyone until he gave me the all clear.
    A thud came from the locker area. I’d been alone when I arrived. Someone must have come in. I turned off the water and toweled dry.
    “Hello?” I came around the tiled wall.
    A rustling sound. Footsteps. The door squeaked open, then shut.
    I checked the rows of lockers. Nobody.
    “Hmmm.” My voice bounced against bare surfaces. Back in my own row, my bag lay open on the bench. Fresh jeans, socks, and a tee were stuffed chaotically in the top. Just the way I’d left them. And my dirty clothes lay in the same crumpled pile on the floor.
    I took a deep breath. It would probably be awhile before I could relax, even though I was certain nobody knew I was holed up in Del Gloria.
    The tee kept its wrinkles even after I pulled it tight. Dressed, I brushed out my hair under the dryer, then flipped it back, checking my reflection. All I needed was a little ponytail on top and I’d look like one of those mop-haired show dogs.
    I grabbed my bag and headed to my twelve o’clock.
    The lecture hall was half filled with students, some sitting in chatty groups, others, like me, in a space of their own.
    The instructor arrived—dowdy skirt, blouse escaping from the waistband, wrinkled jacket, oversized eyeglasses, and hair that defied any style. Her unkempt appearance said she’d sandwiched class in between a nap and a late report.
    I cut the woman a good dose of slack on account of our inner similarities. Like me, she was probably more comfortable in jeans and a cotton shirt. She launched into her lecture, capturing my attention with her comparison between ways of dealing with anger. Was I a Stuffer, an Escalator, or a Director?
    I grappled with my bag, feeling around for my notebook and pen. I flipped to a blank page and scribbled my notes.
    Stuffer—avoid confrontation at all costs Escalator—blame someone else for problems Director—express anger to others in healthy ways The business class was supposed to help me manage employees and deal with upper-level peers. But forget them. I flipped the page and kept writing, fascinated to realize I’d been stuffing anger my entire life. The perpetual stomachaches I suffered were probably a direct result. But then wasn’t I also good at blaming others for my problems? Still, I’d confronted Portia about her slacking on the job this morning. The results had actually turned out pretty good. That had been directing my anger.
    Yippee! I scrawled at the bottom of my notes. I was making progress.
    I flipped the page. My hands froze in place. My heart skipped a beat.
    HELLO PATRICIA AMBLE. The words were scratched across the paper in giant script.
    I slammed the cover shut, trapping the words in the book, pretending I hadn’t seen them.

10
    The instructor’s voice swirled like gibberish around me. Had Frank Majestic sent a hit man to take me out? Was someone watching me right now, waiting to line me up in his sights? Or had some conniving student discovered my true identity and was playing a sick joke?
    Lots of people had access to my tote, starting with Jane dear, Ms. Rigg’s