by Zoey Shores
But here I am, being accosted by a creep like this.
With his grip firm on my shoulder, be spins me around so my body is facing his. He takes a step closer and tries to grind against me, the foul stench of his breath assaulting my senses. I scrunch up my nose and try to back away, but I only back up into a wall, pinning me between its surface and his now-gyrating body. He’s so uncoordinated in his drunken stupor that I’m hoping he’ll end up tripping over his own two feet and give me an opening to make my getaway.
No such luck, however, as he suddenly takes another step forward. His chest rubs against mine and I step away in repulsion but am trapped by the wall behind me. “Why don’t we get out of here?” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows in an inept and ridiculous display which he, truly drunk beyond reason, must think looks somehow seductive.
“Sorry, buddy, she’s with me. Back off.”
My heart skips a beat as I hear a strong, gruff, commanding voice cut through the pounding music that surrounds us. The drunk doofus trying to impose himself on me looks like he sobered up by about thirty percent when he gets an eyeful of the person from whom that voice issued: Luke Tanner.
“O-oh,” the drunk stumbles over his words, clearly intimidated. “My bad, bro.”
I look up at Luke, who stands with his profile towards me, as he stares down the guy who’s now backing away. His eyes are narrow and his eyebrows level, a stern and forbidding gaze trained on the man who now scurries back and disappears through the thick crowd of people on the dancefloor.
The neon lights that illuminate the room cut a sharp angle at his jawline, casting a deep shadow underneath his prominent chin. His sharp, high cheekbones catch the dim light and almost shine, while the rest of his angular face is obscured in the darkness of the dance club atmosphere.
Still, though, his look is unmistakable. He wears a t-shirt – it's too dark in here to make out the color – that clings tightly to his upper body. His taut, tight chest and shoulders strain against the fabric, affording a view of the carved contours of hard musculature. His long arms, heavy with thick muscle, hang by his sides.
After the asshole who as harassing me is finally out of view, Luke turns toward me, a soft but playful grin replacing the intimidating countenance his face was just wearing moments ago.
He rakes his eyes up and down my body. I blush, thankful for the dim interior that masks the reaction, when I notice the right side of his cloudy, pillowy lips cock up higher in a smirk. “I hope you don’t mind that I chased off your date,” he says.
I expel a huff of air. “Date? Are you kidding? Thanks for running that creep off.”
“What brings you out here tonight alone?” he asks, one of his eyebrows raised.
“Oh, just, you know, checking out the city,” I fib.
He chuckles. “You’re spying on us to get something interesting to write for your next article, aren’t you?”
“Investigative journalism is not spying,” I retort.
“Alright, Miss Investigator. Let me buy you a drink and I’ll give you any scoop you want.”
Instinctively I bite my lower lip. I quickly release the pose when I realize that although it’s dim enough in this bar to mask my blushing, it’s not dim enough to mask that, which Luke’s noticeably raised eyebrows make obvious.
“Come on,” he says. “If I leave you alone again some other wasted New Orleans asshole is going to be all over you. The bar’s over here,” he turns toward the bar and leads me through the thick crowd of dancers with his right hand placed on the small of my back.
I’m absolutely powerless to resist as his large, sturdy palm guides me forward. The tip of my head reaches just to the top of his shoulders, and he towers over the rest of the bar. Only the biggest guys on the offensive line aren’t dwarfed by Luke.
“Two vodka cranberries,” he orders when we arrive at the bar.
I’m still feeling ambivalent about having a drink with Luke, for more reasons than one. First of all, I still feel like there’s a powder keg in between us whenever we talk. Any moment, a stray spark may ignite it. And if there’s been any time in my life where I absolutely do not need to have things complicated with a possible relationship, it’s this semester.
Secondly, is it really proper given that I’m a journalist covering his team? The journalist covering his team? Shouldn’t there be some kind of professional propriety dictating against fraternizing with those about whom I’m writing?
Then again, he did say he’d give me a scoop … and if I know anything about Dr. Gasten, I know he’d tell me to throw every scrap of journalistic propriety into the garbage if it meant sinking my teeth into a hot new angle for a story.
Of course, he could be totally full of shit, and just saying anything to get me to have a drink with him …
Only one way to find out, I decide, as I pick up my glass that the bartender just deposited on the counter in front of us.
“To victory,” he says, raising his glass in a toast, with a glimmer in his eye. “To us on the field – and to you at the paper.”
I nod in acknowledgement and take a sip of my drink. The warm alcohol calms my nerves. I take a seat on one of the highchairs standing in front of the bar and fish my notebook and pencil out of my back pocket.
“So, you said you had a scoop?”
“It’s always business with you?” Luke turns on his devilish grin as he leans on his elbow against the side of the bar, his body language cool and insouciant.
“Definitely,” I shoot back.
There’s no doubt about it, Luke’s acting … differently since we first ran into each other again two weeks ago. It was clear during our first couple interactions that there was some awkwardness on both of our parts. But ever since he got on the bus yesterday afternoon, he’s been ... I gulp as the word enters my mind – flirty.
“Scoop, huh?” Luke muses, rubbing his chin ironically. My eyes marvel at the size of his fingers: thick, solid, long. My own hands burn at the memory of those fingers laced with mine, years and years ago …
“You know Carson Wright? The wide receiver?” Luke suddenly says, his face lit up like he’s got a real bomb to drop on me about him.
“Yeah, what about him?” I ask, getting excited.
“He’s an asshole,” Luke deadpans.
“That’s your scoop?” I ask, nonplussed.
“You heard it here first,” he concludes with a wink as he lifts his glass and gulps down the last of his drink.
“I’m pretty sure this isn’t my first time hearing that, Luke. Come on, really. Do you have something for me?”
“Hmmm, let me think,” he pretends to ponder again, a big, gleeful grin on his face. Clearly, Luke is rediscovering his old love of teasing me.
I roll my eyes, as try to convince myself that I’m not enjoying it like I used to.
But I kind of am.
I roll my eyes and down the last couple gulps of my drink.
“Darn. There plenty of juicy backstage stories that your readers would just die to hear about about, but I can’t think of any right now. You know what always jogs my memory? Dancing.”
His eyebrows wiggle provocatively as he motions with his head toward the happening dance floor.
I know I should turn him down. But as I feel the alcohol easing my nerves and lowering my defenses, I think … well, why not? Sometimes a source does like to make a reporter jump through hoops before giving them something worth writing. And as I glance at the couple other players within eyesight, just throwing back shot after shot and hanging out with multitudes of scantily-clad women – in short, nothing interesting or unexpected that readers of the student paper would care much to hear about – I decide to go with the flow. After all, right now, it’s my only chance at making my decision to come out here tonight worth it.
I roll my eyes and match his wide smile with a demure one of my own, assenting to his request. He lets out a chuckle and gently takes me by my two hands. My chest tightens at his touch and a surge
of electricity charges up and down my spine. My smile is replaced by tightly pursed lips as I feel my nipples involuntarily stiffening.
Shit, what am I getting myself into?
I’m incapable of resisting, although the reasonable and cautious part of my brain is now crying out, as Luke guides me into the thick throng of dancing bodies.
My hands burn from his touch, his powerful, sturdy fingers enclosing mine, leading my whole body through the packed crowd, until we’re lost in a sea of people. His eyes are locked on mine; his smile appears increasingly slyer, and the glimmer in his eyes increasingly more provocative.
I start to sway side to side with the rhythm of the music, hoping that going with the flow may help to ease some of the tension that currently has me in its grasp.
Luke begins to do the same, his eyes still locked on my own. His big, broad shoulders sweep and sway, taking up enough space on the dance floor for two, even three, normal sized men. Even though he’s just casually dancing, there’s a swiftness and alacrity to each movement. There would be no mistaking it even if you didn’t know he was none other than Luke Tanner: these are the movements of a true, natural athlete, a man whose body is a well-oiled machine, whose every muscle and tendon is under perfect control.
He gyrates his body, and the motion draws my eyes down his sleek waist to his trim, adroit hips as they roll in a circle motion. My eyes widen and my mouth waters involuntarily at the sight.
He takes a step closer. Even over the smell of the perfume of the women dancing around us, the strong smell of the alcohol, and the body odor of the overcharged bodies dancing around us, a fresh, musky sandalwood scent emanates from Luke. He smells, and looks, clean and fresh, clearly having showered after the game.
His skin is smooth and alluring. The kinetic energy of his body is tangible. He inches closer as he sways with the beat. Soon, the fabrics of our clothes are brushing against each other, though our bodies still maintain separation.
He shortly puts an end to that, reaching out and placing his strong, steady hands on my hips. Goosebumps break out over my body. I wasn’t expecting him to be so bold with his touch.
I try to stifle a gasp as my nipples stiffen like they’re being teased with an ice cube. I feel his fingers firmly pressing against the sides of my jeans, leaving their impression on the flesh of my hips. I look up at him in surprise, my gaze greeted by an intense yet playful expression adorning his Adonis-like features.
He slowly contracts his arms, drawing me in toward him. In a gesture of uncertainty, I put my hands up – they only end up resting against his wide, taut chest as my body is moved deep into his orbit.
My palms feel the softness of the fabric of his shirt, and the warmth of his body underneath. My fingertips sense the hardness of his muscles, how they tighten with his movement as he pulls me in closer. My face is burning, so red now that there’s no way the darkness of the dancefloor can hide the cherry-red glow that I’m certain adorns my cheeks.
Luke’s smirk is now more cocky, more self-assured. A sense of unreality overtakes me, like I’m in a dream. How in the world am I here, in the middle of a crowded dancefloor in downtown New Orleans with Luke Tanner, the boy I hadn’t seen since ninth grade until only short weeks ago?
Not only am I here with him, but I’m in his grasp – his hands are on my hips! The same hands that I held under the bleachers after school, as I stole away from yearbook club to meet him after practice.
“Luke …" I squeak out, unable to follow the silent plea with a sensible thought.
There’s no mistaking it, Luke wants me …
But does he only want me for the night? Only for a couple nights? For a quick, fun fling for old time’s sake? How many other women has he held like this even just tonight, before I showed up? How many women will he hold just like this next time he’s at a frat party? How many women will he hold like this all over the country as the Wolves travel to their various away games? How many women will he take back to his hotel room afterward?
Does he think of me as just another one of them?
His gorgeous face, looking like it was carved out of stone, grows as I sense him bending his head down. His lips are on a beeline for mine. Without thinking, I instinctively open mine up. He takes it for a sign and opens his.
He pulls me tighter into him. I can feel the hard, sharp contours of his muscles underneath his thin shirt fabric.
My mind is consumed by thoughts of him taking that shirt off, revealing the full glory of those perfectly sculpted abs; his surging chest muscles, strong and wide, rising like a mountain range; his boulder-like shoulders, so wide that he often has to turn to the side when walking through doors …
My body aches, imagining the feel of those muscles against my supple, exposed flesh; imagining the stark ridges of his abs rubbing against my flat, soft tummy, imagining burying my face into vast expanse of his chest …
Our lips are millimeters apart. I taste his breath, vodka-tinged and intoxicating. Our lips are only a split second from locking in a kiss, our first in –
I push my hands against his chest and draw myself back from him. He releases his grip on my hips and hangs his arms to his sides. The smile is removed from his mouth, and curiosity resides in his eyes.
“I … I have to go,” I say, forcing myself to turn around and head out of the bar.
He doesn’t follow.
I catch my breath once I’m out of the bar and back on the streets. It’s even busier than earlier, but at least I’m not lost in a sea of twisting bodies. My thoughts, though, are just as jumbled and confused as that dance floor.
What the hell just happened in there? What were Luke’s intentions? I know I don’t want to end up just another one of Luke’s hookups after all this time.
I don’t think I’ll be writing about this in Monday’s article.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: LUKE
I hardly got any sleep once I got to my room last night. What the fuck was I thinking?
Ever since seeing Heidi on the sideline gave me the strength to lead us to victory last week, my mind has been consumed with her. I decided we needed another shot together. I was hoping to gradually get closer to her over the next couple weeks while she covers the team, hope that old feelings blossom between us …
Shit, I was planning on at least asking her out to coffee before trying to make out with her on a dance floor. I don’t see Heidi as just another hookup, and I don’t want her to think that’s what I want from her.
That’s not what I want from anyone anymore. But I developed a well-deserved reputation last year as a man-whore. Shit, I’ll admit it. No sense in denying it. I had more than enough meaningless sex to last a lifetime, and that’s a lifestyle I’m ready to leave in the past.
But as far as Heidi knows, that’s who I am now. And the way I acted last night – dragging her out to the middle of a crowded club, pulling her close, and leaning in for a kiss without hardly exchanging a dozen words between us … well, that probably didn’t do much to belie my well-known reputation.
I’d already had four stiff drinks that night, and having Heidi in front of me, our bodies so close that I could feel her warmth, and her as beautiful as ever, more beautiful … I lost my head. My heart – and my cock – demanded a taste of her lips.
Things seemed to be going well between us before that, too. On the bus during the trip down here, she seemed open and warm. I could feel the electricity between us at the bar. It’s clear the bond between us that developed so many years ago hadn’t been severed, even by the years that intervened.
On the bus back to Winthrop, she gives me a frosty reception. It’s all one-word answers and quick, split-second glances in my direction, broken the moment our eyes make contact. She’s busy typing on her keyboard, looking at her notes, nibbling on her pen – fuck, when I look back to the seat behind me and across the aisle, the one she occupies, and see her musing that pen against her soft, lush, inviting lips …
I’m sure writing an article
like hers does take a lot of concentration, especially when she’s not exactly too familiar with sports reporting and the ins and outs of the game. But it’s also clear she’s trying not to engage with me. Is she angry? Worried? Scared to get too close?
I have to understand her hesitancy. She doesn’t know how much the Luke Tanner of today is or isn’t like the Luke Tanner of sophomore year of high school. I know she doesn’t want to be just another hookup for the school football hero. I just need to show her that’s not what I want either.
It’s a new week next week. I’ll find her somewhere on campus and ask her out for coffee or for lunch.
I get a good night of sleep Sunday night, waking up optimistic. The Wolves are up 2-0, both against world-class teams. Heidi’s back in my life, and this time, I’m going to keep her there. I get showered and dressed, humming a tune. Even though the eight a.m. Calculus III lecture kicks my ass, it feels like just another challenge daring me to overcome it.
I sit down in the library in between classes, full of confidence. If I can go back-to-back against Michigan and LSU and pull out victories, I can put this Calculus III problem set in its place, too. I get so in the zone as I solve problem after problem, that it’s only after I finish it that I realize I worked right past the start time of my World Cultures class.
Oh, well. The first class session I’m missing of the semester. And in that time I finished a painfully difficult Calc III homework assignment, so I’m still feeling good. I lean back in my chair, feeling confident and in control, when I spot across the library, bent over an assortment of open books, none other than Heidi.
Feeling like I could take on the whole world, I pack up my bag and stroll over to her table. As I approach from behind her, my eyes fixate on the smooth and delicate nape of her neck. Her hair is done up in a bun on the top of her head, revealing her round, tiny, adorable earlobes. I remember the joy I felt playing with those ears, caressing them, nibbling kisses on them, as we snuggled together in the school stairwell …
“I never did give you a decent scoop, did I?”
