Give You Up (Dumas University Book 1)

by Ashlyn Mathews

  An angel’s wing drapes down her right arm. The other wing is tatted on Syn’s left arm. Interwoven with the wing on the right are the snake and butterfly. On the left are musical notes. Classy. Dramatic. Beautiful. Intriguing.

  All of the above stokes my curiosity and my interest in who Syn is. What in her life shaped her into this beautiful and interesting person? I certainly had nothing to do with her change.

  That realization doesn’t piss me off. Like Syn not liking the number of women I’ve slept with, I’m learning to accept that the past can’t be changed. What I can do something about is the here and now.

  “Was the snake and the butterfly your first tat?”

  She shakes her head and lifts her shirt. Below the edge of her lace-trimmed bra, inked on smooth pale skin are: 17-18-19.

  “Can I ask the meaning behind the numbers?”

  Syn is all about expression and meanings. When we started getting serious our junior year of high school, Syn admitted her long hair was her armor but the color was the bane of her existence.

  With her snow-white locks, she could be spotted from across the room. It was how I quickly found her in a crowd. She was like a beacon in the night, with her pale hair and skin. Her confession that she used her long hair as “armor” didn’t surprise me. Syn was shy. Didn’t like attention.

  When something or someone made her uncomfortable, Syn would gather her long hair in her hands and use the thick strands to hide her face from the world.

  What does it say when she loses her armor, replacing her long hair with a cut that shows off her beautiful face? And the bold ink on her skin? They draw any man’s eyes to how secure she is. I mean, come on, a man has to be blind not to notice her colorful sleeves.

  “If I do, can we not go into the details?”

  “Why ask? Not going into the details is your usual MO.”

  It’s what drew me to Syn. What made life with her interesting. She’ll keep important parts, like the topic of her father, out of our conversations, but will surprise me from left field with something extremely personal.

  What about sex doesn’t she like? What mother-effer made sex bad for her? I’d like to fuck him up.

  A man should make a woman feel good. Make her come so hard she forgets her name. If this guy hurt Syn . . . She wears down her bottom lip, and thoughts of pummeling a guy into a bloody mess leaves my brain. There’s sadness in Pixie Dust’s beautiful eyes.

  “Seventeen is for when I lost myself and someone I cared about. Eighteen is for when I went a little crazy. Nineteen is when I found meaning in my life again.”

  There’s grief and hope in her words, and if I were a betting man, I’d say who she was at seventeen, eighteen, and nineteen have to do with losing her mom to cancer and giving birth to the kid with her at Bayside. I’m on the edge of demanding she tell me if the boy is her kid, Grady’s boy, but I hold my tongue.

  Prying into Syn’s life is a guarantee she won’t say a damn word. That’s the thing I’ve learned through our years as friends, then she as my girl. Be patient enough and Syn will blurt out what’s on her mind. No prying needed. No questions asked. But rush headfirst into her personal affairs and she will put a lock on it and destroy the key.

  I return the conversation to what makes her happy, those damn Sterling guys.

  “Earlier you said if you were a Sterling dude, what would your name be. Are there no Sterling girls?”

  “Besides the wives who married the Sterling brothers, no. Dare said there are a total of five brothers. Each brother has at least one boy. Some have two, like Red and Midnight. Max number is three boys. You do the math.”

  I cram my knuckles between my eyes. “Ow. Brain. Hurt.”

  She smiles, and craving an unobstructed view, I drop my hand from my face. Syn Winters is beautiful with her flawless creamy skin and snow-white hair.

  I rise from my seat. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”

  “Taron Vaughn, if you plan on dining and dashing and sticking me with the bill, I plan on hunting your ass down and making you pay triple the bill and a five hundred percent tip.”

  Chuckling, I make my way to the men’s restroom. I am liking this new Syn. The old Syn was fine, no doubt about it, with her quiet charm and on-the-down-low humor. Syn 2.0? Syn 2.0 is sassy and snarky and downright fucking delectable and delightful, and I want a taste.

  Inside the men’s room, I take a piss, then wash my hands real good until they smell clean and look polished. For this part, I need to get the smell of burgers and greasy fries off my skin.

  Syn hasn’t left her seat. She’s digging into her fries, having finished her double patties burger. That girl can eat. Watching her devour the slabs of meat . . . My dick crowds my pants. Scolding my dick, I sit and discreetly adjust B-man, then edge closer until my knees touch Syn’s.

  “How’s your food?”

  Her mouth is full. She gives me the thumbs-up sign. Of fucking course, my gaze drops to her tits. Thumb. Tits. Doesn’t add up, but nothing makes sense where my body is concerned when near Syn.

  She’s filled out since senior year of high school. Her breasts are fuller. Like way fuller, from A-cup to the high end of a B-cup. How do I know about breasts and bra sizes? My cousins talk about their “girls” all the time. In front of me. Fucking awkward.

  Her breasts are fuller, but the rest of her is the same. Slim build. Shapely legs. Bright, big, beautiful eyes. Full red lips. Smart. Funny. I miss her long hair. But if Syn is happy with shorter locks, then I am all in too.

  Speaking of hair, I am staring too hard at her locks. She ducks her head and hides her enjoyment of my attention full on her. That’s another thing I never tire of. I’d look at her and think to myself, I am one lucky bastard a kindhearted, quiet girl like Syn is willing to put up with a loud-mouth, hot-tempered jackass like me.

  I reach out, and cradling her jaw in my palm, I strum my thumb over the arch of her cheek. She meets my gaze, and the tip of her tongue darts out and flicks her lip ring. That sliver of metal is hot, and craving a taste, I lean into her.

  “Taron?”

  I stroke across her cheek. Watch her pupils dilate and her lips part, giving me a hint of the tip of her tongue peeking from between her teeth.

  “Yes, Pixie Dust?” My voice is low, husky, like I’ve just woken up from the best wet dream.

  Before she can answer, there’s a buzzing noise from her bag. Blinking, she straightens, having tipped forward into my space. Man, I’d like to get all up in her space more often.

  She pulls out her cell, glances at the screen, and then quickly says, “Gotta take. Sorry.”

  “Should I leave?”

  Tell me no.

  “No.” She pats my knee, and I am in heaven. “Hi, Bounce. What’s up? Don’t call you that? Hey, if the shoe fits. I know, you’re sorry. You’re right. You’ve apologized a gazillion times. School’s great.”

  She smiles, pleased with this “Bounce” person for a change rather than annoyed. Who the fuck is this person, and if it’s a guy, when can I punch his face to the back of his skull?

  “First day went swell. I spilled coffee on this hot dude. He’s a football player. Stay away from them? I’m planning on it.”

  She has the nerve to wink at me. Fucking winked at me. Charmed, I tip forward. My arm falls from the counter. My hand cups her hip.

  “Why are you calling rather than texting? Oh, you missed my voice? Had to get in your dose of snark? That can be done with GIFs and emojis too, you know.”

  Sarcasm. I like. A fucking lot. My other hand cups her other hip, and I have her sandwiched between my muscular arms and my thick thighs.

  Then her voice softens and all I see is red.

  “I miss you too. Thanks for calling and checking up on me on my first day at school. It wasn’t what I had in mind. Yes, I know I shouldn’t plan my life out up to the day I think I’ll die.”

  She cringes.

  “I’m sorry, that was morbid. Is there a brigh
t spot to my day? There are many. One, I didn’t get overly lost. I know, right? My fourth year and I still get the buildings mixed up. Most important bright spot, I met a new person who I think will be one of my best friends.”

  Her gaze locks on mine, and I can’t breathe. The warmth in her eyes and how bright her blue-gray eyes shine for me . . . Like the brightest star in the constellation.

  And that’s how I know coming here, being with Syn again, was the right decision.

  11

  Syn

  Taron dropped me off in front of my car, and we didn’t discuss anymore him wanting me to be his personal professional snuggler.

  I’m grateful he hadn’t.

  What we did talk about is my position as his PA. He’s giving me twenty-four hours to get my life arranged before I have to “go where he goes.”

  After the day I had in addition to psyching myself up all day in the background of my mind that I am crashing Galley’s party alone, I need a nap. For all the planning and constructing of my life that I do, I am not ready to tackle telling Dare of my position as Taron’s personal assistant. Or that I told the football team I’m his professional snuggler. I also don’t have the energy to text Midnight.

  I’m a glutton for punishment, but Midnight reaming me for “one on the house” is too much to handle at the moment.

  As soon as I am inside my small rental, I crash hard on the bed, falling fast asleep.

  When I wake up, it’s ten. Crap, I need to haul ass and get myself to Galley’s party. Not wasting precious time checking and answering text messages, I grab the paper bag that has Zeke Harrington’s rugby jersey in it and carefully slide it inside my oversized “party bag.”

  God, no girl ever carries around a messenger-sized purse to a campus party unless she plans on carting off a few laptops. I remind myself not to blurt out that thought to Riley. I wouldn’t want to put ideas in her pretty head.

  After I put on a dab of lip gloss, do my eyes in a smoky hue in case I get stopped on my way to Zeke’s bedroom and get roped into his #OneandDone IG post, and put color on the arches of my cheeks—don’t want to be mistaken for a ghost—I change into party clothes that are also practical.

  There is a high probability of me climbing out of the window. By the time I arrive at Galley’s, the beer has been flowing and students are getting wasted or making out in whatever corner they can find.

  Some bypass the corners and opt for a public show of an intense make-out session. I look away. I’m not here to ogle. Clutching my bag close to my body, I beeline for the kegs out back for a cup of liquid courage.

  I stand in line and keep my head down to avoid getting noticed. Not that it helps me. I am one of a few girls here with short hair. I’m also not dressed to the hilt in an ass-hugging skirt, skimpy dress, or low-cut shirt. My attire is boring but practical.

  Blue jeans shredded at the knees and the left thigh. Loose-fitting blue-gray T-shirt. After I get my drink and down the contents before tossing the cup in the trash, I hurry back inside the house. The sooner I get this done, the sooner I can hit the sheets again. I am halfway up the stairs when big hands grab my waist and pull me back against a solid body.

  I’m on the verge of headbutting the guy; is there no such thing as personal space, stranger danger, or fear of sexual harassment anymore? His deep voice near my ear stops me.

  “Get it done, Syn. I need you.”

  Dare. I reach back for him. He sets his hand in mine. At the top of the stairs, he presses me up against the wall, and dipping his head to accommodate our height difference, he says with agony in his voice, “It’s been a rough few days without you.”

  “The playlist I put together—”

  “Doesn’t cut it. I need to look at you. Close my eyes and feel the vibrations. You get me?”

  I nod. My poor friend. The nightmares are getting worse. What else is there to do other than to go along with him more and more?

  Dare is unwilling to try therapy. Unwilling to think over what happened the night he woke up to a bloody bed. He was drunk and high. He brought Gwen to his place and cannot remember what happened the rest of the night. Only that he woke up the next morning to a bloody bed. I begged him to talk to her, but he is so ashamed, he would rather bury those memories. Two years. That guy.

  “Riley told you I’d be here?”

  “Yeah.” His rubs his forehead on mine. “I fucking went to your place. Texted. Called. Why didn’t you pick up?”

  I drop my gaze to my bag.

  He blows out a breath. Alcohol. He’s been drinking. I inhale a deeper breath. Pot. Dare isn’t in a good place when he’s mixing his drinking with smoking a joint.

  “Yeah, I get wanting to stay on the down low, but you forget no one will hear your cell, Syn. The music is blasting.”

  “Come on, let’s haul butt and get you back home. Did you drive?”

  “Uber.”

  Thank goodness.

  I duck under his arm and hurry to Zeke’s room. His room is easy to find. The guys have papers with their names on it taped to their bedroom doors. Zeke’s door is closed. I knock. No answer. I turn the knob. The door isn’t locked. I slowly open the door just in case he’s in there with a girl. Dresser. Window. Bed. Empty. Yes!

  Grabbing his jersey from my bag, I rush to the closet and hang it toward the back. That’s where Riley said it was. On the way out of the room, I pull the door closed. Dare laces our fingers, and we make our way to the stairs.

  Before we get there, the bathroom door opens, and I come face to face with Taron. A girl comes out of the bathroom too, and I recognize her from the sexuality class. Her face is flushed. His shirt is a wrinkled mess. As though some coed had her fingers bunched in the cotton.

  “Come on, Syn. I need you, B.”

  Babe. Baby. Bae. Beautiful. It’s none of those things. However, Taron must think so. He clenches his jaw. Balls his hands at his sides. Steps toward Dare. Is he jealous? He can’t be. Or else why would he be in the bathroom with a girl? Was she giving him a BJ? Was he getting her off with his fingers or his mouth or both?

  Growling low, I barge past Taron and the girl and yank Dare with me. We are out of the house and marching across the lawn. That is as far as we get. Taron steps in front of me. I collide into him. Dare bumps into my back. Damn Taron and his long legs.

  I hold on firmly to Dare’s hand and lean back against his body. There is no question who my loyalty is with.

  “Move, Taron.” I could step around him, but do so and he’ll take that as a message that he can keep on messing with me.

  “I’m not going anywhere until you give me what you’ve been giving him.”

  He has the nerve to look my body up and down.

  “What’s he mean, B?”

  “Stay out of this, Dare.”

  “Fuck sakes, B, we need to bounce.”

  “Syn.”

  My name is a growl of warning from Taron. A crowd is gathering around us. The partygoers are aware of who Dare is. Same goes for Taron. They’re curious what the bad boy and the quarterback are fighting about, shooting daggers at one another with their eyes.

  “I said move, Taron.”

  “Give me what I asked for.”

  My body. My loyalty. I have more pride than to give him what he wants. Taron needs to learn that his body, his wealth, and his status as Dumas’s new football god isn’t important to me, and I tell him so.

  “Syn, you go home with him and I will destroy him. Fucking destroy him, Pixie Dust.”

  “Pixie Dust? Why does he call you that?”

  “Because she was mine before she was yours, douchebag.” Taron pushes me off to the side. Pulls back his arm.

  Shit, shit, shit. His temper’s gotten worse. Like bodily injury, police custody worse. I yank off another ring and hand it to him before he can cause Dare serious damage.

  With a satisfied grin on his face, Taron pockets my ring and demands I hand over my cell. Needing to get Dare back to his place before he loses
his shit in public, I give Taron my cell.

  “FaceTime in thirty minutes.”

  “Two hours. What is it you want? A wish? A listen? A chance?”

  Behind me, Dare is quiet.

  “A listen.”

  “Talk to you later, Taron.”

  “Later.”

  He walks off. With Dare’s arm across my shoulders, I glance back. The girl Taron was with earlier is waiting for him. He pulls her into his arms, and I hear in my head the sound of my heart breaking.

  Will it always be like this?

  Wondering who he is with?

  Torturing myself with what kind of girl will capture Taron’s heart completely and utterly?

  I was once that girl.

  Then I trashed my future with him to give him his chance to fly, without me. Was it a mistake to do so? Could we have made it work?

  I lean into Dare. No, I made the right decision. If I had followed Taron, I wouldn’t be the girl I am today.

  12

  Syn

  Once we’re inside Dare’s place, he slings me over his shoulder, marches us to the wet bar, and sets me on a barstool.

  “Dare, we should bypass the alcohol.”

  “Says you.” He pours himself a glass of whiskey. “Who’s the dude with the boner for you?”

  “A guy from my past.”

  “No shit. He knows about your rings. How serious?”

  “I’ve known him since we were twelve. Became friends when we were fifteen. Dated junior and beginning of senior year before I moved away.”

  I didn’t exactly move away. I was homeless for a week before going home with a guy. A few months later, Beau found me. He didn’t go into the details of how he was able to find me other than he did.

  “Do I need to sock him in the face?”

  I give Dare the rundown on the events of today. I don’t hold back. He has been nothing but honest with me. A great friend. Plus, he doesn’t think it’s shameful for a man to cry. He cries on my shoulder and I cry on his. He is my best guy friend, and Taron in my town doesn’t change that.