The Dare

by Elle Kennedy

  “Taylor—”

  “I’m sorry. I know this is my fault and I pulled you into it at the Kappa party, but I’m done. The game’s over.” I try to get around him but he blocks my path. “Conor. Move.”

  “No.”

  “Please. Just move. You don’t have to pretend to be into me anymore.”

  “No,” he repeats. “Listen to me. You’re not a game. I mean, yeah, I did think it would be fun to fuck with your sorority sisters and talk about wedding vision boards and all that crazy shit, but I’m not pretending to be into you. I told you the night we met how hot I think you are.”

  I say nothing, avoiding his eyes.

  “I didn’t come out tonight because of who’s watching. I came because I was sitting at home thinking about you and I couldn’t stand it another minute.”

  I slowly lift my head. “Bullshit,” I accuse again.

  “Honest to God truth. I like being around you. I like talking to you.”

  “Then why do something so stupid and screw it all up by trying to kiss me?”

  “Because I wanted to know what it felt like to kiss you and I was afraid we might never find out.” The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Figured if I tried it in public, I had a better shot, ’cause then you might kiss me back for appearances.”

  “That’s a dumb reason.”

  “I know.” Tentatively, he takes a step toward me.

  This time when he reaches out to take my hand in his, I let him.

  “I thought I was helping just now,” he says sheepishly. “I thought I was protecting you from having to do that ridiculous dare and we were having a laugh. I read it wrong and I’m sorry for that.” His voice thickens. “But I know I’m not reading this wrong.” His thumb rubs the inside of my palm, and I gulp. “You like me.”

  Ugh. This was all so simple just a few days ago. Wasn’t it? A little gag between friends. Now we’ve crossed over and there’s no going back. We don’t get to pretend the sexual tension is a joke, that the casual flirting doesn’t mean anything, that someone isn’t going to get hurt.

  In this case, “someone” means me.

  “I don’t know where to go from here,” I start awkwardly, “except that maybe it’d be better if we didn’t hang out anymore.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “Yeah, I veto that suggestion.”

  “You don’t get a veto. If I say I don’t want to hang out with you anymore, then tough shit. That’s the way it is.”

  “I think you should let me kiss you.”

  “Because you were probably dropped on your head as a child,” I snap back.

  At that, Conor cracks a smile. He lets out a breath and squeezes my hand, then places it against his chest. Beneath my palm, his heart is pounding hard.

  “I think there’s something here.” There’s a note of challenge in his voice. “And I think you’re afraid to find out what it is. Not sure why, though. Maybe you don’t think you deserve it, I dunno. But that’s a fucking tragedy, because you of all people deserve to be happy. So here it is: I’m going to kiss you, unless you tell me not to. Okay?”

  I’m going to regret this. Even as I lick my lips and tilt my head, I know I’m going to regret this. But the word “no” refuses to exit my mouth.

  “Okay,” I finally whisper.

  He takes full advantage of my acquiescence, leaning in to brush his lips against mine.

  At first it’s the lightest of caresses, but it doesn’t take long for his kiss to grow deep, urgent. When I weave my arms up his shoulders and comb my fingers into his hair, he makes the sexiest sound against my mouth. Half groan, half sigh.

  I feel his entire body clench against mine. His hands go to my hips, fingers biting into my bare skin, and presses me against the wall until there’s no light left between us.

  His mouth, so gentle yet hungry, the heat of his body, and the feel of his muscles caging me…it’s surreal, thrilling. As desire courses through my veins, I kiss him back desperately. I forget myself. I forget where we are and all the reasons we shouldn’t do this.

  “You taste like cinnamon,” he mumbles, and then his tongue is exploring again, slicking over mine and summoning a moan from deep in my throat.

  I cling to him, completely and totally addicted to the feel of his mouth against mine. I drag my teeth over his bottom lip and feel rather than hear the groan vibrate in his chest. His hands slide up my ribs, pushing beneath my shirt, until they’re just beneath my breasts. I suddenly wish I didn’t take off my sweater, that I had an extra layer of protection between my flesh and Conor’s seductive touch.

  “You get me so hot, Taylor.”

  His lips find my neck and then he’s sucking on it, triggering a flurry of shivers. His lower body bumps mine, hips giving a slow sensual thrust that makes me moan again.

  He kisses me again, his tongue teasing the seam of my lips. Then he pulls back and I see the same needy, hungry lust I’m feeling reflected back at me in his eyes.

  “Come home with me tonight,” Conor Fucking Edwards whispers.

  And that’s what breaks the spell.

  Breathing hard, I drop my hands from his broad shoulders and let them dangle at my sides.

  Dammit. Dammit, what’s wrong with me? I’m no clairvoyant, but I don’t need to be one to see how all this is going to play out.

  I go back to his place.

  I lose my virginity to him.

  He rocks my world for one amazing night.

  And then next week I’m just another sad sap raising my hand along with his other conquests when asked who there has hooked up with him.

  “Taylor?” He’s still watching me. Waiting.

  I bite my lip. Easing away from the heat of his body, I slowly shake my head and say, “Will you drive me home?”

  12

  Conor

  I can’t get a read on Taylor. Outside the bar I thought we had a connection. I might be a fucking idiot sometimes, but I know when a girl is kissing me back. She definitely felt something. But the moment we stopped, she shut down again, slammed a door in my face, and now I’m driving her home with the distinct impression she’s mad at me again.

  I can’t figure out what she wants from me. I’d leave her alone, stay out of her life, if I believed that’s what Taylor really wanted, but I don’t think that’s the case.

  “Did I make a mistake kissing you?” I ask, glancing over at the passenger side.

  She put her sweater back on, which is a damn shame. The silky top she had on before was hot as hell. My dick is still aching for her.

  She’s silent for a long time, looking out the window like she can’t get far enough away from me. Finally, she spares me a quick look and says, “It was a nice kiss.”

  Nice?

  Well, fuck me. That’s the most lukewarm response to a kiss I’ve ever received. And I’m not sure it answers my question.

  “Then what’s wrong?” I press.

  “It’s just…” She lets out a sigh. “I mean, think about all those people at the bar looking at us.”

  Frankly, I didn’t even notice anyone else. When I’m with her, I’m only watching Taylor. Someone about her reels me in, and it’s not just the fact that my body is primed for her. Yes, I’d love to bang her brains out, but that’s not the reason I showed up at the diner uninvited earlier.

  Taylor Marsh has no idea how cool she is, and that’s a fucking shame.

  “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you,” I say gruffly. “That wasn’t my intention.”

  “No, I know. But come on, you have to know what people would say about someone like you with someone like me.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Damn it, Conor, don’t act like it isn’t obvious. I get it, you’re trying to make me feel better and that’s sweet, but let’s be real. People see us and they think, what is he doing with her? We’re a punchline.”

  “Bullshit. I don’t believe that.”

  “Oh my God, you heard it
yourself at the banquet! You heard all the shit Abigail and her douche army were saying about us.”

  “So what? I don’t give a shit what other people think.” I don’t live my life on the basis of other people’s opinions or to please anyone but myself. If she’d just fucking let me, I’d like to try pleasing Taylor, too.

  “Well, maybe you should. Because I can assure you, they’re not thinking nice things about us.”

  There’s ice in her voice that I’ve never heard from her before. Hatred, even. It’s not directed at me, but I’m starting to get a sense of how deep her insecurities go.

  My next breath comes out ragged, frustrated. “I’ll keep saying this until it sinks in, but there’s nothing wrong with you, Taylor. There isn’t some arbitrary hierarchy between us. I want you. I’ve wanted you since the moment I watched you cross the room at that party.”

  Her turquoise eyes widen slightly.

  “I mean it,” I say. “I have a thousand filthy thoughts about you a day. That night in my room when you were running your fingers through my hair, I had half a hard-on just lying there.”

  I pull up outside Taylor’s apartment building and throw the Jeep in park. I angle my body so I’m facing her, but her eyes remain fixed forward.

  The frustration builds again. “I get it. You have body issues. Whatever you’ve experienced in your life, it’s made you hate the way you look and hide yourself in leggings and baggy sweaters.”

  Finally she turns her head. “You have no idea what it’s like to be me,” she says flatly.

  “I don’t. But I think if you tried, just a little, to accept yourself, you might figure out that everyone else has their own insecurities too. And maybe you’ll believe a guy when he tells you he’s wildly attracted to you.” I shrug. “Wear whatever the hell you want, Taylor. But your body is incredible and you should be able to flaunt it, not live your life in a paper bag.”

  She abruptly rips off her seatbelt and grabs the door handle.

  “Taylor—”

  “Goodnight, Conor. Thanks for the ride.”

  Then she’s gone, slamming the door.

  The fuck did I do?

  I want to hop out and run after her, but I recognize the internal voice that’s urging me to do that. It’s that voice in the back of my head where all my really dumb ideas come from. The self-destructive, self-deprecating jackass who takes anything good and easy and pure and just fucking starts tearing at it with his teeth.

  Truth is, Taylor doesn’t actually know me at all. She has no idea the shithead I was back in LA or the shit I did to fit in. She has no idea that most of the time I still don’t fit—here, there, or anywhere at all. That for years I’ve been trying on masks until I’ve almost forgotten what I look like underneath. Never satisfied with the result.

  I keep trying to convince Taylor to go easy on herself, appreciate her body and who she is, but I can’t even convince myself. So what the hell am I doing getting wrapped up with a girl like her—a good person who doesn’t need my bullshit—when I haven’t even gotten myself figured out?

  Sighing, I reach for the gearshift. Instead of running after Taylor, I drive home. And I tell myself it’s for the best.

  13

  Taylor

  I’m relieved when my mom drives in from Cambridge on Thursday to have lunch. After two days of dodging calls from Conor and questions from Sasha about what happened the other night, I need a distraction.

  We hit up the new vegan place in Hastings. Partly because my mother grumbles at the idea of choking down another greasy meal at the diner and mostly because eating carbs in front of her always gives me anxiety. I look like Mom’s “before” image in the Before and After shots of some European med spa commercial. Iris Marsh is tall, skinny, and utterly gorgeous. She’d given me hope during puberty that any day I’d wake up and look like her younger clone. I was sixteen before it hit me that wasn’t going to happen. Guess I only got my father’s genes.

  “How are your classes going?” she asks, draping her coat over the back of her chair as we sit with our meals. “Are you enjoying your co-op?”

  “Yeah, it’s great. I definitely know elementary education is where I want to be. The kids are terrific.” I shake my head in amazement. “And they learn so fast. It’s incredible to watch their development over such a short period of time.”

  I always knew I wanted to be teacher. Mom briefly tried to convince me to pursue a professor track like her, but that was a non-starter. The idea of getting up in front of a room full of college kids every day, being dissected under their scrutiny—I’d be breaking out in hives. No, with little kids, they’re engineered to see teachers as authority figures first. If you treat them fairly and with kindness and compassion, they love you. Sure, there are always the brats and bullies, but at that age, kids aren’t nearly as judgmental.

  “What about you?” I ask. “How’s work?”

  Mom offers a wry smile. “We’re almost through the worst of the Chernobyl effect. Unfortunately, it also means the research windfall has mostly dried up. Nice while it lasted, though.”

  I laugh in response. The HBO series was the best and worst thing to happen to Mom’s nuclear science and engineering department at MIT since Fukushima. The sudden popularity brought a renewed energy to anti-nuke demonstrators who started gathering near campus or outside conferences. It also meant the research grants came pouring in, along with every fanboy who thought he was going to save the world. Except then they realize there’s a lot more money in robotics, automation, and aerospace engineering, and switch majors before their parents find out their tuition checks were feeding fantasies brought on by the guy who wrote Scary Movie 4. Good show, though.

  “We’ve also finally filled Dr. Matsoukas’ old position. We hired a young woman from Suriname who studied with Alexis at Michigan State.”

  Dr. Alexis Branchaud, or Aunt Alexis as she was known when she used to stay with us during visiting lectures at MIT, is like Mom’s evil French twin. The two of them with a bottle of Bacardi 151 were a natural disaster. For a while, I wondered if maybe Aunt Alexis was the reason I rarely saw my mom date.

  “It’ll be the first time the department will be majority female.”

  “Nice. Smashing atoms and the patriarchy. And what about extra-curriculars?” I ask.

  She grins. “You know, normal kids don’t want to hear about their mothers’ sex lives.”

  “And whose fault is that?”

  “You have a point.”

  “It’s big of you to say so.”

  “Honestly,” she says, “I’ve been swamped with work. The department is overhauling the curriculum for the master’s thesis next year and Dr. Rapp and I have been taking care of Dr. Matsoukas’ advisees. Elaine set me up with her husband’s racquetball partner last month, but I draw a hard line at middle-aged men who still bite their fingernails.”

  “I have a fake boyfriend.”

  I don’t know why I blurt that out. Probably low blood sugar. I didn’t eat breakfast this morning and only had a bowl of grapes for dinner last night while I was studying for a quiz in diagnostic and corrective reading strategies.

  “Okay.” My mother looks justifiably baffled. “Define fake boyfriend.”

  “Well, it started off as a dare, and then it sort of became a joke. Now we might not be friends anymore because I might have gotten mad at him for trying to like me for real and I keep ignoring his text messages.”

  “Uh-huh,” is her response. Her ocean-blue eyes narrow in that way they do when she’s evaluating a puzzle. My mom’s always been brilliant. Easily the smartest person I know. But when it comes to me, I’ve never felt like we were working off the same reading material. “Have you tried liking him back?”

  “Definitely not.”

  Okay, maybe that isn’t true. I know if I let myself, I would absolutely develop feelings for Conor. I’ve been replaying our kiss over and over again in my head since the second he dropped me off at home. I could barely concentrat
e on studying last night because I can’t stop thinking about the firmness of his lips, the heat of his body, the feel of his rock-hard cock pressing against my belly.

  There was no denying he’d wanted me that night. He asked me to go home with him because he wanted to fuck me, no doubt about that.

  But that’s the problem. I know the minute I give in, Conor will wake up from this daydream to realize he should be with someone much hotter. I’ve seen the girls that the guys on his team date—I’d stick out like a fat sore thumb.

  I’m not interested in being the collateral damage once Conor figures that out.

  “Well, what did you fight about?” Mom asks curiously.

  “It’s not important. It’s dumb that I even brought it up.” I move my fork around the remnants of cauliflower rice in my bowl and try to psyche myself up for finishing it. “We’ve only known each other a few weeks anyway. I blame the punch bowl at the Kappa party. I should know better than to drink out of a five-gallon paint bucket.”

  “Yes,” she says, grinning, “I should think I raised you better than that.”

  As we’re walking back to her car, though, something dislodges itself from the back of my mind.

  “Mom?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you think I…” Dress like a bag lady? Have the fashion sense of a literary school marm? Am doomed to live out my life as a spinster? “Do you think the way I dress says I’m embarrassed by the way I look?”

  She stops beside the car and meets my eyes with sympathy. Even with her more minimalist style, which has generally consisted of blacks, whites, and grays, she always looks so fashionable and put together. Easy, I guess, when clothes are designed for exactly your body type.

  It was always difficult growing up with a mom like her. Not that she didn’t try—she was my consummate cheerleader and booster of self-esteem. Constantly telling me how beautiful I was, how proud she was of me, how she wished she had hair as thick and lustrous as mine. But despite her efforts, I couldn’t help comparing myself to her in a vicious cycle of self-defeat.