The Score

by Elle Kennedy

  “He what?”

  “Nothing. Forget it.” I snatch the joint from his hand and inhale deeply. Too deeply, because I start coughing like crazy on the exhale. My eyes water for a moment, and when my vision clears, I find serious green eyes watching me carefully.

  “What did he do?” Dean demands in a low voice. “And how bad of a beat-down does he deserve? Me and Garrett can handle our own in a fight, but if you want some bone-crushing, we can unleash Logan on him.”

  “Nobody is crushing anybody’s bones, dumbass. Sean didn’t do anything terrible, and I don’t need you to beat him up. The only thing I want you to do is take this stupid phone.” I shove my cell phone in Dean’s hand. “Keep it away from me this weekend, okay? Only give it back if my dad calls. Or Hannah and Stella. And Meg and—you know what? I’ll check it a few times a day under your supervision. That way you can slap me if I try to text Sean.”

  Dean looks intrigued. “So I’m…what, your relationship sponsor? I’m the one who makes sure you don’t fall off the wagon?”

  “Yep. Congratulations, you finally get to do something worthwhile with your time,” I say sarcastically.

  He tips his head. “What do I get in return?”

  “The satisfaction of knowing you’re helping someone other than yourself?”

  “Naah. How about a BJ? I’ll do it for a BJ.”

  I give him the finger. “You wish.”

  “Fine, an HJ.”

  “Don’t be a dick. Please. I have no willpower when it comes to Sean.”

  As if on cue, the phone buzzes in Dean’s hand, and my first instinct is to try to grab it. He swiftly takes a step back, then glances at the screen. “It’s Sean.” His mouth quivers in amusement. “He misses the taste of your lips.”

  My heart does a painful flip. “Another rule—you’re not allowed to tell me what he says.”

  “You’re giving me a lot of responsibility here, baby doll. I don’t like responsibility.”

  Shocker. “You can handle this, baby doll. I have faith in you.”

  Dean takes one final drag of the joint, then snuffs it out in the ashtray and heads for the glass sliding door. God, even the way he walks is arrogant. And he looks good doing it. My gaze unwittingly rests on his taut ass and the way his sweatpants cling to it. Yep, I’m checking out his ass. I mean, it’s a spectacular ass, and I’m a woman—how could I not?

  “You’re going about this the wrong way, you know. The best way to get over someone is to hook up with someone else. ASAP.”

  His words jolt me out of my butt-ogling. “I’m not ready to be with anyone else yet.”

  “Sure you are. Seriously, just find yourself a rebound.” Dean whips up his arm. “I volunteer as tribute.”

  A laugh flies out. “Dream on.”

  But in the back of my mind, I’m considering the suggestion. A rebound isn’t a terrible idea, actually. It’s like falling off a horse—people always advise you to immediately get back on, right? Maybe that’s what I should do, hop right back in the saddle. If anything, it’ll be a good distraction from the ache in my heart.

  I definitely won’t be doing it with Dean, though. Nope, I’d rather find a saddle that hasn’t already been ridden by every girl at Briar.

  “We’ll put a pin in it,” he decides.

  “If by that you mean sticking a pin in this stupid idea balloon and deflating it, then sure, let’s put a pin in it.”

  Dean stops at the door and turns, his green eyes doing a seductive sweep from my head down to my toes. “Actually, the more I think about it, the more I like the idea of rebounding you.” His gaze lingers on my chest. “I like the idea a lot.”

  I stifle a groan. “Garrett promised that you wouldn’t hit on me this weekend.”

  “G knows better than to make promises on my behalf,” Dean answers with a grin. Then he beckons me. “So are we watching this movie or what?”

  I follow him inside. My mind feels foggy from the weed, but in a good way, and when Dean stops in the hall to hike up the sweatpants that are about to fall off his trim hips, for some reason I start giggling as if it’s the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.

  My humor fades when we settle on the couch, because Dean flops down directly beside me, slings one muscular arm around my shoulders, and tugs me close. As if it’s totally normal.

  I frown at him. “Why is your arm around me?”

  His expression is all innocence. “This is how I watch movies.”

  “Really? So you put your arm around Garrett when you watch movies with him?”

  “Absolutely. And if he’s nice to me, sometimes I slide my hand down his pants.” Dean’s other hand skims down to the waistband of my leggings. “Be nice to me, and I promise I’ll be even nicer in return.”

  “Ha. Not happening.” I shove his hand away, but not before a spark of heat ignites between my legs. His bare chest is glorious, and it’s taunting me, begging my fingers to stroke all those roped muscles. And he smells really good. Like the ocean. No, like coconut. I’m feeling way too loopy to pinpoint the scent, but not loopy enough that I don’t register how my pussy is still tingling like crazy.

  Oh, for crying out loud. My sex life must have really gone to the shitter if I’m getting all tingly in the presence of Dean Di Laurentis.

  “What else do we have to do?” he counters.

  I point to the TV. “Watch a movie.”

  “I’d rather be watching you.” He waggles his eyebrows. “You know, when you’re shouting my name while I make you come.”

  This time there aren’t any tingles. Just a lot of laughter that pours out of my mouth in uncontrollable waves.

  “Jesus. You’re really bad for a man’s ego.” He looks insulted.

  I suck in a gulp of air between giggles. Yep, I’m high and relaxed and in possession of no filters whatsoever, which means I can make fun of Dean all I want and blame the weed later. “I’m sorry, but you’re too fucking much sometimes.” I can’t stop laughing. “Do girls really fall for these lines?”

  He makes an unflattering noise under his breath. “Put on the damn movie already.”

  “Gladly.” I click the remote and shift all the way to the other side of the couch, leaving three feet of distance between us.

  To Dean’s credit, he doesn’t say a word for nearly thirty minutes. His gaze stays focused on the screen, but from the corner of my eye, I don’t miss all the fidgeting he’s doing. Tapping his long fingers on his thighs. Raking a hand through his hair. Heaving a sigh as we watch the main character prepare an omelet in real time.

  When she sits at the counter and starts eating the omelet—in real time—Dean erupts like a dormant volcano.

  “This movie blows!” He groans. Loudly. “There. I said it. This goddamn movie goddamn blows.”

  “I think it’s good.” I’m lying. Enduring this film is the equivalent of watching paint dry. Not even the pot we just smoked can make this experience even the slightest bit enjoyable, but I don’t want to admit that I’d made the wrong choice. You can’t give a guy like Dean the win. Ever. He’ll lord it over me until the end of time.

  “There’s no way you like this movie,” he challenges.

  “I do,” I insist.

  He stares me down for several seconds, but my acting skills come in handy, allowing me to convey pure innocence.

  “Well, I don’t. This is a whole new level of brutal.”

  I offer a helpful suggestion. “Why don’t you go upstairs and jerk off again?”

  Shit. Wrong thing to say. His green eyes instantly take on a seductive glint.

  With a lazy grin, he leans toward me and drawls, “How about you do it for me?”

  This guy is incorrigible. “Are we back to this? Do you ever take no for an answer?”

  “I’m not familiar with that word. Nobody’s ever said it to me before.” He moves closer again, resting his palm on the cushion between us and giving the fabric a slow stroke. “Come on, let’s make this party more interesting. We�
�re home alone…we’re both good-looking…”

  I snicker.

  “It’ll be fun. Sex is always fun.”

  “Pass.”

  “Okay, no sex. How about just oral?”

  I pretend to think it over. “Am I giving or receiving?”

  “Receiving. And then giving. Because that’s how it goes.” He smiles broadly. “You know, the circle of life and all that.”

  I can’t help but laugh. Say what you want about this guy, but at least he’s entertaining. “Pass,” I say again.

  “Wanna make out?” he asks hopefully.

  “Nope.”

  “I’m a really good kisser…” He leaves that hanging as if to entice me.

  “Ha. That just means you’re not. Every time a guy says he’s a good kisser, he sucks.”

  “Yeah? You got any empirical evidence to back that up?”

  “Of course.” I really don’t. And Dean knows the word empirical? Wow, maybe there is more than air inside that pretty head of his.

  He looks ready to argue with me, but we’re interrupted by a loud burst of music from his phone. I scowl when I recognize the tune.

  Men. They can’t take one second to put the toilet seat down, but they have the time to program the ESPN theme song as their ringtone?

  Dean’s expression brightens when he sees who’s calling. He answers without delay. “Maxwell! What’s shaking?” He listens, then shoots me a hopeful look. “Wanna go to a party?”

  I shake my head.

  The person on the other end of the line is forced to endure Dean’s overly dramatic sigh. “Sorry, man. I can’t. I’m babysitting—”

  I smack him on the arm.

  “—and she doesn’t want to go,” he finishes as he glares at me. He pauses again. “No, she’s fully grown.”

  What?

  “I’m babysitting an adult, dude. G’s girlfriend’s friend.” Dean rambles on as if I’m not even in the room. “We’re watching this movie about a lady with cancer and it sucks…well yeah, cancer sucks in general. I mean, all my sympathies for people who have it, but this movie is god-awful. Yeah…no, game’s on Tuesday…truth…yeah, definitely. We can hit up Malone’s. Later, bro.”

  He hangs up and turns to scowl at me. “I could be at a party right now.”

  “Nobody’s forcing you to hang out with me,” I point out.

  “I’m trying to be nice to you, on account of your poor broken heart and all. But is there any gratitude on your part? Nope. You won’t even kiss me.”

  I lean in and pat him on the shoulder. “Aw, honey-pie. I’m sure any girl in your phone’s contact list would be happy to come over and stick her tongue in your mouth. I, on the other hand, have standards.”

  “What, I’m not good enough for you?” He lifts his eyebrows. “I’ll have you know, your friend Wellsy loved kissing me.”

  I snort. “Oh, you mean that peck she gave you so Garrett wouldn’t know how much she liked kissing him? Yeah, I know all about it, sweetie. That was a desperation kiss.” Though it still boggles my mind that Hannah actually kissed this guy. Dean is so not her type.

  Then again, I never thought hockey superstar Garrett Graham was her type either, and look at them now. Soulmates.

  “That wasn’t a desperation kiss,” Dean argues.

  “Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that.”

  He looks at the screen. The main character is preparing food again. Dinner, this time, and there are far too many unnecessary close-ups of the potatoes she’s peeling. She eats a lot in this movie.

  “God, just kill me already.” He leans back and runs both his hands through his hair until it’s tousled to shit. “I can’t watch another second of this.”

  Me neither, but I made this bed and now I’m forced to lie in it.

  “You know what?” he announces. “Forget the weed. Only one thing is gonna make this piece-of-shit movie tolerable.”

  “Yeah, what’s that?”

  Rather than answer, he hops off the couch and disappears into the kitchen. Wary, I listen to the sounds of cupboards opening and closing, glasses clinking together, and then he’s back, holding a bottle in one hand and two shot glasses in the other.

  Dean flashes a grin and says, “Tequila.”

  3

  Allie

  Someone is pounding my head with a mallet. Like one of those comically huge mallets you see cartoon characters whacking each other with. It’s horrible. It’s loud.

  Oh God. I’m so hung-over.

  Even the barely audible groan that escapes my lips is enough to bring a shock of agony to my temples. And the act of shifting in bed evokes a wave of nausea that tightens my throat and makes my eyes water. I breathe through it. Inhale. Exhale. I just need to control the queasiness long enough to make it to the bathroom so I don’t hurl all over Garrett Graham’s clean sheets—

  I’m not in Garrett’s bed.

  The realization hits me at the same time I register the sound of breathing. Not the shallow, I-drank-too-much-tequila breaths that are leaving my throat, but the soft, even breathing of the guy beside me.

  This time when I groan, it comes from deep in my soul.

  The memories come crashing back in vivid Technicolor. The terrible movie. The tequila shots. The…rest.

  I slept with Dean last night.

  Twice.

  My heart beats faster as I stare up at the ceiling. I’m in Dean’s room. There’s an empty condom wrapper on the end table. And…yep, I’m naked.

  Maybe it was a bad dream, a voice in my head tries to assure me.

  I draw another deep breath and find the courage to turn my head. What I encounter seizes my lungs again.

  A very naked Dean is stretched out on his stomach. His bare ass taunts me, not just with its sheer perfection, but because of the red scratches on his tight butt cheeks.

  My nails had left those scratches. I lift a weak hand and notice the fingernail on my index finger is broken. I broke a nail while clawing at Dean’s ass. That must have happened downstairs—I remember him being on top the first time on the couch. The purplish hickey on his left shoulder had happened up here, during our second round when I was on top.

  “I want to see this mysterious bedroom of yours. I want to be the first one to christen it.”

  My own words buzz around in my already-muddled brain. As it turned out, I’m not the first girl he’s brought up to his room. He’d told me so himself. And that wasn’t all he’d revealed. Yep, I am now in possession of the nugget of knowledge Hannah has been trying to get her hands on for more than a year—why Dean prefers to screw everywhere but his bedroom.

  Unfortunately, the knowledge doesn’t end there. I know what Dean looks like naked. I know how it feels to have him thrusting inside me. I know the sounds he makes when he’s coming.

  I know too much.

  My head pounds harder.

  Fuck.

  Fuckity fuck fuck fuck.

  What the hell have I done? I’ve never had casual sex before. My sex roster features a total of three guys—two in high school, one in college, and all of them were my serious boyfriends.

  My gaze strays back to Dean’s long, muscular body. Why did I let this happen? I can handle my liquor just fine. I wasn’t blackout drunk last night. I wasn’t slurring or stumbling or acting like an idiot. I knew exactly what I was doing when I made the first move and kissed Dean.

  I made the first move.

  What is the matter with me?

  Okay. Okay. Not the end of the world. I massage my screaming temples with the pads of my fingers and force myself to ignore the sleeping man beside me. It’s fine. It was just a one-night stand. Nobody died. I might regret it—desperately—but regrets are for sissies, as my dad likes to say. Learn from your mistakes and move on.

  That’s what I need to do. Move on. No, just move. As in, sneak out of this bed, take a long shower, and pretend that last night never happened.

  Armed with a plan, I gingerly slide out from under the sheet
that’s haphazardly thrown over my lower body. The mattress squeaks and I freeze, my panicky gaze darting toward Dean.

  He’s still dead to the world.

  Okay. I take another breath and ease my legs over the side of the bed. When my feet hit the floor, Dean stirs. He releases a half-moan, half-breath. Then he rolls over and oh my God, I can see his dick.

  Heat floods my cheeks as I stare at his package. Even flaccid, it’s impressive. He was right—he does have a great cock.

  And unless my memory is failing me, I believe I vocally praised the glory of that cock many, many times last night.

  My face grows hotter as I remember everything I’d said to him. Everything I’d done to him.

  A silent groan rises in my throat. All right, enough reminiscing. I need to get the hell out of this bedroom. No, first I need to find my phone.

  I scan the room until I spot Dean’s sweatpants. He’d slipped them on after our romp on the couch, and I’m pretty sure my phone is in his pocket.

  My own clothes are nowhere to be found—last I saw them, they were in a pile on the living room floor. Which only brings more panic, because that means Tucker must have seen them when he got home last night. Shit. And he had to have heard us, because God knows I wasn’t using my indoor voice when Dean’s tongue was between my—

  Nope, not thinking about it.

  I fish around in his pockets for my phone. Yes. It’s here. Thank God.

  I type in my passcode. Guilt slams into me from all directions when I see the unread messages from Sean.

  God. If he only knew what I’d been doing when he was sending me all these heartfelt text messages. Not that I owe him any explanations. We’re broken up. We’re going to stay broken up. But I still feel awful knowing I slept with someone else while Sean was at home, desperately trying to win me back.

  Not just any guy, either. I slept with Dean. Dean, the guy who was about to have a threesome before I showed up. Dean, the guy who fucks anyone with a pulse. Dean, the guy who—

  “Hand it over, baby doll.”