The Hook Up (Game On Book 1)

by Kristen Callihan

  Heat swamps my entire body now. It prickles behind my lids, and I want to chuck the phone across the room, see it shatter into a thousand pieces.

  Iris: Admit it, we always treat the ones we love the shittiest.

  There’s a rushing sound in my head. Bitch. That total bitch.

  Me: I don’t love Drew.

  Iris: Right. Whatever you say.

  I’m punching out letters so hard now that my nail hurts.

  Me: We’re not talking about me right now. We’re talking about you.

  Iris: And why can’t we talk about you? Why can’t we ever talk about you? Because you have it all figured out? That shit don’t fly, A.

  I slam the phone down on the counter. She doesn’t want my help. Fine. Let her screw up her life. I’m done. Except I pick up the phone and tell her exactly that.

  Iris: That’s right. It’s my life. My mistakes to make. And at least I’m trying. What R U doing about your mistake?

  Me: There’s nothing to do.

  I’m not going to cry. Even if the tip of my nose feels numb and there’s a lump in my throat the size of an apple.

  Iris: Call him? Say you’re sorry?

  The phone in my hand shakes as I suck in big breaths of air.

  Me: He’s MOVED ON! OK!?! He moved the fuck on. End of story.

  And so did I. It was over before it even began, and I’m fine. I’m fine.

  When the phone rings, I pick it up out of habit. I don’t even say a word, just accept the call.

  Iris’s voice comes through soft and hesitant. “Hey, girl. I’m sorry. That was harsh of me.”

  “It’s okay,” I mumble. I’d rather run naked through campus than talk to her right now, but hanging up would just make it worse. Iris would hunt me down eventually.

  Iris sighs. “Look, I know you’re just trying to protect me, okay? And I love you for it.”

  Kind of hate you right now, Iris.

  Which she must know, because she keeps pushing. “And what I said about you and Drew…” She pauses. “I’m sorry. I’ve been an insensitive bitch about the whole thing. I didn’t realize… Just. Just take it easy this weekend, Banana. Okay?”

  “Yeah.” I clear my throat. “Sure.”

  “I gotta go,” she says. “Henry’s up and—”

  “Right.” I toy with the handle of my mug. “Okay, then.”

  We hang up with awkward mumbles of goodbye.

  FOR THE FIRST time, I am not happy that it’s my birthday. I’m not in the mood to celebrate. Drew’s birthday was yesterday. And though I’m the jerk who pushed him away with both hands, somewhere in the back of my mind, I’d planned to celebrate our birthdays together. At the very least, I’d have found a way to be with him on one day or the other. Who did he celebrate it with? Will he think of me today?

  Sitting on my bed in the empty apartment, I curl over on myself, pressing a hand to my chest. When is the pain supposed to end? I feel so hollow, yet so heavy with hurt that I can barely move. Sleep is no longer a comfort. Every moment I’ve spent with Drew plays in a loop in my head. When I wake, my pillow is damp and my cheeks are tight with dried tears.

  I’m walking out to meet George downstairs when I trip over the box on my doormat. It’s a present, fairly large and square, and done up in plain white paper and a black ribbon. An envelope is tucked under the ribbon. I can’t see any writing on it, but instantly my heart is thumping so loud I hear its thud in my ears. I’m almost afraid to pick the present up. From outside, a horn blares.

  Grabbing the package with clumsy fingers, I run out to the car.

  “You aren’t supposed to get yourself presents, Anna,” George jokes when he sees the package in my hand.

  “Ha.” I tried to laugh, but I can’t.

  We drive off, the present cool beneath my sweaty palm. Staring out the window, I press my fingertip against the hard corner of the card until it bends. Should I open it now? At least see who it’s from? I think I know. But I might be wrong. I’m not sure what would crush me more, if I’m right or if I’m wrong.

  Only one way to know. And I can’t wait until I get home. My fingers tremble as I pull the envelope free and rip it open. It’s a plain white card with “Anna” printed on it in hard, masculine script. My breath seizes at the sight and a crazed sort of snort leaves my lips. I don’t even know if it’s Drew’s writing. I’m only guessing. How sad it that?

  Fumbling, I open the card.

  I haven’t cried in weeks. I won’t let myself. But staring down at the wrapped present, I feel a familiar burn and tickle behind my lids. My throat constricts so hard that I struggle to swallow. I can’t bear to rip into Drew’s present. I want to keep it just as it is, in the precise way he last touched it. But something waits inside for me, and I have to know what it is. The car speeds along the highway as I carefully pull the ribbon free and attempt to open the present without tearing the paper.

  Inside is a box, and when I lift my present free, a sob wrenches out of my chest. It’s a framed Siouxsie and the Banshees album cover—JuJu, circa 1981. And it’s signed by the entire band. A rare and wonderful thing that I don’t think anyone else in the world would know that I’d love.

  Like that, I’m a veritable fountain of tears, snot, and heaving sobs as I clutch the frame to my chest.

  George casts me a horrified look. “What the hell? Anna, talk to me.”

  I can’t. Not without dying a little more inside. “I’m sorry. I’m PMSing.”

  While George’s look of horror grows, I sniffle and search for a tissue in my bag. I find a crumpled cocktail napkin that scratches my face when I use it. “The present is from my mom,” I lie. “I guess I’m homesick.”

  He doesn’t look convinced. In fact, I’m sure he knows I’m lying. But he lets it go with a shrug. “I guess it’s good you’re going home for break soon.”

  But my home isn’t a place anymore. I’ve realized too late that it’s a person. And I’ve torn him from my life.

  I TURNED TWENTY-THREE yesterday. Ever since my parents died, I’ve hated my birthday. It only serves to remind me that my family is gone, and I am essentially alone. Gray is clearly doing Anna damage control. He managed to talk me into seeing a movie yesterday—a completely lame ass way to celebrate, in his opinion. Now he wants to drag me out to do a birthday celebration with the guys, who aren’t taking no for an answer. I’d rather pretend birthdays didn’t exist.

  I think about the present I left on Anna’s doormat. Since the album cover arrived, I’d been wanting to see her expression when she opened it. Now I can only try to imagine. Did she smile in that quick and bright way of hers when she’s surprised? Or did she smile with slow, blooming reluctance, like she’s losing the fight with her emotions?

  Did she even like it? Am I pathetic for giving it to her? Hell, if she ever found out how much I paid for it, I’d certainly look like a sap. But it wasn’t as if I could return it; I’d bought it at auction.

  Why am I torturing myself with this? I can’t go back and beg for another chance. I have some pride. And I don’t know how to fight for her and still keep it. Giving her the present was the last thing I could do. I can only hope she understands: I’m here, if she wants me.

  “Stupid,” I mutter to myself.

  A knock on my bedroom door has me sitting straighter. “Be out in a sec,” I call to Gray, who is waiting for me to get my ass in gear. Shit, I really don’t want to go out. But a guy cannot tell another guy that he’d rather mope around the house. Not if he wants to survive the ribbing.

  “You got a package.” Gray’s voice is muffled by the barrier of the door, but there’s something about his overly-neutral tone that has my chest clenching.

  In two steps, I’m at the door, wrenching it open. He just stands there, a bland look on his face, holding out a wrapped present. For a moment, I frown. Is he being funny? It is from him?

  But I can’t imagine Gray using silver paper or an elaborate white silk bow. It’s too feminine.

&nbs
p; I have to clear my throat to speak. “Where’d you get it?”

  Gray does a piss-poor job of hiding his wariness. “I thought I heard something on the porch. Found this leaning against the front door.”

  My entire body tenses against the need to run out of the house and search the street. It had to be Anna. Why didn’t she knock? Hell, I hadn’t knocked, maybe she thought that’s the way I wanted to play things. Not really. I’d just chickened out like a total puss.

  “Well?” Gray wags the box. “Are you going to take it? Or should I toss the thing?”

  Before he can move to do just that, I grab the present from his hand. I don’t look at it but hold the box down and slightly away from my body as if it might burn me. But my fingers dig into it.

  Gray and I stare at each other while I remain immobile with indecision and doubt. Maybe it isn’t from Anna. And why am I dithering like some old lady? I give Gray a dirty look, because he’s starting to smirk, and shut the door in his face. No way in hell am I opening this potential bomb in front of him.

  Going for the bandage approach, I rip open the package with one swipe. A card falls to the floor. With a shaking hand I grab it as I study the leather book the torn wrapping paper has revealed. Emerson’s Essays. Gold lined pages. Pristine condition. I sink to the floor, my back leaning against the bed for support. I smooth a hand over the cover and then open the card.

  My fingers clench the book so hard I hear the spine creak. Pressing my forehead into my raised knees, I take deep breaths to keep it together. Doesn’t want anything? Is she blind? I want to tear out of the house and hunt her down. Just so I can take her by the shoulders and shout, “You! I want you, you stubborn, deluded pain in my ass!”

  At the same time, I pull the book closer to my chest. Emerson’s Essays. She remembered. And she’s given me back a piece of my parents. Did she know I’d be missing them on my birthday? I blink rapidly. Of course she did. Her note all but said it. Suddenly, I find it hard to breathe.

  Another knock on my door echoes through my room. “Drew, man… You coming?”

  Swallowing several times, I press my fingers against my too hot eyes and find my voice. “Yeah.”

  I put the book and card in my bedside drawer and leave the room. Life goes on. Even if you don’t want it to.

  IT’S 10 P.M. ON a Friday night, and I’m at a club. On a date.

  When Iris insisted I needed to get out of my funk and go on a date, everything in me recoiled at the idea. But then I pictured Drew’s cold eyes meeting mine as he walked away with another girl. True, he gave me a birthday present, but his card said it all—he couldn’t return it so it might as well have gone to me.

  We are over, and I have to accept my mistake and move on.

  Cameron is perfect. He’s lithe and dark. His black jeans hug his legs as they disappear into his vintage Pumas. His lean chest is covered by a tattered Mr. Yuck t-shirt, which frowns at me as he leans back and takes a pull of his beer. We’ve been discussing the places we’d like to visit in London, and I’m having fun.

  Well, as much fun as a girl can have with a goddamn hole in her chest. A fucking empty hole that won’t go away. But maybe tonight will be the trick and I’ll find a way to fill it back up. I absolutely don’t surreptitiously rub a hand along my breastbone when Cameron turns his attention toward the stage. A band is about to perform, and the stage lights cast a halo of blue light over Cameron’s black hair. Those glossy locks swing over his shoulders when he leans toward me, his breath holding a hint of beer as he talks in my ear. “I heard these guys are great.”

  I nod. I really don’t know a thing about the band, but I’ll take Cameron’s word for it. He really is beautiful. Thick black lashes frame his blue eyes, and when he puts an arm around my shoulders?

  I feel nothing.

  I’m not willing to concede defeat. I don’t move away when his warm fingers rest on the back of my neck. Pretty bold, considering we met about an hour before.

  “So, how long have you known Iris?” he asks me.

  Cameron works at the Juice Shop with Iris. She’d been trying hook Cameron up with me for months. I resisted because of Drew. Who I will not think about tonight.

  “We met freshman year.” I take a sip of my beer. It’s gone flat. “Orientation.”

  “Cool.” He tosses back a lock of hair. It’s such a perfect move, highlighting his sinewy muscles and showing off his glossy hair, that I wonder if he practices in the mirror. An insane, and unwelcome, impulse tempts me to ask if he plucks out half-assed versions of Crash Into You on the guitar.

  I’m blinking rapidly into the stage lights when I see him. He’s standing at the bar, and he’s brought a friend. Although, by the way she rests her hand on his ass, I’m guessing ‘friend’ isn’t the word I should use. He doesn’t seem to mind her groping. His smile is slow and easy as he hands her a beer and leans in to hear whatever it is she needs to whisper in his ear. He laughs a little, the broad expanse of his shoulders shaking.

  I should look away. But as usual, my neck doesn’t want to obey. No, I just sit and watch as they chat and her hand becomes more familiar with his ass. It barely registers that Cameron is still playing with the edge of my shirt collar, the tips of his fingers gliding along my skin, or that he’s talking about his favorite bands.

  I need to make an effort to drag my attention back to my date. It would suck if Drew saw me staring. I’m almost in the clear when Drew turns, his gaze scanning the crowd in a lazy fashion, and his eyes lock on to me.

  Caught, I can only stare back. He’s more than twenty feet away. The air is hazy and dim. Heads bob and weave between us as people walk past the bar. And yet it’s as if he’s right in front of me.

  Did he like the book?

  Just as Drew had, I’d bought it long ago. But, unlike Drew, I was too chicken to give it to him. Until he’d given me my gift. I ought to have sucked it up and handed it to him in person, but I didn’t have the guts to face him.

  The ache in my chest digs in, and my palms tingle. I can’t move, locked in his gaze as I am. I want to go to him so badly that my thighs tense, as if I might rise. But then the connection is broken.

  He turns his attention to Cameron. Or rather, to Cameron’s hand. Even from this far away, I know that’s what he’s looking at: Cameron touching me.

  Drew’s eyes narrow. His expression isn’t pretty, and it’s so intent that I wonder if it’s what a linebacker sees just before he throws a touchdown pass right over their heads.

  Suddenly, I’m angry. He has no right to scowl like that when he’s got some groupie taking hand measurements of his ass. And that lovely thought draws me right into queasiness. Especially when I see Miss Cop-A-Feel wrap her arm about his waist. Now she’s stroking his stomach. My spot.

  “Excuse me,” I say to Cameron. “I’ll be back.”

  Luckily Cameron doesn’t ask why I need to get away. I don’t look in Drew’s direction as I make my way to the bathroom.

  Inside, I run cool water over my wrists. Always go for cooling down the wrists. Splash water on your face, and it’s a given that someone will enter the bathroom. And they’ll know you’re upset. Best, they’ll look at you with pity. Worse, they’ll ask you if you’re okay while looking at you with pity.

  The wrists, however? You can easily pretend you’re just washing your hands.

  I stand there until my fingers grow numb. I don’t look into the mirror. I don’t know if I’ll like what I see. A few drops of water hit my belly and I flinch, breaking out of my fog. My black t-shirt is riding up, exposing a strip of skin over my jeans. The damn shirt is too tight. This is Iris’s brilliant addition to tonight’s wardrobe choice. Because, in her words, “if you have boobs like yours, you got to display them properly.” Low cut tops, Iris insists, are cheap and uninspired.

  “But remain fully covered in something that hugs your assets and guys can’t help but want to see what’s underneath. It’s like the ultimate tease.” Ladies and Gentlemen, the wor
ld according to Iris.

  Right now, I’d be satisfied with a floppy tee and pajama pants. I want to go home.

  Drying my hands, I tug one last time at the bottom of my shirt and then exit the bathroom. Only to walk directly into Drew’s path.

  He’s leaning against the wall of the restroom hallway. It reminds me so much of the first time we touched each other that my knees go weak. Beyond him, the club is dark and the music has started. Here, it’s too bright. Every line on his face, the deep gold color of his eyes, the little hint of a dimple on his left cheek, is illuminated. And utterly familiar to me. It’s like history repeating itself, and I wonder how my life would be right now had I simply walked away from him the first time we collided in a dark hall. But I didn’t. And here we are. Here I am, broken.

  Seeing him so close is pain. Having his attention, so long denied, now fully focused on me is both a warm blanket and a sharp blade. He talks first, and his butter-rich voice sounds so good I press my palms against the grainy wall to keep from touching him.

  “Thanks for the book.” His expression is blank, showing no emotion, except for the creases at the corners of his eyes, as if looking at me burns.

  It certainly burns to look at him. “Thanks for the album cover. It was… Well, I love it.” Hell. Now I’m gushing.

  He frowns a bit, but then nods his head. “Same for the book.” His eyes meet mine, and his words come out stilted. “I love it too.”

  Heat invades me. I can’t do this. I can’t stand this close to him and not touch him. I glance toward the bar, wondering if Cameron can see me, wondering if the girl Drew’s with will come looking for him. This all feels wrong as if it the world has flipped over on its head.

  Drew notices the direction of my glance, and he stands taller, his shoulders stiff. His tone turns bitter. “I see you found your emo-boy.”

  I affect a careless shrug. “If we’re going for accuracy, he’s more hipster than emo.” When Drew glares, I continue on sharply. “Isn’t your date going to wonder where you are?”