The corners of his mouth curl. It is not a smile. “That’s right, a date. I see you are familiar with the concept, despite all evidence to the contrary.”
“I don’t serial date like some, but I try to get out.” What am I doing? I don’t want to hurt him. I just want to get away.
“Are you keeping track of who I date, Anna?” he asks softly, a smirk on his mouth.
I want to hit that mouth. I want to shout at him for plowing through what amounts to sorority row when less than a month ago he claimed that I was his.
“No, Drew,” I say, suddenly weary. “I just know your MO.”
He pushes off of the wall and is in front of me in a fluid move. And some sick part of me loves when he crowds me. I love being surrounded by his strength and his heat. The familiar scent of him makes my heart ache and my body perk up. Yes, please, it says to me.
He leans in closer, his nose almost touching mine, and his voice rolls through me, making my flesh hum. “I never looked at another girl when I was with you. Never even thought about one. Not once.”
I force myself to meet his eyes, and our mouths are too close. “I didn’t look at anyone either. Only you.”
“Then why—” He cuts himself off with a curse, and his fist slams into the wall.
I jump, ready to escape, but he’s boxed me in, his forehead pressing against the wall as he breathes in and out. He’s so close to me that his chest brushes mine with each inhale. And I shiver with the need to hold him. But I don’t. I can feel his anger. He vibrates with it.
“We could have been so good,” he says.
Before I can answer, he launches away from me with those quick reflexes that make him a star athlete. He’s backing up. Returning to his date.
I move to go the other way, when he grabs me. One hand cups my neck, the other splays against my back, slipping under my shirt to touch my bare skin. His mouth crashes into mine on the next breath. And my body goes supernova. His tongue slides deep, his lips bruise, and it feels so good that I moan behind it all. It’s always like this. I can’t get enough of him. I devour his mouth, play with his tongue. My breasts crush against the hard wall of his chest. Sweet relief.
Drew.
And then he’s pushing me away. I’m staggering back. His eyes are dull, filled with pain, regret, and worst of all, disgust.
“So fucking good.” He leaves me there slumped against the wall.
AS FAR AS mistakes go, that was fairly colossal. Fucking stupid is what it was. Damn, I shouldn’t have followed Anna to the bathroom. And I sure as shit shouldn’t have kissed her. My ribs compress painfully at the thought. Holding her, feeling her soft, plump lips once more was both agony and ecstasy. I still taste her in my mouth. I haven’t taken another drink since I kissed her, some desperate part of me reluctant to wash her away. In short, I am insane.
Unfortunately, sanity left the building the second I saw Mr. Yuck put his fucking hands on Anna. It was all I could do not to trample through the crowd and smash Emo Boy’s face in. Holy hell, watching his fingers stoke Anna’s neck while knowing exactly how her skin feels, knowing that I’d never get to do the same, gutted me. Nothing could stop me from seeking her out, from touching her and letting her remember just what she was missing.
A great plan. Only now I remember with perfect clarity what I am missing too.
Having just experienced true jealousy, I can safely say that the emotion is insidious, and I never want to feel it again. But it lingers like a plague, eating through my insides with dull, thick teeth.
I rub the hollow spot in the center of my chest and then pull my head out of the fog I’ve been wallowing in. Christ, I’m out with another girl. I shouldn’t be thinking about the one who didn’t want me.
I take a breath and face… Shit. What is her name?
In the darkness of my car’s interior, her eyes shine as she looks at me. She’s pretty. They all are, these girls I ask out with no intention of letting things go any further than one date. Hell, they all look vaguely similar, same general features, same body type, taste in clothes. All-American, perky sorority girls. Why hadn’t I noticed before Anna? And I accused her of only wanting one type.
Bitterness fills my mouth.
My date smiles, hesitant. “That was…nice.”
Nice. Right. We’d been at the club for all of ten minutes before I disappeared, stuck my tongue down another girl’s throat, and then promptly came back to haul her out of there like the place was on fire. Really nice of me.
“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “Sorry I’m tired tonight. We’ve been practicing a lot.” Lie. But one most girls seem to appreciate.
She’s no different. She smiles again, her eyes sympathetic. “That’s okay. Your dedication is admirable.”
Tell that to the guys, most of whom want to kill me about now.
“Thanks…” Fuck. What is her name? Stacy? No. Shannon! “Shannon.”
I brace for impact just in case I’ve gotten it wrong, but she smiles as if I’ve just given her some great reward.
Having nothing more to say, I turn all of my attention back to the road. Why did I go out with her? It was stupid. Suffocating. I can’t get her home soon enough. I turn on the radio in a desperate attempt to fill the silence. Jack White is singing about falling in love with a ghost he’s not brave enough to kiss. I stab the off button with more force than necessary.
Thank God we’re now in front of her sorority house because I don’t think I can drive any more. I pull over and brake hard enough to send us both rocking forward.
As if she’s been waiting for this moment, Shannon turns in her seat and gives me an expectant look. Her body language is crystal clear, from the way she leans in toward me, to her gaze flitting from my mouth to my eyes. She wants me to kiss her.
My fingers tighten around the steering wheel, and the leather creaks.
I’m not kissing her in this car. Not where I first got my mouth on Anna’s. Just seeing another girl sitting in the passenger seat is a slap in the face. It’s wrong. Anna should be there. In a way, she is. Haunting me with each breath. That my safe haven is now effectively ruined makes me want to punch something.
With a snap of the seatbelt, I wrench open my door and stumble into the cold night air. I suck in a deep breath as I round the car and open the door for my date.
Not deterred, she manages to slide her body against mine when she rises out of the car. Hell.
“So,” she murmurs, resting a hand on my chest, “thanks for taking me out tonight.”
I edge back, shutting the car door with my hip. She follows, and her hand finds my neck.
“Yeah, sure.” I sound like an idiot. I am an idiot. Why did I go out tonight?
Her eyes stare up at me. Waiting.
No. Not going to happen. I can’t even stir up a bit of enthusiasm. But then I think of Anna going home with Mr. Yuck. She’s moved on. Frowning, I bend my head closer to the girl who is willing. Rosy lips part in invitation. I stall out.
Just do it. Do it and move on too. Kiss the damn girl, already.
She takes the decision out of my hands. Her lips mash into mine. They feel wrong, not the right shape. She smells wrong, of sweet flowers instead of warm spices. Wrong, wrong, wrong. My entire body recoils. I rear back, breaking out of her hold in an awkward fumble. Jesus. My dick actually feels like it’s shriveled in my shorts.
“Sorry,” I say just as she does.
Heat floods my face. I ought to have been able to at least go with the kiss. She’s cute, after all. And wiling. Instead, my flesh crawls. And it pisses me off. I’m infected with Anna. I want to punch a hole through the roof of my car.
Giving Shannon an unsteady laugh, I step further away, my ass hitting the car door. “I’m ah…”—completely fucked—”tired.”
“Yeah…” Her wrong-shaped mouth twists in a half smile. “You said that.”
“Right.” God, just get me out of here.
But before I can make an escape, she talks agai
n, her tone strangely neutral. “Is it because of her?”
I jerk so hard that my elbow hits the car window. “Her?”
Shannon blinks back at me. “You know, the redhead in the bar.” So much for me being subtle. “Is she the one you had that blow out with? Is she Red Hen?”
“Red Hen?” I repeat, my head buzzing. What. The. Hell?
She gives me a look designed to reassure, though I’m far from it. But there’s a gleam in her eyes like she’s dying for gossip. Does she honestly think I want to talk about Anna with her? And, again: Red Hen? Oh, hell no.
“You know,” she says, “the one that they were talking about on Twitter and Instagram.”
An ugly, sick feeling trickles over my shoulders. For a moment I can only stare at this girl as the buzzing in my ears grows louder. “What the hell are they saying?”
Oblivious of my growing anger, she answers eagerly. “That you dumped some redhead in the middle of the quad.”
That day haunts me still. Hearing someone else talk about it hurts my chest.
“Why are they calling her Red Hen?” I sound like I’m talking through a long tunnel. Does Anna know this? She’d hate that. Hate it.
“I don’t know who came up with that.”
“What does it mean?” My heart is thudding so hard it hurts. As a rule, I stay far away from social media. Obviously the guys were keeping something from me, because they’d usually tell me about any nonsense.
Shannon shifts from one foot to the other. Her sudden twitchiness makes my hackles rise further. “I guess it’s because she tried to trap you into a relationship. You know, by getting pregnant.”
The ground seems to sway beneath me, and a cold sweat breaks over my skin. Holy shit. Is Anna pregnant? She didn’t look… Hell, what does early pregnancy even look like? But she would have told me tonight, wouldn’t she? Then again, I’d pretty much gone on the offensive with her, which didn’t exactly make for an easy opening to a topic like that. Holy fucking shit, but if she is…
I’m going to hurl. Right here on Shannon’s sidewalk. Yet behind the instant terror is a strange sort of elation. If Anna is pregnant, I’m going to her and am sticking. Screw pride.
Somehow, I find the ability to talk. It’s a miracle that I can form a sentence. “Why do people think she’s pregnant?”
Maybe Shannon finally notices that I’m about to lose my shit because she clamps up.
“Why!” My shout rings out in the night.
Shannon visibly swallows, her eyes growing round. “Well, you, ah… apparently yelled at her about your relationship being just a hook up, and, well, she walked away all hunched over, clutching her stomach, so…”
So, no proof of Anna being pregnant. Just fools jumping to the wrong conclusion and sticking their noses in places they have no business being. Even though relief swamps me, the ringing in my ears grows to a clamor. “So, you all think that I would get a girl pregnant, then publicly dump her when she tells me?”
In the relative darkness, I can see the flush stealing over her cheeks. “Ah… well…”
Prickles break out over my skin. “And believing this, you still wanted to go out with me?” Okay, I might be yelling. Shit, it’s a miracle that I’m not shouting to the clouds at this point. That’s what people think of me?
Shannon backs away a step. “I didn’t blame you.” As if this supposed pregnancy was all Anna’s doing.
“Well you should,” I snap. “If it were true. You should stay far away from any asshole who would do something like that.”
She just stares at me like I’ve gone insane, and the rage within me surges. What the hell is wrong with this girl?
I take a breath, not wanting to scare her any further. I’m much bigger than her, and even if I can’t wait to get away, it isn’t cool to make her afraid.
“Look,” I say with false calm, “whatever you’ve heard, it’s wrong. Yes, that was the girl, and yes we broke up. But it was a mutual decision.” I wince a bit with that one, but it isn’t really a lie. Anna didn’t want a relationship, and I couldn’t pretend that it wasn’t the only thing I wanted. “She’s a nice girl. And it makes me sick that people would think otherwise.”
Wide-eyed Shannon nods as if her life depended on it. She’s clutching her arms over her chest. I put that fear in her, and guilt clenches my stomach.
“I’ve got to go. Sorry.” I’m not sure what else I can say. I just need to get out of here.
By the time I get home and manage to turn on my laptop, my hands are shaking. Nausea rolls around in my stomach as a Twitter search for my name pulls up hundreds of tweets. And there they are in 140 character groupings of pure evil. Speculation on why I was arguing with a curvaceous redhead. Hate-filled comments about Anna that make my heart ache and my blood boil, and then I find the pictures.
My teeth grind. There I am, looming over Anna, who looks so tiny in comparison. I’m a monster with muscles bulging and a vein sticking out on my temple. I’ve never felt so ashamed. Anna’s pale, her chin lifting in defiance. That I remember. But I never saw the aftermath. There’s a pic of me walking away, humiliating because it captures my own pain. My face is twisted with it. And then one of Anna.
She’s leaning against the tree, clutching her arms around her middle, her gorgeous eyes looking up toward the sky as if it holds some answer. Pain etches her features. With shaking fingers, I nearly touch the screen. Pain that mirrors my own.
Have I done the wrong thing by ending it with Anna? Does it matter? She’s currently on a date with Mr. Yuck. And I can’t overlook the fact that one public argument with me has brought the ugliness of public opinion down upon her head. I never wanted that for her. After reading through the hateful tweets, how can I blame her reluctance to be seen with me?
For the first time in my life, I dread going out on the field and playing again. Because they’re all watching for the wrong reasons.
I’M SO GRATEFUL for the fall break I could cry. Not only will it spare me from having to face Drew in class, but I need to get away. For the first time in years, my mother’s home is a haven to which I want to run as fast as I can.
Better still, I won’t have to see Terrance when I get there. Last month, when my mom voiced second thoughts on selling her childhood home, Terrance went ballistic, telling her that she had no right to keep them from their dream by being a coward. Mom realized that it wasn’t her dream, but his. Two weeks later, old Terry was sailing off to the Bahamas with his chow-chow’s groomer.
Thanksgiving dinner is subdued. Mom often invites people to spend it with us, single friends, those who couldn’t make it home to families of their own. When I was younger, I would protest because I didn’t want to share her with other grownups. Not when I only saw my working mother at dinner.
As I got older, I grew to appreciate the sound of laughter and interesting conversation during those meals. Unfortunately, this year, my mom hasn’t invited anyone. I know it’s because they’ll ask about Terrance, and the breakup is too fresh for mom to deal. I empathize. Entirely. Only I’d rather have the distraction. Now it’s just Mom and me. And a quiet house.
We cook together, and I try to find something to talk about. Conversation usually isn’t a problem, but since the only thing I want to do is curl up in bed and cry, I’m finding it a struggle.
My mother fills the void and talks. About her practice. About her friend Silvia, who she thinks might be bulimic. About the new moisturizer she’s found and loves to pieces. And it’s fine. If only this aching, gnawing hole within me would fill up with each bite of food I take, instead of growing larger. If only I’d feel warm instead of cold. My walls are no longer shored up. I could topple at any moment. Right onto my mom’s plush Turkish carpet.
Dessert, as always, is taken in the living room, while tucked up in front of the fire on the old Chesterfield sofa that Mom had reupholstered last year in cream linen. In the frenzy of redecorating, Mom also converted the wood-burning fireplace into gas, and though th
e flames dance and look cheery, I miss the scent of burning wood.
Drew’s house has a wood-burning fireplace. I picture him kneeling before it, stacking wood and getting the tinder ready. Is he there now? Is he with Gray? God, I hope so. The idea of Drew being alone makes my heart physically hurt. I take an extra large bite of pumpkin cheesecake and try not to choke on it.
“What is going on with you, Anna?”
I nearly jump in my seat. I hadn’t noticed Mom studying me. Though I shouldn’t be surprised. Even if she doesn’t always act like she’s paying attention, she usually is.
I run the tines of my fork through the burnished cheesecake. I could evade, divert attention, but telling the truth is the quickest way with Mom. Like ripping off an especially sticky bandage. “I broke up with someone.”
“I’m sorry to hear it, sweetheart.”
My fork stabs deep.
“It didn’t get too far. We weren’t really right for each other.” God, the lie chokes me. I’m going to throw up my Thanksgiving dinner right here on the living room floor. I take a deep breath. “But I think I hurt him, and I’m sorry about it.” I might have also done some irreparable internal damage to myself, but we don’t need to talk about that.
Mom wisely says nothing but simply rises to go make me a cup of espresso. It gives me enough time to control my erratic breathing and quivering lip. When she returns, I’m composed.
“With a little extra crema on top,” she says, setting a tiny white cup down on the table before me. “Just as you like it.”
“Thanks.” The rich, deep scent of espresso is a needed comfort.
“Mom,” I say after a welcome sip, “did you think my father was… well the one? You know, when you first met him?”
As usual, mention of my dad makes her expression go blank and cool. She takes a sip of her own coffee. “Hard truth?”
Since I was a child, she has always asked if I want the watered down version or the harsh one. It depresses me to realize how often I’d asked for the easy tale. Not today.
The Hook Up (Game On Book 1) Page 26
