STRIPPED

by Brooklyn Skye

  Torrin’s grip around my fingers tightens as he takes a half-step forward, keeping me veiled behind his broad shoulder. “Derek, is that your name?” he says, sounding composed and unaffected even though from behind I can see his shoulders and neck growing tense. Kennedy steps up beside Derek, silent and creepy as always.

  Derek drops his cigarette. “How do you know my name?”

  Torrin shrugs, opens his mouth to answer but I step between them. “I can handle this,” I say to him and face Derek head-on. “Please, Derek, just leave me alone. There’s nothing between us—there never was, and I’m sorry if I gave you that impression.”

  Heat from Torrin’s body strokes my back, a soundless caress to let me know he’s here, ready to protect me if needed. Derek shifts from leg to leg, a glower skipping between the two of us.

  “Whatever, Quinn,” he spits out after a beat of silence. “I shoulda known you’re a tease.” Torrin and I watch him and Kennedy cross the quad. After a minute, Torrin opens his mouth. Quickly, I put my finger over his lips.

  “I know what you’re thinking and don’t you dare say it.”

  “What?” He wraps his arm around my shoulders and leans down to my ear, grinning. “I was going to say he might be right about that last word.”

  I poke his stomach. “And whose fault is that?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “Blue?”

  My brows scrunch together.

  “Okay, how about red?”

  “What is it with you and bright colors, Nik? What about the gray one? It’s cute.”

  Nikki spins from her closet, holding up a charcoal-colored V-neck with a look like she just sniffed rancid milk. “I will not let you leave this room, for a date, looking like the tip of a pencil.” She swaps the shirt for a black lace top. “With jeans and heels it’ll be perfect.”

  “It only has one sleeve.”

  “It’s sexy. Now put it on so I can do your make-up.”

  Twenty minutes later, riding shotgun in Torrin’s Infinity to some undisclosed restaurant, I’m drawing in shallow breaths, focusing on the passing line of trees, praying to someone above I don’t pass out because I am going on a date.

  “This might be a first,” Torrin glances over at me—eyes openly skimming my bare arm with a hint of a smile—and says. Shadowy squiggles crawl across his face as we head inland, the evening sun sinking below the rounded hilltops. “You’re unusually quiet. Are you nervous?”

  I swallow.

  We pull into the parking lot of a small restaurant called Julian’s. Lamp-lit windows frame a couple sitting at a table near the front, both leaning in, holding hands and smiling like two people in love. Discretely, I swipe my clammy palms down my pant legs.

  “I’ve never been on a date before. Like a fancy-dinner one,” I tell him and twist my fingers together. “And not out at all since…”

  My sister died. The words are so loud I’m sure he hears them too.

  He lifts my hand to his lips and says around my knuckles, “It’s just dinner, Quinn. Nothing to be afraid of. I promise.”

  Inside, the air is thick with the scent of garlic and tomato. My mouth immediately starts to water. I haven’t been able to eat all day, thinking about this date and what it means and what we might do after—maybe not eating wasn’t such a good idea. Torrin wraps his arm around my waist as we check in and follow the hostess to the back of the half-filled restaurant where a lone table, small and square, sits in the corner.

  He slides out my chair with a grin and I roll my eyes because the move is so cheesy, but as I sit he inconspicuously rubs his thumb over the underside of my jaw, sending a stream of goose bumps down my neck. He sits across the table from me. Heavy, padded menus emblazoned with a gold emblem are placed in our hands, and then we are alone.

  “I requested this table because of the view.” Though we’re miles away atop a hill, the inky black ocean glistening with lights from Fisherman’s Wharf spans the entire horizon. It’s beautiful, and I can see why he’d like a place like this. A beat of a moment passes and what he said registers.

  “You’ve been here before?” I swallow down the lump forming at the base of my throat, silently cursing myself for sounding like a stupid girl. Of course he’s been here. A guy like him has probably been on hundreds of dates.

  That ghost of a smile lifts his lips. “Used to work here,” he says, slipping the menu from my hands. He places it at the edge of the table. “A few months before I started at Sal’s. Do you mind if I order for both of us?”

  “No.” I gesture to the surrounding room. The dim lighting, elegant table settings, wait staff dressed in black and white—all so much nicer than Sal’s dingy sandwich shop. “And you left because…?”

  “Boss told me to.”

  My eyes go wide. “You were fired? Why?”

  “Not fired. Recommended to find another job.” He looks away, busying his hands by stacking and straightening our menus. “And, no, I never stole anything or hit on the waitresses or slept with the customers.” He says it like he’s been accused of this before.

  “Why then?”

  Slowly he unfolds his napkin, focusing on smoothing it over his lap. A minute passes and just when I think he’s going to change the subject, he hesitantly says, “Some people found out why I was suspended from the team. The boss was worried my tarnished reputation would be bad for business. Told me one day when I showed up for work that it might be best for everyone if I found a new job.” He looks out the window, the reflection highlighting the crinkles on his forehead.

  “And you don’t mind coming here now? After that?”

  Halfheartedly, he shrugs. “It was a few months ago. Plus, the owner doesn’t come in on weekends.” Quietly, he jiggles the silverware back and forth with his fingertips. Then he meets my stare. “How about we talk about something else? Something less tragic?” He says it jokingly, but the word claws at my stomach.

  Tragic.

  I clear my throat. “How exactly did you get suspended?” It can’t be anything too serious—grades most likely.

  “Welcome to Julian’s,” the waitress arrives and says, introducing herself as Marla and I can’t help but notice Torrin’s shoulders sinking just the slightest bit as if he’s relieved at the interruption. Maybe he’s embarrassed about failing a class. Or more than one. Athletes are held to a strict GPA, aren’t they?

  He orders two glasses of Merlot along with the manager’s special and I can only guess they know each other because neither of us are asked to show ID.

  After dinner—surf-n-turf accompanied with garlic mashed potatoes and lemon-buttered string beans—we walk along State Street, stopping to browse various art vendors that have set up for a busy Saturday night. Torrin buys me a single red rose from a gypsy-like woman and, further down the street, subtly steers me away from the jewelry stand displaying an owl necklace up front. Toward the end of our walk, I almost make a joke about ending our date on a lifeguard tower with tequila, but this night is too perfect to ruin.

  The entire time he manages to keep one hand on me—even as he stands, leaning against my dorm room’s door, his gentle fingertips tracing a slow line down my neck.

  “Thank you for joining me.” His fingers fold under and press against my skin, just above my heart. Looking for a beating heart reaction? And he said Nikki wasn’t subtle.

  “Thanks for showing me how un-scary dates are.”

  “Oh, they’re scary all right. With everyone else. Just not with me.” Unhurriedly, he leans in and kisses the corner of my mouth. “Have a good night, Quinn.” He starts to back away and I catch his shirt, crumpling my expression.

  “You don’t want to come in? Nikki’s not here. We could—”

  “Not tonight.” He kisses me once more, and then disappears down the hall.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  “Your paycheck,” Hunter says, slapping the envelope into my hand.

  “Thanks. See you Monday.” I rush back to my changing room, p
ink terry cloth swishing against my ankles and, once the door is shut, tear open the envelope.

  $459.69

  With all the extra hours I’ve been putting in, I did it—earned enough to keep me at Loyola for another quarter. I sink onto the nearest crate, tip my head against the wall. Thank God. Thank God. Thank God.

  “What’s the big smile for?” I hear when I emerge from the closet, dressed with my bag slung over my shoulder. Torrin’s sitting in the hall, a few feet from the door, knees pulled up and acting as a shelf for a magazine.

  “Pay day.” I stop and stand over him, offering my hand. He takes it, rises and straightens his T-shirt then takes the bag from my shoulder and slings it over his own—such a gentleman’s act. I lift a brow. “You come all the way over here just to walk me to the bus?”

  “Maybe later. First I want to show you something in my room.” Hair falls over his brow with a glance down at me. “That is, if you don’t mind.”

  “Lead the way.”

  We cross the grass, squinting against the late afternoon sun, not saying much. A part of me wants to ask why he didn’t want to come in last night—if it’s because the more he gets to know me the more he realizes he doesn’t think I’m his type. The other part curses the stupid he likes me/he likes me not angst escorting the thought.

  All the lights are on in his room, the TV too—volume set low. Opened books scatter his desk like he was in the middle of a shit-ton of homework before deciding to meet me. Behind me, he shuts the door and guides me to the window.

  “I was going to keep this, but maybe you should have it.” From the wall, he slips a black-framed picture and hands it to me. The picture from the bluff: Zoe’s necklace, crashing waves in the background, the owl’s red eyes shining in a death glare. “I feel really bad you lost it. And since I can’t exactly dive down to the bottom of the harbor and retrieve it, I figure this is the next best thing. At least you can still remember it.”

  It’s the nicest thing anyone’s done for me.

  “Torrin…” I don’t even know what to say. Thank you doesn’t seem like enough. Gently, he slips the frame from my hands and places it on the table beside his bed.

  “It’s the least I could do,” he says, and then presses his mouth to mine. I wrap my arms around his neck and part my lips, inhaling his fresh, yet salty, scent. Like the ocean air. His hands pull me close, body crushed against mine, his tongue dipping in and out of my mouth and it’s not enough.

  I want more. I want him to look at me like he did last night at dinner—smoldering gaze moving up and down my body as if he liked what he saw.

  Hands on his shoulders, I push him onto the bed and straddle his legs—my knees at his hips—and tear his T-shirt over his head. He removes mine more carefully, gliding his fingertips across my belly, plunging them ever so slightly into the waistband of my jeans.

  Our eyes meet and at the same time his mouth opens. Quickly I press my fingers to his lips, silencing any words that might ruin the moment.

  “I’m not going to run,” I whisper. “I promise.”

  He swallows, inhales an even breath. “I don’t want you to do anything you’re not ready for.”

  Reaching behind my back, I unclasp my bra. Straps fall forward on my arms and then the black material tumbles to my lap. “While your concern for my well-being is endearing,” I say, kissing his jaw, dragging my hands lower and lower down his chest. “I’m a big girl, Torrin.”

  My bra slips off my lap, lands silently on the carpet and the sight must be too much for him to bear because, abruptly, he cradles his arm around my waist and flips us over. His knee nudges between my legs, mouth crushing mine. He presses his body hard against me and I press back, unable to get enough of his skin in my grip.

  A line of kisses drip down my neck and he takes my nipple in his mouth, touching me so softly the room starts to spin. Embarrassing little gasps escape my mouth. The gentle draw of his lips pushes me over the edge. My knees tighten around his hips and I rock beneath him, feeling him hard and ready.

  I finger the button on his jeans and just as metal glides through material, he grasps my hand in his. “Wait,” he says, pulling back a fraction. My body protests with a moan. “We need to talk.”

  I can’t help it—a panicky buzz starts to build in my chest. If he needs to talk that means something’s wrong. Maybe now that he sees me half-naked he’s not attracted to me—

  I push away the stupid thought and shake my head. “This is more fun.”

  “Quinn…” The steel-balled chain around my neck guides his gaze to where his grandfather’s tags rest between my breasts. I haven’t taken them off since he gave them to me. “It’s important.”

  “What’s important,” I say, taking his face in my hands, looking him in the eye, “is that all this hesitation of yours is giving me a complex. And I feel annoying, insecure thoughts threatening to infiltrate the certainty of you liking me.”

  “I do like you,” he says quickly. “A lot.”

  “Then shut up and stop messing with my head.”

  He inhales and exhales through his nose, his mouth a tight line, hands gripping my waist. With whatever thoughts are running through his head, he quietly slips the necklace over my head, dog tags landing with a clink on the floor.

  Jeans come off next—his then mine—and he scoots me up to the pile of pillows, fingers drifting over my face. “You don’t look nervous.”

  “You’re not all that scary, Boat Boy.”

  He laughs, inching his fingers lower and lower down my stomach. All hesitation gone, they slip between the fabric of my underwear and skin sending oh my gods stumbling off my lips. Several minutes later, he reaches into the drawer beside his bed and removes a silver square.

  Blood rushes in my ears. If this was Derek on top of me my skin would be dead—my thoughts with Zoe and her death glare. But as Torrin rocks into me, his hands and lips sweeping softly over my tingling skin, eyes burning into mine, every cell in my body bursts alive.

  Definitely not a virgin.

  The room with all its photographic beauty fades and, if I wasn’t convinced about loving Torrin before, after an hour of his body slowly tangling and untangling with mine—tenderness in every touch, every movement—I know it the second he finishes, puts his lips to my ear and whispers, “I love you, Quinn Montgomery.”

  ~*~

  “You okay?” Torrin’s fingers float down my arms and slip between mine. I snuggle back into his chest, wrap his arm over my stomach and nod.

  “Just thinking.”

  Hot breath caresses my ear, drawing up another round of shivers. My skin is still on overload from the last hour spent in his bed. “Should I be worried?” Bands of muscles in his arm tighten, pinning my body to his. “Or handcuff you?”

  “I’m not really into that kinky shit.”

  “That’s disappointing.”

  I tip my head back and look at him, eyebrow raised.

  “Kidding,” he says with a laugh then runs his finger lightly over my forehead. “Tell me?”

  I suck in a slow breath. Thinking about Zoe hurts, but maybe not as much as it used to. “It’s just,” I tell him, focusing on a framed photo of a coffee mug with a chipped handle, “sometimes I wonder what my sister was thinking…why she thought swallowing all those pills was the only answer.”

  “I know you said she didn’t leave a note, but she didn’t explain it somewhere else? A Facebook post or—”

  “Nothing. She didn’t leave anything but relentless appearances in my dreams telling me to save myself.”

  “From…?”

  I shrug against his shoulder. “Falling in love, I guess. Everything else in her life was perfect.”

  “On the surface.”

  No.

  “You didn’t know her.” I sit up and face him, tucking my legs to my chest, fighting to not scream the words, “She was perfect. Everything about her. She just had a hard time with Evan.”

  Quickly he takes my hand. “Quinn,
I’m not saying she wasn’t. But not everyone is who they seem. Skeletons lurk in every closet.”

  His words aren’t accusatory, not pointed at me in any way. Even knowing my last name, he’s not bringing up my skeletons. Still…I don’t want to talk about my sister anymore.

  “Torrin, is there something you’re not telling me?” I ask with a half-smile to remove the spotlight from me. Ever so slightly his stare widens and, even though it’s not by much, meaning it’s probably nothing, a pesky thought hits me: This boy might be hiding something from me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  I need you.

  Nikki’s text comes in the middle of the night, waking me from a dreamless—Zoe-less—sleep. I rub my face, thinking my roommate wouldn’t text that unless it was an emergency—or she knew I was with Derek, which to her would be an emergency.

  “Who is it?” Torrin asks from beside me.

  “Nikki.” I show him the screen. “Something must’ve happened.”

  Where are you? I type back.

  Room.

  I look at Torrin. “I have to go. Can you give me a ride back to Loyola?”

  Fifteen minutes later, Torrin follows me into my room. Nikki’s lying on the bed, tears streaming down her face.

  “My dad was in an accident,” she mutters, throwing her hands over her face. “A tree fell on him at work today while he was tapping for the maple harvest. Landed on his chest. I didn’t think it would be that bad—he’s really strong, but my mom just talked to the doctor…a collapsed lung and broken bones all over the place.”

  I rush to Nikki’s side, take her head in my arms. “I’m sure he’ll be okay.”

  “What if he dies, Quinn?” She buries her face into my sleeve and mumbles, “I need to go see him.”

  I gesture for Torrin to bring my laptop from my desk. He does so without question, setting it on the bed next to me. “I’ll check the airlines. Find out when the next flight is.”