“I’m hoping to find a scene where she has to kiss one of the guys.” His tone is deliberately off-the-cuff. But the way he peeks up at me from under his thick lashes after the last word of his statement is out screams provocation.
Shock leaves me bemused and incapable of speech. I’ve been on the receiving end of a lot of come-ons in my life. Some have been crude, some have been unoriginal, while others have just been plain pathetic. Never has one ever made me this hot.
“Um, no. This isn’t a love story.”
“Hmm, that’s too bad,” he replies with a wink. Now I think he’s teasing, saying stuff just to get me all rattled, which he does so easily.
“Whoever thought Zachary Pearson would need to come up with an excuse to kiss a girl.”
Unexpected, my remark has the desired effect as I watch him go absolutely still and his eyes widen. Then his lids droop to half-mast as he stares intently at me, heat flaring in his eyes.
“What is that, a dare? Olivia, are you trying to goad me?” If I thought his voice couldn’t get any sexier, I was wrong.
“No more than you’re trying to goad me.” Sexual tension, I thought I knew exactly what it was and how it felt. But I realize now, I’ve never truly experienced it until this year, these past several weeks. Until Zach.
A rush of hormonal adrenaline shoots through me and I’m more aware of my body than I’ve ever been. When he gives a low, sexy laugh, I feel like I’m coming out of my skin.
“I’ve wanted to know what it’d be like to kiss you since I was fourteen.”
“I thought you thought I was a snob?” My accusation is reflexive, past my lips before I can rein it in. But it still smarts, that not only had he thought it but that he’d acted on it all through high school.
His gaze dips to my mouth and in response I catch my bottom lip between my teeth. His eyes flare hotly at that. “That didn’t stop me from wanting to kiss you.”
Dear God, who taught him that or are his seduction methods self-taught? And after having lusted after and despised him for years, I can certainly understand where he’s coming from.
The body wants what it wants. And right now my body wants what my brain is cautioning me against. I am not the type of girl who takes this stuff lightly. When I open myself up to a guy emotionally and physically, he has to mean a lot to me. Which means I have to be more to him than some girl he’s just messing around or hooking up with.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t expect declarations of forever or anything like that but I’d like to know he’s looking for more than just a good-time girl. And Zach is the one guy I know who has the power to break my heart. So as much as I want to jump in and hit the ground running, I need to make sure I’m not getting in over my head with him.
So I’m treading lightly, cautiously, and trying to get answers to the stuff still nagging at me. “You know what doesn’t make sense? You said you used to catch me looking at you and you just said you wanted to kiss me. But you didn’t have anything to do with me because you thought I was a snob? That doesn’t make sense.”
Obviously he’d thought I had a thing for him and he hadn’t been immune either, which makes how he treated me all the more confusing.
Zach clears his throat, his gaze suddenly restless. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Zach, I’m having a hard time understanding,” I motion between us, “any of this. I mean for years—”
“Listen, I understand. Believe me, I get it.”
“I’m not sure you do. You tell me you thought about kissing me since you were a freshman but you ignored me the whole time. If you understand, please explain it to me so I can understand, because I don’t.”
CHAPTER TEN
ZACH
There’s no way I’m going to tell her. And Christ, I don’t even know what the hell I’m playing at. Every instinct inside me is telling me Olivia is not the kind of girl who does things in half measure. And I know I’m perilously close to losing all perspective where she’s concerned.
“Look, I—”
The door swings open and April walks in, looking as if she just walked off a runaway. She comes to a halt when she sees me and then just as quickly a sly smile spreads across her face.
“Zach. I wasn’t expecting to see you…here.”
“Zach just stopped by to borrow my handout for French class,” Olivia is quick to explain.
April walks toward her bed. “Right, French.” She places the stack of textbooks in her arms on her desk. “Hey, if you and Troy don’t have plans for dinner, why don’t you join us in the cafeteria? It’ll be my treat.”
A glance at Olivia reveals the heightened color in her cheeks. After what she just said, I think it’s time to create a little distance between us. I need to get my shit together. First the call from Ashley during French today and now this. I’m probably not approaching this thing from the right state of mind.
“Can’t tonight. Coach called a late meeting.” Which is the truth. Tomorrow we’re playing at home. Coach Brighton believes there’s no such thing as too much preparation, even though we already endured a three-hour practice this morning from six to nine.
But I would have willingly suffered through ten of those than have to deal with my ex, who dragged me out of French with that fuckin’ text. Like I don’t have enough to deal with. I’m so ready to throw in the towel. Every time I get a text with her all in hysterics, I know she’s just saying that shit to get a reaction out of me—and it works. Every time. That’s because, in the back of my mind, I’m thinking what if this time she’s not bluffing. What if this time she does it and that’s something I wouldn’t be able to live with.
“Oh well, it’s your loss. The special for tonight is surf ‘n turf,” April says, her eyes darting between me and Olivia.
That sure beats the hell out of the frozen chicken steak I plan to microwave for dinner.
I thank Olivia again, say goodbye and I’m out, our unfinished conversation hanging like a cloud over me.
I’ve got an hour to kill before the meeting so I head over to the apartment and copy the homework on my all-in-one printer, fax and copier. I still can’t understand why Dubois hasn’t made our assignments accessible online. The apartment came equipped with a washer and dryer, so I do a load of laundry that’s been piling up for a week now.
My phone rings and my pulse jumps until I recognize my mom’s ringtone. Grabbing it off the counter where I deposited it when I arrived, I swipe my finger over the screen to answer. “Hi, Mom.”
My mom is one of those moms who checks in on her sons weekly, she doesn’t care how grown they are. Her words not mine. She runs a gauntlet through her questions: are you eating properly, how are your classes, is your coach working you too hard? After I assure her I’m not dying of starvation, I’m attending all my classes and that Coach is working us like a bunch of slaves, she gets to the crux of the call.
“What is this I hear from your brother that you’re going to France?”
A fact I’ve failed to tell my parents since I’d made the decision. Of course my mom’s more concerned about how it’s affecting my dad, which is not good by the sound of it.
“And I’m guessing Dad doesn’t want me to go.”
“You know how your dad is. He only wants what’s best for you.”
My mom can cajole all she wants, I’m not budging.
“No, Mom, he wants what’s best for him.” And he always has. “I can’t believe he’s freakin’ out over one week.” Of course I can. “It’s been football practically all year for me. Don’t I deserve a break?”
My mom’s sigh sounds weary, as if she’s Lady Justice trying to balance the scales of truth and fairness—and a husband with FieldTurf running in his veins. “Of course you do, sweetheart.”
Guilt blooms in my chest at the hint of pain in her voice. It’s not easy for her, playing the referee between me and my dad.
“Mom, don’t worry about it. Everything’ll be fine and I’ll see you whe
n I come home for Thanksgiving.”
What follows is a long pause then, “Your aunt will be here with the kids. You know Thanksgiving’s hard for her. This year it will be four years.”
Another wave of guilt washes over me. Right, my aunt’s wedding anniversary. By now I know it by heart, she would have been married to that piece-of-shit excuse ex-husband of hers for eight years if not for Olivia’s mother. If my mom knew what’s been going on between me and the woman’s daughter she’d have a fit.
Definitely not a topic I want to encourage so I do the previously unthinkable thing and switch it back to my dad. “Don’t let Dad drive you crazy about the trip, ’kay? And I’m going to need my passport so if you could send it UPS or something, that’d be good.” She agrees as I knew she would and I hang up with her minutes later.
~*~*~
The pre-game football meeting only lasts an hour. We watch more of Purdue’s tapes from last season and Coach Brighton, the offensive and defensive coordinator go over strategy. I’ll be riding the bench but I can tell Coach wants to put me in. But John, the starting quarterback, is a senior and he’s been starting the last two years. I’ll admit, he’s good, but he’s not a running quarterback and sometimes spends too much time hanging back in the pocket. My specialty is my running game and I’ll be brought in for that to run specific plays.
Troy starts as the wide receiver because the guy is fast. I’ve never seen speed like that. He runs the forty-yard dash in 4.26 seconds. If his receiving stats hold, he’s certain to be a top draft pick when he graduates. Which is not to say they won’t be trying to lure him away long before then.
Both Brett and my mother would have a cow if I even thought about going pro before I finished my degree. My dad, not so much. Christ, Brett is living out our father’s football dreams and I’m in line to cement them. My dad may not have secured a place in NFL football history but he is going to make damn sure me and my brother do. I swear, I’ve never seen my dad so close to tears until the time he found out Brett was a first draft pick. God, he hadn’t teared up that much when my grandma—his mom—died.
I always wondered what would have happened if I sucked at football. Sometimes, the way my dad goes on, I think he would’ve disowned me. But at least he’d have Brett’s success to brag about.
After practice, Eddie, a junior and our best defensive tackle, asks me and Troy if we want to join him and some of the other guys at his place. They’re ordering pizza and playing football on Xbox Live. He’s also friendly with a couple guys from the opposing team and they’ll be dropping by too.
Right now, pizza and a beer sound like a gourmet meal compared to what’s waiting for me at the apartment.
A half an hour later, there’s about fifteen guys crammed into his one-bedroom apartment located on the other side of town. A flat-panel fifty-two-inch TV is mounted on the wall playing an NFC division one game featuring the Packers (Eddie) taking on the Broncos (Troy) with the Broncos up 7-0 in the first quarter. The other guys have placed their bets and the pot’s over one fifty. Personally, I made it a rule to never bet on sports. Well actually, it’s a rule instilled in me by Brett.
The doorbell rings and a few seconds later, I’m stunned to see my former teammate from high school saunter in. I try to remember which college Milton said he’d be attending but draw a blank. What the hell is he doing here?
“Yo, Ed, where’re the fuckin’ girls?” Milton yells out above the noise.
In the midst of a drive, Ed sends him a quick glance, lifting his chin in greeting while his fingers are hammering the controller like it’s a pneumonic nailer. “We got a game tomorrow, no females,” is Ed’s answer then he’s back in the zone.
When Milton’s gaze gets to me, a wide grin breaks out over his face. “Pearson!” He jostles a couple a guys to reach where I’m propped up against the hall leading to the kitchen, nursing my lone beer for the night. “Christ, man, what the hell are you doing here?”
Grinning, I hold up the bottle in my hand. “What the hell does it look like I’m doing? Washing down four slices of pizza.” Which I’d polished off in no time flat. The remnants of ten large pizzas lay scattered on the kitchen counters and the tables in the living room.
We shoot the breeze for a couple of minutes, catching up on what’s happened since high school. Before too long, most of us are sprawled out around the room, talking shit and consuming what remains of the pizza and beer. No one’s drank enough for even a buzz. Coach would kill us. And as usual when you get a bunch of guys together, the topic inevitably turns to girls.
“Shit, Goose, did you see the piece of ass in English? And you know I’m an ass man.”
“Yeah, you’re an ass alright,” someone calls out, which has everyone snickering.
“Well, I’m a breast man. The bigger the tits, the better I like ’em,” Milton chimes in. It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes. A fierce debate arises over which of the two parts of the female anatomy is better. I refrain from joining the conversation.
“You know who had some real nice tits, Pearson?” Suddenly everyone’s looking at me except Troy and Ed—the Broncos handily destroyed the Packer’s defense and beat them 54-14.
“Remember Olivia Montgomery? The blonde with the great rack?” he asks, completely unaware that my mind doesn’t need coaxing. And clearly unaware that she’s going to school here.
The minute her name comes out of his mouth, I get a really bad feeling about how this night will end.
“I heard she goes here,” he continues.
Well that blows my theory straight to hell.
“Have ya seen her?”
He doesn’t even wait for me to respond, just turns to the other guys now that he’s claimed center stage.
“I swear she’s the reason I never skipped trig my entire senior year. Best piece of ass I ever had.” His eyes go heavenward like he’s in ecstasy. “Her tits may be man-made but she’s definitely a natural blonde,” he claims with a smirk.
Lying piece of shit.
By the time he’s done talking, I’m ready to tear into the asshole. There’s no way Olivia ever let him touch her. And what the hell does he think he’s doing spouting shit like this when he knows she goes to the school?
“In your fuckin’ dreams, Milton.”
He shoots me a perplexed look because of the rancor in my voice. And I get that he doesn’t understand it. Like Olivia’s reminded me more than a few times, we weren’t exactly chummy in high school.
“C’mon, man, don’t tell me you didn’t know she put out. Morrow wasn’t the only one banging her. Ask Kowalski and Landers, they’ll tell you. And she gives a mean blowjob.” He fists his hand by his crotch and pretends to jerk off, which draws a choked laugh from some of the guys. “You don’t get that good without a lot of practice,” he says, laughing, and nudges his buddy beside him.
“Hey, I think that chick’s in my geography class. I know there’s a hot blonde named Olivia. Average height, brown eyes, rockin’ body and boobs to die for,” Joe, our defensive tackle, says.
Grinning, Milton says, “Yep, sounds like her.”
“Wow, so she puts out?”
Now I’m ready to beat the shit out of Joe.
“Milton’s talking a lotta shit,” I say, wishing he’d stayed his ass wherever the rest of his team was.
“What’s you problem?” Milton demands, scowling at me. “She wouldn’t let you bang her or what?”
“You’re my problem. Don’t come up here talking shit about her. Remember I went to school with you—I was there. You had a hard-on for her and she wouldn’t even let you kiss her ass much less have sex with you so why don’t you shut the fuck up.”
The whole place has gone silent and from the corner of my eye I see even Troy has paused the game and turned toward us. The rest of the guys are looking at me and then each other, probably wondering when the fight is going to break out.
Craig’s ears are flaming red and his eyes are hard and black like bi
ts of coal. After a few seconds, he comes abruptly to his feet. “You trying to start something with me, Pearson? Looks like you’re the one who’s got a hard-on for her. Jealous I got to her before you did?”
I’ve got at least two inches on Craig but he packs a little more bulk—he’s a running back—but I have no doubt I can kick his ass from here to California and back, and if he pushes me tonight, I may have to do just that. Let him say another word about her tonight. That’s when I know it’s time to go.
Still watching him, I raise the beer bottle to my mouth and drain the rest in one swallow. After placing the empty bottle on the table cluttered with a dozen in the same empty state, I stand and look over at Troy, who is already two steps ahead of me, relinquishing the controller to one of the other guys.
“You ready to head out?”
He nods.
I step around Milton, who’s standing there just watching me. I’m almost past him when my ego gets the best of me and I lean down and say quietly near his ear, “If anyone should be jealous, it’s you not me.”
I toss out a thanks for the eats and beer to Eddie and then Troy and I are out the door.
“What the fuck was that?” Troy asks as we take the elevator down to the first floor.
“Someone I know from high school. Milton’s an ass who’s suffering from diarrhea of the fuckin’ mouth.”
“What’s his beef with Olivia?”
“He’s just trying to start some shit because she never gave him the time of day. I’m sure she still wouldn’t.”
“And the shit about her boobs? I mean I’m not an expert on stuff like that but hers look damn real to me.” His voice is tinged with suggestive humor.
You have no fuckin’ idea. “What, like I am? Look, I wouldn’t believe a word Milton says. He’s a moron.”
Troy lets out a loud laugh. “Well, it wouldn’t matter to me. Real or fake, they still look good.”
Okay, here’s something I can say with no equivocation, I’m not a jealous type of guy. I’m not. And I like Troy, he’s a good friend and a decent roommate. But—yeah you knew it was coming—the look on his face, almost as if he has the image of Olivia’s tits in his mind, when he said what he just did, doesn’t sit well with me. I bear down on my back molars and angle a glance his way.
When in Paris... (Language of Love) Page 11
