by K. A. Tucker
The professor taps the podium three times, signaling the start of class. Ashton doesn’t care, of course. His lips brush my ear as he leans in to whisper, “Do you want me to just tell you?”
I push his face away with my palm, feigning annoyance, the beginnings of the burn in my thighs making me uncomfortable enough to squirm in my seat. Ashton’s low chuckle tells me he’s noticed and he has a good idea what his proximity is doing to me.
The entire lecture today is on Thomas Hardy and I can’t focus on a freaking word with Ashton’s cologne swirling in my nose, with his knee bumping into mine, with those skilled fingers of his strumming against the desk. At times I catch him scribbling notes in his book. Notes on what? He’s not even in this class.
At one point the prof has turned away from us to take a sip of his water. Ashton tears a sheet out of his book and slides it in front of me without a word. Frowning, I look at it.
I should have known better. I should have waited until after class.
1. I’m brilliant
2. I’m charming
3. I’m hung like a thoroughbred
4. I’ve stopped all philandering
5. I’m highly skilled, as you’ve learned the other night.
P.S. Stop staring at my hands. I know what you want me to with them.
The professor continues his lecture not five feet away from me as blood rushes to my head, to my belly, to my thighs. What is he doing? Why would he write that down and pass it to me in the middle of a lecture? The last thing I want to be thinking about while the professor drones on about stupid Thomas Hardy is Ashton and his hands and the other night in the car . . .
A hand squeezes my knee, making me jump in my seat. My elbow reactively flies out and jabs Ashton in the ribs. It’s enough to attract the professor’s attention. “Is there something you’d like to share with the class?” he asks calmly, regarding us over his glasses.
I give an almost imperceptible shake of my head as seventy-something students lean forward in their seats, their eyes boring into the back of my skull.
That likely would have worked. The prof might have let it go. But then I have to go and cover the note lying on top of my book, as if trying to muffle the indiscretions screaming from it.
I see the professor’s eyes fall to it.
My stomach hits the lecture hall floor.
“Notes being passed around in the front row of my lecture. May I?” A weathered hand stretches out toward me and the proof of my scandalous behavior with the guy sitting beside me.
I stare wide-eyed and frozen at that hand as my brain frantically runs through my options. There aren’t many. I can’t run out of the class because of my foot, so I’m left with either shoving the note into my mouth or stabbing Ashton’s expert hand with my pen to cause a diversion. Both will guarantee dismissal from this class; one will include a special jacket and a bonus overnight stay with Dr. Stayner.
So, with a sharp glare in Ashton’s direction, I hand the prof the note and pray to God that he doesn’t start reading it out loud, because then my diversion tactic may still need to come into play. “Let’s see what we have here . . .” The room starts to sway and blur, my ears filling with the rushing sound of blood. I don’t doubt that the hall is buzzing with excited whispers, all waiting like spectators at a hanging, but I can’t hear a thing. And I don’t dare look at Ashton because if he has a smirk on his face, I’ll punch him square in it.
“Mr. Henley, I suggest you carry out your conquest attempts outside of my classroom,” the prof finally says, shooting Ashton a pointed glare as he crumples the note into a tiny ball and tosses it in the trash. Air leaves my lungs in a rush. Of course he knows Ashton. Everyone knows Ashton . . .
Ashton clears his throat as a low murmur grows behind us. “Yes, sir.” I can’t tell if he’s embarrassed or not. I refuse to look at him.
As the professor walks back to the podium, a chorus of disappointment fills the room as students realize they’re not going to witness an execution here today. But before he continues on with the lecture, he adds, “And if I were this young lady, I would seriously debate number one.”
“Do you realize how close you were to having this pen through your hand?” I hold it up for effect as we walk out of the building.
“I was bored. Hardy sucked the first time around, too.”
“Well, you didn’t have to humiliate me in the middle of a lecture hall, did you?”
“Would you rather I not have come? Truth . . . doctor’s orders.”
I grit my teeth. Despite everything, I mutter with a smile, “No.”
“No, what?”
“No, I’m glad you came.”
“I haven’t . . .yet.”
I slap my book across his arm, blushing furiously. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re incredible.” By the way his breath catches and his dark eyes flash, I don’t think Ashton meant to say that out loud.
I have to fight the urge to fall into his chest. I don’t fight the words, though. “I missed you.”
“I missed you too.” There’s a long pause. “Irish . . .” His feet slow to a stop and he turns one of his intense, dark Ashton stares on me. My stomach clenches instantly, both eager and terrified of what might come out of his mouth. “Are you going to answer that?”
“What?”
“Your phone.” His hand touches my jeans pocket where my phone is tucked. “It’s ringing.”
As soon as he says it, my ears catch Connor’s unique ring tone. “Uh, yeah.” I slide it out and look at the screen to see Connor’s beaming grin and green eyes. I hit the answer button. “Hey, Connor.”
“Hey, babe. I’m running to class but wanted to double-check—you’re coming to the race next Saturday, right?”
“Yup, I’ll be there for the morning. I have my volunteer shift in the afternoon.”
I hear the relief in his voice. “Great. My parents can’t wait to meet you.”
My stomach does a somersault. “What? You told them about me?” “Slow and easy” means “meet parents”?
“Of course. I’ve got to run. Catch you later.” I hear the phone click, leaving me staring at Ashton as he absently kicks the fallen leaves off the path.
When he looks up at me, he frowns. “What?”
I look at my phone and back at him. I hear the tentativeness in my voice as I say, “Connor wants me to meet his parents.” I know why I’m telling Ashton. I want to know what he thinks about that.
He shrugs, distracting himself with a blond girl walking past.
“Hey!” I snap, scowling. “I’m standing right here!”
Bowing his head, Ashton sighs. “What do you want me to say, Irish?” Looking up at me with that resigned smile and the thinly veiled hurt that he hides from most, he says, “Meet his parents. It probably makes sense.” He pauses, his lips pursed tightly. “You and Connor are together.” I hear the unspoken words as if he’s screaming them. You and I are not.
“What if I wasn’t with him? Would it matter to you?” It’s the same line that he’s used on me a few times. Now it’s my turn.
Ashton’s hands lift to cradle the back of his neck. He closes his eyes and tilts his head up to the cool blue autumn sky. And I wait, quietly, watching him, my eyes memorizing the curves of his throat and his neck, fighting the urge to reach out and touch his chest, to share that intimate moment with him again.
He drops his arms and his gaze to me, his jaw visibly taut. “I can’t give you what you want, Irish.” With another heavy sigh, he says, “Do you think you can manage the rest of the way back on your own?”
Biting my bottom lip as the prickly lump forms in my throat, I drop my gaze to my books. “Of course. Thanks, Ashton.”
His mouth opens to say something but then stops. I see the imperceptible shake of his head, as if he’s war
ning himself. “See you around.” He turns and walks away.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Mediocre
C minus.
I blink several times, holding it closer to make sure I’m not hallucinating.
I’m not. It’s still there, at the top of my chemistry midterm, in all its ugly red glory.
My first college midterm mark and it’s almost a D. I’ve never had anything but an A.
Ever.
I swallow once, twice, three times as nausea fills my body and blood rushes to my ears, my heart beating off-kilter. Maybe I’m not cut out for Princeton. I know I didn’t study as hard as I should have, with all the distraction. My father was right. Boys do suck the brains out of smart girls. Either that or I’ve killed all my smart brain cells with drinking. All that’s left are the stupid ones that like to giggle and get felt up—okay, down—in cars.
I rush out the door, past the other exiting students, my legs moving as fast as they can without outright running. Bursting out and into the cool drizzle, I force myself to slow down as a pain twinges in my ankle. I’ll reinjure it if I’m not careful.
Without fail, my phone rings. Connor always phones me after this class because he’s getting out of his. I don’t want to answer it, but I do anyway.
“Hey, babe. What’s wrong?”
“I failed my chemistry midterm!” I fight to keep the tears welling in my eyes at bay. I don’t want to bawl out here, in the middle of everyone.
“Seriously? You failed?” There’s no mistaking the shock in his tone.
“Well . . . almost!” I sputter, my breath ragged.
“Okay. Slow down, Livie,” Connor says in a composed voice. “Tell me what happened.”
A take a few deep, calming breaths before I whisper, “I got a C minus.”
Connor heaves a huge sigh. “You had me concerned there, Livie! Don’t worry! I had a few mediocre grades in my first year. It’s nothing.”
I grit my teeth. It’s not nothing! I want to scream. It’s my first bad grade. Ever. And it’s in one of my best subjects! By the tightness in my chest, I’m beginning to suspect that I’m having a mild coronary at the age of eighteen.
“You’ll do better next time, Livie. You’re smart.”
Sucking my bottom lip, I nod into the phone. “Yeah, okay.”
“Feel better?”
No. “Sure. Thanks, Connor.”
“Okay, good.” The phone muffles and I hear Connor shouting to someone on his end. “Need a ride? Yeah . . .” Coming back to me, he says, “I’ve got to go. We have an extra practice today. Coach threatened anyone who’s late with a ten-mile run in the rain.”
“Okay.”
“Talk to you later, Liv.” The phone clicks.
I do not feel better. Not at all. In fact, I somehow feel worse.
I head back to my dorm room with my head down, fighting the tears as the lump in my throat grows. Connor has that automatic confidence in me—like everyone else does. Doesn’t he understand that this almost-D is a big deal for me? What if I can’t do better? What if this is the beginning of the end?
By the time I make it to my room, I don’t care who sees my tearstained face. I know I could call Dr. Stayner, but he’ll make this about my parents and I don’t want to hear his autopilot theories today. I should call Kacey, but . . . I can’t. After all she did to help get me here, I don’t want to disappoint her.
So I rely on the only thing that I can right now—Reagan’s fresh tub of Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Therapy ice cream in the freezer compartment of our mini fridge. My pity party is complete once I change into my pajamas, pull my hair back, and crawl under my covers to stare at the wretched paper lying on the floor. I consider setting it on fire, but I’ve heard that the smoke alarms are super-sensitive.
There are two more tubs waiting for me when this is done. I’ve decided I’m going to eat myself to death. I’m halfway through the first tub within five minutes—Reagan’s going to kill me—when someone knocks on my door.
I ignore it. Anyone I might want to talk to is at rowing practice. I almost shout, “Go away!” but then the person will know I’m here. So I keep quiet by licking the tablespoon in my hand. The knocking doesn’t stop, though. It keeps going and going and going until I’m sure that Dr. Stayner is outside, delivering on his committal promise early.
With a groan, I roll out of bed and stagger over, spoon in mouth and tub in hand, to throw the door open.
It’s Ashton.
My mouth falls opens and my spoon flies out. He’s got fast reflexes, though, and manages to catch it before it hits the ground.
“What are you doing here?” I note his track pants and shirt. He’s supposed to be at practice.
Stepping around me and into my room, he murmurs with a meaningful look at the tub in my hand, “Keeping you from gaining your frosh fifteen.”
I close the door behind me. “Don’t you have practice?”
“Yeah. What are you doing?”
Dragging my feet back toward my bed, I mumble, “I’m eating ice cream in my pajamas in bed. In the dark. Clearly.”
Ashton walks over to turn a small desk lamp on, casting a soft, cozy glow to the room. “Connor said you were freaking out about your midterm?”
His words bring me back to reality and my bottom lip begins to wobble. I can’t even bring myself to say it. So I simply point at the thing on the floor and let the hideous letter speak for itself.
He leans down to pick it up and my breath hitches, staring blatantly at his ass. I don’t care if he catches me doing it. I may as well add “pervert” underneath “failure” on the list of things that define me.
“Shit, I thought you were supposed to be some super-genius, Irish.”
That does it. The tears start streaming down my cheeks in earnest and I can’t control them.
“Oh, God. Livie, I’m kidding! Jeez!” Tucking the paper under his arm, two large hands reach up to grab my chin, both thumbs working to gently brush the tears away. “You really do cry a lot.”
“You should go,” I sob, knowing I’m about to break into ugly-cry mode and I’d rather be buried alive than let Ashton see that.
“Whoa!” Two viselike grips settle on my shoulders. “Hold it. I’m not missing practice so you can kick me out. Come here.” He pries the tub of ice cream out of my hand and places it on the dresser. With his hands on my waist, he lifts me into my top bunk. “Get comfortable,” he says as he grabs the tub and climbs up the ladder.
“I don’t think this will hold both of us,” I mumble between blubbers as he crawls in next to me, forcing me closer to the wall.
“You’d be surprised what these bunks will hold.” The secretive smile tells me that I don’t want the details. So I stay quiet while he pulls the covers up over both of us, adjusts all the pillows so they’re under him, and then forces his arm under my head so that I’m tucked in against his side with my head resting on his chest.
He doesn’t say a word. He simply lies there quietly, his fingers drawing lazy circles along my back while he gives me a chance to calm down. I close my eyes and listen to the rhythm of his heart—slow and steady and therapeutic.
“I’ve never had a C minus before. I’ve never had anything but an A.”
“Never?”
“Never. Not one.”
“Your sister was right. You are too fucking perfect.” I tense at the words. “I’m kidding, Irish.” He sighs. “I know you don’t believe me but you don’t have to be perfect. No one’s perfect.”
“I’m not, I’m trying to be . . . remarkable,” I hear myself murmur.
“What?”
I sigh. “Nothing. Just . . .” Something my dad used to say. “What if it doesn’t stop here? What if I get bad grade after bad grade? What if I can’t get into med school? What will I do then? Who will I be?” I’m
starting to get frantic again.
“You’ll still be you. And trust me, you’ll always be remarkable. Relax.”
“I can’t!” I burrow my face against his chest. “Have you ever failed anything?”
“No, but that’s because I’m brilliant, remember?” His arm squeezes around me to tell me that he’s teasing. “I’ve had a couple of Cs. One D. Bell curves can be a bitch.” He scoops a spoonful of melting ice cream out and slides it into his mouth. “Have you gotten any other tests back yet?”
I shake my head against his chest in response.
“How are you feeling about them?”
“Before today, I was a little worried. Now?” My hand finds its way up to wrap around his shoulder, wanting to be closer to him, to sop up this sense of security he’s offering me, if only temporarily. “Terrible. Awful. If I did this bad on my best subject, then I definitely failed English.”
“Well . . .” Another spoonful goes into his mouth. “Did you do something different preparing for these than in the past? Did you study?”
“Of course I studied,” I snap.
“Easy.” I hear his hard swallow. “Were you . . . distracted?”
I close my eyes and whisper, “Yes.”
There’s a long pause before he asks, “By what?”
You. I can’t say that. It’s not Ashton’s fault that my hormones and my heart are wreaking havoc on my brain. “Lots of things.” My hand absently shifts down to his chest to settle where the tattoo is. Where the scar is.
Ashton’s muscles against my cheek automatically tense. “I told you, I wanted you to forget about that.” For a long time, I hear nothing but his heartbeat as my fingers first draw, then rub that spot on his chest, memorizing the ridge. It’s enough to lull me into an almost-sleep.
“Dana’s dad is a significant client of my father’s, and keeping her happy keeps her dad happy.” My hand falters for a second at the sound of her name, as guilt slams into my gut. But I force it back in motion as I pace my breathing. “If her dad is happy, then that makes him happy. And if he’s happy . . .” He says that as if it makes complete sense. All it tells me is that this man—his father—abused him as a small child and still has control over him as a grown man.
