by Lexi Ryan
Only now I’m not that girl anymore, and we’re alone in Willow’s living room with a storm rumbling outside.
“Sorry to bother you. I only followed Robbie in so I could grab some paper towels, but the storm’s really picked up, and I wanted to let the rain slow down before driving home.” He holds up a bloody hand. “Any chance you have a bandage I could put on this?”
I was so busy with my trip down Memory Lane that I didn’t even notice his right hand is wrapped in blood-soaked paper towels. “Oh my God! Are you okay?”
“It’s not as bad as it looks, but I want to make sure it doesn’t get infected.” He actually smiles as he says it, as if the injury isn’t even painful, despite what the bloody towels would suggest.
“I hope not.”
“My coaches are going to kill me. If they had their way, I’d walk around with my hands in a glass case any time I’m not on the field.”
“You still play football?” I’m so impressed that the words come out smoothly, without even the faintest hint of a stutter. I credit years of speech therapy. And alcohol. Even when my stutter was at its worst, a good, strong buzz made it all but nonexistent. (Let’s file that under: Things You Shouldn’t Learn At Fourteen—a pretty thick file in my case.)
“Yeah. I play at Blackhawk Hills University.” He narrows his eyes and studies me. My stomach clenches, and I wait for him to recognize me as “Juh-Juh-Gee-Gee,” or worse, “Easy Gee-Gee.” I wait for his memory of that night to drain all the kindness from his face.
Instead, his grin stays firmly in place, his dimples greeting me without hesitation.
I force a smile, but it costs me. I don’t like feeling this vulnerable, this dependent on another human’s approval.
“Are you Willow’s sister?” he asks.
He doesn’t remember me. Maybe I should be offended, but instead I’m just relieved. I guess I should thank my newly dyed black hair for his ignorance.
Yeah, or maybe you were never important enough for him to remember.
He points at me, his brow wrinkling in concentration. “Robbie told me Willow had a sister our age. Mary or—”
“Morgan,” I say.
He extends his left hand—the one that isn’t wrapped up in blood-soaked paper towels—and I take it, stupidly. “Nice to meet you, Morgan,” he says. “I’m Chris. Robbie had too much to drink, so I gave him a lift. I wouldn’t have followed him in if I realized he was going to disappear into his girlfriend’s room right away.”
I might not be the sharpest tool in the box after questionable amounts of rum, but a few things occur to me all at once.
One, Montgomery hasn’t changed. He’s still the sweet Southern gentleman with exemplary manners who looks out for his friends. Case in point: giving Robbie a ride here so he wouldn’t drive after drinking too much.
Two, despite said gentlemanly traits and a history of keeping his eyes off my assets in high school, he’s seriously struggling to keep focused on my face now. Maybe my tight, light blue tank is to blame, or the fact that it’s a little cold in here, but he’s definitely checking me out. And even after all these years, that’s fucking satisfying.
Except for—three, he doesn’t remember me. Holy shit.
Oh, and four, he thinks I’m Willow’s sister, Morgan.
“Morgan.” He narrows his eyes, as if trying to place a puzzle piece. I could help him, but I don’t. “You kind of look familiar. Did we hang with the same people or anything?”
Only one night. I shake my head. “No. We ran in different circles.”
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, or meet you again.” His grin is so genuine, and having those dimples directed at me feels so good I realize a fifth thing: I’d rather lie and pretend to be Morgan Myers than tell sexy Chris Montgomery who I really am. Especially when he’s looking at me as if I’d make the perfect bedtime snack.
Would you like fries with that?
Chapter Three
Chris
Morgan’s eyes give me a faint sense of déjà vu. They’re this gorgeous emerald green framed by long, dark lashes. On her upper arm, she has a tattoo of cat eyes in the same color. Those eyes. We must have met at some point in high school. “I’m sorry if I interrupted your evening.”
“You didn’t interrupt anything.” She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth.
I really like the way she’s looking at me—all of me, like she loves what she sees and can’t take me in fast enough. It’s great for my bruised ego and by far the best part of my night.
Five minutes ago, I was irritated and wishing I hadn’t let the guys talk me into that party. It had seemed like a good idea. Mom and Edward were having dinner with some friends who are in town for the wedding, and the stepsister I need to meet had plans as well. So I let the guys rope me into the kind of party I usually avoid—too much alcohol, so much weed you couldn’t walk out back without a contact high, and God-knows-what going down in the upstairs bedroom. Sure, it was nice to see everyone, but I’d hoped that the guys I went to high school with had matured enough that getting together and getting trashed weren’t their favorite pastimes anymore.
I wasn’t at the party for more than an hour before those hopes came crashing down. And as it always does, too much alcohol led to fighting, and I cut my hand open trying to break it up. My throwing hand. I was ready to get out of there—there’s no one from high school I care about enough to put up with that kind of bullshit. But then Robbie grabbed his keys and was talking about driving to his girlfriend’s house, and the idiots weren’t going to stop him.
It’s raining so hard out there that it was difficult to drive even sober. I shudder to think what would have happened if he’d gotten behind the wheel. I’ve already lost one friend to a drunk driver, and that’s more than enough for this lifetime.
But now I’m glad tonight’s events brought me here, because Willow’s sister is that killer combination of hot and cute. I’m not much for the rebound hookup, but after the ugly breakup I endured last weekend, having a girl this beautiful check me out feels damn good. Her long, silky black hair falls over pale shoulders, brushing the tops of her breasts, and her skintight sleep shorts show off her long, pale legs. I know she’s dressed for bed and not for me, but damn.
Her pink cheeks turn red, and she heads to the kitchen and opens one cabinet after another, only stopping when she finds a square black box.
Then, boom.
One second I’m ogling Robbie’s girlfriend’s sister, and the next we’re in total darkness.
The oven beeps and the refrigerator cycles off as a loud clap of thunder bangs overhead and shakes the house. The windows light up, showing us a flash of the rain pouring down outside.
“There go my plans.” Her voice comes from the direction of the kitchen, but I can’t see shit between flashes of lightning.
“And what were your plans?” I ask.
“Reading and drinking until my insomnia cried uncle.”
“I’m sure the power will come back on soon.” Standing, I carefully move toward the kitchen and search for her silhouette in the darkness. I wish there was enough light to see her.
I hear the slide of a drawer opening and then a click. Light illuminates the hardwood floor at my feet.
“Flashlight,” she says, holding the light under her chin. She grins, and it’s a punch to the gut because it’s a big, wide smile that takes up half her face and makes her even prettier. “I guess now I can read my dirty book after all.”
I cough. “Dirty book?”
“So dirty,” she says.
“Does that mean you dropped it in the mud or—”
“It means the characters have lots of hot sex.” Her pink lips curve into a grin. “The good kind of dirty. Do you ever read dirty books, Chris?”
God, she’s pretty, even holding the flashlight in a position reminiscent of someone telling campfire ghost stories. I want to kiss her.
How ridiculous is that? I want to kiss a woman I just met.
/> Okay, I’m a dude, and she’s talking about reading a porny book, so I want to do more than kiss her. I want to slide my hand up her side and find out if those curves are as soft as they look. I want to keep grinning at her and see if her blush can go any deeper. I want to hear her say her name again. Morgan. God, it suits her. Sexy and cute. And then I want to hear her say my name.
“Do you?”
Oh, shit. I’m doing that guy thing where I’m too busy thinking with my dick to actually listen to what the pretty girl is saying. “I’m sorry. What?”
She laughs. It’s a deep, rich sound, and it comes so naturally from her lips that I’m struck with the idea that she’s one of those women who laughs in bed. “Do you ever read dirty books?”
“Um, I’m a guy. We usually . . .” I clear my throat, wanting to answer—God knows why—but not wanting to sound like a pervert. “Guys usually opt for the visual.”
Grunting, she sweeps the flashlight down my chest, and if I didn’t know better I’d think she slowed as the light’s path crossed over my crotch. She brings it back to her face. “If you think women aren’t visual, you’d be pretty shocked by my browser history.”
“Dirty?” I ask, using her word.
“Tumblr is a beautiful thing.”
It’s official. I’m talking about porn in a blackout with the sexiest woman I’ve ever met. This night definitely doesn’t suck anymore.
She sweeps the light across the kitchen and opens the freezer. She pulls out a blender full of red liquid before sweeping the light back to me, careful to point it at my chest and not my face. “Care for a daiquiri?”
Drinking in a blackout while talking about porn with the sexiest woman I’ve ever met definitely wouldn’t suck either, but I shake my head. “Thanks, but I’m driving.”
“Mr. Responsible,” she says, pouring herself a glass.
I laugh. “Why do you say that like it’s a bad thing?”
She overfills the glass, and it dribbles down the side. She licks the excess off with a quick sweep of her tongue before answering. “Trust me, it’s not bad. There’s a shortage of responsible men in this world.”
I try not to grimace. She says responsible where Olivia used the word boring. “Can you blame me?” she asked. “You never do anything impulsive. I needed to remember I was alive.”
I shove the argument from my mind and watch as Morgan puts the blender back in the freezer. She tucks the flashlight under one arm and carries the black box and her daiquiri to the living room. Yes, this is a much better train of thought than Olivia and the mind games she played spring semester.
In the dim light, I struggle to make out the sway of her hips in those short shorts, but I have a better view with the flashlight than without it, so I’ll count my blessings. That said, I wouldn’t complain if the power came back on right about now. Some sights warrant full lighting. Morgan’s ass is more than worthy of a spotlight.
She sets her drink on the end table and the flashlight next to it so it’s pointed at the ceiling. As she sinks into the couch, she pats the cushion beside her. “Come here. Let me take a look at that hand.”
I almost forgot about the bloody gash. I’m perfectly capable of tending to my own wounds, but I obey, sitting next to her just to be closer.
She takes my hand in both of hers. “Is this your dominant hand?”
“Yeah.” My voice is thick because her hands are soft and because I’m really fucking curious to know what she likes to look at on Tumblr. I open my palm as she unwraps the towel from around it to expose an angry red gash.
“Bummer. Can you make do with your left hand?”
“I can’t throw for shit with my left hand.”
She snorts. “Who said I was talking about throwing?”
Holy shit. Is she seriously asking me if I can masturbate with my left hand? “Is that an inappropriate question, or do I have a filthy mind?”
“Oh, it was totally inappropriate. Does that make you uncomfortable?”
I grunt, more intrigued than shocked. I’ve definitely never met a girl like her before. “It might if the lights were on.”
She looks up at me through her lashes. “The lights aren’t on.”
I swallow hard. I don’t want to read too much into her long stares, but hell. “I know.”
“What happened?” she asks, her gaze fixed on my hand again.
“Robbie got in a fight with a drunk idiot wielding a beer bottle. I stopped the guy from bringing it down on Robbie’s head, and I got this in return. My coaches are gonna be pissed, but at least no one’s head got busted open.”
“Being a hero comes so naturally to you.”
I laugh. “Trust me, there was nothing heroic about getting between a couple of drunken idiots.”
“What were they fighting about?”
I shrug. “Who knows? Robbie’s got a quick temper. Someone probably said something stupid that he took the wrong way. The whole party was like that. A good reminder of how much I don’t miss this town.”
“You and me both,” she mutters. She sighs heavily. “Next time you can come over here and drink with me instead.”
“I like that idea.” I rarely drink more than a beer in a night, but hanging with Morgan and her sassy mouth while indulging in a few drinks appeals to me a whole hell of a lot.
She takes the black box off the coffee table and unlatches it to show the contents of a first-aid kit. I watch her in the dim light as she wets a cotton ball with hydrogen peroxide. She holds my hand in one of hers and uses the other to clean the gash.
I draw in a breath through my teeth, and she stops. “Does it hurt?” she asks.
“It’s fine.”
Smiling, she shakes her head as she finishes her task. “Of course it is. Tough guy.” She follows with antibacterial ointment before wrapping my hand in gauze.
“Now who’s the hero?” I ask.
“You clearly don’t know me.” She’s so careful as she wraps and secures it with white medical tape. “There.” She lifts my palm to her lips and presses a kiss on the bandage. “All better.”
“Thank you.”
She meets my eyes and her lips part as if she planned to say something then decided against it.
“What?”
The flashlight flickers.
“Where’s your girlfriend tonight, Chris?”
An image of Olivia comes to mind—her dark hair and eyes, that sweet smile that always struck me as innocent. I push it away. That’s over. It ended dramatically and before it ever officially began. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”
She arches a brow and dips her gaze to my chest and slowly back to my face. “How is that possible?”
“Where’s your boyfriend?” I ask.
“I don’t have a boyfriend.”
I grin and give her a similar once-over. “How is that possible?” She laughs, and I say, “No, seriously.”
“Do you really want me to answer that?”
“I really do.”
She grabs her drink off the coffee table and sips. Her tongue darts out to catch a drop from her bottom lip. “I fell for a guy once. I was young and stupid, and he was . . . better than Tumblr porn.”
“High praise.”
“I know, right?” She grins and takes another drink.
“What happened? How did falling for him bring you to tonight without a boyfriend?”
She lifts her eyes to meet mine, and something passes over her features, as if she’s reliving a painful memory.
“He hurt you?”
She takes another sip, then another. “That’s why it’s called a crush, right?”
“If you want me to track him down and give him a piece of my mind, just say the word.”
She throws her head back in laughter. “As entertaining as that prospect is, it’s entirely unnecessary.” Her expression grows serious as she brings her eyes back to meet mine. “I promise he’s forgotten about me by now.”
“I find it hard to believe anyone c
ould forget you, Morgan.”
She drops her eyes to my crotch. “That’s not good.”
“What?” For a second I’m afraid she’s referring to the semi I’ve been sporting since she started talking about dirty books, then I follow her gaze and realize she’s looking at my injury, not my crotch. Good. I think . . .
She puts her drink down and takes my bandaged hand in hers again. “It’s already bleeding through. You might need stitches.”
“It’s fine.”
Thunder booms outside and the flashlight flickers again, but this time it doesn’t come back on.
“Sorry,” she says, not releasing my hand. “The batteries must be old. I hope you’re not afraid of the dark.”
I turn the hand she was inspecting to squeeze one of hers. “I can think of worse times to be stuck in the dark.” My voice sounds funny, thicker, as if something has a hold of my throat.
“You don’t mind being here with a chick who’d ask you about your jack-off hand?”
“You’re real. No games. I like that.”
I can’t see her eyes, but I hear her sigh. “Have you ever just wanted to be someone else for a night?”
Fuck yes. I don’t know what being someone else means to her, but I can understand the sentiment. Ever since I started playing tackle football in third grade, I’ve felt the pressure of being the son of notorious Coach Colt Montgomery. As much as I love football, some days I wish I could play it without everyone else’s expectations weighing so heavily on my shoulders.
“You probably think I’m crazy for asking.”
“Not at all. I know exactly how you feel.” I swallow hard. “You can be whoever you want with me.”
“You promise?”
“I don’t know, actually. Can we hold off until I get to look through your Tumblr porn? Whips and chains aren’t really my thing, and if you were planning to take me to your Red Room, maybe don’t be yourself until I get out of here.”
She laughs louder now, but I can’t see her so I have to imagine her face tipped up, her long, pale neck exposed.
I’m not sure what makes me do it. Maybe it’s the storm or the fact that she still hasn’t released my hand. Maybe Olivia’s accusations that she only cheated because I’m not spontaneous enough hit too close to home. Or maybe Morgan and I are just two people sitting in the dark who understand what it’s like to want to be someone else.
