by Lily Cahill
“Hey, West!” Jess calls, raising her fingers in a little wave at Mountain State’s beleaguered quarterback.
Weston Sawyer just blinks at Jess as he shuffles out of the door, his expression glazed. Coach Prescott is right behind him, and he claps a hand onto West’s shoulders.
“You girls headed out? Just remember, you represent MSU everywhere you go.”
“Of course, Coach,” Jess says sweetly. “Any of the boys want to come dance with us? We could use some partners.” Jess’ sweet smile turns devilish.
A few on the football team laugh tightly and look to Coach Prescott for approval. He nods, though he keeps a hand tight against West’s shoulder.
In the scrum of guys, I watch as West stays behind, along with Reggie and Riley, who’ve both started dating two girls I know. Another stays behind too: Ben Mayhew. But that’s probably for the best. In the few interactions the squad has had with Ben, he’s been sour and dismissive. I don’t really feel like dancing while some entitled asshole judges me.
It’s really too bad he’s so hot. It’s wasted on his arrogant personality.
Ben stares at his feet for a couple seconds, then scrubs a hand through his messy, dark hair, says something to Reggie, then starts following the handful of guys wandering toward us. Next to me, Jess’ shoulders go tight.
It’s common knowledge that Jess tried seducing Ben when he’d first joined the football team. The memory of it nearly makes me choke on a laugh. She’d made such a big deal about bagging the British guy on the team at this Hawaiian-themed party Reggie threw. She’d practically ordered Countess McNair-Mayhew letterhead, she was so certain she was going to woo the mysterious British newcomer. Ben had ignored her. Like, pointedly ignored her. Until he dumped half his beer down her top. Apparently it was an accident, but my Inner Bad Girl can’t help but hope it was on purpose. Jess had shrieked and screamed at him for ruining her Gwyneth-approved bikini coverup. He’d only raised one dubious eyebrow and walked off, leaving her soaked and seething. It’d made my damn night.
“Ugh,” Jess says with a disgusted shiver. “Duke Douchebag is coming.”
I smile at her with innocent, wide eyes. “I thought you said he had the most panty-melting smile you’d ever seen.”
Jess sneers at me. “He might be hot, but he’s so far up his own ass. I bet even you couldn’t get that dick to smile.”
I don’t look away from the challenge in Jess’ emerald green eyes. I’ve been on the squad with Jess for three years; I know how she works. Being rejected by Ben shredded her. Knowing Jess, she’s probably never been rebuffed by a guy in her entire, charmed life. What better way to knit back together her fragile self-esteem than by seeing someone else experience that same rejection?
“Come on, Jess,” I say. “Let’s go get a drink.”
Ben flicks his deep blue eyes toward us, then glances away just as quickly and stalks by, following his teammates down the sidewalk. Jess follows him with daggers in her eyes.
“I have a bet for you,” Jess says suddenly, not taking her eyes off Ben’s back. “You get him to ask you out, I’ll tell Coach Higgins I’m giving up the basket toss to you.”
I freeze. I’ve been working my ass off for months to prove to the cheer coach I should get the basket toss—a high profile stunt that makes the football crowds go wild. But as captain, Jess always gets first pick on stunts and tumbling.
The eyes of my teammates sear into me. They all knew I want the basket toss. And I don’t just want it because it’s a ton of fun and a huge challenge. I want it because then other little black girls can maybe see someone who looks like them doing something awesome, being the center of attention. I want it so bad my skin prickles.
“Oh my God, Nara. Do it,” Madison squeals.
The other girls nod, goading me into it.
“What’ll it be, Nara?” Jess asks. She’s folded her arms across her chest and is eyeing me. “We all know you’ve been practically drooling for the stunt. All you have to do is get one guy to ask you out.”
Ben glances over his shoulder at us, every line of his profile sketched with haughtiness. He juts his chin and hoods his eyes in suspicion. I feel a couple of the girls near me startle and fall into nervous giggles, and it makes my cheeks flare with heat. Ben’s eyes find mine, and I refuse to lower my gaze. I see something in his eyes, something that snaps and sizzles and makes me want to saunter up to this cold, short-tempered British man and make him lose his senses.
A fleeting smile whispers across my face at the thought of making him come undone, but Ben has already looked away, already started stalking down the sidewalk again toward the bar a block away.
I slide my gaze to Jess. “It’s a deal.”
“What are you drinking?”
I lean in close to Ben, exploiting the club’s thumping bass to push up next to him. He smells like sharp, tangy soap, and this close I can see the shadow of scruff along his sharp jawline.
Ben glances at me then goes back to staring behind the bar. His hand tightens around the sweating glass tumbler and makes the muscles in his arm cord. I don’t back away, and after a second, he flicks his azure-colored eyes back to me.
“Something not as pink as yours,” he practically growls.
God, his accent is amazing. It shivers down my skin and lights a fire in my core all at the same time. It’s rough as stones scraping together, but rich with his English lilt. It’s the sort of voice that I can imagine commanding some tweedy old man to ready the horses for the hunt. Or maybe I’ve just spent too much time watching costume dramas with my history professor mother. Dad, the no-nonsense reporter-editor, gives us crap about it all the time.
He’s still staring. I clear my throat and drop my chin only to hide how bright he’s making my cheeks. So pink, they match the obnoxious drink. I scoff at it.
“Madison ordered them for us. She just told the bartender she wanted something fruity.”
Ben raises one eyebrow, then turns away again.
“So listen,” I start.
Ben’s jaw clenches. “I don’t really fancy chatting,” he says, his tone clipped.
I’m not giving up that easily. And not just because of the stupid bet with Jess. This guy is the hottest thing in the room. Probably every room. His checked button-down shirt is crisp, but not stiff, rolled up to his elbows and showing off those lean, muscled forearms. His eyes smolder like blue fire, and his hair is dark and tousled. But more than that, he exudes a sense of confidence that makes every woman around him gravitate closer. I’ve heard a lot of people call it arrogance, but I’m not quite so sure that’s what it is. It’s more intriguing than simple arrogance.
“You don’t want to talk? Then why’d you come out with us?” I quirk an eyebrow of my own and cock my chin in question.
At the other end of the bar, I don’t miss Jess, Madison, and a few other girls eyeing us. Ben plainly sees them too. His fingers tighten around the glass again, then he slugs back some of the drink.
Ben deigns to look at me for a long moment, accusation making his already-hard features go rigid. Then he shoves back from the bar and uncoils his tall, lean frame.
“Honestly?” he says, staring down at me through half-lidded eyes. “I don’t know why I came out. But it’s certainly not to chat up some girl. You can run away now and report that to your little friends.”
Shock wipes the smile off my face. My little friends? I’ve heard a lot of condescending shit in my time, but that was up there. Anger makes my breath short as I glared back up at Ben.
Whatever more I thought I’d seen in his eyes, detected under the cold exterior, was obviously a mistake. He is just what everyone thinks he is. An arrogant, entitled asshole.
And even worse, behind him Jess looks downright gleeful. God, she’s probably coming in that too-tight black dress right this second from witnessing my rejection.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to start screaming at me too,” Ben drawls.
Fire flares hot in
my blood, lighting me up from the inside out like an inferno. God, I want to. I so want to. But instead, I do something even worse. A skill I’ve perfected as much as a single arabesque stunt; a skill that I’ve honed to perfection. Except I’m the only one who knows this particular skill is a weapon.
I smile.
Chapter Two
Ben
THE GIRL IS SMILING AT me.
I know fuck all why. I don’t know her name, but I know she’s a cheerleader, and I have to figure she’s been sent over by Jessica McNair to try a new tack. She’s already attempted snagging me at the ridiculous party I’d attended, the one where she’d been shadowing me so closely I’d turned around and dumped half my pint down her shirt on accident. Jesus, that’d made her livid. But, unfortunately, it hadn’t made her give up.
She’s transferred into one of my business classes and has started studying in the third floor of the library, just like I do. Pretty soon, she’ll probably start rifling through my rubbish bins like the reporters back home—searching for anything to use against me. Or, in Jess’ case, to con me into sleeping with her.
The girl is still smiling, but her light brown eyes are frosted over with hatred and her teeth look more prepared to bite me than anything else. I probably shouldn’t have told her to run off to her little friends. But I’d seen Jess there spying on me, and it’d just come out.
Mum does always say I’m too quick with my tongue.
“Maybe you can get away with disrespecting women at home, but don’t tell me to run away. I’m not an eight-year-old in pigtails.”
That makes me blink fast and suck in a breath. The girl’s—no, woman’s—eyes narrow. She is not what I’d been expecting. It doesn’t help matters that just the sight of her has my cock tightening in my trousers. Her skin is a bronzed golden-brown, her hair and eyes the color of melted caramel. And Jesus, that gold dress hugs her body just enough that I’ll be imagining what she looks like underneath for nights to come.
“I don’t think—” I start. “You’re not—”
This woman has me flustered. I haven’t fumbled with my words around a woman since the night I met Shelby. I quickly shove down the memories and lock them up tight. Shelby is sacred. I only allow myself to think of her when I’m alone.
I pull my shoulders tight. “I meant to say, tell Jess to pack it in already. I’m not interested.”
The girl’s beautiful eyes go wide for a second, but then she homes in on me again. “You’re not interested in anything. All I’ve heard about you is that you’re a colossal asshole. I thought maybe they all had it wrong. I thought maybe you just needed a friend. I guess I owe everyone an apology. You’re even worse than they say.”
I curl my fingers in tight, ground down on my teeth. Friends. I didn’t need friends. My spine steels at the memories of those awful months. “Friends” show up at the funeral of your girlfriend and then sell photos to the papers. “Friends” feed gossip to the reporters that it was your fault she’d been driving the car in the first place.
All those sacred memories of Shelby punch through my carefully-locked mind and flood through me. It’s because of her I’m even here in the first place—I’m following her dreams that were so cruelly cut short. Because of me. She’s not living in the U.S. because of me.
I wrestle back my emotions and turn a stony face to the woman glaring up at me. I hate how close she is to the truth: I am even worse than they all say. I’m a murderer.
“You don’t know a damned thing about me,” I growl. “So stop trying.”
I dig my heel into the ground and stalk past her.
Every ounce of anger and shame has seeped away by the time I get to the club door. She’d just been trying to be nice, and I’d snapped at her. Like I always do.
I just want to collapse onto my hotel room bed and sleep. The game earlier was brutal. We eked out a win, but the big fuckers on UCLA’s defense basically blitzkrieged my ass. I’m going to feel it in the morning. Probably the next morning too. Rugby can be rough—that’s an understatement—but I’d underestimated just how built American football players are.
My hand’s on the door when I remember what I’d told Reggie earlier. Shite. I’d half-promised Reggie I’d give him some time alone in the hotel room we’re sharing. Well, not entirely alone. I assume he has Megan with him right now. It nearly makes me jealous, what he and Megan have. But it mostly annoys me when I have to listen to my teammate and one of my sports therapists fucking like rabbits in the next room.
So, it looks like I’m stuck. My shoulders deflate, and I slink back around and nod at the bouncer as I re-enter the club.
The air is thick and dark inside, with lights strobing out on the dance floor and bodies crushed together. I glance back toward the sleek bar and find the girl almost immediately. She’s still standing alone at the bar, not escaping back to her friends. There are at least two guys eyeing her—each of them not even half her equal.
It doesn’t matter, I tell myself. But I can’t look away.
One of the guys—a too-tan man wearing too-shiny shoes—pushes in close to her and places a hand at the small of her back. She flinches, and I do too. I see in her eyes that she’s not interested in him, but he isn’t backing off. And it’s so crowded in the club, she’ll have a hell of a time getting back to her friends without this man’s hands first roaming all over her.
A rumble pulses through my chest, and a spike of adrenaline demands that I bodily remove that asshole’s hands from her back.
I was barely aware of the scandal surrounding a rape on campus last year when Coach Prescott recruited me for the team. At the time, I was too wrapped up in my own scandal to notice anything else. But since I came to MSU, I’ve heard a lot about how sexual assault isn’t just a lad’s lark. I guess that’s one thing I can chalk up to my aristocratic upbringing—I’ve always believed that women are to be cherished and protected, even if that means beating the shit out of a guy who doesn’t agree.
I shove back through the crowd without second-guessing myself. It’s my fault she’s alone at the bar, after all. The least I can do is extract her from this creep.
“Excuse me,” I say, standing right behind the guy.
The woman’s head swivels up to mine, and her eyebrows crawl high.
“Seat’s taken, dude,” the guy says, not even sparing me a glance. So I make him. I clamp my large hand over his shoulder and yank him around to look up at me.
“You’re right, it is. By me.” When he doesn’t move fast enough, I dig my fingers into the soft flesh under his collarbone. He practically squeals and jumps away from her.
I have to bite back the smile that threatens to expose the surge of accomplishment I feel at getting rid of the guy so easily. The sensation of the woman’s eyes on me prickle, and she’s so close I can feel her chest rising and falling with big breaths. I keep my eyes off her and lean against the bar.
“Two gin and tonics,” I order. “Hendricks, if you have it.”
The bartender nods, and I watch him work until he pushes the two full tumblers across the bar to me. Finally, I allow myself to turn and look at the woman, my stupid grin under control.
“To replace that horrid pink thing,” I say, nodding at the G&T.
Our fingers slide together as she accepts the drink, just for a second, but my cock stirs again. I shift on the seat and regard her. She seems to be fighting something, her face flitting from a frown to a small smile and back again.
“Can we start over? I was unconscionably rude, and I apologize.” She still doesn’t look up from her drink, so I hold out my hand to her. “I’m Ben Mayhew, colossal asshole.”
Her eyes flick up to mine, and then she does something so beautiful my heart nearly stops. She laughs. It’s low and rich and settles against my bones like a warm bath.
Her small hand slips into mine, and she shakes it with more force than I would have expected.
“Kinara Robinson. And don’t worry, I’m not one of Jess’ spi
es.”
Kinara, so that’s her name. Or, Nara, as she adds a second later.
“I’m sorry I called you an asshole,” Nara says with a grimace. Then she sips the gin and tonic, and her expression clears. “Oh, that is so much better than the pink thing.”
I bite back another smile. Jesus, I’ve nearly smiled more in the last half-hour sparring with Nara than I have in the year-plus since I left home and came to the U.S.
“Sorry I was acting like an asshole,” I say, raising my glass in a mock toast. “My mates used to take the piss when I got too full of myself. I guess I need that here every once in a while.”
Nara sips more of her drink. “You’re very British,” she says.
“Well,” I begin, the edge of my lips curling in a bemused smile.
Nara groans. “No, I mean, you sound like every Masterpiece Theater show I watched with my mom growing up. I expect you went to Eton or something. You probably play polo with the prince on holidays, right?”
I shift in my seat. I am, in fact, related to the royals, if distantly. Anyone with an Internet connection can look up my name and title, but I suddenly hope Nara won’t do that. It usually either scares people away or makes them seek me out for all the wrong reasons. Let her think I’m just some British bloke who’s somehow stumbled into becoming a wide receiver for the Mountain State Mustangs.
Nara’s hand suddenly curls around mine, and I’m too shocked by the things her touch does to my body to pull away.
“Sorry,” she says. “I shouldn’t assume I know anything about your life. I hate when people do that to me.”
Her fingers are soft against the inside of my wrist, her dark skin contrasting with my paler tone. An urge to grab her hand to my lips and kiss her palm overcomes me, but then she pulls her hand back and concentrates on her drink, and I’m left wondering what people assume about her.
