by Lily Cahill
“Come on, sugar,” Cal says with a smirk. “Don’t lie. Your nipple was so hard for me.”
“It’s—it’ssss fucking cold out, dipssshit,” she says.
I’m on him lightning fast. Everything but my fist and his face disappears. There’s no sound. No smell. Just the feeling of satisfaction as my knuckles meet flesh.
And damn, it feels good. Unleashing this part of myself again.
Soon the other guys are stepping into the mix. One tries to yank me away while another does his best to land a punch anywhere that matters. They both fail.
Then something does pull me off him—strong hands that trump my struggling against them. Not the guys, who I can see, and not Lou.
The spell breaks. I hear voices again. I feel the cold and the pain too.
“Cool it.”
“Watch those hands, QB.”
I look to see Reggie and Riley, my teammates, one on either side of me. Where the hell did they come from?
I yank myself out of their grip.
“Slow down, man.” Riley says.
The rage is still coursing through my veins. I want to pulverize Cal. I want to destroy him.
That’s when Lou gets in my way. She’s not crying or hysterical. She’s dead calm. She grips my shoulders and looks me straight in the eye. Immediately, I feel my breath start to even out, my heart slow down.
“Not worth it,” Lou says. “Soooo not worth it. I swear.”
And even though she smells like vodka and can barely stand up straight, I know she’s right. Of course she’s right. With the Pac 12 championship only a week away, I can’t afford to get in trouble. Not even for a single game suspension.
“Bitch,” Cal says, spitting blood onto the sidewalk.
“Ha!” Lou shouts in his face. “You just made my ovaries bigger, asshole!”
I’m about to laugh as I hold her back, but then she’s crying all of a sudden. Big, sloppy tears slide down her cheeks and it shocks everyone into silence. Of all the Lou stories I’ve heard, there hasn’t been a single one where she was crying.
I pull her away from him, take off my hoodie and wrap her now-shivering body in my arms. She buries her face in my chest. “He just made my ovaries bigger,” she whimpers. Her sobs are the only thing echoing across the brick-lined streets and shuttered shops.
“Hey, it’s okay,” I say. “I’ve got you now.” Then I look over to Cal. “And this fucker was just leaving, weren’t you?”
“Shit,” Cal says. “You can keep her. Your girl’s a fucking mess.”
I feel my anger flare again, but Lou’s in my arms now, and Riley and Reggie are standing guard before I can do anything about the idiot.
“Jesus. Does this motherfucker have a death wish?” Reggie asks. He’s at his edge too. If this guy isn’t careful, he’s about to have all three of us on his ass. And the two of them alone are so big that Cal and his dumbass friends look like a joke by comparison.
All of a sudden they seem to realize it. Before a full-on fight breaks out, they tug him away and lope off.
“C’mon, man,” Riley says. “Lilah and I can give you two a ride home.”
It’s only then I notice that both Megan and Lilah are standing off to the side, eyes wide. The four of them must have been out on a double date.
Lou is still crying, her body shaking so hard I’m starting to worry she’s in shock. All I want to do is make her tears stop. I’ve never felt a pain like this before. “Shh. It’s over now,” I say to her. “They’re gone. And they’re not going to bother you anymore. I promise.”
“It’s not that,” she says, though I’m not sure why. I can’t imagine what else it could possibly be. She lifts her chin and takes in slow breaths that finally start to calm her down. “It’s okay. I’m fine. I’m fine.”
“Let’s get you home then.”
Riley and Lilah drop us both at my dorm. Lou isn’t crying anymore. Her tears have been replaced by an empty look that’s scaring me even more. I don’t like it, and I’m not taking her home until I’m sure she’s okay. And that starts with sobering her up.
There’s not much in the way of a kitchen in here, but we do have a coffee pot. Thankfully, my roommate Darren is staying at his girlfriend’s tonight and we have the room to ourselves. I don’t think Lou would like anyone seeing her this way. Or maybe it’s me. Hell, I hate seeing her this way.
“Drink up,” I say, handing her a mug. She’s sitting on the edge of my bed, arms wrapped around herself tight.
“Thanks.” She clutches it with both hands and holds it close to her body. She’s still shivering so hard her teeth are chattering. What she was doing out in the cold in a dress like that I’ll never know.
I pull the comforter off my bed and wrap it around her. “Drink some of that down. It’ll help.”
She sips at the cup silently. Her eyes look foggy and her expression is distant. I wonder where her head’s at, but don’t ask. If she wants to talk, she will.
I tape up my hands while she drinks. They’re pretty torn up. Nothing is broken, but most of the skin is open on my knuckles. Coach is bound to notice, which means practice is going to be hell tomorrow. Still, I can’t seem to muster any regret. I overreacted, sure. But that guy had it coming and I’m not sorry. In fact, I’m glad I was there. I don’t even want to think about what might have happened if I wasn’t. Lou can take care of herself, but even one hit from him could have done real damage.
Why was she even hanging out with those guys? For a moment, I consider dating her just to keep her away from all the douchebags, but decide it’s wishful thinking.
Lou sets the mug down on the floor, empty. But her teeth still have the jitters and her lips are still tinted blue. I kneel in front of her and take her hands in mine. They’re ice cold. I press them together and rub them so fast it looks like I’m trying to start a fire.
“Better?” I ask.
“A little,” she says. She’s looking at me like she wants something, but is afraid to ask. The look hangs wrong on her face. She doesn’t seem comfortable with it, with not speaking her mind.
“What?” I ask.
“Could you …,” she asks, still chattering. “Could you maybe hold me for a little bit?”
Her deep brown eyes draw me in. I remember how good she felt in my arms, and my gut stirs at the thought of holding her again. I know it’s not a good idea, but I’m not sure I’m capable of refusing her.
“Lou …,” I say.
“Just for a few minutes. Just to warm me up.”
There’s a tiny crease between her brows that makes her look so vulnerable. Is this why she does it? Maybe the drink helps her drop her armor. Or maybe she’s just too tired to hold it up right now. Either way, with her looking at me like that? I can’t say no.
I nod and climb in behind her and try not to think about all the fantasies I’ve had of her right here in this bed. But it’s like somebody telling you not to think about an elephant. It just makes the elephant the only damn thing you can think about.
I wrap my arms around her and tug her close, leaning my back against the headboard. Maybe if I stay sitting up, and keep the blanket between us, I’ll be less tempted.
Elephant. Elephant. Elephant.
I’m almost picturing Dumbo, then she wiggles into me and leans her face against my chest with the sweetest sigh I’ve ever heard. Poor little Dumbo smashes into a million tiny pieces and all that’s left is the warmth of her and the smell of her and the feel of her breath through my shirt and I’m lost in it.
Having her so close to my body feels more reckless than the fight tonight. And as crazy as it sounds with how little time we’ve actually spent together, it also feels like home.
Her breath goes soft and her body seems more relaxed now. She must have fallen asleep. And, God help me, I don’t want to wake her up. What’s right and wrong looks more muddled than it ever has. So instead of taking her home like I should, I hold her closer and anchor a soft kiss on the top of her he
ad.
Chapter Nine
Lou
I WAKE WITH WEST’S ARMS around me. I know it’s him right away. He smells like worn leather and cedar and spring water. For a moment, I think it’s a dream. Then I turn my head and the room starts spinning. I’m pretty sure hangovers don’t happen in your dreams.
The thing I’m not sure of is how I got here. I stretch my mind back to my last memory—cracking the guys up with dirty jokes at the SigEp mixer. It tumbles forward from there: more shots and closing out the SigEp party and more shots and going out after, and … and … West. West fighting that asshole and bringing me here.
Did we …? No. I’m still in my dress and West still has on the T-shirt he was wearing last night. Last night, when I was a complete fucking mess.
God, I must have made a total fool of myself. Maybe there’s a little bit of truth in what my dad said. I did play pretty hard this weekend. Why’d I even hang out with Brett? He’s okay, but his friends are always such assholes. It’s easy to charm assholes, though. And maybe I needed to feel charming last night. Brash and beautiful and unstoppable. It’s my drug, I guess. And ever since I got the news, I’ve been needing it more and more.
The tears, fuck. The crying. Please, please, please don’t let him ask me about the crying. That might be the one brick that makes my house finally crumble to the ground.
But I’m here now. I’m in his arms. He’s so warm and muscly and perfect. It feels so good I don’t even want to breathe for fear I’ll wake him.
Instead, I take in my surroundings. It’s a pretty typical guy’s dorm room: dirty laundry and rumpled sheets and a big TV on the desk where textbooks should be. There’s a gaming console of some sort too. And a mini-fridge with a coffee maker on top. His roommate has his side of the walls plastered with barely-clothed women draped over expensive cars—which, honestly, seems like the last place I’d want to sit in a bikini on a hot day. Burn marks, anyone? But whatever. I guess guys can’t help smooshing all their fantasies together at once. I try to think if there’s a girl equivalent to that, but the closest I come is imagining licking whiskey off West’s muscular thighs, and they don’t make posters for that.
Other than a single photo taped to the wall on West’s side, his walls are bare. I squint to take a closer look at the photo. West is standing with his arms around two women who must be his mother and grandmother. He’s miles taller than both of them—which is adorable—but they all have the exact same warm smile. He’s caught mid-laugh, looking toward his mom. I wonder why his dad isn’t in the picture, but he was probably the one holding the camera. It’s really sweet. As always, I feel a little pang of jealousy seeing someone with their mom. It’s been years and years, but I still miss her every damn day.
Just then, West stirs behind me. He stretches, but instead of letting me go, his arms tighten around me in the most delicious way. I can’t tell if he’s awake, so I pretend to be asleep. I don’t want this moment to end. I don’t want to talk about what comes next for us. I don’t want to listen to him argue himself away from me again.
Then his breathing changes and I know for sure he’s awake. How long can I make this last?
He snuggles closer, and I feel him nuzzle into my hair and breathe in my scent. A soft groan escapes his lips and it makes my insides melt.
“Morning,” he says, holding me close.
My heart leaps into my throat. He’s not getting up. He’s not hinting I should go. He wants me here.
“Morning,” I say.
I turn to face him and can’t stop myself. I need to feel his lips against mine.
The kiss is slow and tender and the sweetest kiss I’ve ever felt. He moans, and I kiss him deeper, let my hands drift under his shirt to feel the ridges of muscle on his chest. God, his body is crazy, and it’s making me ache for him already.
He closes his eyes and lets out a deep sigh. My hand drifts down slowly. My fingertips slip just under the waistband of his sweatpants. Just as I feel the indentation the delicious V of his lower abdomen, his hand tightens around my wrist, stopping me.
“No, Lou.”
Poof. Spell broken.
He gets out of bed, having to climb over me to do it. Then he turns his back to me and starts making coffee.
“Why?” I ask. It comes out so fucking pathetic that I want to slap myself. But I can’t help it. I want him so fucking bad right now. I know he’s just getting in his head again, but it’s hard not to take it personally.
There’s a moment of silence that stretches each second to a hundred years.
“How are you feeling this morning?” he asks instead of answering my question. His avoidance stings way more than I’d like to admit. I want to scream at him. I want to beg him not to treat me like this. But that’s not how I operate.
“Okay,” I say, trying to play it cool, trying to pretend I didn’t just almost beg him to sleep with me. Again. “A little hungover, but I’ll be fine.”
I stand up and look for my shoes.
“Yeah. Maybe you need to cool it on the partying. That was a pretty crazy night.”
“Thanks for the advice, Dad,” I joke as I slip into my heels.
“Seriously, Lou. You’re not doing yourself any favors. Trust me. I know.”
“Whatever,” I say as breezily as I can manage. “Have a good one.” I head toward the door.
“You’re leaving?” he asks.
“You clearly don’t want me here, so yes. I’m leaving.” Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic.
“At least have a cup of coffee first.”
I want to. God, I want to. But I refuse to make this any worse than it already is. “I don’t—I can’t be in the friend zone with you, West. That’s just not possible for me.” I say it even though my heart is telling me that any time with him—even just as friends—is better than no time at all.
He stops for a moment, a war raging behind those eyes. For a second, I think he’s going to do it. I think he’s going to pull me into his arms and admit he wants this too. Because I know he does.
Finally, he speaks. “I understand,” he says. “And I can respect that.”
His words sting. I nod and turn to leave.
“But Lou?” he says, calling me back. “If you’re ever in trouble again—even if you’re just at a party and too drunk to drive and need a ride home—you can call me, okay?”
“Excuse me?”
“Any time, I’m serious. Or if you want someone to talk to about the drinking. You know, if it ever feels like it’s just too much to handle all of a sudden. I’m here.”
His words reek of the same kind of over-protective bullshit my dad’s been spewing for months. I suddenly wonder if this whole thing really has been about my dad.
“I don’t need a babysitter, dude. Have a nice life.”
I stalk out of there as fast as I can, letting the door slam behind me, and trying to stifle the choking feeling welling up in my throat. What right does he have to judge me? One bad night doesn’t mean I can’t handle my shit. Besides, he barely even knows me. We’ve spent almost zero time together. Yet something inside is telling me there’s a big difference between knowing all the facts about someone and being able to see them. And maybe West seeing me—the real me—is exactly why he said no.
I make my way out of the dorm. Students eye me in the hallway and in the elevator and in the lobby and out on the sidewalk. In this dress, it’s clear I’m doing the walk of shame. Which is such a fucked up thing to call it. There’s no equivalent term for men, because there’s no shame associated with them having a one-night-stand. So why should women be ashamed? It’s stupid. It’s just sex. Normally, it wouldn’t bother me to get the smirks and cat calls. But this morning, I’m already on the brink and I just can’t handle one more person eyeing me like I’m a fuckup. So I duck my head like every other sucker on a Sunday morning and walk faster through the throng of students making their way to class.
Wait. Why are people going to class on a Sunday morning?
Fuck.
It’s not Sunday morning. It’s fucking Monday morning.
A glance at my phone shows I have exactly three minutes to get all the way across campus for my presentation. There’s no time to change. There’s no time to grab my notes. The judges are there today and today only. If I miss, I fail—not to mention losing my shot at a killer internship. It’s either show up looking like last night’s whore and go for it, or ditch to save my dignity and fail.
No way. I’ve worked too hard for this moment. I can find a way to play it off. I pick up my pace. Which, in these shoes, makes every step a punishment. My next business pitch is going to be about shoes that come already broken-in. Dammit, dammit, dammit.
You’re not doing yourself any favors.
West’s words scream through my mind. He’s fucking right, and now I know he’s right, and that makes me even madder. I’m seriously risking my honors GPA today. If I fail this class, I’ll have to get straight A’s from now until graduation to make up for it. I’m pissed at West and I’m pissed at myself and I’m pissed at the entire fashion industry for crippling me and all of womankind in these pretty, pretty pumps that stab my feet with every step.
I clack into the room at five after, interrupting whatever Mrs. Tannin was about to say. The guest judges are sitting at a table facing the stage: two men and one woman. The men look away but the woman eyes me up and down, her mouth pursed tight.
“Welcome to class, Miss Prescott,” Professor Tannin says. “Please take your seat. We were just about to begin.”
As I turn to face the auditorium-style rows, somebody hoots, which sets off the class laughing as I walk up to find a place to sit.
“Nice dress,” a random guy whispers at me as I pass. I lift my chin and say nothing.
The back row is thankfully empty, so I find a seat and wiggle out of my shoes.
Somebody in front of me turns around in his seat. It’s a guy from Psi Chi, Chaz—a total creep. “Somebody got some last night,” he whispers. “Who’s the lucky guy?”
