“Oh.” Dipping his head, he chuckles. When he looks up at me, it’s with a private smile. “Because I’ve never taken a dare before.” Seeing my confused look, he adds, “The tattoo. On my ass.”
I feel my cheeks flush, but my focus quickly moves to my curiosity. “Why did you, then?”
His voice is soft when he speaks again. “I had my reasons.” The way his eyes settle on me then—a hint of a secret behind them—instantly dries my mouth. “And I’m asking you now—again—not to say anything. For Dana. She doesn’t need to get hurt.”
The way he says her name, I immediately sense the reverence there. He does care for her. Maybe he was as drunk as I was . . . “Shouldn’t you tell her, though? I mean, it’s...” My voice drifts off, looking for the right word. Despicable. Evil. Wrong.
“It’s complicated,” he snaps. “And none of your business. And if you don’t want to keep quiet for Dana’s sake, do it for Connor. If you’re planning on hooking up with him.” Unlocking the door, he opens it and steps out. But stops abruptly. “One more thing . . .” He looks over his shoulder at me and my stomach clenches. “Tell Reagan that I’m going to kill her.” With that, he heads down the stairs.
“Not if I don’t kill her first,” I mutter to the reddened face in the mirror.
“I couldn’t tell you!” Reagan whines, pleading with big, wide doe eyes. “You never would have come!”
“That’s not true,” I mutter stubbornly. But she’s right. I wouldn’t have. And then I wouldn’t be sitting out on the back deck, waiting for sweet, unsuspecting Connor to bring me my Jack and Coke. My third one tonight, thanks to my frazzled nerves. “And what about Dana?” I hiss. “You didn’t think I needed a warning about that?”
She cringes. “I wasn’t sure how to bring it up, seeing as your head looked ready to explode from everything else that happened that night. And if you actually liked Ashton, then—”
“I don’t,” I blurt out, a little too quickly.
I see the flicker of a smile touch her lips, but she smooth it over quickly. “Good, because you’re not a fuck-buddy kind of girl and he’s not boyfriend material. Clearly.”
With a sigh, I murmur, “I get why you didn’t tell me last weekend. My head probably would have exploded. But you didn’t think telling me before I walked into this house was a good idea?”
She has the decency to look sheepish as she places her empty cup onto a side table. “Probably . . . I’m sorry. When you told me that you met Connor and wanted to come here today, I hoped you wouldn’t care anymore. Once you saw Ashton, I mean.”
I glare at her. “And what about when I met his girlfriend?”
“She was supposed to be back in Seattle for school already!” Reagan groans, dropping her face into her hands. “I’m sorry! I’m a terrible friend. An awful roommate. I just don’t do well with uncomfortable situations.”
“Me neither. Especially the one I just got thrown into back there.”
“Gidget!” The back door opens and a grinning Grant steps out to hand Reagan her drink. When he sees the morose look on her face, he quickly turns and ducks back inside without a word. I can almost see the guilty tail tucked in between his legs.
“So Grant was in on this too?”
“He won’t say a word. Seriously.” She looks at me with pleading eyes. “Please don’t hate me, Livie.”
Setting my jaw stubbornly, I stare out into the darkness of the expansive backyard as I think through it. None of this is Reagan’s fault. I’m the one who made out with Ashton. I’m the one who met Connor and wanted to come here. I’m the one who’s bitter with Ashton for cheating on his girlfriend. I’m the one who keeps letting fleeting memories of kisses and touches creep into my mind. I need to stop thinking those things about Ashton and start focusing on the gorgeous blond Irish guy who is available. Maybe I can make some new memories and prove Dr. Stayner wrong while I’m at it. “I don’t hate you, Reagan,” I say with a sigh. “I may still kill you in your sleep, but I’ll think of you fondly while I’m doing it.”
She exhales noisily. “Give me fair warning though? I’ve always wanted to eat the tequila worm before I die. Should I do that tonight or wait?”
I half-snort, half-giggle, her joke defusing the tension. “Why does Grant call you ‘Gidget’?”
Shaking her head at the silly nickname, she mutters, “It’s after that character from the fifties and sixties. You know, Gidget Grows Up, Gidget Gets Married. There’s a slew of books and movies on her. Even a television show. Apparently the author came up with the name by mashing girl with midget. And, well,” she gestures to herself, a knowing smirk on her face. “It’s a good thing I don’t have a height complex.”
I giggle softly at her confidence. It’s refreshing. “I have yet to ask Ashton why he’s calling me Irish. I feel like every time I see him, I’m too busy swallowing my tongue to get the question out. Do you think Grant knows?”
Reagan shakes her head. “I asked. He doesn’t. Only Ashton knows.”
There’s a long moment of silence, during which Reagan gulps back her drink. I don’t know how that tiny body can hold so much alcohol. Then she says, “Connor’s into you.”
I flush, glancing over my shoulder and into the kitchen window to see him talking with Grant and a new guy. “He is?”
Her head bobs up and down. “Oh, yeah. I can tell. He can’t take his eyes off you. He’s probably imagining what he’s going to do to you later.”
“Reagan!” I shake my head as she grins. She’s as bad as my sister.
She takes another long, noisy sip as my thoughts unintentionally drift back to Ashton. “She seems nice.”
“Who?”
“Ashton’s girlfriend.”
“Oh . . .” Reagan pauses and then murmurs, “Yeah. Too nice for him. I feel guilty every time I see her. If he could just learn to keep it in his pants . . .”
Wait . . . “He cheats on her, a lot?” It wasn’t just with me?
She shrugs. “I hear things. A lot of things. He has quite the appetite. His heart and his brain are two separate entities that don’t commingle. Ever. Poor, sweet Dana doesn’t have a chance in hell of satisfying him.”
“I’m sure no one does,” I murmur, silently relegating him to top spot on the man-whore totem pole.
When we reenter the house, there are a dozen new people in the kitchen and adjoining family room, taking up the right side of the house, opposite the den. More people are at the front door, trickling in.
“You guys good?” Connor appears with my drink. “Sorry, I was going to bring it out, but you looked like you were having a serious conversation.”
“We were, but . . .” I glance over at Reagan, who’s fluttering through the room with waves and nudges and smiles. Grant trails two feet behind her, his eyes glued to the back of her head, a goofy expression on his face. And I smile to myself, wondering if Reagan has any clue that Grant is seriously crazy about her.
“But what?”
The sound of Connor’s Irish intonation brings me back to him, to his beautiful green eyes and his easygoing smile. “Girl stuff,” I say as I clink his glass.
The smile never slips from Connor’s face, even as I catch his eyes flickering to my lips for a second before lifting back up to ask, “How were your first few classes?”
I open my mouth to answer when the stereo blasts on. We both turn in time to see Ty strut out in his kilt, rubbing his hands up and down over a puffed-out chest as he surveys the crowd.
“He likes to accidentally flash people when he sits down.”
I lift a brow. “Accidentally?”
Shaking his head, Connor admits, “No. Come on.” He grabs my hand and leads me back out to the deck where I just stood with Reagan, shivering against the chilly night air.
Connor must notice my involuntary shudder, because he slips his arm aroun
d my shoulder and pulls me toward him so that I’m tucked against his broad chest. “Better?” he murmurs, his one hand rubbing up and down my arm. “Okay, now tell me how your classes were.”
I let myself soak up Connor’s body heat for a moment as my nose absorbs the scent of his cologne—light and clean, with hints of lavender. And I silently marvel at how comfortable this is.
I tell him about the two science classes I had on Thursday and Friday and the ones I have next week. I tell him all about the volunteer job at the hospital and about the twins, rehashing their interrogation.
“Derek and Eric are twins?”
I roll my eyes and giggle. “I know.”
He takes a sip of his beer and then his arm moves back, pulling me tighter. “So, what makes you want to go into pediatrics?”
“It’s just something I knew I wanted to do since I was young. I can’t picture myself doing anything but that.” Stayner’s words from this morning slink into my thoughts and I instantly chase them out.
“That’s noble. And sweet,” Connor says. Letting my head tilt back a bit, I feel his head turn, his lips brush my forehead as he murmurs, “And hot.”
I swallow and duck back down, knowing my face is red again. “What about you, lawyer?”
I get jostled lightly as Connor shrugs. “I come from a long line of lawyers. Me and Ashton both, actually. It’s a family tradition. Are your parents doctors?”
I shake my head, smiling wistfully. “My dad was a high school principal and math teacher. My mom was a music teacher.”
There’s a long pause. “Was?”
Taking a deep breath, I pull away from Connor, enough to see his serious expression. “Yeah . . .was.” I take a long chug of my drink. And then I tell him everything—about the car accident, about Kacey almost dying, about all the people who did die that night. About Trent. Everything.
As I talk, I feel his arm slide around my shoulders and tighten. I feel his other arm wrap around my body, his hand cupping the side of my head, his thumb grazing my cheek, pulling me even closer than I was before, until I close my eyes and let my head melt against his chest, feeling his rapid heartbeat, cocooned in his warmth. Protected.
We stand like that through an entire song, not talking, swaying silently to the beat, until Ty barrels through the door, visibly more drunk than he was only twenty minutes ago. “Now I remember you!” he bellows, holding his hand out and wiggling his fingers. “Come on. Lemme see that picture. I need to make sure it’s flattering.”
“Oh no . . .” I groan, shrinking back.
Connor laughs unsuspectingly as he gives Ty a playful shove. Taking my hand, he leads me back. “Let me show you the rest of the house.” Connor keeps me close as we weave through the house and he introduces me to people. I think I remember a few of them. I pray they don’t remember me. Or that I likely told them that I loved them. And I sure as hell hope they don’t remember me with Ashton.
Once I’ve seen the entire main floor, Connor leads me upstairs. “That’s Grant’s room,” he says with a head nudge to the left. “Across from him is Ty.” As we pass by the bathroom, he murmurs, “You’ve already seen that.” I nod, biting my bottom lip as I glare at it, as if the room itself did something heinously wrong. At the end of the hall are two doors opposite each other. “That’s Ash’s,” he says, a lazy hand waving to the open door on the left, revealing a king-sized bed and dark gray linens. I instantly picture Ashton’s body stretched out over those sheets as he was the morning in my dorm room, and my stomach muscles tighten.
Opening the closed door to the right, Connor leads me into a large bedroom with a double bed and two giant windows. “This room’s mine,” he says, turning on a small lamp.
I’m in Connor’s bedroom. Did he bring me up here for a reason? My eyes skim over the space, settling on the bed for a moment. Does he think we’re going to have sex tonight? I clear my voice and offer, “Nice house,” as I spin around, noticing the door was left slightly open.
Connor is leaning against a wall, watching me intently. “My parents own it. They bought it two years ago so I could get off campus for my junior and senior years. Almost everyone lives on campus around here, but I was finding it a bit too much. And the guys jumped at the chance to move in with me. They pay next to nothing for room and board, so it was worthwhile for them.” Stepping forward to push a thick lock of my hair back behind my ear, he murmurs, “Relax, Livie. I didn’t bring you up here with any expectations.” His hand moves to cradle my chin. “Just one hope . . .” Leaning down, Connor’s lips slowly close over mine, moving as if coaxing a response. It feels safe and warm and nice.
That doesn’t mean I’m not petrified that I’m doing it all wrong, that Connor will regret me as well. When he breaks away, I wonder if my one drunken night was enough to teach me the basics. With my bottom lip tucked under my teeth, I look up to see eyes a darker shade of green and more glossy than normal.
“I’m just . . .” I frown. “I’m not very experienced.”
Placing a gentle kiss on my forehead, he murmurs, “That’s okay. To be honest, I really like that you’re different.” Does different translate to virgin? With a second kiss on my brow, his hands lift to hold my face on either side as he murmurs, “Let’s keep things slow and easy.” Slow and easy. What does that mean?
“Okay.” I use my drink as a diversion, bringing it to my lips to take an extra-large gulp, thankful that Mr. Jack Daniels is helping to keep me calm.
“So, I hear you got a tattoo last weekend?”
The quick change of topic is appreciated. I still groan and roll my eyes, of course. “Looks like it. Do you have any?”
Connor’s hands fall from my face to ruffle the top of his head. “Nah, I hate needles. Ash keeps trying to get me out with him but I refuse.”
“Go drinking with my sister and you’ll end up with one whether you like it or not,” I mutter wryly, but inside I’m mentally taking inventory of Ashton’s tattoos, ones I’ve seen sober and the other ones that I somehow remember—a bird on the inside of his right forearm, the Chinese script on his right shoulder, the Celtic symbol over his left pectoral, Irish on his butt...
And my face is burning again. Dammit.
“What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing! Do you want to see it?” I blurt out, intent on diverting his attention from me and my perverted mind.
“Sure. I mean, it isn’t anywhere . . .”
“Yeah. I mean, no. I mean, it’s on my back so, yes, you can see it.” I shake my head at my flustered self as I quickly turn around and sweep my hair to the side. I stretch the back of my shirt down. “See it?”
“Yeah.” There’s a long pause as he looks at it. He doesn’t touch it, though, and I wonder whether he wants to or not. This is so unlike the caveman-style manhandling earlier with Ashton. I’m seeing very quickly that Connor is his opposite in so many ways. I don’t get how they’re best friends. “What does it mean?”
“Just something my dad used to call me,” I smile wistfully.
“Well . . .” Connor’s hand gently takes mine and my shirt falls back into place. He sweeps my hair back the way it was, smoothing it gently, before his hands settle on my shoulders. I sense him lean forward until his mouth is close to my ear. “It’s beautiful,” he whispers, his voice decidedly husky, his thumbs sliding back and forth over my back with a hint of pressure. And I know that, despite not having expectations, Connor definitely has ideas.
I think this is the part when my brain is supposed to vanish. It’s supposed to be sucked right out of my head by the sexy guy breathing in my ear. At least, that’s what I’ve always assumed was supposed to happen. When you’re in a bedroom with a hot guy for the first time and he’s all but saying, “I’m horny and I’m yours,” you’re not looking for an escape route. You’re looking for a way to lock the door so you can tear his clothes off and do a
ll kinds of things that don’t involve your brain.
But the problem is my brain is still intact, and it’s telling me I want to go back to leaning against his chest and feeling his warmth. I can even handle another kiss. Maybe. Though, if I’m being honest with myself, something about that doesn’t sit well with me either right now.
Is this proof that I’m repressed? Maybe I need to get drunk again. Maybe then it will sit well.
Or maybe I just need time to ease myself into this.
Or maybe I should just give up now and join a convent.
The volume of the music suddenly spikes, rattling the glass in the window. With a sigh of reluctance, Connor takes my hand and mumbles, “I’m sorry. We’d better go downstairs. Ty’s going to bring the cops here if I don’t go put a leash on him.”
I feel my shoulders sag with relief, my face stretching out into a contented grin as we leave his room, knowing that I’m getting the time that I need. Until I see Ashton’s bedroom door closed and a red sock hanging on the doorknob. I remember Reagan talking about “the code.”
“I thought Dana went home.”
Connor shakes his head, looking over his shoulder at me with a knowing stare. “She did.”
CHAPTER NINE
Games
Students trickle into the cold lecture hall for the Monday mid-morning class as I make my way down to the front. The entire first row is empty but I don’t care, picking a seat near the professor’s podium, my stomach a bundle of nerves as I anticipate a semester of difficulty. I briefly considered dropping this English lit course out of spite, seeing as Dr. Stayner was adamant that I do things based on what I want—not on what others want—and this is clearly what someone other than me wants.
Everyone assumes I’m a genius and grades just fall onto my lap because I ace the hard classes like calculus and physics. It’s true that those grades come easier to me than they do to most. The material is straightforward, black and white, right and wrong. I’m all about the clear-cut choices.