Shifting through papers, I work at getting caught up with administrative stuff for Professor Stevens: class requests, grading papers, adjusting syllabi. I’m in the middle of entering grades in the computer when something catches my eye out the window. I glance up and see Hawkin standing a ways away on the grassy area surrounded by a few other students.
Despite telling myself to look away, to ignore the sadness I saw in his eyes after he argued with Vince the other day, I can’t. Even though I know he doesn’t deserve my compassion, a part of me feels for him anyway.
So I watch him make the group around him laugh aloud while they hang on his every word, and I’m sure there are stars in their eyes from getting his attention. I glance to the left to see Axe standing there, attention wandering as he waits for his playboy of a boss to finish making coeds’ panties wet.
I hate the bitterness I feel that he’s giving them attention when he gave me none, least of all any consideration toward me in explaining why he flipped off like a switch after most definitely being turned on. And then of course I’m mad at myself for being upset at him over a situation I clearly didn’t understand.
This right here is why I swore off men. The schizophrenic combat of emotions they cause is something I don’t want to battle right now when I have to worry about my thesis. I shake my head, frustrated at myself—and him.
When I shift my gaze back, a pebble of anger ripples through me. Most of the crowd has dispersed and yet two remain, the Delta Sig girls from last week.
I roll my eyes out of reflex, batting away that tinge of jealousy that I shouldn’t feel. Hell, a few kisses don’t hold any of the strings that bind two people into a relationship. And yet I watch: the flirting, the intimate body language, the looks she darts his way that lead me to believe they’ve shared more than just the kiss we have.
His hand slides down her backside again, fingers playing idly in her back pockets in a way that irritates me enough to force my attention back to my work, trying not to remember the feel of those hands on the bare skin of my own back. Damn if it doesn’t sting to know he wants her and not me.
Go Delta Sig! Not.
When I glance back up a moment later, unable to resist the impulse any longer, the lot of them are nowhere to be seen. Thank God because my bitter, party of one was getting to be a bit dramatic for my tastes. To think there are women who thrive on this feeling, live their lives always wanting and never walking away, astounds me.
I’m just about finished entering the grades when I hear footsteps behind me. I’d heard Carla’s voice earlier so I expect to see her when I turn around.
Boy am I wrong.
Hawkin’s hips are resting on the empty desk behind me, arms folded across his chest so that once again I’m afforded a glimpse of the tattoos that call to my curiosity. His head is angled to the side, black boots crossed at the ankles and the smirk pursed on his lips also lights up the gray of his eyes.
“Can I help you?” I ask in a terse tone. He raises one eyebrow in response and that’s about as nice as I’m going to get so he better take what I give him or he needs to turn around and walk right out.
“Well, good day to you too.” His eyes narrow as he appraises me, trying to get a feel for my mood although he should clearly know why I’m upset. He unfolds his arms and toys with the wrapper on the Tootsie Pop in his hand.
“It was until you walked in.”
“Oh! That’s cold!” He laughs with a shake of his head and a lick of his bottom lip that has my eyes darting down to watch it, and my mind drifting to other thoughts about tongues and licking and … I have to make a conscious effort to look back up and meet his eyes.
“Well, you know all about being cold, now, don’t you?” I lean back in my chair and cross my arms over my chest.
Something flashes in his eyes that I don’t quite catch before it clears. “C’mon, Quin … don’t be that way. Just do me a solid and let’s forget about it. Why don’t you come with me to an event I have this Saturday? Yeah?” He flashes a disarming grin that I’m sure would have most women’s panties falling to their ankles, but not mine. I’ve experienced how quickly he can flip the switch from being interested to uninterested. I can’t imagine how it feels when he’s yanking the sheets off you, when his interest is gone, after just having had sex.
“Sorry, I have plans,” I tell him knowing full well I told myself that I was going to accept the next offer that came my way that might possibly result in mind-blowing sex. Little did I know it would come from him.
And so goes my life.
“You have something better to do than hang out with me?” That cocky smirk is back, the one that makes me want to fist my hands in his shirt and do dirty things to him, but I just shake my head, holding fast to my slowly weakening resolve.
“I know that’s hard to believe but on Saturday I need to watch my paint dry,” I deadpan.
His laugh fills the air, rich and deep, and even it sounds melodic. He points the sucker at me and just shakes his head and a part of me caves that he finds humor and not offense in my comment. “Friday then?”
“Paint drying.”
“Sunday, then?”
“Paint will still be drying.” I fight the urge to crack a smile at his playfulness and the way he’s angling his head and staring at me with a boyish smile on those sculpted lips of his.
“Damn, I would have never guessed you led such a fascinating life.”
“Yep. So you see, I don’t have time to go out. Sorry.” We hold each other’s gaze and I know he sees my interest. And as much as I want to consent to going with him, I need to do this for me—say no so that I can look in the mirror when I go home and know I’m thinking with my head and not my Bermuda triangle—the place where my thoughts go to die and lust acts without recourse.
“C’mon, you know you want to see if the rumors are true.” That lopsided smirk appears again and I hate the feeling it evokes in me—giddy schoolgirl begging for attention comes to mind and I just want to brush the thoughts off my shoulders. Too bad the only place they’ll fall from there is in my lap and that in itself is the crux of this problem.
“Rumors?” There are probably too many for me to guess so I’ll let him tell me what I need to worry about.
“Yeah.” He nods his head, lopsided smirk now a full-blown panty-dropping smile. “If I play a woman like a guitar.” He wiggles his fingers in front of him and raises his eyebrows.
Thoughts flicker through my mind that I don’t want there. His fingers running over me, manipulating me into rapturous oblivion. Damn. “You really need to get some better lines. The women that fall for those are ones you need to steer clear of … like Delta Sig girl. I’m sure she’d love to spend some more time with you after you beguile her with witty one-liners like that.”
I raise my eyebrows in a silent Yes, I saw you but then realize that in that one little sentence, I gave him the upper hand. I let him know that I was paying attention to him and his actions and by the derisive tone in my voice that it bugs me.
We both toy with the silence between us, him waiting to see if I’ll say more and me wondering if he’s going to call me on the carpet as to why I won’t go with him on Friday but I’m pissed that Delta Sig just might.
“I’m sure she would,” he finally says, “but perception can often be misleading.”
What? Please talk female here because I’m not following your cryptic answers. “Yes, it can. Like when a guy kisses you senseless one minute and then pushes you off the porch the next. Something like that, right?”
I notice him register my hurt and his expression falters as he figures out how to respond. “Exactly like that. What could have been perceived as pushing off a porch may have really just been a guy trying to prevent a mistake from happening.”
And the minute the words are out of his mouth, his eyes widen and my back straightens in incredulity that he really just went there. His comment stings in ways I never expected—and that tells me I’m way too inv
ested already. I can tell myself till I’m blue in the face that I won’t date a player like him, will date only casually, but the spear of disappointment that shoots through me tells me I want more.
“Well, thank God! I didn’t realize I would’ve been such a horrible mistake—”
“No! That’s not what I meant—”
“I don’t believe I heard you stutter.” Emotions run at a rampant pace through me, hurt, anger, disbelief. I shake my head and look out of the window as the sting of tears unexpectedly burns the back of my throat.
I’m not an overly emotional girl. I’m not one of those annoying criers who sheds a tear when someone looks at them cross-eyed, so why the hell does his comment create such a visceral reaction from me?
“Quin.” His voice is low and apologetic, like gravel scraping my ears.
“Just leave it, Hawke. Point made. No worries about that girl wanting anything more from you. I’ve got to get back to my work.” I turn my back without saying another thing, once again mad at myself for allowing him to cause such internal conflict within me.
And that’s scary in itself because all we’ve shared are a few groping kisses. I should see the sign blinking HEARTBREAKER a mile away, but instead all I feel is that he’s worth the risk.
He blows out an audible breath behind me and yet I don’t hear any footsteps walking away. I busy myself, well aware of the heat of his stare burning in my back.
“Can I get your number?”
Sarcasm weaves through my laugh mixed with a quiet thrill that he asked. And then it’s dashed when I realize he’s only asking to save face. “Now you’re just making me feel like a pity case. No need for you to scrape the bottom of the barrel.”
“That’s not it at all. Between Hunter and Vince … I just wasn’t … I can’t explain it here. It’s complicated…. I wanted to call you to apologize but didn’t have your number.”
I hear the sincerity in his voice but at the same time can’t be sure if it’s real. “Mm-hm.” It’s the only thing I say, needing him to go and leave me be so I can go out with Layla, lose myself in someone else for a few hours—or more—and make that sweet ache I feel for him not so sweet.
“So can I get your number?” he asks again.
“Your charm isn’t going to work on me this time rocker boy.” I set my pen down so that I don’t use it to write out my number and glance over to him.
“Yes it will,” he says, that shy smile that calls to me turning up one corner of his mouth. He makes a show of putting the lollipop in his mouth before he nods and walks off.
Of course my mind veers to Rylee’s comment in Sonoma about how many licks it takes to get to the center of a certain Tootsie Pop. Different man, same thought, I think while I watch every delicious inch of his backside as he walks with that swagger out the door. Gotta love a man asserting himself and then walking away with the confidence that he will get what he wants.
And I’m not going to lie, a little thrill shoots through me but only for a minute before I shake the idea off that has heartbreak written all over it in an extra thick Sharpie. The writing is definitely on the wall and no matter how pretty the ink looks, it will still bleed through and stain the layers beneath permanently.
Chapter 11
QUINLAN
Traffic sucks so bad it takes me forever to crawl the few miles from the university to my house. To make matters worse, I keep hearing Hawkin’s voice in my head and my level of confusion is at an all-time high.
I try to rationalize it all but realize that since I’m thinking of a man, there’s no use in even trying to.
I turn down my street, anxious to get home and relax a bit before Layla arrives for our night of anticipated debauchery. My phone rings and after the day I’ve had, I can’t help but smile at the one man that continues to prove time and time again that at least he thinks I’m desirable.
“Luke Mason,” I say aloud for the speaker to pick up.
“Quinlan Westin,” he mimics. “How goes it?”
“It goes. And you?”
“It’d go a helluva lot better if some hot little Cali girl would let me take her out this weekend since I’m going to be in her neck of the woods.” I hear the hope laced with amusement in his tone and for some reason it’s just what I needed to hear at this moment.
Something in me gives—maybe it’s Luke’s temerity, or a need to feel wanted amid Hawke’s rejection, the need to defy my brother’s orders, or the promise to myself that I’d accept the next offer that came my way—and I laugh. “You know Luke—today just might be your lucky day.”
The line falls silent and for a moment I fear I dropped the call and my dramatic little comment went unappreciated. “How lucky of a day?” he asks, finally breaking the silence.
And I can play off his comment so many ways but I’m suddenly feeling kind of like my old self, sassy and spunky. The bit of confidence I lost over the situation with Hawkin returns and I decide to just go for it. “Well, you’re going to get lucky all right, it just kind of depends on you if the luck is on the platonic or on the good-morning level.”
He clears his throat and my grin widens as I pull in my driveway, pleased that I’ve made someone happy today. “A girl who plays hard to get and then plays get him hard … Hm. I guess we’ll see where the night takes us.”
A part of me deflates at his response. What I truly wanted was for that alpha male side of him to come through and let me know exactly what will happen, just like Hawkin did with his confident yes I will. Damn me and my needing a little bit of rough in a man.
But I shake off all thoughts of Hawkin and remind myself that I just accepted a date with Luke. He at least deserves me to not be thinking about another man when I just suggested there is possibility between us.
We make plans to talk later in the week to finalize details and say good-bye as I climb from the car and gather my stuff. Once inside, I spend some time picking up, perusing my social media, and throwing in a load of wash. I respond to an e-mail from my brother, something about his best friend, Beckett, finally falling for someone, and tell him it’s about damn time. I’ve just finished making a few notes of things I need to do for Carla and sit down with a freshly poured glass of wine when Layla opens the front door.
“Q?”
“In here!” I call out, settling into the couch and putting my feet on the table.
“Hey, lady!” She rounds the corner followed by an approving sound when she sees the glass in my hand. “That rough, huh?”
“It got better,” I say and point to the kitchen counter for her to grab a glass herself. She’s been here enough times that she knows where everything is so I let her help herself. Having a friend that’s known you since middle school has its merits, like you’re so comfortable around each other that they help themselves without thought in your house. It also has a downside too: that you know each other so well they can read your thoughts when you don’t want them to.
And right now, I don’t want Layla to just yet.
Wine in hand and feet curled underneath her in the chair opposite me, Layla looks over the rim of her glass. “So what’s up? How’s Professor Hottie Hawkin?” Her lips curl in a smile and she gets a dreamy-girly look in her eyes akin to cartoons where irises turn into hearts. Luckily she keeps going before I can respond with an answer I’m not exactly sure of yet. “Man, it’s been two more lectures with him. Has he stopped being an ass and talked to you yet?”
“A little,” I reply, figuring I can deal with the guilt of withholding information momentarily because I know I’ll spill it eventually. And it’s not so much withholding, it’s more being unable to put into words the way he makes me feel.
“Man,” she moans, “the things I’d love to do to that man. I’d bang him like a screen door in a hurricane, hard and repeatedly. Shit, why wait for Mother Nature when there are so many fun places in that auditorium I could explore with him instead. Naked. For hours. Damn!” She grins devilishly with a raise of her eyebrows w
hile my mind drifts to the little soundboard alcove and the taste of Hawkin’s lips on mine. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to fantasize out loud—the man just makes the tingle in my lady parts turn full-blown earthquake.”
Mine too.
“It’s not hard to make your lady parts tingle,” I tease with affection since I’m more of a serial dater than she is.
“True. Very true. I’d like them to be tingling later tonight if possible.”
“Deal,” I say, raising my glass in a mock toast to her, “because I sure as hell need something to get me out of this funk I’m in.” Hawke’s offer for a date on Saturday flickers through my mind as the potential answer but I push it out. I’m going out with Luke. He’s safer.
But do I really want safe?
“Talk to me lady. Bad day? You need to get laid? What?” Her question pulls me from my internal tug-of-war as she squints her eyes to try to figure out herself what my problem is. “Definitely need to get laid more than anything.”
“I’m working on it.” Although I neglect to explain I’m working on it with one man while thinking about another.
Her eyes run up and down my body, taking in my ponytail piled high on my head, my capri-length sweat pants, and camisole tank top. “Looks like it.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Men always are, Q…. But what’s the deal? You usually have them eating out of the V of your thighs without so much as a bat of your lashes, so what gives?”
I fixate on my finger as it draws lines on the arm of my couch. “Well, I agreed to go out with Luke.”
Her mouth falls lax but she remains silent as she tries to figure out what’s caused my about-face. “Okay.” She draws the word out, and I’m curious how long it’s going to take her to figure out what I’m doing. “Your enthusiasm to go on a date with him is overwhelming. Really, please try to contain it.” She snickers and then adds as an afterthought, “You know your brother is going to flip his lid when he hears about this.”
“He’ll never know. Besides, my life is my own. He was a manwhore his entire bachelorhood. He has no right to tell me what I can and can’t do.”