All Played Out (Rusk University #3) by Cora Carmack (15)

Nell’s To-Do List

That’s it? You don’t have anything more exciting on that list of yours?”

Even though Mateo—crap . . . Torres, has been quizzing me nonstop over breakfast about my list, I’m having a surprisingly good time. I think I’m gradually becoming acclimated to his outlandishly flirty statements because I’m getting better at letting them roll off my back without blushing . . . or worse, without getting turned on.

That doesn’t mean I’m about to tell him all the things on my list. I’ve told him all the safe ones, leaving out all the potentially embarrassing ones and anything of a sexual nature. And I have to admit, most of the new items that have occurred to me in the last few days have been of a sexual nature.

And it’s entirely his fault.

“What about coming to a game? Is that on your list?”

For some reason, I don’t want to admit that going to a game is already on my list.

“I don’t know anything about football.”

“I could teach you. I’m sure you’ll be a fast learner.”

“I suppose I could add that to my list.”

In reality, it was one of the first things I added after meeting Torres and the rest of his friends. I want to see them in action. See him in action.

“Excellent. What about other campus traditions?”

“Like what?”

“Like what, she says.” He catches the eye of a stranger passing by our table and gestures to me. “This girl, man. She kills me. ”

The guy appears to be in his midthirties. He looks at me, and then back at Torres, and says, “I feel you. Stay strong, dude.”

I laugh, even though I have no idea what’s happening. The guy walks away, and Torres digs back into his food like nothing has happened. He’s just so . . . “shameless” perhaps isn’t the best fit now that I know him better. He’s just confident. Comfortable. He fits everywhere with everyone. What must it be like to live with that kind of ease? To never doubt yourself or your actions? I envy him almost as much as I like him.

“Okay, crazy. Tell me about these campus traditions.”

“Well, you’ve already missed out on all the homecoming ones. You should have met me sooner, girl genius. But there are still a few fun ones. The tunnels, for one.”

“Tunnels?”

“Yeah. You’ve never heard of them? They run underneath the campus. I think they were built in the Cold War era or something, but these days they’re just dark and damp with lots of graffiti. And, of course, there are rumors of secret societies and mole people and all that fun stuff. There are two points of entry that are easy to access. One over by the parking garage on the north side of campus. The other comes out just below the bridge on the edge of campus. So what do you say?” He cocks an eyebrow in challenge. “Want to brave the dark, scary tunnels with me?”

“Do we have to do it when it’s dark?”

“Absolutely. It’s a rule or something. Besides, it’s much more fun that way. And you can feel free to hold on to me for protection as much as you want.”

I roll my eyes. “Have you gone in them before?”

“Nope.” He smirks. “We can have our first time together.”

I purse my lips and glare at him. There’s no way that phrasing was accidental.

“I guess I could hold on to you for protection,” he says. “If it bothers you that much. I’m for equality, you know.”

I suppose in the grand scheme of things, some light teasing about my virginity is to be expected. And I’d much rather that than . . . well, all of the other reactions I imagined him having. If he’s teasing me about it, maybe that means it’s not that big of a deal. If he were bothered by it, he would ignore it completely. Or rather, he wouldn’t be here at all.

A zing of electricity runs up my spine because . . . he is here. And the day after my disastrous slip of the tongue, too. That has to mean something . . . doesn’t it?

Dangerous thoughts. I redirect my focus to our conversation and ask, “What else?”

“Big Daddy Rusk, definitely.”

I nearly choke on my coffee. “Big Daddy Rusk?”

“That massive statue in the commons.”

“Of Thomas Jefferson Rusk?”

“I prefer Big Daddy.”

“And what is the tradition where . . . Big Daddy . . . is concerned?”

Torres’s grin is infectious, and it pulls a smile to my face.

“Well, you’re not supposed to touch him these days. Something about skin oils damaging the bronze or something. That’s why they put the little fence up a few years back. But the tradition is to climb up and sit in his hand and take a picture.”

“A picture. That seems doable.”

“In recent years, it’s become more popular to leave a little, uh, token of appreciation behind for Big Daddy.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, you know. Coins. Knickknacks. Lacy underwear.”

That time I do choke on my coffee, and it burns as it goes down the wrong pipe. I cough and cough, and Torres stands and slides into my side of the booth to rub at my back.

“Jesus, woman. If you try to die on me every time I mention underwear, that’s going to make seducing you trickier than I thought.”

I gulp in some air and shove him out of the booth.

“People really do that?”

“Oh yeah. They loop all kinds of stuff over the fingers on the statue, especially during homecoming week. The school assigned security guards there this year, but people still found a way.”

“That’s crazy.”

“If you really want crazy, there’s always the Sweet Six.”

“Do I even want to ask what that is?”

“The six spots on campus where you’re supposed to have sex before you graduate.”

“Oh, come on. Now you’re just making things up to shock me.”

“I’m not. Swear to God.” He holds one large hand to his chest and lifts the other like he’s being sworn to tell the truth. It’s not fair that he’s this charming. It’s not fair that this is all just a normal day for him. He’s always this outgoing and fun and spontaneous. I’m just a regular occurrence for him, and God, how I wish I could say it was the same for me.

“I don’t believe you,” I say.

“One of the Sweet Six spots is the stacks with all the old university records on the third floor of Noble Library.”

“What? I study in the lounge on the third floor all the time.”

“Well, then. That’s a prime opportunity for a study break if I ever heard one. There’s also the old stairwells that they have roped off in the chapel.”

“The chapel? Seriously?”

“Do you think the Sweet Six should count as six things on your list?”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“You’re right. They’re kind of a package deal. We’ll just count them as one.”

I drag my hands through my hair and gape at him. “You are . . .”

“You keep doing that. Am I that hard to describe?”

“Yes.”

“Is that a yes for the Sweet Six or. . . ? ”

I force myself not to react. He likes flustering me, and I won’t give him the satisfaction.

“That’s a no to the Sweet Six. Final answer.”

“What about Big Daddy Rusk?”

I throw up my hands and stand up from the booth. “I think it’s time to go. Any longer here and I might murder you. And it wouldn’t be smart to murder you with an audience.”

I reach for my wallet, but Torres stops me.

“I got this. You shouldn’t have to pay on the day of your very first hangover.”

I return my purse to my shoulder and smile. “Thanks.”

He leaves some money on the table and then loops his arm over my shoulder. “I’ve got some ideas for how you could thank me. Six of them, in fact.”

I laugh, and shove his arm off me, and he calls out after me the entire time I march toward the door, getting louder and more dramatic with every step. He’s making a giant scene, and everyone in the diner is watching us. Normally I would be horrified and well on my way to an unattractive magenta blush, but . . . it’s different with him.

Everything is different with him.

“I CAN’T BELIEVE I’m about to do this. I’ve gone crazy. You’ve made me crazy.”

Torres’s hand lingers at my waist for a long moment before he does what he’s supposed to and helps boost me up onto the base of the Rusk statue that we talked about at breakfast a few days ago. The base alone comes about as high as my chest, and I never could have gotten up without him. Or a ladder. The statue’s pose is reminiscent of the Lincoln Memorial, with Rusk sitting down, only his hand is open and stretched out, and that’s where I’m heading. If I can manage to climb all the way up without falling and breaking my neck. When Texas was an independent republic, Rusk served first as secretary of war and later the Supreme Court chief justice. And when Texas became a state he was elected as one of its first senators.

And now I’m honoring his memory by doing my best to climb up into his lap like he’s some giant bronze Santa Claus. I step up on his foot and try to haul myself up onto his knee, but I have a pitiful amount of upper-body strength. As in . . . basically none. I jump, hoping that might help, but I only end up clutching ridiculously at the knee, unable to pull myself up but too afraid to let myself drop for fear that I might twist my ankle landing on the statue’s foot.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” Torres says, having hopped up behind me with zero assistance. Then his hands are on my ass, and he’s pushing me up onto the knee.

“Did you suggest we do this just so you could grope me?” I call down to him.

“Unexpected benefits.”

Carefully, I climb to my feet, holding on to Rusk’s outstretched arm to keep me steady. Then, after one deep breath, I scramble my way onto his large bronze arm and shimmy my way down into his hand. I sit in his palm, and have to hang one leg over each side. My thighs are a bit too large to fit comfortably, so I feel like I’m wedged into his hand. And one look down at Torres’s grinning face tells me what an idiot I am.

I’m straddling the statue’s hand.

And while it’s holding my weight just fine, there’s no way I don’t look ludicrous. And probably a little lewd.

“Most people don’t actually sit in his hand, do they?”

“It’s the knee for most people, true.”

“Torres!”

“What? I figured go big or go home. Besides . . . it’s pretty fucking hot.”

“I’m going to kill you as soon as I get down from here.” I start trying to shift myself out of the hand, but my butt really is entirely too large for this thing.

“No! Wait,” he says. “Let me jump down and get a picture. You’re up there already. Might as well make the most of it.”

I try to scowl at him. But it is pretty funny when you think of it. And it will make a good picture. When my brother and I were growing up, Leo’s room had been covered in stuff like this. Photos with friends. He had a big stop sign on his wall that he and his friends had stolen God only knows how. He had souvenirs from places they’d been and things they’d done. Nothing crazy because we weren’t quite well-off enough to travel or anything. But little things that meant something to him even if they didn’t matter to anyone else.

Memories.

I had trophies. Medals. Certificates. Those were my memories. But no one takes those kinds of things to college with them. You’re supposed to pack them away in boxes because as soon as you graduate, they don’t really matter anymore.

But now . . . I have this.

While Torres descends, I look out at campus. It’s dark, but there are streetlamps dotting the sidewalk. Noble Library is a few blocks over, and is still open, but otherwise the university seems abandoned. The statue is in the middle of a grassy courtyard, surrounded by old oak trees that have probably been growing since the university was founded back in the late 1800s.

It’s peaceful and beautiful, and it occurs to me that I’ve never just sat somewhere on campus and looked. There’s always been somewhere to go or something to do, and I’ve never taken the time. I lean back on my hands and breathe in the night, and when Torres calls for me to look at him, my smile is wide and genuine.

“Come on! Get crazy,” he says.

I throw my hands up and smile even bigger. He laughs and snaps another picture on his phone.

“You’re a real wild one, Antonella De Luca.”

Then something occurs to me, and my stomach tumbles with nerves and a surprising feeling of exhilaration. Can I check two things off my list with this late-night adventure? Can I actually be a little wild for a change? I think about Torres’s words. You’re up there already. Might as well make the most of it. I take a deep breath, shift to sit on my knees, and wait for Torres to slip his phone back in his pocket.

Then I call, “Hey, Mateo!”

When he looks up, his eyes questioning, I gather my courage and the hem of my shirt and lift it up for one, two, three seconds. Then I tug it back down, keeping my eyes squeezed shut because I’m too scared to see his face.