Reese
Empty cereal box. Check.
Crumbs from stale candy bars. Check.
Dirty clothes strewn about in half a dozen places. Check.
I sprayed the room with Febreze to cover the stale scent of sweat and sour milk that seemed to linger in the air, then started working my way methodically around the room, from the far corner to the door. Something crunched under my foot—a mostly Styrofoam cup from the student center, the last dribble of soda now leaking out the side. I hurried to scoop it up before it made an even bigger mess.
Marco is fucking disgusting.
The same kind of yellow rubber gloves my grandma used to wash dishes were on my hands as I picked up a crusty wad of tissue near his trashcan. He’d apparently missed and couldn’t be bothered to pick it up himself. Empty condom wrappers hid underneath.
But—interesting. Two different sizes, hell, two different brands, one larger than the other. And just a few inches away from those was—
I stopped cold.
No. No, no, no, no, no, no.
Lollipop cellophane and a partially eaten grape lollipop.
I squeezed my eyes shut as I tossed it all in the trash, as if that would prevent the mental image of Marco and Smith from materializing in my head.
He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. With Marco?
He obviously did.
Twice, if I was judging by the condom wrappers I’d found.
At least I didn’t find the actual used condoms. I gagged, dry heaving over the trashcan I’d just filled, the thought that repulsive. It wasn’t the gay sex part that was weirding me out, it was picturing Marco naked in any way that was making me nauseated. I shuddered.
But actually, that explained a few things. Those times he ran right next to Smith on the track, picking Smith as his NAD, the way he seemed to overcompensate with the PDA at parties. Marco was either deep in the closet, or secretly bi. Or maybe he was just experimenting with Smith? Testing the waters?
I cleaned the rest of his room as best I could in ten minutes. I couldn’t stand to be in there any longer than that. Everywhere I looked, I saw them.
Did they do it bent over his executive desk chair? Or on the rumpled bed? On the rug?
Oh, fuck. Did they have something going on regularly—like me and Laird? Was I somehow now part of their deception? I wanted absolutely no part of being in a threesome privy to that knowledge.
Trash bag in hand, I shuddered as I left Marco’s room, careful to lock the door behind me.
Ugh, what was Smith thinking? Marco? Of all people?
I groaned as I walked into the already crowded building at 8:00. In the morning. On a Saturday. The Rodner Sharks were playing a non-conference away game against Maryland of all places, so it should’ve been a day off, a day to sleep in, a day to do nothing.
Instead, I’d be doing the 24-hour challenge known as Shark Day, where the entire band stayed within the confines of Boldt Auditorium from eight on Saturday morning to eight on Sunday morning. They called it a challenge to get around referring to what it really was—hazing. Anyone who slipped out or went unaccounted for at any point during the event was benched from the next halftime show. Supposedly, your final grade in the class would be knocked down ten points too, but I wasn’t sure if that rumor was fact or fiction.
The first twelve hours were relatively uneventful. We practiced the new song we’d be adding to the halftime show, did stupid group bonding activities, and ate way too much pizza. But people were starting to get prickly, breaking off into groups, forming clumps in the dozen or so rooms that made up the music building, half of them just small practice rooms.
Even the bathrooms had turned into a sanctuary, people hiding out in the stalls trying to get a few minutes of privacy to text or scroll through Facebook without someone else looking over their shoulder.
And there were so many people around, I hadn’t had a chance to corner Smith and ask him about the whole Marco situation I’d discovered yesterday. It was making me act weird around him, answering his questions tersely and staring at him in puzzlement when he wasn’t looking, until he’d twist his head around and snap, “What?” in exasperation.
I made a lap around the building, weaving through the high-pitched giggles of the flutists and the third-grade humor of the trombone players. There was nowhere to escape, just noise and body odor and the gradually rising tension of people who knew they were trapped together for another twelve hours when they’d give their left big toe to be anywhere, anywhere else because as much as marching band is a family, twenty-four hours is a fucking long time.
Free pizza only does so much for morale and goodwill toward your fellow man.
I was avoiding Laird too. Not because I didn’t want to spend time with him, but because I was scared if I got close to him, it’d be obvious just how much I wanted him. It was getting harder and harder to pretend to only be platonic around him in public.
I wanted to hold his hand, or lean against him, or feel his arms wrap around me. I wanted to kiss him senseless, until his hand tangled in my hair and the world around us went hazy. I wanted to bask in that warm glow that filled my chest when his gorgeous green eyes followed the motion of my hips as I walked.
And this wasn’t the place to do any of those things.
My phone dinged.
Laird: Where are you? Practice room 4C. It’s empty right now. Except for me. Knock twice, pause, then twice again.
A quiet space. With Laird.
It was almost too good to be true.
Maybe I could give into my urges, if only for a few minutes.
I sidled around a trio of trumpeters who were arguing about whether bull sharks or great whites were the deadliest.
“Bull sharks,” I muttered under my breath, and the ginger one raised his fist in solidarity.
“See? Everyone knows it. Even the little drummer girl.”
I paused. My spine stiffened and I swiveled back around. “What did you call me?”
The blond one snickered to the tall one. “Didn’t you hear? Apparently, there’s nothing little about her. Especially not the size of her sex toys. She must have the loosest vag on the line, probably from overuse. All those private parties they have? You know they’re getting a taste of that.”
My ears were so hot, they threatened to spontaneously combust.
What.
The.
Fuck.
I struggled to pull air into my lungs, not sure whether I wanted to punch him in the throat or cry. Humiliation burned like acid as I tried to swallow. I hadn’t realized news of my little stunt was being twisted in such a vulgar way, that I’d been given a fucking nickname on top of it all. And even though they never said his name, my thoughts shot straight to Laird.
This.
This is what I’d been worried about when it came to getting involved with another drummer.
And not just any snare player.
The fucking captain.
I opened my mouth, not even sure what I was going to say, but ready to explode nonetheless.
But just then, Marco materialized at my side, looping his arm around my shoulders and pulling me into an awkward half hug, half headlock. “Just the hotshot I’ve been looking for. I need to talk to you about the stuff you left behind in my room.”
The trumpeters snorted and elbowed each other knowingly.
My eyes burned and my hand shook as I balled it into a fist.
“I didn’t leave anything in your room, Marco,” I said with venom, reluctantly following him as he led me down the hallway. Room 4C was this direction anyway.
Fucking trumpet players. Fucking Marco. Fucking stupid guys with their stupid fucking opinions.
He stopped at room 3A, shoved open the door, and ordered the pair of clarinet players making out in the corner to leave.
Then he locked the soundproof door.
“I found some fuzzy black shirt on my desk chair. I assumed it was yours. I threw it away. Hope you didn’t want it back.”
Shit. My favorite North Face fleece from home. It had been a little chilly that morning, but I’d warmed up cleaning the room and forgotten I had taken it off.
I clenched my jaw. “Nope. Wasn’t mine.”
“You sure?” He watched me closely.
I shrugged. “Maybe it was Smith’s?” I was so mad, the words fell from me without thinking, but when I saw the look of panic flash across his face, I followed my instinct, sensing a rare weakness in his armor.
A ball of guilt sat heavy and leaden in my gut, but my anger at those dumb pricks and Marco burned hotter, erasing my normal tendency for caution.
I’d beg Smith for forgiveness later, but right now, the line of questioning had been cast, and I couldn’t take it back.
Would he take the bait?
My heart tried to burrow right out of my chest it was beating so hard.
Marco narrowed his eyes, and the fingers of his left hand tapped restlessly against his thigh. “What makes you think he was in my room?”
The condom wrapper that was way, way too big for anything you have tucked in your too tight pants.
“I picked up some grape lollipops near your desk. I thought maybe you’d had him over or something. You know, since you’re his vet and all.” I scratched at a spot near my elbow where a mosquito had gorged on me the day before, trying to look casual.
“Oh. Yeah. That.”
Hook. Line. Sinker.
“Or maybe it was Amber’s?” I added sweetly, tossing out the safety net only after he was thoroughly caught in the trap.
“You know what? The fleece was probably hers. She’s been coming over. And coming. A lot.” He snickered and my stomach churned.
Riiiiiiight. because you’re such a stud. I rolled my eyes. I started to turn away but he moved into my path, shoving his face too close to mine. I jerked my neck back, but kept my feet planted.
“You didn’t see anything, Reese. You hear me? Nothing.” His voice turned ugly and vaguely menacing.
Whoa. The aggression in his stance and tone took me off guard. “Nope. Sure didn’t,” I agreed, hurrying to placate his prickly temper. He’d already confirmed what I wanted to know. No reason to dig deeper. And, honestly, I felt bad for Smith. I couldn’t imagine Marco as anything but a selfish lover. I motioned toward the door he was blocking. “Can I leave now?”
He grinned, sitting on the floor, his back against the locked opening, and tugged his hat low over his face, an action that brought his eyes level with my crotch. “Not for a few hours. I need a nap. I also need someone who can verify I didn’t leave the premises. I pick you.”
I took a few hasty steps back, not liking the way I filled his line of sight. A sliver of fear snaked around my ribs, squeezing the breath out of me. Did he think I was going to sleep with him? The locked door, the soundproof room, the rumors the trumpet players were spreading…
My rising panic must have shown on my face because he sneered at me, wrinkling his nose in distaste.
“Relax, hotshot. I’m not gonna touch you. Hell, you can take a nap too as far as I’m concerned. I don’t care what the fuck you do over there, as long as you stay quiet and don’t leave.” He pinned me with his stare. “Is that really such a hard request from the snare line lieutenant to a NAD?”
I swallowed down my angry retort, knowing fighting him on this would result in something much worse than listening to him snore for a while.
“Nope. Sounds just peachy. I’ll take this corner over here, if you don’t mind.”
“Don’t care what the fuck you do. Just shut your mouth and wake me up around midnight or so. That’s usually when they bring more pizza.”
Hot resentment flooded through me. He was holding me hostage to be his damn alarm clock.
I pulled out my phone.
Me: Can’t. I’m stuck with Marco in 3A until midnight. Any chance you can rescue me?
I hit send, but nothing happened.
I tried again.
My phone powered off, the battery dead. My charger was in my bag in the other room.
I banged my head uselessly against the soundproof padding on the wall.
A dozen cutting remarks shuffled through my mind, but I kept my mouth shut. And anyway, his chin was tucked to his chest, his breaths coming slow and easy. Like this, Marco looked softer, as if he would be the type to hold the door for gray-haired ladies at the grocery store. Except—his arms wrapped around his lean torso, almost protectively, and his hands were curled up tight. It wasn’t quite the loose-limbed sprawl of someone at home in their own skin.
I didn’t like him, plain and simple. At the core of his being was something mean and little, someone who thrived on getting ahead at the expense of others.
But I only had to get through a few more months of his bullshit until football season ended. After that, there wasn’t any reason to interact with him again—assuming he graduated on time.
With a resigned sigh, I surveyed the room. Beyond the piano along the far wall and a group of chairs and music stands, there wasn’t much in the room besides a whiteboard with a few bars of music scrawled across it. The door was windowless, and there was no way to open it and leave without waking Marco. His legs stretched out across the opening.
I could do this. I could let him win this stupid little round in the battle between us. This was nothing. And maybe the boost to his ego would buy me some peace for a week or two. Let him think I was firmly under his control.
Minutes passed.
I counted the ceiling tiles. Four hundred and sixteen. Or was it eighteen?
I started counting again. Before I could finish the second time, Marco was snoring, phlegmy little snorts as he inhaled.
It was annoying as hell.
Yet I must’ve dozed myself at some point, because a particularly loud thud outside the door startled me awake. The clock on the pale blue wall read 11:49.
Thank God.
Eleven minutes later, I kicked his ankle. “Wake up. Pizza’s here,” I said flatly.
Then I reached over him, and pulled the door open just enough to slide out, forcibly pushing his body a few inches along the floor. He tipped over, grunting out a surprised protest, but I didn’t pause, squeezing through the small crack to the overly bright hallway.
Laird rounded the corner and spotted me instantly, concern furrowing his brow. He quickened his step, tipping his head toward the water fountain two doors down. I met him there, my frayed nerves soothed just by being near him.
“Where have you been?” His voice was rough and his eyes ran over me quickly, as if assessing for damage.
A door shut behind us, and he twisted around to see Marco exit the same room I’d just come out of. A scowl marred his handsome face when he turned back to me.
“You okay? Did he try to do something?” Laird’s muscles bunched under his shirt, threatening the integrity of the seams around his biceps.
“Nothing I couldn’t handle. Just some stupid mind game.” I shook my head, and stooped to drink some tepid water from the fountain. “My phone died—I tried to message you.”
He started to reach for me, but caught himself, letting his arm drop back to his side. “I waited for an hour, then I came out to look for you. I was starting to get worried, but then I thought maybe you were mad at me or something.” He shuffled his feet and ran a hand over the back of his head, gripping his neck. “I sent you a bunch of texts, but I guess you didn’t get them.”
My shoulders drooped. “I’m sorry.”
His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I polished up all the snare harnesses in the equipment room. Made myself useful for a few hours.”
I winced. That was a task NADs usually did, not a senior. Definitely not the captain.
“Laird,” I whispered, not sure what to say.
He leaned his weight against the wall, blocking anyone in that direction from seeing his hand as he tangled his fingers with mine. “Spend the rest of Sunday with me—when we get out of here. I can make it through the next eight hours if I know I get you all to myself afterward.”
“And do what?” A small grin lifted the corner of my mouth.
“Fuck, that dimple of yours,” he breathed. “You have no idea how crazy it makes me.”
My lips spread into a wicked smile, and I peered up at him from under my lashes. “How crazy?”
He took a step closer and pulled my hand to the front of his shorts, where I could feel him hardening. I ran my palm down him once, twice, before I remembered where we were and stopped.
His eyes were closed, lips parted as he inhaled deeply. “I can smell you from here. Cherries and flowers. I want my pillow to smell like that before I fall asleep tonight.” He opened his eyes halfway, Irish green lust simmering back at me. “How do you feel about that?”
“I think that can be arranged,” I murmured, feeling an answering tingle between my thighs. I smoothed my hair behind my ears, trying to keep from launching myself at him.
“Well. This looks cozy.” Marco’s dark gaze flashed back and forth as he stepped in between us to get a drink of water. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
Laird shifted, standing to his full height. “Nothing I need your help with.”
Marco wiped his mouth on his shirt sleeve. “Reese. Funny, I haven’t seen you around for the last few hours.” His voice rose, attracting the attention of the assistant band director and a few drum majors coming down the hall. “Did you sneak out? You know that’s against the rules.”
I gaped at him. Was he fucking kidding me right now?
The band director paused, trying to get a read on the situation. “Is there a problem here?”
Marco shrugged, a triumphant smirk on his face. “Just asking Reese here if she can tell me where she’s been for the last three hours or so. I know I haven’t seen her around anywhere.”
The lying son of a bitch. If I told the truth now, he’d deny it. I knew it in my marrow.
Laird cleared his throat. “She’s been with me.”
Marco’s eyebrows winged up. “She has?” His voice had a hard edge to it, blatantly challenging Laird’s claim.
Laird turned and stared him right in the eyes. “I’ve had her polishing all the snare harnesses. With a toothbrush. Since I’m her vet and all.” He took half a step back and gestured toward the equipment room. “Feel free to double check her work. She did a good job, even on yours.”
Marco’s mouth pinched closed, and he glanced between Laird and me. “So, it was just the two of you? How convenient.”
The assistant band director opened his mouth to speak but Laird cut him off. “Nope. Smith was there for a while too, but since he worked faster, I cut him loose after the first hour. Made Reese finish up solo.” Laird cocked his head in fake concern, his voice soft but steely with an underlying challenge. “Do you have a problem with my methods? Are you questioning how I’m handling things?”
Oh shit. I tried to blend into the wall, because—all the sudden—this wasn’t about me anymore. I mean, it was, but it wasn’t.
Marco knew Laird was lying. It was in the way his face was screwed up in confusion, as if he couldn’t figure out why the captain would go out on a limb for the little drummer girl. But he also couldn’t call Laird out on it without revealing his own deception.
They had one of those weird staring contests guys have sometimes, each trying to out intimidate the other.
The assistant band director turned to me, flustered. “So…”
I widened my eyes and painted the most angelic smile on my face. “I was scrubbing hardware. Like Laird said.”
Marco snarled at me, tearing his gaze away from Laird in the process, before turning and stomping away down the hall.
Dear holy angels in heaven who kept track of all these white lies on a never-ending tally sheet.
Sides had just been taken.
Laird and me against him.
And he’d just lost.