Laurel
I totally Googled him.
I couldn’t stop myself—didn’t want to.
An image gallery of Rhett fills the screen of my computer, almost every small thumbnail a photograph of him in a wrestling singlet. Pictures of a younger, high school-aged Rhett. Three state championships wins, I note with pride. Arm raised after each sweaty victory, sometimes held up by a coach or ref.
Him in a purple and yellow singlet from Louisiana. A few team composites. Surrounded by teammates in a practice gym.
Bent over in what the caption calls a “guardian stance”.
There are so many photos and articles of him, I could sit clicking on them for hours.
My face burns hot from the images of Rhett in his wrestling singlet, from the sight of his sinewy, sweaty muscles, growing more defined with each year that passed.
The mouth and ear guards.
His thighs.
Oh my God, his thighs.
His dick beneath the spandex material.
I stare at that spot between his legs, pulling my monitor in close, studying the screen like a pervert, like a horny teenage boy.
I assumed he had a great body, but the actual sight of it half naked?
Jesus, it’s making my panties damp.
I zoom in on an image of Rhett with his hands behind his head, catching his breath, perspiration on his chest gleaming under the bright stadium lights. His brawny biceps inflated, flexed. The veins pronounced from the increased adrenaline.
The tight black spandex that leaves so little to the imagination.
The sensitive nub between my thighs throbs and I squeeze my legs together to alleviate the pressure building there.
This creeper session is seriously better than porn.
The only difference is, this boy? He’s real, not unattainable, and lives only nine houses away.
I imagine all the sneaking around we could do on our roommates. I imagine him crawling through my window, waking me up with his face between my legs. His hands running along my skin, up under my sleep shirt, sliding into my white eyelet shorts.
Imagine myself running my hands under the straps of that black singlet, sliding them down his brawny biceps, hands dragging down his damp, sweat-covered chest.
“Uh, what are you doing?” My roommate stands in my doorway, hand braced against the doorjamb, brows arched.
“Oh my God Donovan, Jesus Christ!”
“Scared you, did I? What are you doing in here?”
“Nothing! Jesus.” Shit, did I say that already? “You scared the crap out of me. Don’t you ever knock?”
I slam my laptop closed with a thwack, heart rate accelerating at an alarming pace.
He laughs. “What were you looking at? You look weird.” Donovan narrows his eyes. “Your face is as red as your damn hair.”
“Nothing, God Donovan!”
“You look guilty as all hell. Just tell me what you were looking at and I’ll leave you alone.”
“No you won’t.”
“You’re right, I won’t. So just tell me.” His manicured eyebrows rise and the nosy asshole laughs, wriggling his fingers. “I want to see. Learn to share, Bishop.”
“No.” I hug my laptop. “Mine.”
“Tell me what it is!” he whines, entering the room, his big body filling my personal space. Ugh, he is so annoying sometimes.
“Get out!” I sound like a little kid telling her pesky brother to get out of her room. “Seriously, I’m not kidding.”
“You never act like this.” He sits on the edge of my bed instead, resting his chin on my footboard. “Truth: were you looking at porn?”
“Truth? No!” It was something better. My panties are so damp, I might as well have been.
“If it’s not porn—not that I’m judging—why the hell are you bright red? Tell me.” He holds up two fingers like a Boy Scout. “No judgment. I jerk off at least twice a day.”
Gross. “I did not need to know that.”
“Would you just freaking tell me before I wrestle you to the ground?”
Wrestle me to the ground? My red face gets warmer, imagination getting the best of me as it produces visuals of Rhett wrestling me to the ground.
I almost tremble with delight.
“Fine, you win—I was looking at pictures of Rhett. He’s the guy I’ve been, you know…” The inflection of my voice conveys my meaning, and Donovan nods.
“The guy Alexandra had you text that you’re not hooking up with?”
“Right.”
“Let’s see him in action, come on, come on.” He bounces on the bed, impatient. “You know I can’t resist men in tights.”
I crack the laptop. Enter my password with nimble, eager fingers.
He looks over my shoulder. “You totally want to text him right now, don’t you?”
“Oh my God, yes.” I click on the browser window. “So bad.”
“Where’s he at this weekend?”
“On his way home I think, from Penn State.”
“Penn State? Woo, fancy.”
Donovan slides my laptop to his lap, scans the screen with perceptive eyes, raking over the images of Rhett emblazoned there. One photograph after the other. Clicks on one, zooms. Studies it. Clicks another, then another, all without saying a word.
“Well.” My roommate sighs. “He’s certainly no Thad Stanwyck.”
“Thad?” I huff indignantly. “Seriously Donovan? Why the hell would you bring him up? Ugh.”
Thad was a guy I dated last year for four long, exhausting months. As gorgeous as he is vain, Thad is a stereotypical carbon copy of your tan, arrogant, privileged student athlete with a revolving door of bed partners.
I don’t know what the hell I was thinking hopping on the carousel; being his girlfriend was emotionally draining.
The sex was robotic and routine.
Dick? Average.
Dates? Nonexistent.
Communication? Worse.
To compare Rhett to Thad isn’t fair, despite their obvious physical differences.
“He’s nothing like Thad.” He’s better.
He’s amusing, and charming, and refreshingly oblivious.
Clueless. Obtuse. Naïve. Take your pick.
“What are you going to do about it?”
“I don’t know.” I chew on my thumbnail. “Think I should text him?”
Donovan nods, handing me back the laptop. “No, I meant—what are you going to do with him?”
Guh! “I honestly don’t know yet.”
“Do you like him?”
“I think so, yeah. I mean, yes. I’m starting to.”
“Like with feelings and bullshit?”
I smack him then shove him off the bed. “Donovan!”
He stands, heading for the doorway. “I’ll let you have your privacy but you better pony up the details next time. No games with him. Guys hate that shit.”
“Okay, promise.”
Palming my phone, I thumb through our last chain of messages.
Tap out a quick text.
Hey there…
Rhett
“Who were you talking to?” Gunderson asks, throwing his lanky body into the seat behind me. He invades my personal space, resting his knobby elbows on my headrest, peering over the seat and into my space. “You look all dreamy-eyed and shit.”
We’re on a bus on our way back from Pennsylvania after one of Iowa’s biggest overall victories of the season: defeating top-seeded Penn State.
I’d just ended a call with my dad when Gunderson plopped down—the call where I broke the news of the four-hundred-dollar Pancake House tab to my parents.
“Were you talking to Laurel? Are you seeing her tonight?”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him to stay out of my business, but instead, I say, “No. It was my dad.” I crane my neck so I can look him in the eye. “I had to explain about the four-hundred-dollar credit card charge.”
“Oops, my bad.” My roommate cringes. “How’d that go?”
“Terrible.”
“Does he not give a shit that you just beat Penn? I mean, it’s Penn fucking State.”
“Not really, not when it comes to money he doesn’t have.” I narrow my eyes into slits. “The whole conversation was fuckin’ shitty.”
Shitty is an understatement. My parents—my father in particular—were so fucking pissed, the entire call was mostly him sputtering with anger. He’s mad, understandably so.
“I wondered when you were going to call,” my dad said by way of greeting when I called them after my win.
“You saw it already?”
“Yes Rhett,” he said sarcastically. “I saw it already. We check your credit card statement and your brothers’ a few times a week. I’ve been waitin’ several days for you to call and enlighten me.”
There was a dead silence on the line as I found the words to explain myself. “There were fifteen of us and we went to eat as a team and—”
“They stuck you with the bill,” he interrupted, not a hint of amusement in his tone.
“Yeah.”
My old man snorted into the receiver of his phone. “This wouldn’t have happened if—”
“If I hadn’t transferred? Yeah, I know.” Because my parents never miss an opportunity to remind me about their disappointment that I’m at Iowa.
“You’ll be workin’ it off this summer I’m going to assume.”
“I won’t have to. My roommates are splittin’ my half of the rent to make up for the money.”
“That isn’t the goddamn point, Rhett.”
“But Dad—”
“And I’m callin’ your coach. This is hazing and it’s bullshit, do you realize that? Your mother is beside herself with worry. What else have they done to you?”
I slouched into my seat on the bus, lowering my voice. “Dad—”
“What kind of operation are they running over there?” he demanded, raising his voice.
“Dad—”
“Don’t Dad me, Rhett. I’m callin’ your coach. This kind of bullshit would never have been tolerated at LSU.”
Nothing I say will change his mind because I left a great school to be part of the hailed NCAA championship wrestling team for better opportunities, more exposure, and more scholarship money—and my parents are never going to let me live it down.
I try to wipe the entire conversation from my mind, attempt to ignore the sound of my father’s fuming, disappointed voice in my head.
Gunderson stares down at me over the seat.
“Let me put it this way: it’s a good thing I’m so far away and can’t go home for break. My dad would kill me.”
“Look, that sucks. I get it.” Gunderson hesitates a beat, leans farther over into my seat, eyes darting around the bus like he’s trying to be sly. “But switching gears, some of the guys have been talking…”
Jesus Christ, here we go.
I wait him out.
“We’ve been talking about all your girl problems and want to help.”
“My girl problems?” I don’t have girl problems…do I? “I don’t have girl problems—the only problems I have are you butting into my business.”
“Just hear us out before you get premenstrual, okay? We have a few things to say—wrote them down, matter of fact.”
I glance around, catch several of the guys casually watching with interest, quickly averting their gazes when they notice me scanning the bus.
I narrow my eyes.
“So you’re the village idiot they’ve nominated to relay the message?”
He grins, satisfied I understand. “Exactly. As the team manager, I might be the messenger, but I didn’t come up with this awesome shit on my own.”
A sheet of paper appears in my line of vision, Gunderson smoothing out the wrinkles on the headrest, clearing his throat and giving someone toward the back of the bus a quick nod. He receives his signal to begin.
His voice goes up an octave and clears his throat as if he’s about to deliver an inaugural address. “We have a few rules we think will help get you laid. Since you brought Whatsherface home the other night, you’ve been kind of bitchy.” He looks down at the paper, then back at me, grinning. “That part was improsized.”
“You mean improvised?”
Gunderson rolls his eyes. “That’s what I said.”
You can’t argue with stupid, so I keep my trap shut.
“First off, you’re too nice. Not a single one of us has ever heard you insult a member of this team, or insinuate that you’re sleeping with someone’s mother or sister. That’s not normal.”
In the background, one of the guys coughs out, “Pussy.”
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but girls are attracted to assholes. Just look at Daniels and Osborne if you don’t believe me—two of the biggest pricks dating two of the loveliest girls. Coincidence? I think not.”
“Did you just call James and Violet lovely?” comes a shout from the back of the bus.
“Shut up Pitwell, I’m handling this.” Gunderson cups a hand around his mouth like a megaphone, bellowing down the center aisle of the bus. “I have the floor here—you all had your chance.” The paper in his hands gets raised to his face. He clears his throat dramatically.
“As I was saying, try insulting us more to be funny, especially around women, and brag.” He catches someone’s eye and winks. “You have stats better than Daniels, why don’t you talk about it?”
“Yeah dude, what the fuck?”
I eyeball Gunderson skeptically. “Are you purposely trying to turn me into a douchebag?”
“Yes. You’re way too fucking nice. Maybe it is time to douche that shit up a bit.”
“Wow. You guys must think I’m really fucking dumb, huh?”
Behind me, someone huffs. “New Guy, stop acting butt hurt and listen to what he’s saying.”
Gunderson rolls his eyes, irritated at continually being interrupted. “Thanks Davis, but I can handle this.”
He returns his attention back to me—unfortunately. “Which brings me to the point: your nickname.”
“I don’t have a nickname.”
“Exactly. That’s why you need one. New Guy is only going to cut it first semester, then you won’t be new anymore. It’ll just sound idiotic.”
“Uh…”
“Ozzy. Zeke. Boner. Pit. See? We all have nicknames, so don’t be a little bitch about it. We voted, and we think you should be called Quasimodo because you’re so damn ugly.”
I throw him two hard middle fingers. “Fuck. You.”
“When you come up with a better idea, let us know. Until then, you’re Quasimodo. Also, we noticed you don’t wear enough cologne. No one has suggested you stink, but—”
“That’s ee-fucking-nough,” I growl. “Get the fuck away from me.” Fuming, I push the ear buds back into my ears, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave me the fuck alone.
A sheet of paper flutters into my lap not two seconds later, and I grab it. Fist it into a ball. Toss it to the floor. It sits there an entire twenty-three seconds before I sigh, bending at the waste and scooping it back up.
I hate litter.
The list is entitled How to Be a Bigger Douchebag, and I scan it, disgusted.
Insult your friends more to be funny. No one likes someone who’s too nice, especially women.
Brag.
Give yourself a nickname.
Text other women during your dates. This will make you look desirable to the opposite sex.
Wear more cologne.
When asking a girl out, don’t just ask—tell her she’s going out with you.
Wait at least three hours before texting her back.
The list is one dumbass suggestion after the next, and I have to seriously wonder if they think I’m a fucking moron. Honestly, is that their impression of me, or are they genuinely just a fuckful of douchebags?
I shove the wadded-up list into my backpack as we pull into the stadium parking lot, the weight of this whole transfer pushing down on my shoulders. They may be wide, but they can only carry so much, and this month has been a shit storm I can’t find my way out of.
My phone pings.
Hey there…
Laurel.
I smile, replying before I have to stand to collect my things.
Hey. What’s up?
It’s basic and impersonal, but I still haven’t figured out why this girl insists on befriending me. Why she’s still texting, why she flirts with me. Why she brought me warm cookies I’m almost positive she baked herself.
I’m genuinely confused.
Confused as fuck.
She could have dropped the pretense of liking me the second I put two and two together at that party and realized who she was.
Laurel: You up for going out tonight? A few of us are downtown, somewhere nice. Want to meet us out and swap beer for wine?
Wine instead of beer? Who is this chick?
Me: I should probably stay in.
Laurel: Tired?
Me: Something like that.
Laurel: Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me.
Me: Thanks for the invitation.
Laurel: :)
“Now who were you on the phone with?” My other irritating roommate is on his tiptoes, trying to see over my shoulder as we make our way to the exit. I wish he’d climb down out of my ass already.
“Laurel.” Like it’s even any of his business.
Eric nudges me in the spine with his elbow. “Dude, for real?”
I glower. “Yeah, for real.”
He shuffles behind me, lugging his duffle.
We walk in succession, each of us with our head down, tired, filing off the bus single file like we do week after week during the season.
“I have to see this chick—Gunderson said she’s smoking hot.” He’s riding my tail, bag literally bumping into my thighs. “Is that true?”
“Uh…” I hesitate. “I guess.”
“Gunderson said she has red hair—how red we talking here?”
“I don’t fucking know, Eric. Red.”
“So, you’re dating a fire crotch?”
Jesus Christ, for the fifth time, “I’m not datin’ her... and don’t call her fuckin’ fire crotch.”
He scoffs. “If you put a little effort into it, you could be slicing that pie. He said you’re giving her blue balls.”
“Should I bathe in cheap cologne, act like a dick, and give myself a pet name to lure her in?”
“Nickname—there’s a difference.” He bangs into me again with his bag.
“Would you shut up?”
We’re still bickering when a firm hand grasps my forearm.
“Rabideaux.”
That voice. The use of just my last name.
Shit.
I turn to see Coach, grimace when he pulls at the brim of his Iowa wrestling ball cap, hard eyes focused, mouth set into a firm line. “You have a minute?”
“Uh…” Fuck. “Yeah, of course.”
He sees the glance I shoot Gunderson and Eric, leveling my roommates with a narrowed stare.
“Meeting in my office. Twenty minutes.”
“Yes sir.”
We watch as Coach walks off, head bent, talking with the director of wrestling operations and our strength and conditioning coach, heading back toward the stadium, where their offices are housed.
“Dude, what’s that about?” Gunderson asks.
“No idea.”
But I have an inkling.
A hard knot forms in the pit of my stomach, squeezing from the inside, tightening with every step I take toward the building, every step I take that’s farther in the opposite direction of my Jeep.
I guesstimate it takes eight minutes to reach Coach’s office. Twelve more for him to flag me inside. Another to close the door, settle into a seat, and wait for him to speak.
“So.” He begins, leaning back and steepling his fingers in front of him. “Tell me how it’s going.”
He drops his hands to the desktop, plucking a sticky note off the surface, pinning it between his fingers, bright yellow with something scrawled on it that I can’t read. Coach flicks it with his middle finger, tapping the yellow square back and forth, back and forth.
I stare at that small sheet of paper, trying to read the words written there in marker, the bold, black letters across the middle. It’s a name and a phone number, I discern that much.
“It’s going great,” I lie.
“Is that so?” He leans back, adopting a contemplative expression. “Want to tell me why we would have gotten a call from your father if everything is so goddamn great, Rabideaux?”
He leans forward and the wooden chair beneath him protests with a loud, creaking squeak.
“I don’t know what my dad would have said to y’all, but I can promise you I’m handlin’ it, sir.”
We sit in uncomfortable silence while he contemplates his next words.
“You know, son, we as a coaching staff, along with the university, have a strict zero tolerance policy against hazing, so I’m going to need a few names.”
My lips purse. “You know I’m not gonna do that sir, with all due respect.”
“I figured as much.” He eyes me with a frown. “You kids and your misplaced sense of loyalty never cease to fucking amaze me.” Pause. “Tell you what I’m going to do: I’ll be talking to your team captains about our little problem before it escalates.”
“It’s not a problem, sir.”
He chuckles sardonically. “How much was the bill you had to pay?”
My lips press together. Fuck.
I don’t know why he’s asking the question; I’m sure my dad already gave him the answer. “Four hundred and change.”
“And that’s not a problem for you? You running a charity for hungry, malnourished wrestlers we didn’t know about?”
“No sir.”
“Your father is not pleased, Rabideaux. He’s fucking pissed, and I personally do not enjoy getting my ass chewed out by angry parents. I have a duty to your families to prevent this sort of bullshit.”
“I’m aware of that, sir.”
“You’re also aware that you, along with your teammates, signed an honor code?”
“Yes sir.”
“Can’t do much without specific names.” He pauses again. “Course, I could just suspend everyone.”
Fuck.
“Sir…”
“Let me give this problem some thought.”
“I understand.”
“I’ll be watching, Rabideaux.”
I nod.
“Now get the fuck out of my office, and close the door behind you.”
He doesn’t have to tell me twice.
Laurel
We don’t go to a wine bar.
Not even close.
I’m out with Alexandra and her two best friends, Gretchen and Kari, and we most certainly aren’t anywhere classy; in fact, the place is a dive.
It also happens to be the home of a fraternity fundraiser—a bar and a frat party all in one place, imagine that.
For the third time tonight, I give Alex a nudge, tugging on her sleeve and leaning in, peering into her plastic beer cup. It must be bottomless since it never seems to be empty.
“Come on, Alex, it’s getting late. You said we weren’t going to stay long.”
“I know, but Johnathan’s been behind the bar for an hour, and he’s almost done with his shift. I want to see him before we go.”
John is the president of the Sigs, one of the university’s largest fraternities. The biggest partiers. The deepest pockets.
The worst reputations.
My cousin has been fucking him behind her boyfriend’s back for weeks. “Alex, I’m sure John won’t know if you leave a bit early. He will live—you both will.”
“I’m his ride home.” She flips that long black hair over a bare shoulder. “Sober driver.”
“What! You promised him a ride home?”
“That’s not all I promised him.” Her laugh is flirty and borderline obnoxious.
“Are you shitting me right now? What does Dylan think of that?”
Her bottom lip juts out. “Who cares? And why do you care? I’m sorry Laurel, I’m not leaving. If you want to go, go.”
“It’s freezing outside!”
The temperature is glacial and I’m already freezing my ass off in tight black capri leggings and a mid-drift top, no jacket, half-boot heels.
What the hell was I thinking coming out dressed like this?
Oh, that’s right—I was hoping Rhett would change his mind and come out once the team rolled back into town.
My cousin rakes her stony eyes up and down my outfit. The tight black top might be long-sleeved, but it’s paper thin and flimsy.
“Laurel,” she scoffs, irritated. “It’s not my fault you didn’t bring a jacket.” When she crosses her arms, I know we’re done with the discussion, so I can do one of three things: stay, walk home, or call someone to come get me.
I rack my brain—Donovan is on a date with some new guy he met last weekend at a student senate retreat, and Lana picked up an extra shift at the banquet hall she waitresses at. There’s a wedding tonight and she didn’t want to pass up the tips.
“Well?”
I wave her off. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll figure it out.”
This isn’t the first time she’s chosen a guy over her friends, and it won’t be the last; Alex makes a habit of putting beaus before bows.
Despite the date rape talk we always have before stepping out for a party—or any night where there’s alcohol being served—no one leaves alone. We come together, we leave together.
That is, unless she wants to hook up.
Then? All bets are off.
I narrow my eyes. “Whatever. I’ll figure it out.”
Her smile is satisfied, the spoiled brat. “Text me when you get home so I know you got there safe.”
“Because if I’m not, you’re going to come riding to my rescue?”
She scrunches her face up, insulted. “Of course I would!”
“Then why are you letting me leave here? Alone?”
“God Laurel, then stay. Don’t be such a bitch about it.”
I throw my hands up. “I’m done. I’m going.” Giving my head an exasperated shake, I walk away dreaming up a thousand snarky tidbits I’m going to tell my mother in the morning when I call home.
“Okay. Be safe!” she calls out. “And text me when you get home!”
Right. Like that’s going to happen.
Outside, I find a corner, brace myself against the brick wall. Unlock my phone and scroll through the contacts, trying not to fool myself.
There is only one person I want picking me up, and he’s at home, probably in bed, unwilling to come out and spend some time getting to know me.
I nibble on the inside of my cheek, uncertain. What if he doesn’t answer?
But what if he does?
“Screw it.” The words rise on a puff of breath, the weather so cold my bravado turns to steam.
Rhett’s name lights up my screen, the counter ticking at the top.
One second.
Three.
Eight.
“Hello?”
“Rhett?” I hear rustling, like he’s in bed and unwrapping himself from a mess of sheets. For a brief second, I imagine he must be shirtless, barefoot, and only wearing boxer briefs, his hard body tangled in nothing but blankets—
“Hello?”
Does he recognize my voice? “Hey. It’s Laurel.”
“Hey, what’s up?” He yawns.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything.” I roll my eyes; how stupid do I sound? It’s obvious he’s in bed or something.
Shit. What if he’s not alone?
Pfft.
Duh, this is Rhett we’re talking about—of course he’s alone.
“No, you’re not interrupting anything.” He pauses. “I thought you were going out tonight?”
“I was. I am—out, I mean.” I continue babbling. “We’re out—my cousin and I, and her friends.”
I clamp my lips shut.
“Are you drunk dialing me?” he asks slowly, cautiously.
I laugh uneasily, shaking slightly from a combination of cold and nerves. I wrap myself in a hug, wishing I had coat, or even a sweatshirt—anything to ward off the chill.
“No, I’m sober. One hundred percent sober.” Okay, more like ninety-six percent, but who’s counting? “It’s freezing out, and I’m standing against a brick building. It’s so loud inside.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just a teensy bit stranded.”
Silence. “Uh…”
“Is there any way you can you come get me?”
More silence.
I can hear him squinting, narrowing his brown eyes. “You sure you’re sober?”
“Positive.”
More rustling. It definitely sounds like he’s in motion. “Where are you?”
I press myself against the stone and smile. “Duffy’s.”
“Duffy’s, Duffy’s…” He’s trying to place the coordinates of the bar. “Okay. Give me ten.”
“All right.”
“Go back inside to stay warm. I’ll text you when I’m a block away.”
“Okay, I will.” I bite back a grin. “And thank you.”
Rhett grunts. I imagine he’s stepping into athletic pants, sliding them up his lean hips. “Be right there.”
And he is—right here I mean. I spot him within eight minutes, his familiar black Jeep pulling up to the curb in front of the rundown bar.
I push through the door, take the steps and eleven paces to the curb, purse hanging from a chain over my right shoulder.
Rhett has already hopped out of the car, jogging around to my side, beating me to the passenger door, his eyes giving my body a quick, barely perceivable scan.
I shiver again, but not from the cold.
“Hey.” He smiles down at me, giving me wide berth so I can hop in.
I pause before climbing in, giving him a breathy, “Hey,” and my own perusal of his figure: gray athletic pants hang low on his hips. Dark gray Iowa t-shirt pulls tight over his broad shoulders. Brown leather flip-flops despite the cold temperatures.
His toes stick out over the ends. Cute.
I brush against him, grabbing the door to steady myself, leaning in unnecessarily close; Rhett smells freshly showered.
Clean.
Masculine.
Like cologne and soap and fresh air.
Or maybe it’s just the fresh air…
I can’t tell if his eyes are glued to my ass as I climb in, but just in case they are, I give my hips a slow swivel. Inch my way unhurriedly onto the seat. Buckle up. Watch as he makes the jog back to the driver side.
Bite back a smile when he checks for traffic before pulling open his door.
Run a palm down the stray strands of my long, wavy hair. It falls over one shoulder, smooth and silky, down over the curve of my breasts.
“Thank you for picking me up.”
“No problem.”
“I can’t thank you enough.” Shit, did that sound sleazy? Suggestive? Like I was offering to pay him for my ride in blow jobs?
Why would my mind go there? Jesus, Laurel, why are you thinking about what’s inside his pants?
Guh!
The radio begins a slow love song that after tonight, I won’t hear without thinking of Rhett. He reaches forward, twisting the volume button to the left. Turns it down so all we have for company is the sound of his purring engine.
Under the streetlights, I study his profile, butterflies wakening in the pit of my stomach. They rise, stretching, wings beginning to flutter at the silhouette of his bottom lip and curve of his Grecian nose.
Rhett clears his throat. “So.”
He’s so awkward and cute. I want to climb into his lap, but I’m pretty sure he’d freak out, slam on the brakes, and crash into a pole, injuring us both.
Can’t have that, can we?
The smell of him makes me squirm in my seat in the best possible way.
I swallow, trying to focus on the road.
“What did you end up doing tonight?” I croak out, fiddling with the buckle on my purse.
He shifts in his seat. “Not much. Showered when I got back. Graded some papers.”
Graded papers—ugh, he’s so smart.
God I love that.
He gives me a sidelong glance, eyes darting to my legs in the cloak of darkness. My boobs. My hair. “What about you?”
“I thought my cousin and I were going to have a quiet night with a few friends, right? At a wine bar or something, but we ended up at Duffy’s instead. She has the hots for one of the Sigs, and they were doing a mixer there tonight.”
“Don’t your friends have that pact about not letting each other leave alone? Who’s driving the rest of them?”
I stare at him in disbelief; was he listening the night Alex and I were arguing on the front porch of that party about never letting each other leave alone?
I think he was. He was actually listening.
“I think Alex is planning on bringing this guy John back to her place, to, uh, you know.” To have dirty, meaningless sex. “So she couldn’t care less about me, especially when she’s been drinking.”
“Not cool.”
“Trust me, we had words about her letting me leave.”
“Words?”
“A talk. She was pissed I wanted to go while she’s trying to cheat on her boyfriend—who was there too, by the way.”
“Oh. Right.” I swear I can hear him blushing.
“And since it’s so cold—”
“No way should you be walking home alone.” He bobs, affirming my thought. Grips the wheel tighter. “Horrible idea.”
“I’m glad you were home.”
“Yup, that’s me—old reliable,” he quips. “Always home.”
“You were the first person I thought to call.”
Because if there is one thing I’m learning about Rhett Rabideaux, it’s that I can count on him. He’s steady and strong and dependable; I know it from the bottom of my soul. He has qualities I’m coming to realize are more valuable than blatant sexual appeal.
It doesn’t take us long to reach our block, hanging a right then a left until I can see both our houses.
“You can just park at your house if you want. I can walk the rest of the way.”
“No way. It’s colder than a witch’s ti—”
“Sorry? A witch’s what?”
“Nothing.”
Tit? Was he going to say tit? There’s no way. Not Rhett.
Heat finds my cheeks. “Anyway, thanks for the rescue.”
“No problem.”
I touch his forearm. “Seriously. Thanks for coming to get me.”
“You’re welcome. You weren’t interruptin’ anything important.”
Interruptin’.
“Still, I appreciate it.”
“I would do it for any one of my friends.”
“Friends.” Right.
I clear my throat, adjusting the purse on my lap, my little house at the end of the street in full view. Rhett slows down, pulling up along the curb.
We sit in the dark before he cuts the engine and opens his door. Makes that walk to the passenger side door. Opens it like a gentleman so I can step down, his gaze finding the pale sliver of bare midriff before pulling away longingly.
It was brief, but I caught it.
I step down onto the street, one long leg after the next. Let him walk me to the front door, keys jingling in one hand, purse clutched in the other.
I skim his torso with my hungry eyes; I cannot help it. I haven’t seen him in over twenty-four hours, and now that I’ve seen pictures of Rhett online in a wrestling singlet, well…
There’s no stopping my body now.
It gives a little shake, back hitting the front door. I regard him under the dim light of the single bulb lamp on my porch, through the cool fall air.
“Thanks again.”
“No problem.”
“Would you like to come in?”
He shuffles on the balls of his feet, both hands stuffed into the pockets of his gray pants, unintentionally pulling the fabric taut over the front of his crotch. I try not to gawp at the telltale sign of his bulge, but it’s—
“I better not.”
My shoulders sag. Better not? What on earth does that mean?
“All right then. I guess this is good night?”
God, I can’t help thinking that’s totally something I would say if this were a first date.
“Bonne soirée, Laurel.” It’s hard to read his expression in the dark, with his hooded eyes shadowed by the overhang on the porch, but I can read enough of his mouth to glean a hint of doubt.
The hesitation. The insecurity.
“Does bonne soirée mean good night?” I whisper, eyes trained on his mouth.
“Oui.” His eyes smile against the backdrop of the dark chocolate brown, warm and endearing. Unassuming and sweet.
I have to know what his lips feel like, the little voice inside my heart whispers.
I have to know what they feel like pressed against mine. Have to know what the freshly shaven skin of his neck feels like against my cheek. How it smells.
If I don’t find out soon, it might be the end of me.
So I let my purse fall to the ground beside my shoes. Step closer, lean in, closing the distance between us with my mouth, with my body.
When my breasts brush his chest and I close in the space to inhale his aftershave, the breath whooshes out of my lungs. Cologne, deodorant—whatever he’s wearing, it’s divine.
Eyelids flutter closed when the tip of my nose brushes the smooth side of his neck, inhaling his skin.
“Laurel,” he croaks cautiously, spine ramrod straight. “Are you drunk?”
His breath smells like minty toothpaste.
I’m fairly confident I want to lick him.
I press closer still, the heat radiating from his hard, male physique more dangerously intoxicating than any sensation I’ve felt in ages.
“No.” I’ve never been soberer in my entire life. “I’m not drunk…not on alcohol.”
Rising on my toes, I need only another inch to reach his mouth. Breasts pressing into his chest, my lips graze his, the barest trace. Rhett’s body freezes, rooted to the porch, the breath leaving his body so fast I feel his heart beat in time to mine.
I kiss him once, letting my pucker linger on the indentation at the corner of his mouth. Kiss him again, basking in his full bottom lip. The bow in the top. Silky. Soft.
My hands find a straight path up his firm pecs, over his stiff nipples. Slowly discover their way to his jaw. Land on his biceps and rest there, resisting the urge to squeeze the muscles under my fingertips.
Rhett lowers his forehead to mine with a shaky countenance, but it’s not what I want. Does nothing to satisfy my newly insatiable curiosity, this longing I’ve felt since first meeting him face to face.
I want him to kiss me.
I need him to kiss me.
I need to know if this connection building between us is real.
Painfully slowly, his lips part the barest of a fraction—barely—meeting the next brush of my mouth. He receives it tentatively, unsure.
Then another and another, the soft whisper of our kisses in the dark.
Our lips.
When I raise my lids, I discover his are closed, long lashes brushing his high cheekbones. Nostrils flared, controlled breaths in and out. Nowhere near satisfied, my eyes scan his scar-marred face before sweeping my mouth once more across his.
I want to sob when his mouth finally opens, tongue touching mine, low groan escaping his chest; it’s long and loud and primal. Almost a whimper. Painful.
He’s shaking.
My hands fall limply to my sides, weightless, body and nerves losing all center of gravity, knees wobbling when his mouth hovers over mine and his delicious tongue agrees to get acquainted. Our heads slant for a better angle.
God, I want to run my fingers through his shaggy hair. Kiss his face, his eyebrows, his broken nose.
He leans into me, too, my breasts swollen and his chest rubbing, pecs so mouthwateringly hard I can feel his nipples through my shirt. Through my bra.
Rhett kisses me like he means it, hard but gentle. Lazy but controlled. Firm and soft and then, “Tu sens merveilleuse.”
His raspy French murmur sends a tingle shooting straight down my spine, down to my toes. Whatever the words are he’s whispering, they send a ripple of desire through my core, getting me—oh God—so hot.
I want to curl up inside those words. Get naked in them.
Everything with Rhett and me started off so wrong in the worst ways, and now being with him just…
It’s right.
I like him.
Really like him.
I find the strength in my arms to raise my hands. Slide them heatedly up his abs. Sternum. Collarbone. Poise to cup the back of his neck and pull him in.
“Laurel…” he whispers, forehead falling back down onto mine. “Laurel.”
“Yes?”
“You…” He swallows. “Should go inside.”
“I should?”
He nods. “I should go.”
“You should?” But why?
Face flaming hot from embarrassment, I forget about the biting cold when I step back feebly, butt hitting the door. Turn to unlock it, fumbling with the key, body trembling. Tears tingling the bridge of my nose in between my eyes.
I refuse to turn around and look at him, so I tell the door, “Good night.”
I sense Rhett hesitating behind me. “Good night.”
It’s not until I’m inside, body slack in the entry hall, catching my breath, do I realize: not once did Rhett’s hands leave his pockets.
Rhett
I can’t go into my house.
So I sit in my Jeep, parked in front of it with the engine still running, hands still gripping the steering wheel.
What the fuck was that all about?
What the fuck was that?
What was that?
Someone needs to spell it out because I’m confused as fuck.
Laurel kissed me.
I replay it over and over in my head, head tipped back, hitting the headrest. Stare unblinking at the ceiling of my Jeep, at the wide expanse of tan fabric, breathing hard, fighting for control over my accelerated heart rate.
Take my pulse: 140.
Jesus.
Are my roommates right? Does she like me?
There’s no freaking way. Not possible.
With a trembling hand, I skim the front of my gray pants, across the length of my hard cock, pressing down but not stroking. I saw her blatantly checking me out on the porch but dismissed it as curiosity. I’m not completely clueless; I know I have a great body. I train hard for it, day after grueling day.
It’s my face that isn’t winning any beauty contests.
Never would I have thought a girl like that would look twice in my direction.
Now? I’m not so sure.