It rained all weekend. There were torrential onslaughts of cold, cold water pounding around Cavanagh Saturday night and the whole of Sunday. The lightning storm postponed the match and the weather cut short my dinner with Sayo and Joe.
It also made training yesterday impossible. There was too much mud, too many loose limbs and fallen trees for us to manage up the falls or even work on Mullens’ amateur course. Even the lake was flooded. With the storm came shifty power spikes which meant the campus gym also wasn’t a viable option. We had no choice. It was the pitch or going three days straight without working out. Of course, our Tuesday run around the rugby pitch would fall on practice day. Clearly, the gods hate me. I complained loudly to my friends, bitched the entire walk away from my apartment, but they would not hear it.
When I notice the squad spanning for sprints and I catch a quick flash of Declan’s bright green eyes, I whine again, my grunting complaint irking Layla.
“Suck it up, sunshine. It’s just a run,” she says, but her tone is curt and there is no humor in her voice. She moves ahead of us, leaving Mollie to lag behind.
“They still fighting?” I ask Sayo as we run into a curve on the north side of the pitch.
“Walter asked Mollie about her family Sunday night. They were holed out at Layla’s during the storm so there was a lot of random conversation.” Mollie scoots past us, looking as though she wants to catch up to Layla. “When she told him about her father, he gets all pissy, flares his nose at her and says ‘serves him right.’” I wince at Sayo’s explanation. Mollie has struggled with her family’s past her whole life. She’s come to terms with it, but she doesn’t need some stranger judging her.
“What did Layla do?”
We separate to avoid a large puddle on the track. “Nothing. She fussed at him a little, but didn’t really stick up for Mollie. It pissed her off and she left.”
“During the storm?”
“Yep.”
Ahead of me, I see our friends running side by side. Layla says something to Mollie, makes a ridiculous face that has her friend laughing. “They’ll get past it.”
“I hope so,” Sayo says. She exhales, sets her shoulders. “Enough blabbing. We’ve got to get serious. Two weeks left.”
I nod and we both take off, passing Mollie and Layla quickly. They exchange a glance and then we are racing. I leave my friends behind, pumping my cramp-free legs, pressing into the momentum until I am yards and yards ahead of them. I laugh once when I hear Layla call me a name she’d never repeat in front of her mother, but don’t turn around. I am focused, so focused that I don’t initially notice how I’ve drawn up near the practicing rugby squad, and how Declan’s eyes are on me as he completes his sprints.
We both slow, working our bodies in languid movements, eyes clear and connected until Mullens’ whistle breaks through my panting and Declan returns to his squad. A glance behind me tells me that my friends are struggling to keep up and so I turn, jog in place to wait for them.
I should have kept moving.
I hear a whistle, this one organic and clearly flirty and see Tucker shoot me a wink. My chin jerks in acknowledgement. He can’t seem to help himself, he’s a natural flirt, and I find it funny how easy it comes to him. But my vision returns to Declan and all humor on my face disappears. I want to say something to him, want to tell him he’s being ridiculous, but his attention is drawn to the squad and his coach, to his captain that has taken over their drills. I stop jogging and quickly realize that Tucker is not a good captain. He yells at everyone, including the scared freshmen. Surprisingly, Declan doesn’t react to Tucker’s passive aggressive comments. Instead, he rallies the others and encourages them to press on.
“Come on, lads. Let’s get this right this time,” I hear him yell as the squad forms.
He was born to play. I watch him create confusion in the defense, sidestep against the disorganized defenders until he runs for a try and there is complete and utter joy on his face. It reminds me of the feeling I get when a struggling student shocks herself with an A performance on an exam or that moment in a race when you know you are in the lead, when you pump your arms and the endorphins collide in your brain, your heart hammers hard and then the ecstatic thrill when your chest breaks the tape. Joy. Complete and utter joy in the practice of what one loves; a clarity of knowledge that this is happiness, this thing, right here what I’m doing, completes me, makes me feel alive and important and with a purpose that radiates through the heart of the performance, or whatever it is you are passionate about.
Declan wears that expression as he runs up the pitch, as he catches the ball to his side, as he touches the ball on the ground between the uprights. He’s amazing at this and where he exudes this sense of astonishing joy, Tucker does not. The contrast between them is striking. Tucker gets the ball and runs, but he squints up into the bleachers to make sure everyone is watching, or to where Mullens stands, seeking approval. When Declan has the ball, he is focused, confident, as though he completely believes that no one can touch him, that it is only him on that pitch, only him and the ball in his hands. It’s fascinating to witness.
To my right, I notice my friends have completely exhausted themselves. Layla is laying on the ground, Mollie is hovering over her and Sayo forgets training altogether to slide her thumb over her cell. Slackers, the lot of them. The practice game ends and Declan’s smile is wide and warm. I watch him pat each of his squad mates on the back, congratulate them on a job well done, but Tucker continues to yell, setting them to running sprints again. He nods his head, but I don’t smile back, feeling my disappointment in him grow.
Declan sprints and his concentration is amazing. He runs and maneuvers his body like a man possessed. He is serious, focused, driven as though these exercises are as essential to his performance as how fast he runs down the pitch or how quickly he avoids a tackle. I’m impressed. I really wish I wasn’t.
Tucker walks around the pitch with his arms crossed, closely examining the team as they run through their exercises. He glances at me again and I manage a small smile.
Layla has recovered and is at least sitting up, her chest heaving and I take a few steps toward them, eager to continue our run, but then I hear someone behind me and stop as Heather approaches.
“You know, that Tucker Morrison is gorgeous,” she says, digging her hands in the pockets of her jacket. I nod, dismissive, remembering her little grope fest with my ex on Halloween. Oh, she knows all about Tucker’s attributes.
“I’m Heather, by the way.”
“Hi.” She knows I’m aware of who she is.
“You’re Autumn, aren’t you? I’ve heard about you.”
“Have you?”
“Yes. Declan says you’re friends.”
“Is that what Declan says?”
Her smile holds no humor. It’s a sneer, a wide pull that makes her perfect teeth gleam. “I’ll be honest,” she says, tucking her blonde hair behind her ear. “I know that you two may be a bit more than friends, but can I give you a little advice?”
“If I say no you’ll do it anyway so go ahead.”
When she giggles, the sound is condescending, forced. “Stay away from Declan.”
“Excuse me?”
Her hot pink nails glint in the sun and I move my head back to avoid the reflection. “Guys are not complicated creatures. They require very little to make them happy. Sex, food, alcohol, sleep.”
I fold my arms, straighten my legs so that I tower over her. “You don’t seem to think highly of men. Funny, you’d think if that were true you wouldn’t spend all your time trying to land one.”
“Say what you want, I don’t care.” She isn’t intimidated by me in the least. Even the stretch of her neck, the way she lifts her chin, tells me I could say anything to her, threaten her as much as I like and she’d not even blink once. “I just think you should know that Declan is a simple creature and I enjoy making sure all those needs of his are met.” She grabs my arm, a saccharine sweet smile on her face. “All of those needs, Autumn. What I give him, you couldn’t possibly. And then there’s the university’s rule about faculty and student relationships.”
I jerk my arm away from her. “I’m not faculty, Heather. I’m a grad student.”
“True, but you won’t be next year, will you? I hear you want a faculty position and I know you and the president are close. But my dad is on the board of trustees and he has a lot of pull with the governor. It would be too bad if word gets out that Winchell’s favorite grad student is hooked up with a sophomore. That might cause issue with the board. They might shift some of the English department’s funding to other departments which would mean that solitary vacancy you’ve got your heart set on might not be there next semester.”
She can’t be serious. “Wow, Heather. You’re actually threatening me. If I were at all stupid, I might be worried.”
“Oh, I know how smart you are. I’m very well aware, but just remember, Winchell doesn’t have the final say and she isn’t the most powerful woman on campus.”
I laugh. “And you are?”
“I didn’t say that, but I will say that you’d be risking a lot because of your relationship with Declan. I’d be blind not to see the looks you give each other. And, Autumn, I’m not stupid either. I can give him whatever he wants and no one would have a problem with it.”
“You love him? Is that where all of this is coming from?”
“Love him? God, no. But he’s good for me right now and I don’t like sharing what’s mine. So I’m saying this as nicely as I can. Stay away from Declan.”
My friends finally catch up as Heather walks away.
“What was that about?” Sayo says, but my eyes are focused on the scrawny tart.
I watch her as she saunters across the pitch, stopping for a second to wink at Declan. I’ve never been threatened before. I find it weird and disconcerting. Nodding for my friends to follow me, my eyes return to the squad. They run the length of the pitch, but Declan’s attention is on Heather walking away and his expression is curious, flirting near grim. Then he passes me in his run and I know that he is now watching me, that he has forgotten Heather. My friends and I pick up speed, run from the pitch and I wonder, fleetingly, how I got myself in this mess.
Tucker is late. He called me yesterday, asked if I’d decided on his mother’s birthday dinner. I’d been with my friends, fresh from another exhausting training session, sucking down lemon water, thin slices of asparagus and grilled fish when I got his text.
“He wants me to go to dinner with his family,” I told them. I ignored Sayo’s scrunched nose of disapproval but then agreed. Despite Declan’s coldness to me at the book sale and his assumed-girlfriend’s sad little threat, I still want to know what Tucker is hiding. Our friendship has been distant, which I’d never complain about. But when Tucker reminded me that the Dash was only a week away and that he’d already chosen our “outfits” for the auction, a renewed sense of purpose overcame me. I’d doubled our training, enforced the asparagus and fish menu and reasserted my vow to trawl out whatever it was Tucker holds over Declan’s head. That Declan has been distant as well has become secondary. I know he’s trying to keep clear of me and so I agree to this dinner with Tucker’s family.
I didn’t think he’d stand me up.
Declan sits just behind me as I wait at McKinney’s. He and Donovan share a booth. Their conversation is low, but as he listens to whatever Donovan tells him, he watches me, eyes sharp. He’s been staring for over half an hour, but hasn’t approached me or given me any indication he’s doing anything other than nursing his beer. I look at the clock, just over the McKinney’s Pub sign, for the third time. Part of me wants to leave, to forget this entire misguided “not a date” scenario. In the mirror over the bar, I see Declan’s eyes, narrowed, angry and a flash of his words come back to me. “I’m just…I’m not for you.” The bastard wasn’t even original enough to come up with his own excuse. He had to use mine.
I nod when Sam asks if I want another drink. White wine, low carb. If Tucker is going to stand me up, then I may as well get drunk. But then I remember the last time I was drunk. With Declan, which led to him in my bed, to confusion and refusal and more confusion. I can still feel his body lying against mine, can still smell his breath hot on my skin, Fubar’s, the library basement, my apartment, the basement again; all places that Declan and I—I close my lids and take another drink, slam back the whole thing to drive out those images.
The bell over the door chimes and Tucker hurries toward me. He looks good, great, in fact. The low grunt of complaint behind me is ignored when I welcome Tucker’s greeting kiss on my cheek.
“I’m so sorry I’m late. I had a meeting with Mullens that ran over and I—” Tucker spots Declan at the booth, but the Irishman’s attention is diverted. He makes small talk with Donovan, avoiding us altogether.
“You were saying?” I ask, bringing Tucker back to face me.
He smiles and the spark of annoyance that flashed on his face when he noticed Declan disappears. He moves around me and I don’t stiffen, don’t react really as his body closes in. “Just. Sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.” He nods to Sam. “You want a drink before we go?” he asks me.
“Yeah, sure. Just let me run to the bathroom.”
“Okay.”
Tucker touches my lower back as I get up and I hear him speaking to Sam on my way to the bathroom.
I try to calm myself, but instead I slam into the bathroom and rest against the counter. I can’t stand the shuddering palpitations in my chest. All these weeks, I’ve managed to avoid a panic attack. There was a moment, when Joe first turned up, that I thought one was surfacing, but then my anger overpowered my worry. Tonight is the first time since then that I feel the rapid hum of anxiety bubble, ride over my limbs, splinter my composure. I force it all down—the worry, the pressure, the reality of Declan’s anger, his rejection, then I inhale and look at my reflection to remind myself of the truth. “Declan doesn’t want you,” I say to my reflection. “He has Heather.” But then I remember the way his eyes narrow when Tucker is near me. I recall the ugly pull of his lips when Tucker whistled at me on the pitch. How he held me in the basement, how he responded to my touch on his body. Eager, desperate, all those ridiculous mixed signals.
I run the tap and splash water on my nape not really paying attention as the door swings open. When I return to the mirror, Declan stands behind me.
“I really don’t have time for this.”
“No, you don’t. Uppity bollocks is waiting for you.” The heat from his chest warms me, settles into a hum that shoots straight to my stomach. He watches my reflection, eyes down cast, cool. I don’t like that expression or how his indifference seems to be forced. “What happened to not reliving the past, McShane?”
I wad up the paper towel and toss it in the trash, glaring when Declan traps me against the wall. “Please leave me alone.”
He doesn’t speak. When I move to the right, he follows, arm stretching out to stop me. His fingers trace the high arch of my cheekbone, down my chin to rest at my bottom lip.
“You can’t go with him.”
“Why the hell not?”
Declan’s forehead rests against mine. He’s so close that I can see his throat working, the pulse speeding on his neck. When he doesn’t answer, I push him away, intend to leave, but his hand slams the door closed. The lock clicking sounds against the cold tile floor.
The wall against my back is cold, uncomfortable, and I grope for the lock, eager to escape the imposing way Declan watches me, absorbs my features. When I touch the door, he reaches out, one arm on each side of my head. “He’s not the one, love. You know that. Deep in your gut, you know it isn’t Tucker.”
“Then who is it?” I can’t help saying. “It’s not you. You’ve told me that a thousand times. This…thing, this whatever we had, is over.” He starts to argue, but I stop him with a quick shake of my head. “No, Declan. It was your choice.” I want to know, God how I want a plausible excuse for his rejection. Was everything I felt between us a lie? Was I misguided in thinking every touch, every kiss was forced, not at all real? His collar is stiff with starch when I curl it in my hands. I inch my fingers up to rub against his bottom lip and notice his chin shake, the quick blink of his eyelids. There is a moist gleam in his green irises that I know comes from more than just the beer he drank. “I wanted you so badly. I still—” when my eyes slam shut, Declan inches forward, his fingers fanning down my neck. I stretch, pull back from his touch, but he’s so close, his breath a warm hint over my collar. “You rejected me. I’m not going to play games with you anymore.”
“I can’t…if you knew—”
There it is again. The long withheld mystery that he can’t talk about. His “not a wife, not a family, not dying” secret that isn’t his to tell. I won’t let him keep doing this to me.
“Help me understand then.”
An inhale against my shoulder as he rests there and the tremors in his hands, his shoulders move me back into the wall. “You don’t know how hard this is for me.” His hair brushes my cheek when he raises back up. “I want you. God, do I want you.”
“Declan. Please. You have a girlfriend. You shouldn’t say things like that when you have Heather.”
“How do you know about her?” he asks, refusing to budge when I push on his chest.
“Was I not supposed to find out? She threatened me to stay away from you.”
Declan rubs his shoulder and I instantly miss the heat from his chest. The break is momentary. He adjusts his stance, returns his hand to the side of my face. “We’re not together. I don’t want her, Autumn.”
I try to leave again, but his grip is unyielding and my efforts to walk away are weak at best. I could leave. I could easily slip from him and he’d likely let me go. But his eyes have me locked, frozen to my spot. His gaze goes everywhere; on my mouth, staring, as if he wants whatever mad things he’s thinking to break free from his mind. But I’m not a mind reader and I can’t do this. Not anymore.
“Tucker’s waiting for me.”
“No.” He slaps his palm against the wall next to my head and leaves his hand there. “Don’t leave.”
I stare at the sharp point of his nose, the small frown that parts his mouth, anywhere but in those brilliant green eyes. When he doesn’t budge, the anger bubbles again. I am frustrated and eager for him to understand how much he has hurt me. Tucker hasn’t tried touching me, not since that first date weeks ago, but Declan doesn’t know that. To his eyes, we are together. That unsettles him. I won’t tell him the truth; it’s a commodity that we both use in this push and pull game. I’m not stupid. I know whatever Tucker is holding over Declan is the reason he walked away from me. Still, I want Declan to hurt, to suffer like I have, to understand what it feels like when I think of him with Heather. It’s a small lie, but cruel enough to make Declan’s heart quake, an echo of the pain he’s caused me.
“I’m going with him, Declan. I’m going out with Tucker. I’m going to have dinner with him. I’m going to dance with him. I’m going to let him hold me.” His eyes flash and he pulls his hand away from me. “And when the night is over, I’m going to let him kiss me, let him touch me if he wants. I’m going to do all of that because he wants me and he isn’t afraid to show me how much he wants me. Because he isn’t a coward.”
Declan slams his fist against the wall and I don’t even flinch. I knew it was coming. I take a step away from him and he reacts instantly. His hand on my arm, pulling, my shoulders back against the wall, his voice angry, deep.
“Does he touch you like I do?” He presses against me hard and I close my eyes, inhaling to settle my pounding heart, to ignore the way my body aches, how everything in me tells me to hold tight to him. “Does he kiss you like I do?” Declan doesn’t wait for an answer. He takes my face again and kisses me. His tongue slips into my mouth, and I let myself enjoy the feel of him against me, the sound of his moans vibrating in his throat.
He won’t give me space, even as I angle my face away from him. His body is firm over mine and in that moment, I hate him. I hate the way his arms cage me to the wall. I hate how my heart races, how my body throbs with his scent, with the taste of him. When I close my eyes again, another attempt to block out all the sensations he raises in me, Declan grabs my chin. “Look at me,” he says, his voice firm, even lower than moments ago. “Fecking look at me, Autumn,” he whispers.
My lids flutter, fight against my control before I stare at him, see his red eyes, his desperate, needy expression. “You want me. You want my skin on yours, don’t you? You want to feel my hands on your body.” I gasp, the sound like a weak plea when Declan’s thumb brushes over my nipple, eliciting a traitorous peak. My body shakes, my breath shudders out a pant and the ache that squeezes my chest, warms in my core, expands. “I can feel it. Your body aching for me just like mine aches for you.”
“I…I don’t want…want you.”
He pulls my wrist away from the wall and flattens my hand against his erection. He is firm, pulsing and my breath hitches. I can’t make my hand leave his body, can’t stop myself from rubbing him until his eyes move so that only the whites are visible.
Declan’s voice deepens, his low groans vibrate in my ear. “I want you too, love. So much. I want you wet and willing and desperate for me, just like I am for you. All the time. Every second of the bleeding day I think of that night in your bed when all I wanted was to be buried inside you. It hasn’t stopped, no matter what I say, it won’t stop, this ache for you, only you, McShane.” But he rejected me, cast me aside, said I wasn’t for him and the memory of that stifles the heat of this moment, has me pulling my hand away from him to press it against the cold wall. Declan doesn’t like that. “Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop. Let me have you, be with you.”
His voice that day on the pitch is still loud and present in my mind, snubbing me, making light of the connection I thought we had. “No, Declan. You only want me now because I’m seeing Tucker. I’m tired of you fucking with my head.”
“You’re not with Tucker, not now. I just want…I need…” then Declan’s nails run up my leg, pull my skirt above my knee, past my hips and his fingers dig into my flesh, cup my core fully. I don’t stop him. His touch on my skin, over my thong electrifies me, has me moaning, frantic. “Feck, McShane.” He brushes aside the thin triangle of fabric and touches me, feels just how ready I am for him. “You don’t want me, is it?” One finger enters me and we both wheeze rough, labored breaths of shock. Him inside me, rips through my carefully erected walls of composure, forces eddies and spots to dot across my vision. Our stare is endless as heat collects in the small bathroom, as the smell and taste of our bodies linger in the air. “You want me, God, how you do and I need you, love. I need to feel you wrapped around me, clutching against me. Only me. That arsehole couldn’t do this to you. You wouldn’t want him to. Not like this.” Declan emphasizes his point by pushing in deeper. A low moan traps in my throat, but Declan won’t stand for my silence. When I bite my lip, try holding back the throaty noise I need to release, he descends on my neck, pushing against me, his heavy weight intensifying all the places our bodies connect. My moan is loud, amplified against the stark tile and counters. “I know you don’t want him like you want me.”
When he tries to kiss me again, I turn my head. “No, I don’t.” A brief smile pulls his lips, but I don’t let him hold that expression. It takes me a moment to breathe again, to ignore the blissful touch of Declan’s hands on me, but I manage. My palms flatten against his wide shoulders and I push, make him step back. “Not yet. But I will. I swear to God I will.”
He shrinks, his shoulders slouch as I adjust my skirt. I unlock the door, eager to breathe air not permeated by his smell.
“You don’t love him.”
“I don’t love anyone, Declan.”
And a part, a very small part of me, believes my lie.