Blaze, page 23
I put my hands up. I’ve dealt with far stranger. “As long as you don’t pull out the rabbit’s foot, I think we’ll be okay.”
“Actually…” She fishes in her pocket, before a wide smile breaks over her face. “I’m kidding.”
I let out a slow breath.
The bouncer sees me. “The Damage! Fuck yeah. What are you doing out here, man?”
I flick my eyes sideways to Indy.
“Oh,” he says. “My apologies.” He winks my way and stands clear of the door. “This way, your royal highnesses.”
The music gets louder as we step inside.
“You’re really famous around here, huh?” says Indy, raising her voice.
I lean down to her ear. “What can I say? I’m ‘The Damage,’ defender of the faith. Come on.”
I tug her towards the stage where a grunge-clad crowd is busy doing their best not to look too enthusiastic about the whole thing.
The band kicks into the next number and it’s… fucking terrible. I’m talking an aural torture chamber here.
Indy’s laughing beside me. “I don’t think they’re very good.”
I nod to another door. “Bar?”
She nods back and we move through into an even darker, smaller space, the ‘bar’ as big as an ironing board.
I order us two beers, which arrive unlabeled. They could be moonshine for all I know.
Indy takes hers. We clink the tops together and try to talk, but even in here it’s way too loud.
I notice an exit door and motion again. I stand, Indy trailing behind me.
We both breathe a sigh of relief as we step out into a small patch of nothing at the back of the venue. A kid in a black mesh tank top is out there smoking. “Hey,” he says, the very picture of a rebel without a cause, apathetic in the extreme. It’s the Hillbillies you have to watch for around here, though, the real banjo types.
“Hey,” I reply, trying not to lose it.
He stubs out his cigarette and moves back inside, leaving us alone save for what could either be a swamp or a chemical waste dumping ground to our left. I can’t tell.
Indy walks around with her beer. “Very romantic, Mr. Beckett.”
I lean back against the building, placing my foot flat on the brickwork. “Hey, I tried. That buys me some brownie points, doesn’t it?”
“I suppose it does.” She points her beer at me. “But you’re still not getting into my pants.”
“They do look tight,” I muse.
“Very funny.”
I place my beer down on the ground and walk forward, bridging the gap a little. “I want to get to know you, Indy.”
She rolls her eyes. “That’s your worst line yet.”
“It’s no line.”
“What do you want to know? My bra size? What I eat for breakfast?”
“How about why you’re here? Why did you transfer? Where are you from? We’re on our second date and it’s like I don’t know anything about you.”
She gestures to the venue. “You can say that again.”
I step forward until there’s less than a hand span between us. We’re breathing the same humid air. “So, tell me what you do like, who you are. I want to know.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I’m trying to be serious here,” I protest. “Give me a break.”
She jabs her finger at me. “’The Damage,’” she mocks, “doesn’t have a serious bone in his body”.
There’s a great comeback for that, but I hold off.
We stand there in a stalemate, practically chest to chest. “So?” I say.
“So?” she replies.
Fuck this.
I reach forward and take her face in my hands, pulling her to my mouth. The moment our lips touch, the moment her body slackens at my touch, I know it’s the right move.
She reaches up with her own tentative hand, running it through my hair. Her fingers close around dark tufts of it, gripping me with an urgency and desperation that borders on violence.
I return it with my lips, letting my tongue press forward into the warm, wet space beyond, trying to slow time so I can remember every exacting detail.
My hands fall from her face, running down to her hips where they take hold of the hem of her shirt and lift, her bare skin exposed to the night, the kiss going on and on, not a breath to be taken between us we’re so lost in each other.
And it’s different, unique.
She grips my hair harder, pulling until we’re skirting the thin line between pain and pleasure, my tongue unable to run any deeper against her own.
I savor the taste of her mouth, the sweet fucking intoxication of it, the suggestion of beer lingering.
Restraint begins to slip. I let my hand run up the swell of her hip, gliding up her ribcage.
I feel something different, my fingers pausing on this new and unknown texture.
And that’s it.
She snaps away as though I’ve touched her with a cattle prod, literally leaping backwards in shock, pulling her shirt back into position and holding it down around her waist.
I don’t know what to do. I start forward, but she pulls back again. “Indy?”
She puts a hand out. “I can’t do this.”
“I’m confused. Did I do something wrong?”
Her hand shifts between us. “This can’t happen.”
“If you’ve got some kind of rule…”
“It’s not a rule,” she says, defensive. “Can we just go?”
“Indy…”
“Cayden, please.”
I can’t argue. It’s only going to push her away. “Alright.”
We walk solemnly back to the bike, Indy stepping quicker in front of me, her arms wrapped around herself.
I can’t work out what the fuck just happened. One moment it was perfect, what I’ve been dreaming of for days, and the next? She snapped.
Or came to her senses…
That realization sinks bitter to the back of my throat as I hand over her helmet. I try once more. “Indy…”
“Please, I just want to go.”
Even with the bark of the Harley, it’s a quiet ride back to campus. I notice she presses away from me on the back of the bike, her arms looser around my waist.
I can’t clear my head or unravel what happened. Was I moving too fast?
Probably.
She gets off the bike as soon as we arrive, pulling her helmet off and placing it on the back of the bike. She goes to walk away, but I reach out and manage to snag her wrist. “Indy, let me apologize.”
She stops but doesn’t look at me. “You’re a great guy, Cayden, and you don’t need to apologize, but I can’t… Not now.”
“Can’t what?”
She turns, her eyes wet and glassy. “You don’t understand.”
“So tell me. Let me in.”
She shakes her head. “You don’t want to be in a relationship with me right now. Trust me. I’ve got issues. Big issues.”
“I can help.”
“No. No, you can’t.”
She jerks out of my grip. “Just give me some space. I’ll call tomorrow.”
Usually this kind of hard-to-get routine would only make me more persistent, but Indy isn’t playing hard to get. This is more. The way she reacted when I touched her… and what was it I felt? I can’t be sure. I can’t be sure of fucking anything right now, so I nod. I nod and I watch her walk away hoping she’ll call and I can somehow piece this cluster-fuck back together.
I make sure she gets to the front of the dormitory building before kicking the bike back into gear. I take off, head full, and I swear to god that same black sedan drives on by.
CHAPTER EIGHT
INDY
The following day, I switch off my cell and turn to study. I avoid the morning lecture, thankful that it’s streamed online.
You won’t be able to avoid him forever.
The thing is, I don’t want to. I wanted that kiss as much as he did, wanted it to never end, but there can be no relationship between us, not when I’m trying to keep a low profile. Hooking up with Abbotsleigh’s golden boy would be a quick end to that.
And other things…
I wish everything could go back to the way it was, that I’d still be back in my tiny New York apartment with the couple next door engaging in overly loud sex and the guy upstairs calling for them to ‘shut the hell up.’
It might be good for you, but you’re not even going to give it a chance?
And then what? Hanging off the arm of the hottest property here is going to deliver the kind of attention I don’t need, the kind of attention I cannot have.
“I ordered a bourbon, babe, not a whiskey.”
I apologize to the Josh Groban lookalike in front of me and take his glass — empty, surprise, surprise. I’m so distracted I almost pour the whiskey over his hand.
Lucy appears, eyebrows crossed together in concern. “You alright?”
“Boy issues,” she says with a nod, when I don’t immediately reply. “I can smell that shit a mile away. Who is it? Come on.”
“Cayden Beckett,” I confess.
She slams her hand down on the bar. “Holy shit on a stick. You went there?”
“I haven’t gone anywhere yet.”
“So why does it look like you just killed a clown?”
I place my hands on the bar for support, wishing it didn’t sound like a stadium concert in here. “I kissed him, but…”
“But?” Lucy pushes.
“I don’t know. I ran.”
“Smart move.”
Was it? It’s all I’ve been thinking about, that kiss.
“Look,” says Lucy, “everyone knows Cayden Beckett and his eighth wonder of the world are only good for one thing—getting off, guilt-free. He hits it and he quits it, which is fine for most of the bimbos here looking for a college tale to tell, but I can see you’re different.” She placers her forefinger against my head. “I’m kind of guessing there’s something resembling a brain up in there instead of a little home theater showing Dance Moms reruns, which is why you should know better. Cayden Beckett is not commitment material. Heck, he’s not even boyfriend material.”
“How many girlfriends has he had?”
Lucy throws her head back in laughter. “Girlfriends? Ze-ro. But fuck buddies? Cum chums? Pelvic affiliates? I don’t know. Hundreds. Thousands.”
I exhale long and deep. Maybe she’s right? I am smarter than this. I’m studying to be a freakin’ lawyer for crying out loud.
So why do you want him so bad? Why are you wet right now thinking about him, his lips and what they could do? The way they could make your back arch and all your worries be poofed away with orgasm after orgasm after orgasm…
Lucy knocks on the bar. “Now, head out of the cock clouds and stop serving up whiskey to the bar runner. That shit’s expensive.”
*
I turn on my cell heading home, ignoring the thirty-odd calls and texts from Cayden and skipping down to a number I dread seeing. What the hell does he want?
Naomi’s up, as always, when I arrive, her hair pulled up into a tight updo, the smattering of freckles on her skin even more pronounced following a shower. She turns from her desk. “Are you still in the dumps?”
I sling my bag onto the bed and collapse face-forward, speaking muffled into my Nintendo game controller pillow. “Afraid so.”
“You did the right thing.”
I sit up. “What do you mean?”
“With Cayden Beckett.”
“How’d you work that out?”
She clears her throat. “Like I said, word gets around.”
“Does it?” I find it odd he’d mention it to anyone given that spiel. After all, nothing came of it. That’s not the kind of legend status you want spreading, that the great and almighty Damage couldn’t get a simple girl like me across the line.
“Look,” says Naomi, sounding an awful lot like Lucy right now, “that guy is no good. You can’t see it because you’re inside it, but I can. Head down. Study, remember? That is why you’re here, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” But I don’t like the lecture. I’ve never liked anyone telling me what to do, not my aunty, not the foster parents who followed, not the loan officer, not the… I stop my thoughts right there, don’t want to head down that thorny path tonight.
I get up. I’ve had enough, but I’m not going to say so. I have to live with Naomi.
“Where are you going?” she asks, only pissing me off more. ‘You’re not my mother,’ I want to scream, but I hold my tongue.
I smile. “I just need some air.”
She picks up her cell. “Okay.”
“You’re not to ask me to text when I’m coming home?” I mean for it to come out as a joke, but it sounds like I’m scalding her.
“Indy, come on…”
I pull on my jacket and open the door. “I’ll be back later. Don’t wait up.”
*
It’s surprisingly cold outside. If I had balls — god forbid — I’m sure they’d be tucked up in my throat somewhere. This is New York kinds of cold. So much for southern weather.
Like you had a choice.
The party elements are out tonight, the frat boys still deep into Hell Week. A group passes me by, roped together. They shout out the house rules boot camp style while a fellow brother holds up a copy of Playboy like he’s a tourist leader.
I almost laugh at that.
I don’t know where I’m going. For a moment I think about heading to The Lab, but I’ve spent enough time there already tonight watching the door, expecting Cayden to arrive at any moment.
He never showed.
It’s game night tomorrow, the Trojans taking on the Stanford Cardinals. I was actually considering going, seeing what this football fascination was all about, until ‘The Incident,’ as it forever shall be known.
I head diagonally away from the campus square, down the older part of the college with its whitewashed brickwork and turrets. It’s like something out of Harry Potter, at odds with the swampy surrounds.
I hear them before I see them—a rabble.
“If it isn’t Bar Girl.”
I turn and find the creep who almost assaulted me in the bar approaching with a group of jersey-clad clones. They’re drinking, which I thought was forbidden in the open, but it seems the Trojans make the rules around here.
I pivot on my heel to walk in the opposite direction, but they’ve closed in around me, the creep, with his disgusting long hair, eyeing me up. He spits to the ground. “Why you playing so hard to get, girl?”
My pulse is jumping ahead of my heart, but I remind myself to stay calm. You’re in the middle of campus. He wouldn’t try anything.
And then I recall the bar.
He reaches out to touch my hair. I flinch away and jam my hand into my pocket. “Don’t make me use this.”
I’m bluffing, but he backs up a little, looking down to my hidden hand.
“What you got in there, sweetheart?”
He reaches for my hand, but I pull away.
“I’m Dwayne, by the way,” he says. “Dwayne Bell—Trojans quarterback.”
Gotcha. “I thought Cayden Beckett was the Trojans quarterback?”
The other guys laugh.
“Burn!” one of them bellows.
Dwayne smirks, nodding. “Nice, but how about you put that pretty mouth to better use, service me and my friends here?”
One of the other guys steps in. “Dwayne, man. Come on. Leave her alone.”
Dwayne shoves him away, asserting himself as the alpha. “No, we’re going to have some fun. Fucking Trojans, right?”
There’s a lackluster “Trojans” in turn, an automatic call and response.
Dwayne takes a step closer to me, reaching for my jacket zipper. “Question is, which one of us are you going to suck off first?”
“Hey! What’s going on here?”
The group parts. A golf cart parks ahead, a man with a flashlight raised stepping out.
I read ‘Campus Security’ on the roof. The thing’s even got flashing lights.
Dwayne puts his hands up. “We were just talking to the lady, Drew. No harm in that.”
I rush forward to stand near the cart, thankful for its sudden appearance.
“Beat it,” says the security guard, “before I wake the Dean up and get the real shit-show started”.
Dwayne smirks again and tips an invisible hat. “Yes, sir.”
They skulk off, whooping and shouting.
The security guard turns to me when they’ve gone. “You alright?”
I nod.
“I’m Drew, by the way.”
“Indy,” I reply.
“Well, hop into my chariot, Indy. I’ll give you a lift back to your dorm, and a word of warning: Stay the fuck away from those assholes.”
CHAPTER NINE
CAYDEN
I’m paying way too much attention to my bowl of oats when something collects me on the back of the head. I spin and swat Colton’s lacrosse stick away. “Get that fucking thing out of my face, will you?”
“Hey,” he says, “someone’s got to knock some sense into that fat head of yours. She doesn’t want you, bro. Move on.”
I hold up my spoon, shaking it for emphasis. “She does, but…” I can’t finish the sentence because I still have no clue why she fled the other night.
“I see. Very insightful,” teases Colton, scooping up an apple from the fruit bowl with his stick. “Dad’s secretary rang, by the way.”
I turn back to my oats, ladling up a spoonful and tilting the spoon, watching it all spill back in. “Did he? And what, pray tell, did Father Dearest want today?”
Colton plucks the apple out of the stick’s scoop and bites down, talking while he chews. “He wants us at his wedding, of course.”
“And what number is this woman? The flight attendant, right? Bazooka boobs, bad hair?”
“Number five,” says Colton, “but to be precise he never married the last one, only engaged her, which means Bazooka Boobs is number four.”
I lean on my hand. “It gives me a fucking headache trying to keep up with it all.”
“Hey, at least he’s got a spare ring up his sleeve. What was the last one? Like, five mil?”
