“I thought we were past filtering yourself?”
“I don’t understand? I thought guys always wanted to get off? Do I not make you…?” She trails off, her cheeks tinged pink.
I grab her hand, pressing it against my hard on. “This. This is what you do to me.”
Her eyes drop to my groin, where the slight heat of her hand through my jeans makes me ready to propose we go back to the house, find refuge with everyone gone. “I don’t understand,” she says. “Why don’t you want to sleep with me?”
I scoff. “I’ve thought of how I’d like to bend you over, hitch you up against a wall, watch you straddle me…” I shake my head, “I’ve thought about fucking you so many times I could write a book. I have an entire list of positions I need to fulfill with you, but not here. Not like this. Not when you’re sad and angry, not in a dirty bathroom.” I reach forward, smoothing a strand of her hair. Her eyes are still wild, exposing her release that I can still smell on my fingers.
32
Raegan
I glance at the bathroom counter a final time before exiting, wondering what I looked like from his angle. I pray I looked sexier than I feel thinking about it. Lincoln left a few moments ago to ensure no one sees us leaving together. I already looked for something to wipe down the counter with, but there was nothing except a half-filled bottle of ibuprofen and about a dozen bottles of hairspray.
A fleeting glance in the mirror confirms my hair is still in place, my makeup carefully applied. My skin still feels too hot, and my muscles too loose, but all in all, I look like me—correction, I look like me with a heavy hand of eyeliner and several layers of clothes subtracted.
I pull the door open, greeted by the noise of the party increasing ten-fold. Cigarette smoke taints the air that smells too sweet from the multitude of girls here, all dressed like me in minimal clothing and hope—the hope the guy they’ve been vying for notices them tonight and chooses them. As Arlo had pointed out, the guys seem to have their choice tonight as girls place their bids with the jersey number from the guy they like prominently displayed across their faces and chests.
A guy stops mid-stride, roaming my body with his eyes, crossing the fine line of flattery to predatory. When Lincoln stared at me, it made me feel beautiful and wanted. This guy makes me feel violated in a way that makes me regret having agreed to wear this outfit. I turn and am about to head for the first sea of people I can disappear into when an arm wraps around my shoulders, and a familiar scent anchors me back to a safe and secure feeling.
Lincoln stares at the guy, his threat clear.
“Sorry,” the guy manages before continuing through the house, craning his neck around after going a safe distance.
A part of me feels embarrassed to see him again, especially after having tried to picture myself propped on the counter and considering what he did to me, but then Lincoln’s eyes dance over my face, silently asking a dozen questions that all have to do with my safety and security, and my previous thoughts scatter.
“Do you have a T-shirt on under your jersey?” I ask, remaining huddled close to him.
Lincoln nods.
“Would it be weird if I wore your jersey?”
A smile hits his eyes, but not his lips, which remain in a neutral line. He takes a short step back and reaches behind him, pulling his jersey off with one quick tug. A white V-neck tee slides back into place. His bare arms are tanned, roped with thick muscles and corded with veins that are possibly sexier than his smile. Rather than handing it to me, he rolls the fabric on each side like he’s prepared to dress me. His hands are another of my favorite features, wide fingers and squared nail beds, calluses and each slight imperfection making a tally on my list of favorites. I’m pretty sure my eye twitches as I look at him with speculation at the idea of him helping me get it on.
“Your independence might be a higher peak than Everest.” He steps forward, gently pulling it over my head. He continues holding it while I stick my arms through, watching as it falls below the hem of my skirt.
“This might be worse,” I admit, noting how it looks like I’m not wearing anything underneath.
Lincoln shakes his head, his fingers tracing down my lower back, stopping on my behind. “You wearing only that while astride me has just added to the growing list.”
Shock hits me like a glass of iced water. He talks about sex with so much ease and confidence.
The smile finally hits his lips as he shakes his head. “Why does that embarrass you?”
“Does talking about it ever embarrass you?”
“It?” He cocks an eyebrow, making me feel childish and even more inexperienced.
“Sex.”
His grin grows. “You had no problem talking about it while you were turned on.”
“Vodka might have played a part.”
His dark eyes shine with disbelief, but he doesn’t voice his doubts. He steps closer, his presence sucking the air out of the room and making my temperature ratchet up. His eyes glitter with the reflection of the dim lights and something that appears like a promise. “I plan to corrupt you. Dirty your thoughts so everything you think and hear reminds you of sex.” His breath fans my face, his gaze so sharp I swear it’s penetrating my thoughts.
My heart feels like a butterfly whose wings have gotten wet and can’t take flight—stalled and too heavy. It would be so easy to get lost in this labyrinth we’ve created. I fear taking one too many wrong turns could easily displace not only my feelings but my understanding of who and what we are. I shuck off his jersey, realizing the last thing I want to be is another fangirl who proudly displays my hopeful intentions. “I think this creates the opposite effect. Thanks for playing interference with the creep, though.”
This time his smile is on his lips but doesn’t touch his eyes. He pulls his jersey back on, filling it out in a way that enunciates his masculinity and makes me want to reach out and touch each plane of muscle it conceals.
“You want to play beer pong?” he asks.
“With you?”
“That was the idea.”
“Are you worried someone will see us together?”
His eyebrows lift just enough to make me feel stupid once more. “Have I ever worried about anyone seeing us together?”
“I don’t know,” I answer lamely. “We don’t really hang out.”
“Because you avoid me.”
My jaw falls, and like a fish out of water, I move my mouth in attempt to refute his words, but nothing comes because he’s right, I just had no idea he knew.
His smile grows cocky. “Told you I know you.”
“I don’t avoid you. I just… You’re Paxton’s friend.”
He nods. “So’s Caleb and Arlo.”
That’s different. They’re different. But explaining those differences would be connecting too many dots for both of us, so I roll my eyes and plaster a smug grin on my face. “Yes, but they’re cool.”
He chuckles, the sound soft and deep, suddenly transferring against my shoulder as he presses me to his side and moves us in the direction of the long dining room table that’s been converted to a beer pong table.
“Pax looked good tonight,” I say, hating the silence though the room is filled with noise. “Whatever you said to him, it really seemed to register and get him out of his head.”
“It got him back in his head,” he corrects me. “Paxton is a great quarterback because he sees the field so well. He knows how people move and can predict things most can’t. When he loses that, he’s relying simply on his athleticism, which is good, but it’s not what sets him apart.”
I want to ask what he said to him on the field, but several guys greet him as we approach the table. His hand falls from my arm, a new smile on his face—one I recognize from newspapers and the local tabloids that follow Brighton and college football—it’s his stage smile, well-rehearsed and perfect. He blows off a multitude of compliments, laughing at jokes, hugging people, and shaking hands like they’re all pe
rsonal friends, though I’ve never seen any of them.
I’m a second thought for them—a fixture that will be replaced tomorrow and the day after and the day after that. Still, a tall and lanky guy with straight blond hair that hangs close to his eyes looks me up and down a couple of times, each pass slower than the last. “Do I know you?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”
“She’s with me. This is Raegan.” I can’t decide if I prefer the order of those two sentences or wish they’d been reversed.
“Raegan,” the guy repeats my name as though trying it out for size. He nods. “What’s your costume supposed to be?”
“A mathlete,” I say.
A lopsided grin appears on his face as several others repeat the word. “You don’t like sports?”
“I’m pretty sure sexy is her sport with those tits,” a guy with a buzzed head and bulbous nose says, his gray eyes narrowing in on my chest. “They’re pretty nice.”
Lincoln swings his head toward the guy whose smile is cruel and lewd, his fists ball, and I feel his body lean forward, ready to tackle. I link my arm with his, holding onto his bicep with a hold that hopefully appears more casual than it is. “Actually, my real sport is being smart, sexy is just an extracurricular. But, if you’re going to be an asshole, at least be an accurate asshole. I have fantastic tits.”
Several call out their agreeance, others howl with laughter. The guy with the buzzed hair mashes his lips together, wanting to fire back but smart enough not to with Lincoln at my side. Lincoln’s weight shifts back on his heels, his lips a playful smirk as he shakes his head. “Fantastic is the understatement of the year.”
I wink, playing the role like the Academy is going to vote on my performance. “Who are we going to beat, first?”
Four games later, we’re undefeated, a large crowd gathered around the table like we’re in Vegas at a table with stacks of money being bet. Instead, Lincoln is the main attraction, the opposing teams and their gulps of beer our winnings.
“You need to start charging people a fee to watch,” Jamal says, coming up and bumping fists with Lincoln before wrapping him in a man-half-hug. Jamal is also on the team, but I’ve only seen him at the house a couple of times for team dinners, and I’ve never spoken with him. He glosses over me but again doesn’t say a thing. It’s ridiculous and stupid, but it leaves me feeling more objectified than the guy who openly gawked at me. Like he only sees me as a placeholder who isn’t worth addressing.
“I’m going to go check in with Poppy,” I say as Lincoln glances at me.
“It’s getting pretty packed. You want me to go with you?”
I shake my head. “It’s okay. I’ll be back.”
“You better! I have next game!” Arlo yells from a few feet behind us.
I turn without stealing another look at Lincoln, knowing girls are already replacing me in multiples. As time has passed, so have the drinks. A girl with bottle-blonde hair staggers past, yelling something unintelligible. I wait for two of her friends to chase after her, giggling before continuing past a group of guys in their speedos, thinking about Maggie and her idea of rating man bumps. I conceal a grin and continue, spotting the rugby team and Chase, Poppy at his side. She’s smiling, holding his hand that’s draped over her shoulders. It’s ridiculously cute, and I pray he realizes she’s the best thing he could potentially hope for.
I turn my attention toward the crowd dancing, searching for Paxton or Candace. He stopped by shortly after Lincoln and I started our first game and was shockingly calm about my costume, only wincing once when I had to bend over to retrieve the ball after it fell and several guys cheered. He told me he was going to get a drink and some air, but that was well over an hour ago.
The French doors off the dining room are pitched open, and I follow the slight breeze like a moth to the fire, conflicted about the cold rush that feels both better and worse with each step I take. The backyard is dark, filled with overgrown weeds that are starting to crumple with the nearness of fall.
Pax is nowhere to be seen, causing a niggling that makes me feel a little guilty for having spent so much of the night with Lincoln when Pax likely needed him more.
I head back inside, circling the house twice to discover Paxton isn’t the only one missing—Lincoln is as well.
33
Raegan
“Wow! Look at you.” Victoria greets me at her door. We’ve been friends since grade school, our relationship one of convenience, spending time together when alternatives aren’t available. My being here amplifies that reality, allowing the guilt to seep into my chest. Without being able to reach Lincoln, I don’t know if Paxton is with him or not, leading me here for the night.
“Yeah, there was this themed party,” I try to explain, slinging my bag higher on my shoulder.
She steps back, allowing me inside her small apartment with bare white walls and sparse furniture that promises a crick in my neck and broken sleep. “So…” she says, closing the door behind us. “Things seem kind of crazy lately. How are things with your parents?”
“About as good as expected, I guess.”
She laughs, her gaze too inquisitive and prying, assuring me this is only the beginning of her list of questions. “What does that mean?”
I shrug. “If you’re following the news, you likely know more than me.”
“What?” Her question is pointed, my unease at being here growing rapidly. “I mean, who did he even have the affair with?”
It’s the question so many have speculated about, and the thing that has kept me up for countless nights.
“Does it matter?”
“I mean, you’re probably having a really hard time. The news was saying your GPA didn’t really qualify you to be accepted to Brighton.”
We had a weighted GPA system, where I earned above a four-point GPA because of the numerous honors classes I worked tirelessly to excel at. Still, her question stings, hitting the question that’s been loosely bouncing around in my thoughts like a car rattle you can’t quite ignore. “Yeah. You know the tabloids. They’re always looking for new angles to make a story worse.”
Her raised eyebrows refute my words. I already knew people wouldn’t believe I was accepted into Brighton on my own merits—maybe I wasn’t, but I jumped through the same hoops every other student did, my grades and excessive hours of extracurriculars and volunteering making me believe I might have.
“How’s Paxton?” she continues her line of inquiry to her favorite subject—my older brother. She harbored a blatant crush on him for years, making excuses to see him each time she used to come over.
“Um, he’s well. This has been hard on him, but he has a good support system.”
My phone beeps with a text from Poppy.
Poppy: Did you get there safely?
I hate the disappointment that taints my appreciation for it being from Poppy, who loves me so completely she checks on me even though I know her feelings are buzzing about Chase.
Me: Yes. And you were totally right. Victoria hasn’t changed a bit.
“Sorry,” I say in way of explanation for paying attention to my phone. “How are things going with you?” I attempt to change the conversation to what has always been Victoria’s second favorite subject: herself.
My time at Victoria’s is thankfully brief, due to an outing with the aquarium that has me leaving with a scribbled ‘thank you’ note left on her fridge before she wakes up.
I think of Lincoln’s words as I make my way to the visitor’s spot I’d parked in last night, his warning for me to not be alone. The sentiment hasn’t left me, causing me to look over my shoulder at every sound.
Once again, nothing seems amiss. There’s nothing on my car, nothing tainting the day—except Lincoln’s unexplained absence.
I make my way to the marina, my chest growing tighter until it’s hard to breathe as I park in the large gravel lot.
I’ve been mentally preparing for this moment since the firs
t day I woke up in the hospital, and though I’m healed, and my thoughts are beginning to settle, I still feel a sense of unease as I stare across the dark, choppy ocean.
I unlatch my seat belt and grab my coat, locking my car. I walk toward the dock, one foot in front of the other. I think of Maggie and the countless fears she’s faced, of my mom flying home to face her fears, of Lincoln taking the field again after blowing out his shoulder.
The floating dock shakes under my weight, stirring additional fears to life.
“Raegan!” Lois calls to me from a dozen feet ahead. She turns around, walking toward me in her puffy, black coat. “How are you?” she asks.
I smile, pulling in a deep breath through my nose. “I’m good. A little uneasy, but mostly good.”
She nods. “We’re glad you’re here.”
Greg smiles at me in greeting as we reach the end of the dock, my hands tucked into my pockets, my hood up because all my hats and gloves are still at home.
“You look cold,” he says.
“Well, that’s good. Cause I’m actually freezing.”
He laughs, offering his hand to help me come aboard. This feels substantial and equal parts foreign and familiar.
Breathe. Count. Breathe. Smile.
Aside from my nerves that leave my hands and legs feeling unsteady, I know my co-workers are aware of my personal situation. My name isn’t a secret, and they’re all well read, keeping apprised of details and news that I rarely make time for. No one has said a word about the situation to me, however.
The wind blows harshly against my skin, and though it stings, I’m pretty sure I’d be shivering even if it were hot out.
“That’s my girl,” Lois says, her eyes too heavy with sympathy for me to believe she doesn’t know about my dad. Her black coat falls nearly to her knees, a black beanie covering most of her hair. Wide silver rings cover most of her fingers that dig into my arms with a security that feels maternal, making my eyes grow wet. “You still feeling okay?” she asks, handing me a lifejacket that I cling to a moment before being able to move to put it on. I force another smile as my breath leaves me like a short stack of smoke.
Breaking the Rules: The Dating Playbook, Book: 2 Page 26