“I knew that was coming.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “How was I supposed to know you were big? I’d only ever seen yours.”
Don’t believe for a second that I didn’t hear the past tense in that statement. It would be beyond unfair of me to wish she’d been celibate since we broke up, but the mere thought of her with another man sends a bolt of pure, white-hot anger straight up my spine.
Tamping down my annoyance, I say, “Well, just picture my penis when you think of Ford. There, you can cross it off your list.”
“Why? Have you seen his penis?”
“I’ve seen the penis of every guy I grew up with. That’s what happens in the locker room. And yeah, dude has a dick. But I don’t see why all the girls in school were fumbling over themselves to see it. I think it started with Annie Akerman. I swear I heard her talking about Ford’s penis to at least a dozen different people and how she couldn’t fit it in her mouth.”
“Yes.” Harper taps the table. “That’s exactly what I heard. I remember thinking if she couldn’t fit her mouth over it, then how big are we talking?”
I roll my eyes. “Have you ever looked at Annie’s mouth? It’s baby size, fucking weird. She can barely bite into an apple with that thing. Ford’s big, but not that big.”
With a heavy sigh, Harper gives me a sad smile. “And there go all my thoughts about what kind of heat our local law enforcement is packing.”
“You interested?”
She twists her drink on the table. “You know, just keeping my options open.”
“Well, I’m protective of Ford, so in order to go out with him, you’re going to have to pass a few tests first.”
“Oh, is that right?”
“Yup. Vigorous tests. Tests so well thought out and difficult that you should probably not even try.”
“Uh-huh.” A loose strand of hair falls over her hazel eyes, and she pushes it behind her ear. “How convenient.”
“Just like he protects us, he needs protecting too, Harper.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“That seems to be a common retort with you.”
“It’s true; you’re just absurd.”
I play with an unused fork on the table. “But absurd can be fun.”
“Unfortunately, I know it can be.”
Rogan: Friday, let’s meet at the manor to go over filming plans. Does that work?
Harper: I gave you this number for emergencies.
Rogan: This is an emergency. I want to make sure you have it in your schedule.
Harper: We decided on this when you dropped me off yesterday.
Rogan: You’re forgetful.
Harper: I am not!
Rogan: That’s so cute. You’re forgetting that you’re forgetful.
Harper: Give me one example.
Rogan: How about five?
Harper: I’d like to see you list five.
Rogan: Prom corsage, left it in the fridge. Forgetting your backpack at the manor. Unable to remember Kylie Parsons name and calling her Kaylie every time you saw her. Losing your sunglasses, freaking out, searching for an hour, finding them on your head. And not to mention the number of times you forgot condoms.
Harper: Hey, condoms are your responsibility. Your dick, not mine. Plus, I went on birth control pretty quickly.
Rogan: But not at first, and when I asked you to pick up some condoms because I wanted to fuck you at least three times before morning and you forgot but remembered Neosporin . . . that’s kind of hard to forget.
Harper: You’d just bitten my neck like a freaking vampire! I didn’t want it to leave a mark.
Rogan: Your fault. You greeted me in my room, naked, with chocolate syrup dripped all over your body.
Harper: So spontaneity is a punishable offense now?
Rogan: It sure was when I was caught with my hand down your pants in the locker room.
Harper: I don’t think I’ve ever seen your face so red.
Rogan: You turned purple.
Harper: I did not! You cried while your coach berated you.
Rogan: I did not fucking cry. The only thing that cried that day was my dick, for not being able to sink deep inside of you.
Harper: This conversation has gotten out of hand.
Rogan: You started it.
Harper: It seems like you don’t like to take the blame for things, Rogan.
Rogan: Oh, believe me, I know when to take the blame and I acknowledge when I fuck up . . . big time.
Harper: You make it seem like you’re referring to something that we don’t talk about.
Rogan: I think those rules have been thrown out the window at this point.
Harper: Because you can’t seem to follow them.
Rogan: You were lucky you got an hour out of me. Sorry to tell you this, Harp, but when it comes to us, there are no rules.
Harper: And that’s why I’m keeping my distance.
Rogan: Because you’re scared?
Harper: Terrified. More than you’ll ever know.
Rogan: Do you know what terrifies me?
Harper: Do I want to know?
Rogan: You tell me.
Harper: I might regret saying this, but . . . I want to know.
Rogan: What keeps me sleepless at night, what wakes me in a cold sweat is the possibility of never being able to feel you in my arms again.
Harper: I was right. I didn’t want to know.
Rogan: I would have told you either way, because honestly, I don’t think being just friends will ever be enough.
Harper: We can’t.
Rogan: It’s not that we can’t, because fuck . . . we so can. It’s that we shouldn’t, right?
Harper: No, I don’t think I can physically take the thought of us again.
Rogan: I can, and it’s fucking beautiful.
Harper: I have to go, Rogan.
Rogan: I’ll see you Friday, Harp. Have a good night’s sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
HARPER
Sophomore Year, Syracuse University
“Are you nervous?”
“No.” Rogan pulls me tight to his side. “I’ve been to parties before, Harp.”
“I know, but this is a frat party. They do crazy shit here.”
It’s our first frat party, and even though Rogan is cool as a cucumber, I’m nervous. I don’t know what to expect. Well, I mean, I’ve been to parties on campus, and I know there’ll be lots of drinking, but Sigma Nu is known for their parties getting out of hand, and the last thing I want is for my dad to get a call that he has to come bail me out of jail for something stupid. But I’m determined to get Rogan out of his room and have a college experience beyond football.
It took some convincing on my end, but I was able to coerce Rogan into coming tonight. He wanted to stay in, order some takeout, and relax after a hard-won game, but I told him he needed to celebrate with his guys.
He’s been to a few football parties without me, just to show he’s a team player, but he’s never really stayed out too late and had fun. At least, the kind of fun I know he can have if he’d just let loose a little. Don’t get me wrong; he loves beer just like every other football player on the team, but it’s rare that he drinks socially. It’s usually just with me, and we end up getting drunk and having sloppy, amazing sex. A girl can’t complain, but I’ve realized: Rogan isn’t really having the college experience I am—you know, going to events on the quad, hanging out with friends at dorm parties, spending countless hours procrastinating in the library—because of his commitment to football, so I’m trying to help him live a little tonight.
We’re going to have fun, get drunk with other people, and have sloppy sex when we get back to his house. Then wake up tomorrow, slightly hungover and ready for a greasy breakfast.
“Just stick close to me, okay?”
“Where do you think I’d wander off to?”
“Guys at parties are douchebags and will try to get with anything that walks by them. I want people
knowing you’re mine.”
“Ohh, possessive Rogan—that’s hot.”
He leans in close to my ear. “If we leave right now and go back to my place, I’ll show you something even hotter.”
“Nice try.” I push at his chest. “We’re being social, together. People think all we ever do is have sex.”
“And that’s a problem?”
I roll my eyes and pull on his thick arm. “Come on.”
The frat house is like every other northeast “mansion.” Brick facade, white pillars in the front, prominent fraternity letters on display, and drunk assholes practically falling out the window. It’s everything I pictured.
With his arm securely around my waist, we walk up the brick steps and make our way to the door while partiers call out to Rogan.
“Great game, Knightly.”
“One hundred and twenty yards, fucking amazing, man.”
“Killer game, Rogue.”
Not stopping to talk, Rogan politely hands out some high fives and curt nods before entering through the front door of the frat house. The blaring speakers hit us first, followed by the distinct scent of stale beer.
Ah, college.
“Let’s find a drink and then make our way out back.” Rogan pulls out his phone and glances down at the screen. “Duncan just texted. He’s back there with a few of the guys.”
“Looks like there is some kind of mixed drink getting passed around.”
“Yeah, we won’t be drinking that. Rule number one when attending a frat party: don’t ever drink what they put in the coolers. You won’t like how your night turns out.”
“Oh, do they put a lot of alcohol in it?”
“You could say that.” Taking my hand, he weaves through throngs of people dancing, talking, and grinding up on one another, finally making it to the kitchen. As he searches through the fridge for some drinks, I take in the stiffness in his shoulders, the lack of playfulness in his demeanor.
Standing from the fridge, he pops open two beer cans and hands one to me, his eyes darting around the room.
Wanting to make sure he’s okay, I place my hand on his shoulder. “Hey, is everything all right? You seem really tense.”
“Yeah, everything’s fine.”
“Well, it doesn’t seem like it, and unless you want an epic fight to happen right here in the kitchen, I suggest you tell me what’s going on in that brooding head of yours.”
Eyes still glancing around, he takes a sip of his beer. “I don’t want to be here. These parties are nothing but trouble, and I don’t like the way every guy in this goddamn house seems to be looking you up and down.”
“They are not looking me up and down.”
“Really? Because I can point out at least five guys who have their eyes on you right now.” His fist clenches at his side, and I’m actually afraid that Rogan might yank heads off necks tonight if he’s not reassured.
“Hey”—I cup his face and force him to look at me—“don’t worry about them; just have some fun with me.”
“I don’t like them fucking looking at you like that.”
“Well, guess what? I have to deal with girls looking at you all the time, throwing themselves at you on campus, and offering you things only I’m allowed to give you, but you don’t see me getting upset about it. Now let’s forget about this and have a good time.”
“It’s different. You’re hotter than me.”
That makes me burst out in laughter. “Okay, Knightly. Keep thinking that.” I tug on his hand. “Let’s find Duncan.”
With Rogan slightly calmed, we make our way to the backyard, where we find a group of football players spread over a cluster of benches that surrounds a small little bonfire. I think this is exactly what Rogan was looking for. A peaceful night, fun with his guys, and me on his lap—because that will be happening.
“Knightly, come join us,” Hemsworth, one of Rogan’s teammates, says, patting the bench next to him.
Still holding my hand, Rogan makes his way to the fire and takes a seat, pulling me down on his lap. Goal: achieved.
“You all know Harper, right?”
The guys nod and wave, some just giving me a good old grunt. I don’t blame their lackluster welcome. They must all be exhausted from the constant practices and games every Saturday. Plus, I don’t doubt they assume I’m the reason they never get to hang out with Rogan outside of the locker room and field. But little do they know, Rogan is a homebody through and through. He’d much rather be in bed, me curled into his side, watching a movie right now.
And a part of me feels a little guilty that I forced him to come out tonight, but I don’t want him to be a shut-in either. Going out every once in a while isn’t going to kill him.
“Not drinking the jungle juice?” Duncan asks, holding up his red plastic cup.
“Nah, I’d prefer to remember my ass from my head by the end of the night.”
“Not me,” Duncan says, taking a large gulp. “Becca is here, and I don’t think I can handle seeing her with someone else, so why not drink my sorrows away?”
Yikes, Becca must be his ex. I don’t ask, though. I doubt a group of football players wants to talk about feelings.
“She won’t do anything, man,” Hemsworth says. “She’s still in love with you. It’s written all over her face.”
Huh, then again, maybe I was wrong about these big, burly men.
“Hemmy is right,” another guy cuts in. “I saw her the other day in an English class, and she couldn’t stop talking about you to one of her friends. She still wants to be with you—you just have to stop being a douche and apologize.”
“But I didn’t do anything.”
All the guys, including Rogan, groan. I glance around, wondering what the hell is going on. If only I could be a fly on the wall in the locker room to see what kinds of things these guys talk about. From the sounds of it, they’re not whipping towels at each other and seeing who has the smelliest farts. Looks like they talk about real-life things like relationships. It’s really endearing.
Does Rogan talk about me? Did he tell them he was going to propose to me before we came back to school? Do they even know we’re engaged? So many questions, and now’s so not the right time to ask them.
“You let another girl kiss you! That’s something,” Hemsworth points out.
“I didn’t kiss her back.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Hemsworth counters. “The girl still kissed you. You know we have to protect our girlfriends from the groupies. It’s our responsibility to make sure they’re never doubting our loyalty.”
Uh . . . this is really heavy stuff for a frat party.
Rogan squeezes my side and whispers, “He’s right. It’s my job to protect you. It’s why I’m so tense here.” He’s opening up, right here, in front of the blazing fire. I love this man so much. “I don’t want you to ever feel like I’m not loyal to you and to our relationship.”
What’s happening right now? How did this night turn entirely too serious?
“You don’t have to worry about me questioning your loyalty, Rogan. I know you’re mine, and there’s nothing that will ever change that.”
“Good.” He presses a sweet kiss across my lips before taking another sip of his beer.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” a voice calls out, shattering the relative peace of the night and pulling our attention to the back door, where a blonde girl in a red sweater pops out, a drunk, red-faced guy behind her.
She comes barreling toward us. Duncan stands abruptly. “Becca, what’s going on?”
“I said come back here, bitch!” The drunk guy strides after her, making a fist at his side.
Silence descends around us as Hemmy stands as well. Rogan nudges me off his lap and joins Hemmy, his shoulders tense. This does not look good. I pull on Rogan’s arm.
“Let Duncan—”
Before I can get the words out of my mouth, Duncan charges the guy, barreling into his stomach, plowing him into the b
ack porch.
Becca screams, and Hemmy and Rogan step in. The other guys around the fire stand as well, ready to jump in and save their teammate.
The guy twists out of Duncan’s grasp and sidesteps, bouncing on his feet toward Rogan and Hemmy, who are now blocking off the circle, backlit by the fire’s dancing flames.
“Come back here, you pussy. If you’re going to talk to my girl like that, then you’re going to have to answer to me.” Duncan bounces back and forth, ready for a fight.
“Duncan, leave it,” Hemmy says, his voice cutting through the chilly night air like a knife.
“Are you going to cower now?” the drunk guy yells back. “You piece of shit! You think you can tackle me? You can barely knock over a bowling pin out on the football field.”
Ooh . . . I don’t think that’s going to go over well, and from the look in Duncan’s eyes, I think I’m right.
“Ralph, stop. He’ll destroy you,” Becca calls out.
Growing anxious, I hurry over to Rogan and tug on his hand. There are other guys who can defuse the situation. At this point, it’s probably best if we just go home.
“Let’s go.”
He looks down at me and raises his hand to cup my cheek—just as Duncan shouts a war cry and charges after Ralph.
As if in slow motion, Ralph shoots to the right, scooting right past a diving Duncan, who pummels Rogan right in the stomach. The brute force of Duncan’s shoulder knocks Rogan off balance; he stumbles backward into the fire, and his right leg ignites into flames.
I scream as he falls to the side, knocking over a few drinks. The red cups land on his legs, their contents further igniting the flames licking his leg, making them blaze higher.
A horrible, inhuman sound escapes him as he rolls across the lawn, his teammates ripping off their shirts, using them to smother the flames. It feels like Rogan’s leg is on fire for hours, the flames growing, singeing his pants right off him and eating up his flesh—but it’s over in less than a minute.
“Call 911!” Hemmy shouts to one of the guys, shirtless and hovering over Rogan. “Dude, don’t move.”
Numb from shock, I fall to Rogan’s side. His eyes are glassy, his face contorted in pain, the veins in his neck bulging as he takes deep breaths through his mouth, letting out a cry of agony that pierces my soul every few seconds.
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