by Elle Kennedy
God. I can’t believe I ever thought he wasn’t a good guy.
“You know this song is like seven minutes long, right?” I point out as we step onto the dance floor.
“I know.” His tone is casual. Unaffected. But I have the strangest feeling he’s upset about something.
Garrett doesn’t plaster his body to mine or try to grind up against me. Instead, we dance the way I’ve seen my parents do, with Garrett’s hand on my hip and his other one curled around my right hand. I rest my free hand on his shoulder, and he leans in closer and presses his cheek to mine. His stubble is a teasing scratch against my face, bringing goose bumps to my bare arms. When I take a breath, his woody aftershave fills my lungs, and a rush of giddy dizziness washes over me.
I don’t know what’s happening to me. I feel hot and achy and—it’s the alcohol, I assure myself. It has to be. Because Garrett and I agreed that we’re just friends.
“Dean’s enjoying himself,” I comment, mostly because I’m desperate for a distraction from my out-of-control hormones.
Garrett follows my gaze toward the back booth, where Dean is sandwiched between two blondes who are very eagerly nibbling on his neck. “Yeah. Guess so.”
There’s a faraway look in his gray eyes. His absent tone makes it clear he’s not interested in making conversation, so I fall silent and try hard not to let his overpowering masculinity affect me.
But every time his cheek grazes my face, the goose bumps get worse. And every time his breath puffs on my jaw, a flurry of shivers skitters through me. The heat of his body sears into me, his scent surrounds me, and I’m excruciatingly aware of his warm hand clutching mine. Before I can stop myself, I rub my thumb over the center of his palm.
Garrett’s breath hitches.
Yep, it has to be the alcohol. There’s no other explanation for the sensations coursing through my body. The ache in my breasts, the tight clenching of my thighs and the strange emptiness in my core.
When the song ends, I exhale a relieved breath and take a much-needed step back.
“Thanks for the dance,” Garrett mumbles.
I might be tipsy, but I’m not drunk, and I instantly pick up on the sadness radiating from his broad chest.
“Hey,” I say in concern. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” His throat dips as he swallows. “It’s just…that song…”
“What about it?”
“Brings back memories, that’s all.” He pauses for so long I don’t think he’s going to continue, but then he does. “It was my mom’s favorite song. They played it at her funeral.”
My breath catches in surprise. “Oh. Oh, Garrett, I’m sorry.”
He shrugs as if he has no care in the world.
“Garrett…”
“Look, it was either dance to it, or bawl my eyes out, okay? So yeah, thanks for the dance.” He sidesteps me as I reach for his arm. “I’ve gotta take a leak. Will you be okay here for a few minutes?”
“Yeah, but—”
He stalks off before I can finish.
I watch him go, battling a wave of sorrow that constricts my throat. I’m torn as I stand there staring at his retreating back. I want to go after him and force him to talk about it.
No, I should go after him.
I square my shoulders and hurry forward—only to freeze as I come face to face with my ex-boyfriend.
“Devon!” I squeak.
“Hannah…hey.” Devon is visibly uncomfortable as our gazes lock.
It takes me a second to register that he’s not alone. A tall, pretty redhead stands beside him…and they’re holding hands.
My pulse speeds up because I haven’t seen Devon since we broke up last winter. He’s a political science major, so we’re not in any of the same classes, and our social circles don’t usually intersect. We probably wouldn’t have even met if Allie hadn’t dragged me to that concert in Boston last year. It was a small venue, just a few local bands playing, and Devon happened to be the drummer in one of the bands. We spent the whole night talking, discovered that we both went to Briar, and he ended up driving Allie and me back to campus that night.
After that, he and I were inseparable. We were together for eight months, and I was wildly and unequivocally in love with him. He told me he loved me, too, but after he dumped me, a part of me wondered if maybe he’d only been with me out of pity.
Don’t think that way.
The stern voice in my head belongs to Carole, and suddenly I long to hear it in person. Our therapy sessions ended once I left for college, and although we’ve had a few phone chats here and there, it’s not the same as sitting in that cozy leather armchair in Carole’s office, breathing in her soothing lavender scent and hearing her warm, reassuring voice. I no longer need Carole the way I used to, but right now, as I face off with Devon and his gorgeous new girlfriend, all the old insecurities come rushing back.
“How’ve you been?” he asks.
“Good. No, I’m great,” I amend hastily. “How are you?”
“Can’t complain.” The smile he gives me looks forced. “Uh…the band broke up.”
“Oh, shit. I’m sorry to hear that. What happened?”
He absently rubs the silver hoop in his left eyebrow, and I’m reminded of all the times I used to kiss that piercing when we were lying in bed together.
“Brad happened,” Devon admits. “You know how he was always threatening to go solo? Well, he finally decided he didn’t need us. He landed a record deal with this hot new indie label, and when they said they wanted their house band to back him, Brad didn’t fight for us.”
I’m not surprised to hear it. I always thought Brad was the most pompous asshole on the planet. Actually, he’d probably get along splendidly with Cass.
“I know it sucks, but I think you’re better off,” I tell Devon. “Brad would’ve screwed you over eventually. At least it happened now, before you signed anything, you know?”
“That’s what I keep telling him,” the redhead pipes up, then turns to Devon. “See, someone else agrees with me.”
Someone else. Is that what I am? Not Devon’s ex-girlfriend, not his friend, not even an acquaintance. I’m simply…someone else.
The way she diminishes my position in Devon’s life makes my heart squeeze painfully.
“I’m Emily, by the way,” the redhead says.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I reply awkwardly.
Devon looks as awkward as I feel. “So, uh, you’ve got the winter showcase coming up, huh?”
“Yep. I’m performing a duet with Cass Donovan.” I sigh. “Which is beginning to look like a huge mistake.”
Devon nods. “Well, you always did work better alone.”
My stomach goes rigid. For some reason, it feels like he’s making a jab at me. Like he’s insinuating something. Like what he’s really saying is you have no problem getting YOURSELF off, right, Hannah? But you can’t do it with a partner, can you?
I know that’s just my insecurities talking. Devon’s not that cruel. And he tried. He tried so hard.
But insinuation or not, it still hurts.
“Anyway, it was nice to see you, but I’m here with friends, so…”
I nod toward the booth where Tucker, Simms and Logan are holed up, which brings a crease of confusion to Devon’s forehead. “Since when do you hang out with the hockey crowd?”
“I’m tutoring one of the players, and…uh, yeah, we hang out sometimes.”
“Oh. Cool. Okay, well…see you around.”
“It was nice to meet you!” Emily chirps.
My throat closes up as they saunter off hand-in-hand. I swallow hard, then twirl in the opposite direction. I duck into the corridor that leads to the restroom, blinking away the hot tears that have welled up in my eyes.
God, why am I crying?
I quickly run through all the reasons why I shouldn’t be crying.
Devon and I are over.
I don’t want him anymore.
I’ve been fantasizing about someone else for months.
I’m going on a date with Justin Kohl this weekend.
But the reminders achieve nothing, and my eyes sting harder. Because who the fuck am I kidding? What chance do Justin and I possibly have? Even if we go out, even if we get close enough to be intimate, what happens when we have sex? What if all the issues I had with Devon sprout up again, like some annoying rash you can’t get rid of?
What if there really is something wrong with me and I can never, ever have a normal sex life like a normal frickin’ woman?
I blink rapidly to try to stop the flow of tears. I refuse to cry in public. I refuse to.
“Wellsy?”
Garrett emerges from the men’s bathroom and frowns the moment he sees me. “Hey,” he says urgently, cupping my chin. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” I mumble.
“You’re lying.” His grip stays firm on my chin as he sweeps his thumbs underneath my eyes. “Why are you crying?”
“I’m not crying.”
“I’m wiping away your tears right now, Wellsy. Ergo, you’re crying. Now tell me what’s wrong.” His face suddenly pales. “Oh shit, did someone harass you or something? I was only gone a few minutes. I’m so sorry—”
“No, it’s not that,” I cut in. “I promise.”
Garrett’s features relax. But only slightly. “Then why are you upset?”
I choke back the lump in my throat. “I bumped into my ex out there.”
“Oh.” He looks startled. “The guy you were dating last year?”
I nod weakly. “He was with his new girlfriend.”
“Shit. That must have been awkward.”
“I guess.” Hostility crawls through me like an army of tiny ants. “She’s gorgeous, by the way. Like, really gorgeous.” The bitter feeling intensifies, twisting my insides and hardening my jaw. “I bet she has orgasms that last for hours and probably screams out I’m coming! when she’s in the throes of passion.”
Alarm flickers through Garrett’s eyes. “Uh. Yeah. Okay. I don’t really understand that, but okay.”
But it’s not okay. It’s not.
Why did I ever think I could be a normal college student? I’m not normal. I’m broken. I keep telling myself that the rape didn’t destroy me, but it did. A piece of shit didn’t just steal my virginity—he stole my ability to have sex and feel pleasure like a healthy, red-blooded woman.
So how the hell can I ever have a real relationship? With Devon, with Justin, with anyone, when I can’t…
I abruptly shrug Garrett’s hands off my face. “Forget it. I’m being stupid.” Lifting my chin, I take a step toward the doorway. “Come on, I want another drink.”
“Hannah—”
“I want another drink,” I snap, and then I bulldoze past him and march all the way to the bar.
21
Garrett
Hannah is wasted.
Not only that, but she refuses to go home. It’s one in the morning and the party has moved from the bar to my house, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t convince Hannah to call it a night.
It’s becoming crucial that I get her back to her dorm. My living room is full of hockey players and puck bunnies, all of whom score at least an eight on my drunk scale: rapidly on their way to throwing inhibition to the wind and making some huge-ass mistakes.
Dean has just dragged a laughing Hannah to the center of the living room and the two of them start dancing to ODB’s “Baby, I like it Raw,” which blasts out of the speakers at top-volume.
Hannah hadn’t been moving suggestively when she’d belted out Lady Gaga earlier, but she sure as shit is moving suggestively now. She’s gone from Disney Channel Miley Cyrus to Full-on Twerk Mode Miley, and it’s officially time for me to put a stop to it before she moves straight to Let’s Make a Sex Tape Miley. Wait—has Miley ever made a sex tape? Fuck, who am I kidding? Of course she has.
I march up to Hannah and Dean and forcibly break them apart, laying a firm hand on Hannah’s shoulder. “I need to talk to you,” I shout over the music.
She pouts. “I’m dancing!”
“We’re dancing,” Dean slurs.
I level a hard glare at my teammate. “Dance with someone else,” I snap.
As if on cue, a willing female partner appears like an apparition and yanks Dean into her arms. Dean all but forgets about Hannah, which allows me to drag her out of the living room without any further objections.
I curl my hand around her arm and lead her upstairs, and I don’t release her until we’re in the quiet safety of my bedroom. “Party’s over,” I announce.
“But I’m having fun,” she whines.
“I know you are.” I cross my arms. “You’re having too much fun.”
“You’re mean.” With an exaggerated sigh, Hannah flops down on the bed and falls onto her back. “I’m sleepy.”
I grin. “Come on, I’ll drive you back to the dorm.”
“I don’t wanna go.” She sticks out her arms and legs and proceeds to do snow angels on my bed. “Your bed is so big and comfy.”
Then her eyelids flutter closed and she goes still, another deep sigh escaping her lips.
I smother a groan as I realize she’s seconds away from falling asleep, but then I decide it might be better if I let her crash here and drive her home in the morning. Because if I take her home now and she gets a second wind, I won’t be there to keep her out of trouble.
“Fine,” I say with a nod. “Stay here and sleep it off, Cinderella.”
She snorts. “Does that make you my prince?”
“Damn straight.” I duck into the bathroom and rummage around in the medicine cabinet until I find some ibuprofen. Then I pour a glass of water and head back to the bed, sitting at the edge as I force Hannah to sit up. “Take two of these and chug the water,” I order, slapping the two pills into her palm. “Trust me, you’ll thank me in the morning.”
Shoving pills and water down someone’s throat is nothing new to me. I do it often with my teammates. Dean, in particular, who takes drinking to a whole new level, and not just on his birthday.
Hannah obediently follows my instructions before collapsing on the mattress again.
“Good girl.”
“I’m hot,” she mumbles. “Why is it so hot in here?”
My heart literally stops beating when she starts wiggling out of her leggings.
The material snags on her knees, eliciting a loud groan from her. “Garrett!”
I have to chuckle. Taking pity on her, I lean in to help her out, peeling the pants off her legs and doing my best to ignore the smooth, silky skin beneath my fingertips.
“There you go,” I say thickly. “Better?”
“Mmm-hmmm.” She reaches for the hem of her shirt.
Sweet Jesus.
I tear my gaze off her and stumble toward my dresser to find her something to sleep in. I grab an old T-shirt, take a deep breath, and turn around to face her.
Her shirt is off.
Fortunately, she’s wearing a bra.
Unfortunately, the bra is black and lacy and see-through, and I have a perfect view of her nipples behind that transparent fabric.
Don’t look. She’s drunk.
I heed the stern internal voice and forbid my gaze from lingering. And since there’s no way in hell I can take off her bra without coming in my pants, I shove the T-shirt over her head and hope she’s not one of those girls who hates sleeping in her bra.
“I had so much fun tonight,” Hannah babbles happily. “See? I might be broken but I can still have fun.”
I freeze. “What?”
But she doesn’t answer. Her bare legs kick at the blanket and then she slides beneath it, rolling over on her side with a tiny sigh.
She passes out within seconds.
I battle a rush of unease as I turn off the light. She’s broken? What the hell does that mean?
Frowning, I slip out of the bedroom and quietly close the do
or behind me. Hannah’s cryptic words continue to echo in my head, but I don’t have the opportunity to dwell on them because when I go downstairs, Logan and Dean waste no time dragging me into the kitchen for a round of shots.
“It’s his birthday, dude.” Logan says when I object. “You’ve gotta take a shot.”
I cave in and accept the shot glass. The three of us clink our glasses together, slugging back the whiskey. The alcohol burns my throat and heats my stomach, and I welcome the hot buzz that floats through my body. This whole night, I’ve been…off. That stupid song. Hannah’s tears at the bar. The confusing way she makes me feel.
I’m raw and on edge, and when Logan pours me another drink, this time I don’t object.
After the third shot, I’m no longer thinking about how confused I am.
After the fourth one, I’m not thinking at all.
It’s two-thirty in the morning when I finally drag my drunken ass upstairs. The party has all but fizzled. Only Dean’s puck bunnies remain, lying on the couch with him in a tangle of bare arms and legs. I pass the kitchen and spot Tucker asleep at the counter, his hand still curled around an empty beer bottle. Logan had disappeared into his bedroom a while ago with a cute brunette, and as I walk past his room, I hear the kind of groans and moans that tell me he’s VBF.
My bedroom is bathed in shadows when I walk inside. I blink a few times, and my eyes adjust to the darkness to find a Hannah-shaped lump on the bed. I’m too tired to brush my teeth or follow my own hangover-prevention regimen—I just strip to my boxers and climb in next to Hannah.
I try to be as quiet as possible as I get comfortable, but the rustling of the sheets causes Hannah to stir. A soft moan ripples through the darkness, and then she rolls over and a warm hand presses against my bare chest.
I stiffen. Or rather, my chest does. Down below, I’m softer than pudding. That’s whiskey dick for you, which is damn sad considering I only had five shots. Man. Me and alcohol really don’t mix.