The Dare

by Elle Kennedy

  “Rachel is still in Daytona,” Abigail adds. “You can use her bedroom.”

  “Abigail, please,” I say, begging she let this go. But my plea only emboldens her.

  “What’s wrong, Tay-Tay? I don’t recall you having a problem kissing other guys on a dare. Or is your kink just hooking up with girls’ boyfriends?”

  Because that’s what it always comes back to with Abigail: revenge, and the mistake she’s been making me pay for every single day since sophomore year. No matter how many times I apologize, or how sincerely I regret hurting her, my life is but to amuse Abigail with my suffering.

  “You should see a doctor about your raging bitchitis,” Sasha snaps back.

  “Oh, poor Taylor, such a prude. Don’t turn your back or she’ll steal your dude,” Abigail sings. Her mockery becomes a chorus when Jules jumps in to sing along.

  Their taunting stabs at the nerves behind my eyes and makes my fingers go numb. I want to shrink into the floor. Disappear into the wall. Burst in spontaneous flames and become ash that settles in the party bowl. Anything but me, here, now. I hate unwanted attention, and their mocking has recaptured the eyes of several drunken faces around us. A few more seconds and the whole house will bust out in song about how I’m a prude, like a horrible scene out of my worst nightmare.

  “Fine!” I burst out. Just to make it stop. Anything to shut them up. “Whatever. I’ll do the dare.”

  Abigail smiles in triumph. She couldn’t be more obvious if she were drooling. “Go get your man, then,” she says, extending a gracious hand behind her.

  I bite my lip and follow the line of her thin arm, finally spotting Conor by the beer pong table in the dining room.

  Fuck, he’s tall. And his shoulders are impossibly broad. I can’t see his eyes, but I do have a clear view of his chiseled profile and longish blond hair slicked away from his forehead. It should be illegal for someone to be that good-looking.

  Big-girl pants, Taylor.

  On a deep breath, I steel my nerves and make my way toward an unsuspecting Conor Edwards.

  2

  Conor

  The boys are getting absolutely ripped tonight. We’ve been at this sorority party all of twenty minutes and already Gavin and Alec have torn open their shirts with their bare hands and are strutting around the beer pong table like a couple of barbarians. Got to admit, though, after winning our playoff game, I’m feeling pretty primal myself. Two more victories and it’s on to the Frozen Four. While no one will say it out loud for fear of jinxing the team, I feel like this is our year.

  “Con, get over here, asshole.” Hunter calls out to me from across the room, where he and some of the guys have lined up rows of shots. “Bring those two knuckleheads with you.”

  We gather with our teammates, all red-faced and high on adrenaline. Each of us hold up a shot glass while our captain, Hunter Davenport, makes a speech. He doesn’t even have to shout, because the music stopped about ten minutes ago. I keep seeing panicky sorority girls darting to and from the speaker system in the living room.

  Hunter’s gaze sweeps over everyone. “I just want to say I’m damn proud of all of us for how we’ve persevered as a team this season. We’ve had each other’s backs, and everyone has put in their maximum effort. We’ve got two more, boys. Two more and we’re in the hunt. So enjoy tonight. Let’s turn it up. And then it’s time to get your heads back in it for the final push.”

  It still doesn’t feel real sometimes. My punk ass at an Ivy school, interloping among the well-bred sons and daughters of old money and founding fathers. Even with my boys, the closest thing I’ve ever had to family after my mom, I can’t help sometimes checking over my shoulder. Like any day now they’re going to figure me out.

  After a shout of “Briar hockey!” we throw back our shots. Bucky swallows and releases a guttural war cry that startles everyone until we all bust out laughing.

  “Easy there, killer. Save it for the ice,” I tell him.

  Bucky doesn’t give a shit. He’s too stoked. Young, dumb, and full of bad intentions tonight. He’ll make some young lady very happy, I’m sure.

  Speaking of ladies, it doesn’t take long for them to coalesce around the beer pong table once we get another game going. This time it’s Hunter and his girlfriend Demi against me and Foster. And Hunter’s girl plays dirty. She’s peeled off her zip-up hoodie and is now in just a thin white tank top over a black bra, which she’s using to strategic effect to push her tits up in our faces as a means of distraction. And it’s fucking working. Foster goes boob blind and misses the table completely with his shot.

  “Fuck, Demi,” I grumble, “put those things away.”

  “What, these?” She grabs two handfuls and lifts them practically up to her neck while making the worst attempt at looking innocent.

  Hunter lands his shot in one of our cups easily.

  Demi winks at me. “Sorry not sorry.”

  “If your girlfriend wants to take her top off, I’ll forfeit right now,” Foster says, trying to get a rise out of Hunter.

  He’s too easy. Caveman mode activated, Hunter yanks his T-shirt over his head and pulls it down over Demi so it looks like a baggy dress on her. “Eyes on the cups, dickhead.”

  I swallow a laugh, deciding not to point out that Demi Davis would look hot even if she were wearing a burlap sack. There was a time I might have hit that, but even before Hunter knew it, we could see that our team captain was already stupid for that girl. Just took those two a little longer to catch on.

  So far, my prospects tonight aren’t great. Gorgeous girls, sure. A brunette all but tries to climb me and plant a kiss on my neck when I sink the next shot into one of Hunter and Demi’s cups. But these chicks have a thirsty vibe about them and so far, no one’s doing it for me.

  Truth be told, all the women are starting to blur together in my mind. I’ve slept with a lot of ’em since I transferred to Briar this past fall. Rocking a woman’s world, making her feel special, is a skill of mine. But—and I’d be mocked relentlessly if I admitted this to my boys—none of the chicks I hook up with bother to make me feel special. A few pretend they want to get to know me, but for the most part I’m a conquest to them, a shiny prize to wave in their friends’ envious faces. Half the time they don’t even attempt to make small talk. They just stick their tongues down my throat and their hands down my pants.

  Buy a man flowers, at least. Or hell, lead off with a good joke. But it is what it is, I suppose.

  Besides, it’s not like I’m in the market for a relationship. I can show women a good time for a night or a week, maybe even a month, but both parties are wholly aware that I’m not anyone’s long-term option. Which is fine. I bore easily, and relationships are the epitome of boring.

  But tonight I’m equally bored with the parade of chicks that passes the beer pong table, all of them flashing the same coy smiles as they not-so-innocently graze my arm with their side boobs. Yeah, I’m not feeling any of these girls right now. I’m weary of this tired old mating ritual that always ends the same way. I don’t even have to chase them anymore, and that’s half the fun.

  A round of cheers breaks out in the house as the music comes back on. One chick tries to take advantage by pulling me to dance, but I shake my head and try to refocus on the game. It’s kinda difficult, though, because some commotion out on the front lawn has now drawn everyone’s attention to the bay window. A distracted Foster completely blows his shot, and I’m about to chastise him when my peripheral vision catches a blur of motion.

  I turn toward the living room to see a frightened, sort of panicked-looking blonde girl scurrying toward us. Like a rabbit bolting for the safety of its hollow after spotting a hungry fox. At first I think she’s going to run to the window to look at whatever the hell is happening outside, but then something truly bizarre happens.

  She comes right up, grabs my arm and yanks me down so she can speak in my ear.

  “I’m so sorry for this and you’re going to think I’m
a total psycho, but I need your help so please just play along,” she babbles, so fast I’m having a hard time keeping up. “I need you to come upstairs with me and pretend we’re going to hook up, but I don’t actually want to touch your penis or whatever.”

  Or whatever?

  “It’s a stupid dare and I’ll owe you a major favor if you could do me this solid,” she whispers rapidly. “I promise I won’t be weird about it.”

  I must admit, I’m intrigued. “So, if I heard you right, you don’t want to hook up with me?” I whisper back, unable to hide my amusement.

  “I don’t. I want to pretend to do it.”

  Well. I’m certainly not bored anymore.

  Getting a good look at her, she’s got a cute face. Not a drop-dead stunner like Demi, but nice. Her body, though. Fuck me. She’s like a walking pinup girl. Hidden under an oversized sweater that’s falling off one shoulder is a set of tits I could spend all night sliding my dick between. I steal a peek at her ass and can’t help thinking about getting her bent over my bed.

  But all that evaporates when I see her look up at me with these pleading turquoise eyes and something in my heart just crumbles. I’d be some kind of jackass to turn my back on a woman in such dire need of saving.

  “Alec,” I call out without taking my gaze off the pinup girl.

  “Yo,” my teammate calls back.

  “I’m tagging you in. Kick the captain and his evil girlfriend’s asses for me.”

  “On it.”

  I don’t miss the knowing chuckles from Hunter and Foster, along with Demi’s loud snort.

  The blonde’s uncertain eyes dart past my shoulder to the beer pong table, where Alec has taken my place. “Is that a yes?” she murmurs.

  In answer, I sweep a few strands of hair behind her ear and brush my lips against her skin to speak. Because whoever is torturing this poor girl is certainly watching us right now and they can eat shit.

  “Lead the way, babe.”

  Her eyes go huge, and for a moment I think her hard drive’s crashed. Not the first time that’s happened in my presence. So I take her hand, and then, leaving several shocked gasps in our wake, guide her through the maze of bodies loitering throughout the house. Fact is, I know my way around this place well enough.

  As we climb the stairs, I feel the eyes following us. She grips my hand a little tighter as her brain reboots. On the second floor she pulls us into a room I’ve yet to visit and locks the door behind us.

  “Thank you,” she breathes the moment we’re alone.

  “No problem. Mind if I make myself comfortable?”

  “Um, yeah. I mean, no. I don’t mind. Sit if you want. Or—wow, okay, you’re lying down.”

  I grin at her visible nervousness. It’s cute. While I stretch out my six-foot-two frame amid the stuffed animals and decorative pillows on the bed, she remains the startled rabbit plastered against the door and breathing heavily.

  “Gotta be honest,” I tell her, entwining my hands behind my head, “I’ve never seen a girl so unhappy to be locked in a bedroom with me.”

  This has the desired effect of loosening her shoulders and even eliciting a shy smile. “I have no doubt.”

  “I’m Conor, by the way.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, I know.”

  “What’s the eyeroll for?” I ask, playing wounded.

  “No, sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it. Just, I know who you are. You’re, like, campus famous.”

  The more I watch her, hands braced at her sides against the door, one knee bent, dirty-blonde hair a little messy and draped over one shoulder, I can’t help picturing myself holding her arms above her head while I explore her body with my mouth. She’s got very kissable skin.

  “Taylor Marsh,” she blurts out, and I realize I don’t know how long we were silent until then.

  I scoot to the far side of the bed and put a pillow beside me as a divider. “Come on. If we’re going to be in here awhile, let’s at least make friends.”

  Taylor laughs out a breath and with it she releases a bit more tension. She’s got a nice smile. Bright, warm. It takes a bit more coaxing, however, to get her on the bed.

  “This isn’t like a move,” she tells me, lining up stuffed animal guards to patrol the pillow wall between us. “I’m not some sort of weirdo who tricks men into getting in bed with her and then mauls them.”

  “Sure.” I nod with mock seriousness. “But a little mauling would be okay.”

  “Nope.” She shakes her head with too much animation, and I think I might have just about cracked her shell. “No mauling. I will be on my best behavior.”

  “So tell me then, why would someone who is presumably supposed to be your friend put you in what is clearly a nightmare scenario?”

  Taylor lets out a deep sigh. She picks up a stuffed turtle and clings to it against her chest. “Because Abigail is a grade-A bitch. I hate her so much.”

  “Why’s that? What’s the story there?”

  She slides a dubious look toward me, clearly debating whether to trust me.

  “Cross my heart,” I say. “This is a safe space.”

  She rolls her eyes but flashes a playful smile. “Last year. It was a party like this one. I was dared to walk up to a random guy and make out with him.”

  I snicker. “I’m sensing a pattern.”

  “Yeah, well, I wasn’t any more enthusiastic about it then, either. But that’s their thing. The sisters. They know I have hang-ups about approaching guys, so they love to poke at my insecurities. The bitchy ones, at least.”

  “Girls are fucking vicious.”

  “Dude, you have no clue.”

  I adjust myself on the bed to face her fully. “Okay, so go on. You have to make out with a guy.”

  “Right, thing is…” She fidgets with the turtle’s little plastic eyeball, twisting it between her fingers. “I walked up to the first guy I saw who wasn’t so drunk he might barf on me or something. I grabbed his face, lay one on him, and just, you know, closed my eyes and went for it.”

  “As one does.”

  “Well, when I pulled away, there was Abigail. Looking like I just cut her hair in her sleep. I mean staring daggers. Turns out, the guy I mouth-assaulted was her boyfriend.”

  “Damn, T. That’s ice-cold.”

  She blinks those forlorn Caribbean-blue eyes at me with a sad pouting lip. Watching her talk, I become obsessed with the Marilyn Monroe beauty mark on her right cheek.

  “I didn’t know! Abigail goes through boyfriends like boxes of cereal. I wasn’t keeping up with her love life.”

  “So she didn’t take it well,” I say.

  “She went apocalyptic. Made a huge scene at the party. Didn’t talk to me for weeks, and then only in snide remarks and insults. We’ve pretty much been mortal enemies ever since, and now she takes every possible opportunity to humiliate me. Hence, tonight’s indecent proposal. She was banking on you turning me down in spectacular fashion.”

  Damn. I do feel bad for this girl. Guys are dicks, and even on the team we find all sorts of evil ways to mess with each other, but it’s all in good fun. This Abigail chick is something else. Daring Taylor to pick up a stranger in the hopes that she’d be brutally rejected and embarrassed in front of the entire party…now that’s ice-cold.

  An irrational pang of protectiveness starts to throb in my gut. I don’t know much about her, but Taylor doesn’t strike me as the kind of girl who would betray a friend so callously.

  “Worst part is, before that we were actually friends. She was my closest ally during pledge week freshman year. I almost quit a dozen times, and she’s the one who helped me to stick it out. But after I moved off campus, we sort of grew apart.”

  Voices outside the room pull Taylor’s attention. I glance over and frown when I notice shadows move under the door.

  “Ugh. That’s her,” she mutters. By now I’ve come to recognize the sound of dread in her voice. She blanches and her pulse visibly thrums in her neck. “Shit
, they’re listening.”

  I resist the urge to shout for our audience to get lost. If I do that, Abigail and Co. will know that Taylor and I aren’t doing the dirty, otherwise we’d be laser-focused on each other instead of the bedroom door. Still, the nosy little shits need to learn a lesson. And while I can’t solve Taylor’s problem with these girls, I can give her this one night.

  “I hope they’re paying attention,” I say with an impish smile.

  Then I jump to my knees and put both hands on the top of the headboard. Taylor eyes me with suspicion, to which I just grin again and start thrusting my body, driving the headboard into the wall.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  “Fuck, babe, you’re so tight,” I groan out too loudly.

  Taylor slaps her hand over her mouth. Her dark-blonde eyebrows shoot up her forehead.

  “You feel so good!”

  The wall shakes with every pounding blow against the headboard. I bounce on my knees, making the bedframe squeak in protest. All the necessary noises of a good time.

  “What are you doing?” she whispers in amused horror.

  “Putting on a good show. Don’t leave me hanging, T. They’re going to think I’m fucking my hand in here.”

  She shakes her head. Poor terrified rabbit.

  “Ah, fuck, babe, not so fast, you’re gonna make me come!”

  Just when I think I might have pushed her too far, Taylor throws her head back, closes her eyes, and lets out the sexiest noise I’ve never heard come out of a woman I wasn’t balls deep inside of.

  “Ugh, right there. Right there,” she calls out. “Oh God, I’m so close. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

  I lose my rhythm, laughing hysterically. The two of us are beet-red and convulsing on the bed.

  “Mmmm, that’s it, babe. That feel good?”

  “So good,” she moans back. “Don’t stop. Faster, Conor.”

  “You like that?”

  “I love it.”

  “Yeah?”