The Dare

by Elle Kennedy

  “You’re getting that outfit,” Conor tells me, and there’s all sorts of intention behind his eyes. It’s downright indecent the way he drags his gaze over my body. With an audience, no less.

  And yet, under his scrutiny, I don’t feel self-conscious the way I do with others. When Conor is with me, he puts my nerves at ease.

  “Yeah, I like this one,” I admit. Then I frown. “With that said, I’m up to my knees in here, you maniacs. Let’s try to restrict it to two outfits each, shall we?”

  “Aww, come on, we haven’t even discussed evening wear,” Bucky pouts.

  “Or scarves. How many scarves do you think you’ll need?” Hunter asks.

  “Is statement jewelry something we should be looking at?” Foster weaves his way to the front of the group with two armfuls of cocktail dresses.

  “What’s your cup size?”

  Conor smacks Bucky on the back of the head. “You don’t get to ask my girlfriend her cup size, dickhead.”

  My heart does a little flip. That’s the first time he’s said the G-word since our fight. I wasn’t sure we were still doing this, so hearing it does confusing things to my head.

  “Here.” I gather up the piles at my feet and push them at the boys. “Restriction measures are in place.”

  I close the door to someone muttering “fascist” under his breath.

  After we’ve done all the damage Bloomingdale’s can handle, we move on through the mall, Conor carrying my two shopping bags.

  It’s interesting to see the difference in styles each of the guys picks out. Conor seems to know me the best, or at least our tastes fit most closely together, as he picks the more casual options. Very California. Hunter tends toward an edgier look with a lot of black. Bucky has some sort of preppy fetish that I quickly steer clear from, and I’m not sure Foster understands the assignment. What I do learn, however, is that hardly any of them agree on which looks were their favorites. Not at all what I expected in terms of engineering their ideal version of a Taylor Barbie.

  At one point, Conor’s teammates drag us into the toy store where they challenge a couple of middle-schoolers to a lightsaber fight before getting us kicked out for scaring customers with IT masks. After lunch at the food court, the guys have exhausted their enthusiasm for the mall and head out to find new trouble, leaving Conor and me alone for the first time all day.

  Our first stop is a surf and skate shop. Seems only fair that I get to play dress-up with him too, so with a dozen boardshorts I shove him into a dressing room.

  “What’s your plan for summer?” he asks through the door.

  “Back to my mom’s house in Cambridge. She only has one seminar for summer semester, so we were thinking about taking a trip somewhere, maybe Europe. You going home to California?”

  “For a little while, at least.” There’s a heavy sigh in the dressing room. “This is the farthest I’ve ever lived from the water. I used to go to the beach and surf just about every day. I’ve tried to get out to the coast a few times since I transferred to Briar, but it isn’t the same.”

  Conor steps out in the first selection of boardshorts.

  It takes every ounce of willpower not to throw myself at him. He stands there shirtless, leaning against the door of his dressing room and looking absolutely edible. The deep ravine of muscle that disappears into his waistband is doing things to me. It isn’t fair.

  “Not bad,” I say flippantly.

  “Orange isn’t my color.”

  “Agree. Next.”

  He goes back inside, tossing the discarded trunks to me as he changes. “You should come.”

  “Where? To California?”

  “Yeah. Come out for a long weekend or something. We can do tourist shit and hang out at the beach. Just chill.”

  “Teach me how to surf?” I tease.

  He emerges in another pair of shorts. I’ve stopped caring about the colors and patterns of the fabric and given in to blatantly gawking at his leanly muscular physique and the way his abs clench when he talks.

  Would it be inappropriate to lick him?

  “You’d love it,” he tells me. “Man, I wish I could go back and get stoked on my first wave all over again. It’s the best feeling in the world, lining up for a wave, feeling it rise beneath your board. When you get to your feet and you’re both connected—you and the power of the ocean—it’s symbiosis. It’s freedom, baby. Perfect alignment of energy.”

  “You’re in love.”

  He laughs at himself with a boyish grin. “My first love.” Again he steps back into the dressing room stall. “Last summer I spent a month with some volunteers canvasing the coast from San Diego to San Francisco.”

  I wrinkle my forehead. “Doing what?”

  “Cleaning up the beaches and sweeping the near-shore waters for trash. It was one of the best months of my life. We hauled hundreds of pounds of garbage out of the ocean and off the sand every day, then we’d surf all night and hang out around a bonfire. Felt like we were accomplishing something.”

  “You’re passionate about this,” I say, admiring this side of him. It’s the first time he’s talked about his interests outside of hockey and surfing. “Is that something you want to do after college?”

  “What do you mean?” He comes out in another suit.

  “Well, you could make a career out of this. There are probably dozens of environmental non-profits working on the west coast on ocean cleanup efforts.” I cock an eyebrow. “It might not be too late to change majors from finance to non-profit administration and still graduate on time.”

  “I’m sure my stepdad would love that.”

  “Why does it matter?”

  A tired expression washes over Conor. Not just his face, but all of him. He slouches, hunching his shoulders, like the weight of the topic is wearing on him.

  “Max pays for everything,” he admits. “My education, hockey, rent—all of it. Without him, my mom and I would barely have two cents to rub together. So when he suggested I major in finance like he did, Mom considered the matter settled and that was it.”

  “Okay, I get that he holds the purse strings, but it’s your life. At some point you have to advocate for what you want. No one else will.”

  “It felt, I don’t know, ungrateful to argue with him? Like I’d be an asshole to take his money and tell him to fuck off.”

  “Yeah, using the words ‘fuck off’ might be a bit harsh, but a frank conversation about how you want to spend the rest of your life isn’t out of line.”

  “But the thing is, we don’t talk. I know he loves my mom, and he’s good to her, but with me, I think he still sees a punk from LA who isn’t worth his time.”

  “And why would he think that?” I ask quietly.

  “I got into some bad stuff as a kid. I was dumb and did whatever my friends were doing, which was usually getting high, shoplifting, breaking into abandoned buildings, whatever.” Conor looks at me with guilt. Shame, even. “I was a little shit back then.”

  It’s clear in his expression he’s afraid I’ll view him differently, but none of this changes who he is now. “Well, seems to me you’re not a little shit anymore. So I hope your stepdad doesn’t think you’re still like that, and I’m really sorry if he does.”

  Conor shrugs, and I get the sense there’s more to the story than he’s willing to share. His relationship with his stepfather is obviously a real source of insecurities and frustrations.

  “You know what would cheer me up?” he says suddenly.

  A mischievous twinkle lights in his eyes, sparking my suspicion. “What?”

  He walks past me to pull a skimpy black swimsuit off the returns rack near his dressing room. “Put this on.”

  “No way. It won’t fit me,” I warn.

  “I’ll get naked if it’ll make you feel better?”

  “How would that make me feel better?”

  He shrugs again, offering a devilish smirk this time. “Always seems to work on other girls.”

&nb
sp; Rolling my eyes, I take the suit from his outstretched hand and duck to the next stall. I would never, ever dream of doing this for any other guy, but I know making a joke of it and doing a little runway turn for Conor will take away the dark cloud threatening to settle over his mood. So to salvage the rest of our day, I strip out of my leggings and sweater and put on the damn one-piece.

  It’s cut low on my hips with a deep V in front and crisscrossed straps in the back. As predicted, it’s too small. My ass cheeks are barely contained, and my tits are trying to scale the walls like an attacking Mongolian horde. Nevertheless, I take a deep breath and step out of the dressing room.

  Conor is waiting out there for me, still clad only in a pair of boardshorts, his long blond hair swept back from his face.

  His mouth falls open in shock.

  “Here. Don’t say I never gave you anything,” I tell him.

  So fast I can’t hold in the yelp that escapes me, Conor lurches forward and rushes us back into the stall, locking the door.

  “What the hell are—”

  His mouth is on mine before I can finish. Hungry, predatory. Big palms curl around my hips as I’m pressed against the mirror. His tongue parts my lips and all trepidation evaporates as my fingers tangle in his hair. I’m overwhelmed with him. Skin against skin, so very little separating us. His body is warm and firm against mine.

  “Fuck, Taylor,” he whispers breathlessly. “Now do you understand how hot you are?”

  He’s hard against my stomach. I feel every inch of him, long and stiff, and it puts ideas in my head. Dangerous ideas. I want to slide my hand under his waistband and grip his hot, heavy erection. I want to feel his tongue in my mouth while I stroke him until he’s moaning my name and thrusting his hips and—

  A loud knock startles us.

  We break away and I hurry to pull on my clothes over the swimsuit before Conor opens the door to the frowning saleswoman standing in the hall.

  Without an ounce of shame, my fake boyfriend scratches his bare chest and says, “Sorry, ma’am. My girlfriend needed an opinion.”

  I choke down a wave of giggles. “Sorry,” I manage to say.

  “Hrmmmph,” she huffs, then stands there and waits while Conor disappears to put on his clothes.

  With his trademark grin, he hands her the boardshorts, while I yank the tag from the swimsuit.

  Avoiding his amused gaze, I address the sales associate. “I’d like to buy this bathing suit, please,” I say primly.

  We’re both practically in hysterics at the register as I pay for the indecent swimsuit beneath my clothes. Then we both bolt from the store like we stole something, laughing all the way back to his Jeep. After the heat and hunger I felt in that dressing room, this bit of levity is much needed. Levity, good. Hunger, bad.

  Yup, hungering for Conor Edwards is very, very bad.

  Because he’s exactly the kind of man who will break my heart. Even if he doesn’t mean to.

  16

  Conor

  Hunter’s holding up a shot glass at the bar, leading us in what I’m sure is a moving speech about the tough loss in the semi-finals last night and wishing the seniors well while the rest of us look to better days next year. Unfortunately, I can’t hear a damn thing over the music in this club. The bass is rattling the ice in the discarded glass beside me. The floor vibrating beneath my feet is sending a tickle all the way up to my balls.

  When Hunter stops talking, we all down our shots and chase the sting with a beer. Man, I’m going to miss these assholes.

  Foster bumps my arm and says something to me, but I still can’t hear a word so I gesture to my ear and shake my head. He leans in to shout, “Where’s your woman?”

  Good question. When Taylor and I returned to the hotel earlier, I got a text from Summer in all caps demanding to know why she hadn’t been invited on the shopping trip. I reminded her that she and Demi had skipped out on brunch to run errands, to which she informed me that “my conspiracy to keep her away from malls ends today.”

  Have I mentioned that Summer is a crazy person?

  A follow-up text quickly appeared demanding that I leave Taylor in Summer’s fashionista hands to prepare for our night at the club. I think Taylor felt bad that the girls might have felt excluded, so she agreed to do the whole girl thing with them and meet me here later.

  Not gonna lie—I was worried about leaving her with those chicks. Taylor’s done great at adapting to the guys. Hunter’s roommates, on the other hand, are a fucking handful. It was with some misgivings and a warning to call me if they tried making her cut her hair that I left her in Summer, Brenna and Demi’s clutches.

  Now we’ve been at the club an hour already and I’m starting to wonder if I should organize a search party.

  This place is slammed wall-to-wall. Even some of the Minnesota players showed up, along with another team from New York City. When I spot number nineteen at the bar, he offers to buy me a shot, and I accept because my pride never gets in the way of free booze. While we’re mostly relegated to communicating with hand signals and nods, I think we manage to squash the beef. Until next season, anyway.

  Eventually, our teams merge around the end of the bar and take turns jabbing each other and shouting war stories over the DJ’s set list. As much as we want to hate them, the Minnesota guys seem cool. Though I’ll feel a lot better if we’re the ones buying their pity drinks next year.

  As I’m checking over my shoulder toward the entrance for the fiftieth time looking for Taylor, a face catches my eye. Just for a second, but then he’s gone. Hell, I’m not even sure I saw him at all among the strobing lights and pulsing bodies. Despite the knot in my stomach, the sudden bolt of adrenaline, I assure myself that my eyes were just playing tricks on me.

  “Jee-zus,” exclaims number nineteen, whose name I couldn’t hear when he tried to shout it over the music.

  Foster follows his gaze and releases a sharp wolf whistle. “Holy fuck, Con. You seeing this?”

  My brow furrows. I turn around but can’t figure out what they’re gawking at. Until two blonde heads catch my attention in a sweeping beam of light.

  Summer and Taylor are making their way through the crowd. They’re tailed by Brenna and Demi, but everyone whose name isn’t Taylor ceases to exist for me.

  I think I drop my glass. Was I even holding one? Everything else filters into the darkness until it’s just Taylor, walking toward me in a tiny white dress glowing under the UV lights. Her hair curled, makeup done. That sexy beauty mark above her mouth that makes her look like a modern Marilyn Monroe. That’s my girlfriend.

  I must look like a total jackass striding over to her while trying to hide a hard-on, but fuck me she looks stunning.

  “Dance with me,” I say at her ear, wrapping an arm around her waist.

  In response she bites her lip and nods. Just that little thing makes my dick twitch and I’m not sure how we’re getting out of here without me ripping her dress off.

  “You’re welcome,” I hear Summer say, but I ignore her, single-mindedly pulling Taylor toward the throng of dancers.

  “I suck at dancing,” Taylor tells me as I gather her into my arms.

  “Don’t care,” I mutter. I just want to touch her, hold her. I know she can feel my erection as her body melts against me. I want to ask her what she wants to do about it but I’m not that fucking drunk yet, so I hold my tongue.

  “Just don’t let me look stupid,” she says, finding it easier to speak in my ear now that she’s wearing heels.

  “Never.”

  I place a kiss on her neck, feel her skin erupt in goose bumps in response. Then she turns to face away from me, presses her ass against me while she dances, and I bite down so hard on the inside of my cheek I taste blood.

  “You’re killing me,” I groan, slowly sliding my hands down her body, savoring every sexy curve.

  Taylor looks over her shoulder and winks. “You started it.”

  Someone suddenly taps me on the shoulder,
a dark-haired guy I make out from the corner of my eye. I assume he’s asking to cut in, and I’m prepared to tell him to fuck off when that knot in my gut returns.

  “Hey, Con,” a voice from the past drawls. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  My stomach drops, a wave of queasiness washing over me. I shutter my eyes and paste a completely expressionless mask on my face.

  “Kai,” I say coolly. “What are you doing here?”

  He does the same gesture I’ve been doing all night—signaling he can’t hear me. “Let’s go talk over there,” he says, pointing somewhere past my shoulder.

  “I’m sorry about this,” I mumble in Taylor’s ear.

  “Sorry about what?” She looks uneasy, gripping my hand tightly as we follow Kai to the smaller bar at the back of the club. I still can’t believe he’s here. Goddamn Kai Turner, still scrawny and stinking of weed. I haven’t seen him since I moved clear across the country to get away from what we did.

  The fact that he’s tracked me down, all the way to some random joint in Buffalo, tells me nothing good will come of this reunion.

  I’ve got Taylor’s hand in mine, holding on for dear life. Half because I’m afraid she might take off on me. Half because I’m not sure what I’ll do to this kid if we’re left alone.

  “The hell are you doing here, Kai?” I demand.

  He smirks. I know that look too well. It worked better when we were teenagers. Now it reads like the guy trying to sell you gold-plated watches out of a backpack.

  “Good to see you, too, brother.” He slaps me on the shoulder. “Ain’t this a fucking coincidence.”

  I shrug his hand off me. “Bullshit.” There are no coincidences or happy accidents where Kai is concerned. Since we were in middle school, he’s always had an angle. Back then, so did I. “How’d you find me?”

  His leering eyes slide to Taylor, who shrinks at my side. Everything about the way he looks at her makes me want to lay him out.

  “Alright, you got me. I’m living in the Big Apple now. Some of my boys were playing in the tournament and I thought I might run into you, so I tagged along. Tried hitting you up. Weird, though.” His pointed gaze slides back to me. “Your number’s disconnected.”