Easy

  “That’s all—ever?”

  He smiled sadly, his fingers running just inside the perimeter of my loosened waistband. “It’s not like there’ve been tons of them. There were more before, in high school, than there have been the past three years.”

  I didn’t know how to reply to that. I couldn’t focus on anything but the feel of his index fingers hooking into the belt loops at the side of my jeans.

  “Lucas? I said yes, and I meant it. I want this—as long as you have protection, I mean. I want this, with you. So this is okay.” I was babbling, worried that it would end as it had six days before. I exhaled a breath and spoke just above a whisper. “Please don’t ask me to say stop.”

  Staring down at me, he pulled and I lifted my hips. My jeans slid down my legs and he tossed them aside, shrugged out of his shirt and removed his jeans. “I want it to be better than okay. You deserve better than okay.” After grabbing a condom from a box in the nightstand and tossing the small square on the bed, he settled between my legs. I was shivering like I had no experience whatsoever. “You’re shaking, Jacqueline. Do you want to—”

  “No.” I put my trembling fingers over his mouth. “I’m just a little cold.” And a whole lot nervous.

  He pushed the covers down beneath me and dragged them back up, over us. His weight pressing into me, he kissed me thoroughly before staring into my eyes, his fingers drifting over my face. “Better?”

  I took a deep breath, my fears dissolving with his touch, the anticipation climbing faster than it had minutes ago in the kitchen. “Yes.”

  As his thumb caressed my temple, his fingertips teased into my hair. His eyes were so pale this close that I could see every fragmented facet. “You know you can say it.” His voice notched lower, softer. “But I’m not asking you to, this time.”

  “Good,” I answered, lifting my head to capture his mouth, my hands kneading up and over the hard muscles of his back before trailing my nails down the center from his shoulder blades to his hips.

  His earlier hesitation gone, he removed the last scraps of fabric we were wearing, fixed the condom in place, kissed me fiercely and rocked into me.

  Had this been Kennedy, it would have been over in a few minutes.

  My last coherent thought, as Lucas took his time kissing and touching every part of me he could reach and my body arched into his, was oh… so this is what all the fuss is about.

  ***

  We lay facing each other, snuggled under the covers, shoulders peeking out. I watched his gaze drift over my face, stopping on each feature as if he was memorizing it: ear, jaw, mouth… chin, throat, curve of shoulder.

  He came back to my eyes then, lifting his hand and tracing over the individual attributes while watching my response. When his fingers trailed over my lips, they edged the border before rubbing across the lower one, and I swallowed and concentrated on breathing. His eyes fell there and he stared for a long moment before cupping the back of my neck, moving closer and kissing me so softly I hardly felt it, until the thin connection caught and ricocheted through me, shooting to my toes like a current.

  I sighed and our breath mingled. Pushing the covers to my waist, he urged me onto my back before propping his face on his hand and continuing his perusal. My exposed skin should have been cold, but I warmed under his examination. “I want to sketch you like this.” His voice was as gentle as his touch—now skirting across my collarbone, back and forth, before moving lower.

  “Can I assume it won’t end up on the wall?”

  He smirked down at me. “Er, no, this one wouldn’t go on the wall, as tempting a thought as that is. I’ve done several sketches of you that aren’t on the wall.”

  “You have?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Can I see them?”

  He gnawed his lower lip, fingers tracing along the curves of my breast and then following the bumps of each rib. “Now?” His warm hand curved around my waist and he pulled me closer.

  I looked into his eyes as he lay over me. “Maybe, in a little while...”

  He scooted lower. “Good. ’Cause I’ve got a couple things I’d like to do first.”

  ***

  He pulled on his dark boxer briefs before padding out to the kitchen. I heard the front door open and close a moment later, his voice a low murmur mixed with Francis’s insistent meows. He came back with a tall glass of milk and a plate of brownie squares.

  Handing me the plate, he took a sip of the milk before setting it on the bedside table. I sat with the sheet held over my breasts and watched him move across the darkening room. He flicked on the desk light and picked up the sketchbook. Stacked in a corner of the desk, there were several just like the one he held.

  In the center of his upper back was a gothic-looking cross, not quite high enough to peek out of a t-shirt neckline. The remaining tats were tiny scripted lines surrounding the cross, not meant to be read from a distance, just like the poem on his left side. His skin was clear from his shoulder blades down. Turning, he caught me studying him—I couldn’t look away, so there was no hiding my appraisal.

  He crawled onto the bed, propping the pillows and sitting behind me, his legs on either side of my hips under the covers. While I lay back against his chest and nibbled a brownie, he opened the sketchbook and flipped through pages, some containing little more than shapes, lines and vague forms, others detailed portrayals of people, objects or scenes. A few were finished and dated, but most were partially complete.

  Finally, he opened to his first sketch of me—which he must have done during class, when I sat next to Kennedy. My chin was propped in my hand, elbow on the desktop. I took the book from him and browsed page by page from there, slowly, amazed at his skill. He’d sketched two of the oldest buildings on university grounds, a guy skateboarding down the drag, and a panhandler on the outskirts of campus talking to a couple of students. Interspersed with these were meticulous illustrations of mechanical things.

  I turned the page to another sketch of me, this one very close-up—facial features and the suggestion of hair, but little else. Scrawled in the bottom corner was a date, two or three weeks before Kennedy dumped me.

  “Does it bother you—that I was watching you before you knew me at all?” His tone was guarded.

  I found it impossible to be bothered by anything at the moment, wrapped up in him as I was. I shook my head. “You’re just observant, and for some reason you found me an interesting subject. Besides, you’ve sketched a lot of people who didn’t know you were scrutinizing them so closely, I assume.”

  He chuckled and sighed. “I don’t know if that makes me feel better or worse.”

  Leaning to the side, propping my head against his inked bicep, I looked up at him. Still clutching the sheet to my chest in a belated show of modesty, or insecurity, I watched his heated gaze flick there before rising to my face. “I’m not mad anymore that you didn’t tell me you were Landon. The only reason I was angry was because I thought you were playing me, but it was the opposite of that.” I let the sheet drop, and his searing gaze dropped with it. Lifting my fingers, I brushed them over the smooth skin along his jaw. He must have shaved just before I came over. “I could never be afraid of you.”

  Without a word, he took the plate from my lap and the sketchbook from my hand before lifting and turning me onto his lap. Arms surrounding me, his mouth moved over my breasts as my hands tangled in his hair. I ignored the reproach in my mind—the one insisting that I was the one withholding information now, and while I might not fear Lucas directly, I feared his desertion if I told him what I knew, and how I knew it.

  Inhaling the now-familiar smell of him, I dragged my fingers across the words and designs on his skin as he kissed me, banishing my shrill pang of conscience to a distant drone.

  Chapter 23

  “So where’s…” Benji’s voice trailed off when I glanced at him, and he finished his sentence with a quick head angle toward Lucas’s unoccupied seat and a characteristic eyebrow waggle.<
br />
  “It’s final review day, so he doesn’t have to be here.”

  “Ah.” He smiled, leaning over the arm of his desk and lowering his voice. “So… since you know that bit of inside info, and you two left class together the last couple of days… can I assume that somebody’s getting a little private tutoring now?” When I pinned my lips together, he snorted a laugh, held up a fist and sing-songed, “Nailed it!”

  Rolling my eyes, I bumped his knuckles with mine, knowing he’d hold his fist aloft between us until I did. “God, Benji. You’re such a bro-it-all.”

  He grinned, eyes wide. “Woman, if I was straight, I would steal you from him so hard.”

  We laughed and prepared to take macroeconomics notes for the last time.

  “Hey, Jacqueline.” Kennedy slid into the empty seat next to me and Benji gave him a narrow-eyed stare that he didn’t deign to notice. “I wanted to give you a heads up.” He sat sideways in the desk, facing me, keeping his voice low. “The disciplinary committee decided to let him stay on campus for the next week, as long as he abides by the restrictions of the restraining orders—because he’s pled innocent, and because there’s only a week left in the semester. He has to vacate the premises as soon as finals are over, though.”

  I already knew Buck was out on bail, and that he’d been served the temporary restraining order on Thursday afternoon—Chaz had called Erin to tell her, and she’d passed the information to me, as well as to Mindi and her parents.

  “Awesome. So he’s staying in the house?” We’d all hoped he would be kicked off campus, but administration was embracing an innocent-until-proven-guilty stance.

  “Yeah, for the next week, but then he’s gone. The frat doesn’t have to be as impartial as university officials do.” He smiled. “Apparently D.J. saw the light after Katie told him off. Dean finally agreed. Letting Buck stay for finals week was the only compromise they made—and he’s only allowed to go to his scheduled finals and back.” Laying his warm hand over mine, he stared into my eyes. “Is there… is there anything I can do?”

  I knew my ex well enough to know what he was actually asking, but there was no second chance for him in my heart. That place was filled, but even if it hadn’t been, I was sure that I’d rather be alone than be with someone who could desert me as he’d done. Twice. I withdrew my hand into my lap. “No, Kennedy. There isn’t. I’m fine.”

  He sighed and shifted his gaze from my face to his knees. Nodding, he looked at me one last time, and I was both gratified and saddened to see the full realization of what we’d lost in his familiar green eyes. Standing to go to his seat, he excused himself to edge past my late-arriving neighbor who, for once, had nothing to say about her weekend plans.

  ***

  Freshman year weeded out musicians who’d ruled their high school orchestra, band, or choir without a lot of practice—the ones who came to college believing themselves to be above mundane technical proficiencies like scales and internals, let alone music theory. Most music majors were devoted to perfecting our skills, so we spent hours a week practicing—often hours a day. Nothing was ever perfect enough to risk slacking off.

  I’d come to campus a little spoiled. At home, I’d practiced whenever I wanted to; mom and dad had never limited me, though admittedly, I was reasonable in my practice times. Unable to keep my furniture-sized bass in my dorm room, I had to procure a locker for it in the music building and schedule booth times to play. I quickly learned that evening spots went fast; though the building was open nearly 24/7, I didn’t want to trudge across campus at 2 a.m. to practice.

  Scheduling jazz ensemble rehearsals was even more of a pain. Beginning freshman year, we met two or three times a week. Recently, it had become obvious why Sunday morning studio reservations were easy to get: Sunday was hangover day for much of the student body, and fine arts majors weren’t immune. By halfway through the fall semester, most of us had skipped Sunday morning rehearsal once or twice. What worked freshman year wouldn’t work at all by the time we were juniors.

  Just before the peer recital began on Friday night, I reiterated to one of our horn players why I couldn’t make the hastily assembled last-minute rehearsal on Saturday morning, even though our performance was that evening. “I have a class tomorrow—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. Your self-defense class. Fine. If we suck tomorrow night, it’s on you.” Henry was undeniably gifted, as if he’d been born with a saxophone in his long-fingered hands. His pompous attitude backed by genuine skill, he usually intimidated the hell out of all of us. In that moment, though, I was tired of him being an ass.

  “That’s bullshit, Henry.” I glowered at him as he slouched smugly on the other side of Kelly, our pianist, who’d opted to stay out of the argument. “I only missed one rehearsal the entire semester.”

  He shrugged. “But it’s about to be two, isn’t it?”

  Before I could reply, the recital began. I sat back in my seat, gritting my teeth. I was as much of a serious musician as anyone else in our group, but Saturday was the last self-defense class, the culmination of everything we’d learned. It was important.

  Erin was stoked about the one-on-one matches Ralph had planned between each of the class members and either Don or Lucas. “I’ll try to get Don,” she’d promised while she got dressed for work and I got ready for the last mandatory peer recital of the semester. Squinting one eye into the mirror while applying a layer of mascara to the other, she’d teased, “I don’t wanna wreck your boy-toy’s vital parts before you’re done playing with him!”

  I hadn’t heard from Lucas all day, though we were both so busy that I almost didn’t have time to dwell on the absence of communication and what it meant. Almost.

  A year ago, I hadn’t thought I would ever sleep with anyone but Kennedy. He’d been with other girls before me—if nothing else, his experience during my first time made that clear. That fact hadn’t bothered me, much, though we’d never actually spoken about it. Lucas, too, was obviously experienced, though he told me none of those previous girls had been significant. If Kennedy had ever confessed something like that, I’d have been relieved, if not thrilled. Lucas’s encumbered history made his revelation heartbreaking, instead, and I was uncertain what it meant for him, for me, and for us.

  ***

  At the beginning of class, we reviewed every move we’d learned while Ralph circulated the room, giving tips and encouragement. Don and Lucas were absent for the first portion. Ralph wanted us to remain emotionally separated from them, so we wouldn’t feel awkward inflicting violence on them in the last hour. I wondered, though, how many of us wasted precious seconds worrying that we were overreacting—tiny, valuable ticks of time spent not defending ourselves, thinking, but I know this guy.

  My heart in my throat, I watched as each of my classmates used their newfound defense techniques on a fully-padded Lucas or Don. As we took our turns on the mats, each of us benefitted from a bloodthirsty eleven-person cheering section, while the guys took turns so they could rest up from being pummeled, kicked, and verbally reviled. Since the padding cushioned our blows, they had to do a bit of acting—adjusting their reactions as though each landed punch or kick had done its job. So when Erin saw an opening and swung a perfect sweep kick to the groin, Don crumpled to the ground as if incapacitated.

  Eleven voices screamed, “Run! Run!” But Don’s big, padded body blocked a straight escape to the designated “safe zone” by the door, and Erin hesitated for a split second. He rolled toward her and we screamed even louder. Roused, she leapt onto his chest like it was a springboard and launched herself, turning when she landed and kicking him two more times before running away.

  When she reached the far door, she pumped both fists in the air and bounced up and down while everyone cheered. Ralph clapped her on the shoulder as she rejoined us, and I glanced at Lucas. Wearing his ghost smile, he watched her. One more woman, empowered. One more given the ability to defend herself against attack. One more who might not meet his
mother’s fate. His eyes found mine, and I wondered if these single, hopeful moments would ever be enough to alleviate the ache that haunted him. The ache about which I was presumably unaware.

  Pulling his gaze from me, he went to wait for the next potential victim to walk onto the mats. There were two of us remaining—a very soft-spoken secretary named Gail from the student health center, and me.

  Ralph eyed the two of us. “Who’s next?”

  Gail stepped forward, trembling visibly. While Ralph murmured subtle tips—something he hadn’t done for anyone else—Lucas went easy on her. Our booklet said that having the confidence to fight back was a critical part of self-defense training, and I knew they were giving her that. The more punches and kicks she landed, the louder we cheered her on, and the harder she fought. When she returned to the group and accepted our emphatic praise, there were tears on her face and she was still wobbly—but she wore a mile-wide smile.

  I went last, against Don. My adrenaline spiked the moment I stepped onto the mat, and I wondered if the tiny shockwaves running through me were visible to everyone, like Gail’s unsteady hands had been as she held her small body in defense mode. I knew Lucas and Erin were watching me closely; they were the only ones who knew exactly what had brought me there.

  The entire thing was over in a minute, maybe two.

  Don circled me once, mumbling hey, baby comments—part of the scenario. I kept my eyes on him, my whole body taut, waiting. Suddenly, he swerved toward me and tried to grab my arm. I did a wrist block, then screwed up a snap kick and ended up in a front bear hug. I wasn’t sure if it was in my head or actually shouted—because everything seemed slow-motion and muted, like we were under water—but I heard Erin’s voice yell, “NUTSACK!”

  I brought my knee straight up, tearing from Don’s grasp when he grunted and released me. Running to the door, I heard Erin’s cheerleader-voice rising over everyone else’s. She bounded across the room to hug me when I reached the safety zone, and over her shoulder, I watched Lucas’s expression. He’d removed his headgear and combed his sweaty hair back, so I could clearly see his face, and the familiar barely-there smile.