Why I Loathe Sterling Lane

by Ingrid Paulson

  “Heaven forbid anyone see me fraternizing with you,” I replied, stepping back, away. Anger was the answer, my lifeline back to the me I’d always been. “I’m only here to help Cole—and you’re basically blackmailing me into working with you, anyway.”

  “Blackmail?” He took a step forward until his voice was a whisper in my ear, sliding right down my spine. “You do love to hurl those accusations around. Don’t forget I bailed Cole out with that bookie.”

  “And you think I should be grateful?” I hated the fact that I still hadn’t left.

  Sterling leaned in so close I could taste the martini on his breath. It took me a moment to locate the thread of our conversation within the jumbled knot of my consciousness.

  “No, I don’t, since your form of gratitude involves breaking and entering so you can frame me for Cole’s crime.”

  “Hypocrite! You broke into my room and tried to frame me for stealing a car.”

  He grinned. “That was quid pro quo. You want me to get your brother off the hook for a crime he most certainly committed. There’s only one hypocrite here, sweetheart.”

  I stood up straight, like that would help overcome the height differential. “I did what I had to do to protect my family.”

  “I can tell you firsthand how well that excuse goes over with the disciplinary committee.” He paused and dropped his voice into a low murmur. “You attack me for helping you and then hide behind your irrational value system. You can rationalize doing pretty much anything you want, including things you took the time to document as immoral on pastel index cards. You’re a disaster. You fascinate me.”

  I turned his words over in my mind, untangling them. I wasn’t really sure how offended I should be. Those last three words were stuck in my throat. “I’m flattered,” I snapped. “It’s an honor to entertain the poster child for jaded, spoiled rich boys.”

  “You always say whatever you want to anyone. No matter the consequences.” He moved closer then, so close at first I thought he was trying to intimidate me. “That fascinates me, too.” My stomach mounted a little roller coaster all by itself. Something was happening. Or was about to happen if I didn’t turn and flee.

  His fingers curled around my wrist when I took a halfhearted step away. My hand landed on his chest, acting fully of its own volition. Nothing good could come of this, but I still stood there, willing and wishing it to happen.

  Then it did. His mouth slammed into mine, so sudden and fast that our front teeth clicked on impact. His hands cupped my cheeks, tipping my head to the side as his mouth collided with mine again. Even though I was hardly qualified to lead this dance of death, I certainly wasn’t going to let Sterling be in charge, either. I wrapped my hands around the back of his neck, locking us together.

  It was awkward, but only for the handful of seconds it took for us to fit together right, the way we were supposed to be. Because ultimately, kissing me was just one more thing Sterling Lane did far too well.

  And all at once, as soon as our lips found their rhythm, he was everywhere.

  Hands scrambled along the edges of my shirt, untucking it with nimble pickpocket fingers.

  The same fingers slithered up my sides until they hit rib cage and kept on climbing, mapping each and every inch of me. It was the kind of touch I’d shamed myself out of craving. And now there was no containing it.

  Worst of all, his hands were so confident, as if they’d long anticipated this open-door reception.

  We fell backward into his chair. It was softer than I imagined, down-filled, smelling of leather oil and Sterling’s citrusy cologne. Some other force within me had taken over, and it was like I was watching myself from the outside. Somehow I was on his lap, straddling him. Straddling Sterling Lane.

  With one hand, he magically whipped my shirt up over my head. He hadn’t undone one button, not even the tidy trademark French cuffs that accented all my school shirts.

  My rational self came roaring back just as his Houdini hands slid up my back toward the clasp of my bra, trying to make the next piece of clothing disappear. I pushed back hard against his chest, which was now exposed underneath a half-unbuttoned shirt. Something I’d caused. Buttons I’d released from their shackles. My fingers itched with muscle memory as shame shot through me.

  Each pulse, each beat of my heart, was a thunderclap in my ears. Blood cells raced through my veins like Formula One race cars.

  My head was spinning, only it wasn’t from the alcohol. The heady, cottony feeling was gone. It was just Sterling and me, alone in his bedroom, and I was completely out of control.

  “Get off me,” I said, pushing back.

  He laughed. “Sweetheart, I’m under.”

  My hand shot out, reaching for the windowsill so I could hoist myself to my feet, away from him. But instead my desperate fingers found my martini glass, which I emptied right into his face.

  He jumped, rubbing his eyes with one hand. “Do you have any idea how much that stings?” he demanded, raising his voice for possibly the first time ever. “And gin doesn’t grow on trees.”

  But I didn’t care. I was still struggling to extract myself. One leg was solidly wedged between his hip and the chair. So I kicked. Hard. Hoping I’d rupture his kidney as I dislodged myself from him and his stupid chair before they both sucked me down like quicksand.

  The arm wrapped around me disappeared, leaving me even more strangely exposed. I was draped across him like an unwanted and unnecessary accessory. Then his hands came back, nudged under my elbows for a fraction of a second as I slid backward and found my feet.

  I stood there shivering, arms folded across my chest, like that covered anything. “Give me my shirt,” I demanded. “I want to go home.”

  He rose and dropped a ball of crumpled white cotton into my outstretched hand.

  “Why’s it wet?” I snapped, even though I already knew it was my own fault. I didn’t need to look at his face to see his grin. But when I glanced up, his expression was blank.

  “It reeks of booze. You can’t walk home like that.” It was so matter-of-fact he could have been remarking on our physics homework rather than my state of undress.

  He walked across the room, pulled open a dresser drawer, and tossed a sweatshirt at me. He was careful not to look directly at me, as if he hadn’t already seen and touched everything I had on display.

  “I’m not wearing a sweatshirt with your name on it. People will talk about me.”

  “They already do.” He was pouring himself another drink. Three inches of a dark amber liquid tumbled into a carved crystal glass. He turned, and there was a flash of surprise before he dropped his gaze to his shoes. The tips of his ears turned red. I still just stood there, half naked and holding his shirt, and he was too ashamed of what we’d just done to even look at me.

  “Besides,” he said, missing only one or two beats, “I thought you didn’t care what anyone thinks. Rule 56 is quite specific.”

  He walked across the room, studiously avoiding looking at me, as if I’d already left. He settled in his chair again, swirling the liquid in his glass. He left his shirt unbuttoned, his hair all rumpled like he’d just woken up from an impossibly active dream.

  “You think you’re so clever using my Rules against me.” I hurled his sweatshirt back at him as I stormed across the room to Cole’s closet. I dug out an old fleece he wouldn’t miss and pulled it on over my head just in time.

  The doorknob rattled once, weakly, before the door banged open and ricocheted against the wall. Cole paused at the threshold to let his eyes adjust to the relative darkness inside.

  “Sterling?” he called out, looking around. “I’ll never understand why you sit in the dark like this.” There was something off about his voice, a slur.

  Cole had been drinking. So much for his study group.

  He flicked on the overhead light.

  “Seems your coping strategy is rubbing off on my brother,” I said.

  Cole jumped and took a step toward me
just as Sterling’s voice drifted in between us. “Once again, we see exactly who’s the hypocrite.” He was so sure, so smug and self-righteous that I wanted to punch him right in his perfect nose.

  “Is that my fleece?” Cole asked, tugging on the sleeve. “What happened?” His eyes flashed to the damp blouse tucked under my arm, then flew to Sterling, to the wet splash across the shoulder of his unbuttoned shirt, and the hair that would only stick up like that if someone had run their hands through it over and over again.

  Paranoid nausea slammed into me as the gears between Cole’s ears creaked into motion. I let my eyes follow his back to Sterling, to his exposed chest. It would take years of push-ups and a carefully regulated high-protein diet to get that kind of definition. Cole was staring at me while I watched Sterling. I flushed scarlet. But still Sterling wouldn’t look at me, even after everything that had just happened.

  “Are you okay?” Cole asked me. The worry lines on his forehead disappeared when I nodded. “Why are you wet?”

  “Harper spilled,” Sterling replied mildly. There was an undeniable note of bitterness in his voice.

  “On both of you?”

  Sterling had carefully avoided my gaze until that moment. The expression on his face was like we’d traveled back in time to the day I’d lied to the headmaster and gotten him in trouble. The narrow-eyed gaze of a thwarted predator. “She was on my lap.”

  My stomach plunged to the center of the earth.

  “Yeah, right. So she could get close enough to strangle you.” Cole walked across the room. His shoes left clumps of dirt on the carpet. “What are you doing here, anyways?” Cole sprawled out on his bed and closed his eyes. “I won’t cover for you if you murder my roommate.”

  “Not to worry, Cole,” Sterling said. “Harper and I have come to an understanding. We’re communicating better than ever.”

  “You’re such a jerk,” I snapped. “Cole’s future is on the line and you’re making snide little comments.”

  “Okay. You are obviously not okay.” Cole opened his eyes and sat up. He took one look at me and frowned. “What the hell was going on in here?”

  “Just a friendly meeting of the minds. But clearly, Harper and I still have some issues to resolve.” Sterling took a healthy swallow of his drink. “But practice makes perfect.”

  I marched right over to his chair. “That won’t ever happen again,” I told him in a voice low enough that I hoped Cole didn’t catch it.

  Sterling tipped his head to the side and for a moment he was the vulnerable boy of moments ago, telling me about his father. Then the shrewd glint returned to his eyes. “Now, now, Harper,” he said. “Don’t sell yourself short. You’re not that bad. One day some other guy will bite.”

  It was like he’d lit a firecracker right under my skin, the way those words exploded into me. I reached out and knocked his cocktail right up his nose. Even though I would have savored each moment of his suffering, I couldn’t stick around to see how much it would sting.

  I threw myself toward the door just as Cole pushed to his feet.

  “What did you just say to her?” he asked Sterling. “I don’t care what issues the two of you have. That’s my sister you’re messing with.”

  Sterling raised both hands, a gesture of surrender. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I was out of line.”

  A lump rose in my throat. Either at Sterling’s genuine-sounding apology or the fact that Cole was finally coming to my rescue, even if it was too little, too late. Then Cole was at my side, his hand curled around my wrist. “I’ll walk you home,” he said.

  “No, I’m fine. Seriously, Cole. I’m just walking home across campus, like I do every night.”

  Cole tipped his head to the side, studying me. I forced my best smile—the only thing worse than my current walk of shame would be performing it with my brother.

  “You’d tell me if something was wrong, right? Pinkie promise?”

  “Pinkie promise,” I told him, letting him link his little finger with mine. “The only thing wrong is your situation. I worry about you nonstop—about you getting expelled.” I was anything but fine, but I had to get away from him before he figured it out. I had to be alone.

  “I’ll be okay,” Cole said, releasing my wrist. “You worry about yourself.”

  I felt Cole’s eyes on my back as I made my way down the hall toward the stairs. I forced myself to walk at a normal pace, but the second I was out of sight, I switched into a run—and didn’t stop until I was outside gulping in the cool night air and calculating exactly how long I’d have to stand in the shower to wash Sterling’s touch off my skin.

  I loathed, despised, and was actively plotting the murder of Sterling Lane. He would die violently and painfully. I’d never forgive him for what had just happened, and for the casual way he could insult me moments later.

  But most importantly, when I distilled my rage down to the kernel of emotion at its core, I hated how easily Sterling could flip a switch inside me. He made me feel alive. His touch transformed into pure energy. Every electron in my body was buzzing around in its valence shell, threatening to break free.

  The devil on my shoulder would never let me forget what had happened that night, but there was no way I could ever let Sterling realize the power he held over me. Because if I did, he’d never let me forget it.

  Reason 24:

  It was one teeny-tiny little kiss—

  it meant ABSOLUTELY nothing,

  especially to me.

  And frankly, I’d rather die before I’d even

  consider doing it again.

  Especially with him.

  Tired as I was from a sleepless night, tumult raged through my mind that night, again keeping me awake until I decided the best course of action was to resume my usual routine. I erased the events of the previous evening from my mind, at least the ones that pertained to Sterling. Of course I’d still initiate my plan to blackmail Gilbert, but I could do that on my own. Sterling Lane could choke and die on his favor for all I cared.

  On Monday, I arrived at history class a full twenty minutes early, silently chiding myself for succumbing to Sterling’s destabilizing influence during the past few weeks. He’d thrown me completely off schedule. My outlines were screaming for attention, and I’d received a B on last week’s calculus exam. Me. I needed a ninety-eight or higher on the next one to conserve my A average.

  I’d grown weak, letting Sterling divide me from my Rules. They were my source of strength, like Samson’s hair. I couldn’t believe I’d let myself be severed from them so completely.

  It was comforting to know that once I cut him completely out of my life, everything would settle back to normal.

  The morning after the incident-that-shall-not-be-mentioned, Sterling slouched through the door on par with his habit of timing his entrée with the exact moment class officially began. He paused at my desk, and I sensed genuine hesitation in the way his knee bent before he straightened it fast. It was like he wanted to keep going but changed his mind. Anything less than 100 percent confidence was unusual in him, so I looked up. He was staring back at his former chair in the corner, the expression on his face theatrically wistful, like he was mourning his best friend. But the eyes that met mine were full of mischief. By even acknowledging him, I’d played right into his hand.

  He turned and stalked around my desk in a slow circle before settling into the chair behind me.

  I refused to look back at him. I sat there perfectly still, my eyes glued to the board. Skin not prickling in the least, definitely not with anticipation, when his chair creaked and he shifted forward in his seat. His breath skimmed my neck, then my cheek. All the places his lips had lingered the other night.

  The warmth in my stomach was a purely caloric hunger, since I’d skipped breakfast in my eagerness to get to class.

  “Cole was all mysterious this morning.” He shifted closer and dropped his voice. “After a fifteen-minute whispered phone conversation conducted entirely in
his closet.”

  I shook my head without turning around. I didn’t dare. The whole world would know what had happened between us if I turned around. It would break me. I wasn’t sure what I would do, just that it would probably be humiliating. The knowledge that he had run those long, tan fingers all over me would quite possibly make my head explode.

  “You shouldn’t be embarrassed,” he said. “It’s only a big deal if you make it one.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I told the whiteboard. I refused to turn, terrified those muddy brown eyes would slide all over me. Or that they wouldn’t.

  “Even the back of your neck is blushing right now, Harper,” he whispered, still so close I could feel the heat radiating from his body. “Turn around and look at me, please. I’ll provoke you into it if you don’t.” His voice was so soft and close that his mouth had to be mere inches away.

  Something brushed my earlobe. It had to be my imagination; there was no way he’d let his lips actually brush my earlobe in public. We were in the front row. We had a live and very attentive audience for this little freak show. I scooted forward in my seat, as far away from him as I could get. Silence descended. I turned my face to the side, just enough to see that he’d settled back in his seat. The empty space behind me was worse than his looming proximity had been. Had he changed his mind? Or was this part of the promised provocation—pulling away to see if I’d follow? I couldn’t give him the satisfaction of turning around, so I held perfectly still, waiting, as second after second ticked past.

  I couldn’t handle it—I had to know what he was doing—was he watching me? Had his focus already shifted to something else, because I mattered that little?

  I tried counting backward from one hundred. I could feel him behind me, his presence pulling on me as if he had his own gravitational field. It tugged and tugged until I couldn’t stand it any longer. I spun in my seat.