IF | A Novel

by Randi Cooley Wilson

  With an absurd amount of interest, I watch as he brings it to his lips, takes a slow sip, and hands it back to me. All without ever breaking eye contact. How can he make something as mundane as drinking water look seductive and sensual?

  Good god, I need to get a grip.

  “See. Totally safe,” he rasps, handing it back to me.

  “Thanks,” I manage, my voice embarrassingly weak.

  It’s suddenly too quiet. My anxiety levels kick up a notch, and I have to breathe deeply to ward off a panic attack. It’s been two years since my last one. I know he’s seen me have one before, but I don’t want to show him another one. As if understanding what I need and why I’m doing it, Lincoln gives me the space I need to calm myself down.

  Once I do, he lowers his voice. “Still having them sometimes?” he asks.

  “They’ve plagued me all my life. It’s not like something traumatic happened or anything, just growing up the way I did, with my parents, as ridiculous as it sounds, the pressure triggered them. I always felt trapped. The expectations, constant nagging, struggle to be perfect—it takes a toll. Trying to be someone you aren’t is exhausting.”

  “I understand,” he replies quietly.

  When my gaze floats back to him, I notice he’s wearing black dress pants and a white button-down shirt. He has the top button open and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing off some of the beautiful ink designs that cover his golden-tanned skin.

  “Were you on a date tonight?” I ask, because he looks so damn good.

  His lips curl into a barely there smile but he doesn’t answer.

  He was.

  It’s obvious.

  I blow out a controlled breath, because that kind of hurts a bit.

  “It must not have gone well.” I don’t hide the annoyance in my voice.

  “Why is that?”

  “It’s early for you.” I don’t care if he knows that I’m feeling all sorts of bothered.

  “Are you keeping tabs on me?” he asks, seemingly amused.

  “No. I just meant, if it went well, I’m sure you’d bring her back here,” I clarify.

  “I would have,” he nods.

  “Since she isn’t here, I assumed it didn’t go well,” I whisper.

  “Maybe she didn’t like me,” he throws out.

  “Doubtful,” I blurt out without thinking.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” He chuckles lightly.

  “It’s just,” I rush out, trying to explain. “You’re a bit of a player. And women love players, especially dark, sexy, brooding ones. We’re drawn to you, like moths to a flame.”

  “Women are drawn to players?” he asks, looking confused.

  “We want to save you. Change you. Win your heart and stop your playboy ways,” I exhale. “We want to be the one who makes you forget all the others. We want to be it.”

  I blush when I realize he’s just staring at me, silently considering my words.

  He looks at me like I’ve suddenly grown two heads. “I don’t want to be saved, Em.”

  I clear my throat. “I know that.”

  “Do you?”

  Looking down at the glass, I swallow and nod before I meet his gaze again.

  He gives me a tight-lipped smile. “What makes you think I’m a player?”

  Taking in a deep breath, I press my lips together. “I’ve just heard.”

  “You’ve just heard?” he repeats, his tone questioning. He shifts and looks at me with an intense expression. “The simple truth is, I don’t play games. I’m very upfront about what I need and want out of someone. If that makes me a player, then so be it.”

  Flustered at his honesty, I grip the glass tighter, taking a sip slowly.

  “What do you mean, you’re upfront about what you want out of someone?”

  “I prefer my relationships with women to be,” he continues, “uncomplicated.”

  He’s studying me, gauging my reaction to his blunt words. Even if I want to, I don’t give him one. Despite what he’s saying, things are always complicated between us, whether it’s intentional on his part or not. At the realization, something in me changes. I don’t know what, but the need to strip him of this armor he’s hiding behind takes over.

  “What about me?” I whisper.

  “What about you, Em?”

  “Things between us always feel”—I pause—“complicated.”

  He runs his hand through his hair, gripping the back of his neck. His eyes leisurely search mine and it takes everything I have in me to remain on my side of the couch. All I want to do is crawl over to him, straddle his lap, and devour his mouth with mine.

  “I’m attracted to you,” he says, his voice low. “I want you. I just . . .”

  “You just what?” I urge him to finish.

  “I don’t want you to have expectations that it’s going to lead to anything . . . more.”

  Biting my lip, I try to decide whether to be flattered or punch him in the face.

  “I don’t have it in me to be what you deserve, or need. I never have,” he adds.

  Flattered. I decide I’m flattered because holy shit—the way he is looking at me, a bit shy and nervous. I have no idea how to respond. Or what to say. His admission is beautiful.

  And dark.

  And desperately in need of more clarification.

  “So, you want to have sex with me, but you don’t want to date, or love me?”

  He’s watching my mouth like all my words burn. “I know it makes me sound like an asshole, but yes. I can’t offer you more. It’s that simple. I’m sorry if that seems harsh.”

  Sex with Lincoln is . . . amazing.

  More sex with him would be convenient, given he’s my neighbor.

  We aren’t really friends in the true sense, so honestly, we don’t have to worry about ruining a friendship. We’d just be two adults, consenting to occasionally getting whatever this is out of our systems. Right?

  “Okay,” I reply nonchalantly.

  “Okay, what?” He looks at me with a challenging stare.

  “Let’s have meaningless, hot sex with one another. No expectations.”

  He chuckles. “You aren’t serious?”

  “I’m not seeing anyone at the moment,” I point out. “Neither are you, right?”

  “Nothing that’s serious.”

  “Then, let’s have casual sex without commitment.” I exhale slowly.

  Lincoln swallows as his expression turns slightly nervous. His jaw is working overtime as he considers my suggestion. I know he’s hesitating because he doesn’t want this to become more. I’m uneasy because I know this isn’t meaningless. The way we’re drawn to each other, there is no way in hell things between us are just going to be casual.

  And yet, I don’t care.

  Because I want more. Of him.

  I’ll take anything he gives me, in whatever form it comes.

  “That isn’t what I meant, Em. I was answering your questions, not implying—”

  “I know,” I interrupt him.

  “I don—” he begins to say no.

  Before he can finish, I place the glass on the table next to us and move toward him slowly. I swear he stops breathing as he watches me, waiting for me to change my mind.

  When I reach him, I place my hands on either side of his face and allow my fingertips to softly caress his cheeks. “It’s been two years, Lincoln. I’ve missed your touch.”

  He takes in a shaky breath while looking at my mouth. “This isn’t a go—”

  “Are you afraid that you can’t handle it?” I whisper across his mouth.

  Without answering me, he closes the distance, bringing his lips over mine. My body liquefies against him as his tongue slides across my lips then dips inside my mouth, tasting me. I moan softly, because holy shit, he’s so good at this. The sound causes him to place one hand on my waist and the other behind my head, pulling me closer. I’ve missed this.

  My fingers splay across his cheeks, pressi
ng down, forcing him closer as I try my best to crawl inside of him, making us one person. After what feels like an eternity, we both pull away the slightest bit to catch our breaths. Panting, I drop my forehead to his.

  Lincoln exhales harshly. “You make it so damn hard to breathe sometimes.”

  I lean back and look into his eyes. “Are you saying I take your breath away?”

  His gaze searches mine without humor as he studies me. My response was meant to be funny, but there is nothing funny about the way he’s looking at me. Or holding me.

  “What if I break your heart?” he asks quietly.

  His eyes stay focused on mine for several seconds before I lean forward and place a light kiss on his forehead, ignoring the fear behind his gaze. I don’t want to see it, because I’m afraid too. I’m afraid of how this is all going to end. Because it will end.

  There are no what ifs.

  Lincoln Daniels will break my heart.

  And I am going to let him.

  16

  I try not to fidget too much in the booth I’m sitting in at a popular bar in town, near the college. Kennison comes here regularly, but at the moment, she’s left me alone and is flirting with the manager across the room, a few feet from the bar, trying to get hired.

  Some random guy seated with his friends at a high-top table next to me has his eyes glued to my chest. Feeling a bit self-conscious, I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans and readjust the off-the-shoulder T-shirt that I’m wearing. If Kennison weren’t trying so desperately to get a job here, I’d put a heeled boot right into the creepy gawker’s crotch.

  He sips his beer, winking at me, and I try not to vomit before I’ve eaten.

  Grabbing the menu, I lift it and pretend to be totally engrossed by its contents.

  “I got the job,” Kennison squeals as she slides in across from me.

  I tilt the menu down a bit and look at her over it. “Don’t you have to interview?”

  “Just did.” She wiggles her eyebrows and fixes her shirt, which is hanging low.

  I shake my head at her. “Well, your boobs are your best asset.”

  “Right?” She winks. “I’m so glad you came out with me tonight.”

  “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

  Kennison’s manicured fingers curl around the top of the menu, forcing it down further so I have to look at her. “I feel like you’ve been a million miles away since you got locked out of our place and I found you all snuggled in and cozy sleeping on Lincoln’s couch.”

  “I told you, nothing happened,” I reply.

  After our conversation and kiss, Lincoln fell quiet for the rest of the night. We ended up watching a movie. I was so comfortable and warm that at some point I actually fell asleep. A few hours later, Kennison was spastically banging on the door, apologizing because her phone died earlier that night and she’d missed my panicked texts and calls.

  “Liar,” she counters, picking up her own menu and reading it over.

  My eyes slide to the window and I watch as the rain falls angrily on the pavement. I don’t want Kennison knowing about Lincoln’s and my conversation. She’ll just try to talk me out of it. If we even are going to do this. I haven’t seen Lincoln since that night.

  Typical—something real or uncomfortable happens between us, and he disappears. He wasn’t in class this week, leaving me to wonder what his absence means. I fear he regrets our conversation—or kissing me. I’m sure he’s going to just pretend like nothing happened. Or he’ll keep ignoring me forever. Either way, I’ve mentally prepared myself.

  “Em?” At the sound of Kennison’s voice, I snap my attention back to her.

  “What?”

  “He asked you what you want. Do you know?” she asks with a concerned look.

  My gaze slides over to the server and I realize they’re both staring at me, waiting.

  “Sorry.” I quickly place my order.

  When I’m done, I look over at my friend, who is watching me with furrowed brows.

  I give her a smile and pretend like Lincoln isn’t invading my every thought.

  After a second, she starts chatting about how she and Josh went for coffee the other day. She’s excited and hopeful that this means they’re finally getting to a point where they can be friends and maybe spend more time together. I really want that for her, for them.

  As soon as our food comes, we eat, drink, and laugh. Things have felt so intense lately—normal feels good. Over the course of the night, the bar gets busier and I decide to go grab our second round of drinks without waiting for the server to come back.

  Just as I’m heading back to the table, I falter a bit because creepy boob-guy is sitting in our booth with one of his friends, who is shamelessly flirting with my roommate.

  I groan and unhurriedly make my way back to the table.

  Kennison beams at me as I approach and place our drinks on the table. “Emerson, this is Scott and Connor. Guys, this is Emerson. Be nice to her,” she giggles. “She’s my bestie.”

  “Hi.” Connor slides over, making room for me with his eyes firmly on my chest again.

  “Hey.” I sit close to the edge in the event I need to make a quick escape.

  Connor motions to my drink. “I would have ordered you ladies another round.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t accept drinks from strangers.”

  A slight frown crosses his lips. “We’re friends now, not strangers.”

  “Noted,” I mumble under my breath.

  “Do both of you go to school here?” Scott asks.

  “We do,” Kennison says, brightly.

  “Us too,” Scott smiles at her.

  “What are you majoring in, Emerson?” Connor asks me.

  I hate the way he says my name. It feels creepy and cold. Not velvety and sexy like when Lincoln says it. When he says it, it’s like being wrapped in a cozy blanket of warmth.

  “Teaching,” I lie.

  Kennison’s eyes meet mine across the table and she frowns as I shake my head, letting her know that I am not interested in Connor knowing what my actual major is.

  He nods, sipping his beer, and I try not to punch him for staring at my chest again. I think of Lincoln and how he always looks me in the eyes, sometimes so deeply that it heats my skin. It’s amazing how he can do that—turn me into liquid with just one look.

  “I’m pre-med,” Connor says.

  “Impressive,” I feign interest.

  “We both are,” Scott interjects.

  “Oh, sexy doctors,” Kennison chimes in, flirting with Scott.

  “You girls should come back to our place,” Connor suggests.

  “No.” I snap out the word quickly.

  Kennison nudges my leg under the table and gives me a questioning look.

  “Thanks,” I add, trying to sound polite.

  “Why not? We could have some drinks . . . hang out.” He slides closer to me.

  “I can’t, sorry. I have plans after this,” I lie.

  “You do?” Kennison asks. “What plans?”

  Connor reaches for my hand. “Are you against having fun, Emerson?”

  Annoyed that he’s being so forward, and saying my name again, I pull my hand back and narrow my eyes. “I’m against drinking with strangers in non-public places.”

  Something off crosses his expression. “Ah. You’re one of those girls.”

  I’m just about to tell him off when Kenz’s eyes widen in surprise as she looks over my shoulder. Curious as to what she’s looking at, I follow her sightline. When I do, my gaze tangles with Lincoln’s. A flash of annoyance crosses his face as he gives Connor a quick menacing glance. Then his gaze returns to mine and a smirk crosses his lips.

  “Nothing happened my ass,” Kennison mutters.

  I throw her a glance before looking back at Lincoln, who is now standing next to our table. He takes my face between his palms and then, without warning, his lips are on mine in a searing kiss. I’m so taken aback that I don’t push him away. I just let
him devour my mouth in front of everyone at the table. After making his point very clear, he leans back.

  “Come with me,” he whispers across my lips, ignoring the table.

  Without hesitating, I let him help me out of the booth. I’ll get an earful from Kennison later, but for now, I’m much more interested in spending time with Lincoln rather than sitting next to a guy who stares at my chest. Besides, Josh is making his way over to our table and I know he’ll take care of and watch over my friend.

  Lincoln drags me away, toward the hallway near the restrooms, and out the back door into a dark alley. I don’t waver, even though I’m stepping into the unknown with zero idea of what he wants from me right now, or how he feels about me. I’m naïve as to how this works. Should I be acting disinterested instead of just easily doing what he’s asking?

  Once we’re far enough from the door, he backs me up until I’m pressed against a wet brick wall. The rain is still falling hard all around us, soaking our clothes quickly.

  “Who is the guy, Em?” he bites out.

  “Nobody,” I reply quickly. “Just some idiot that Kennison invited to our table.”

  He grabs my waist, arching my hips against his body as he leans down and presses his lips against my forehead, holding them there for a few moments like he’s in pain.

  “Besides, what do you care? You haven’t been around lately.”

  “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

  “Why have you been avoiding me?”

  “I was scared,” he says with such sadness, I almost burst into tears.

  “Of me?”

  “You,” he admits, his voice hoarse, “and other things.”

  He pulls away, just far enough to stare down into my eyes, but close enough that I can feel his breath against my skin. He kisses me softly, barely touching my lips.

  His kiss is slow. And filled with fear.

  It causes a deep ache to ignite and burn within me.

  An ache filled with want and need for him.

  I pull back a little to look him in the eyes. I want to tell him not to be scared. That I’m not. But it would all be a lie. I’m terrified. Instead, I take his face between my palms and kiss him. Hard. Frantic. Our kiss turns into a full-blown lip-biting, devouring one that leaves us both panting with need. Drops of water crawl over us, but do nothing to cool my heated skin as he kisses my mouth with an urgency that feels out of control.