Rush

by Shae Ross

  A grunt erupts, followed by swinging limbs. Ice floods my veins, and my heartbeat suspends as the shadowy figures curse and struggle. Jesus! Thick punches land between sharp gasps, and I grit my teeth harder with each sound. I need to get help. I spin for the door, but a flash of tan fur stops me. Chewie? I squint at the dark silhouettes. It is him. My pulse fires like an assault rifle.

  “Hey!” I yell. They either don’t hear me or they’re ignoring me. I lunge for the door, step into the hallway, and fumble with the lever on the fire alarm. The siren pierces my senses like a blade, and I dive back to the alley with the deafening howl pounding around me.

  Adrenaline surges as I run. Chewbacca is on his knees, pulling one of the guys down, but the other pirate is angling a leg, about to slam it into his head.

  “Hey!” I wind my staff and let loose a full-force swing. My elbows jerk to a painful halt as it connects with the taller pirate’s upper arm and he stumbles.

  “What the fuck?” He snarls, looking at me like I’m a unicorn. “Get lost, Mary Poppins.” I block him with my shoulder as he’s moving back to Chewie. He shoves me and I shove him back. His arm lifts, and I watch it descending in slow motion. It cuffs the side of my face, and a blowtorch of pain explodes in my jaw. Owwwch!

  My body half buckles, and I blink at the pavement, running my tongue over my teeth, but all I can feel is a hot tingling sensation. If he knocked my teeth out, I’m going to shove this shepherd staff so far up his ass. I spear him with an exorcist look as he’s making his way back to Chewie. “I’m not Mary Poppins. I’m Little Bo Peep, asshole.” My grip tightens, and I flip the staff like a ninja stick. It’s the one move I remember from the martial arts lessons my brother used to drag me and my sisters to.

  I wind up like I’m teeing off and let loose. It nails him in the forehead, echoing a sharp crack. Blood runs fast, veining down his nose. Holy shit. My heart thumps wildly. Other than my sisters, I’ve never been in a fight with anyone. The tattoo on his forearm twitches as he touches the wound, and his bewildered gaze shifts from his bloody fingers to me. I gulp hard, trying to swallow over my parched throat.

  “Bitch!” he yells, springing forward. I jump, but he catches my damn skirt and the fabric tears from my right hip. He’s pulling me closer, drawing me in. My scream fades into a whimpered croak, but it’s quickly smothered by Chewie’s violent groan as he rises to his knees and tackles the pirate at the waist.

  Air whooshes past my ears. Someone bumps my hip. I bounce and stumble, caught by another hard knock to my shoulder as patrons stream out of the bar yelling. My legs feel boneless, tangling with the hem of my shredded skirt. I trip and land on my hands and knees. It’s all I can do to crawl to the edge of the building as the adrenaline leaves my body. Crouching against the brick wall, I cradle my head with my forearms and shift to avoid the chaotic pattern of feet. Brick scrapes my shoulder blades and minutes of forever pass before I hear the distant strain of police sirens rising above the wail of the bar’s alarm. Thank God.

  The fighters are gathering their friends and hustling toward the far end of the alley. I look left and right, trying to decide if I should run or wait in the shadows as the scramble of bodies dissolves. My vision passes a pair of furry feet, sticking straight up, and all other thoughts screech to a breathless halt. Chewbacca is lying motionless in the middle of the alley. Dear God. Please tell me he’s not dead.

  I push off the wall and land on my knees in front of him. My hands reach for his shoulders, and I start shaking. “Hey, hey.” His lids blast open and relief pours through my body, loosening the knot in my chest. Police cars converge at the end of the alley, doors open, and someone shouts orders. Boots beat hard on the pavement, rushing in. I heave, trying to move Chewbacca’s shoulders and roll his body out of the way. An arm locks around my waist and lifts. I swing and my elbow connects with a cheekbone.

  An hour later I’m following a sergeant named Callahan into his office. They rounded up a dozen of us—the ones they were able to catch. I watched the EMT workers hovering over Chewie from the rear window of the cop car as it whisked me away. I’ve spent the last hour answering questions from three different officers. I told nothing but the truth.

  Yes, I pulled the fire alarm.

  Yes, I was drinking.

  Yes, I hit someone with my shepherd staff—more than once.

  “Right here, Tinkerbell.” The sergeant points to a chair beside his desk. I attempt to lower myself but my skirt catches the arm.

  “Damn it and bloody hell,” I mutter. His chaffed knuckles clutch a fistful of fabric and set me free. “Sorry. I’m not used to wearing dresses.”

  He shoots me a grim smile. “I bet you’re not used to being arrested either.”

  The word “arrested” sends a flash of anxiety into my stomach. I was hoping after they questioned me they’d let me go. White heat from the fluorescent bulbs beams like a laser into my forehead. Holy mother lode.

  “So here’s the deal, Ms. Winslow. Three of the witnesses we gathered reported seeing you swinging your shepherd staff. Your admissions of jumping into the fight and of underage drinking are more than enough for us to charge you. Unfortunately, our Chief is tired of responding to calls at the Rathskeller. I can’t cut anyone a break here.” I close my eyes and shake my head in small motions as he continues. “Most likely you’ll be able to plead guilty and it won’t be entered onto your permanent record—hundred dollar fine for each offense. Usually, there are no sanctions beyond that, but you’re going to be here most of the night. We can’t let minors go until all of the alcohol is out of your system.”

  Holy fuck. Normally I’d show my respect for a cop, but my every emotion is whacked—beaten into a mindless pulp. “Am I supposed to thank you now?”

  He considers me a moment then leans closer and speaks low. “I know it might seem like the end of the world for a girl from Grosse Pointe—you’re probably worried about your parents’ reaction—but there’s no reason you can’t wake up tomorrow and go on with life as usual, having learned a little lesson here.”

  I press my elbows to my thighs and drop my forehead on my fists. I just love it when people assume any problem I have can be solved by my zip code, as if my rich parents will swoop in on their helicopter, throw me a line, and pull me out of this shit storm. That is not my reality. If my mom ever sees my mug shot she’ll gasp until her country club lungs collapse, double the dosage on her anti-anxiety medication, and join a moms of ex-cons support group. As torturous as it is to think about my mom’s reaction, that’s not the thought that’s turned my insides to mush. I could get kicked off the soccer team…senior year…a month before national championships. Oh God. And what am I going to tell the teenage girls I coach? My entire message to those inner-city girls is stay in sports, stay out of trouble. Blood pounds in my ears. I can’t think about that now. I have to survive my night in jail first. I respond to Sergeant Callahan’s consoling look with a flat tone.

  “Are we done here? Cause I’d really like to hole myself up in the shadows of my cell and pray for the zombie apocalypse.”

  He looks at me as if he’s trying to determine whether or not I’m serious. I close my eyes, shutting him out, and my head clunks against the wall. Seconds pass. A pencil begins stroking paper—it’s the sound of my college soccer career being scratched out. The spinning sensation I’ve been trying to mask reignites with a vengeance. I’m inhaling and exhaling deep, mindful breaths, trying not to puke, when an unfamiliar voice interrupts.

  “God, I love Halloween.” A barrel-chested officer who looks close to me in age is standing in the doorway. His thumbs hang on his belt as he smiles.

  The sergeant stops writing and looks up. “What do you need, Dino?”

  “We’re out of space. Gotta start doubling ’em up.”

  “You can put her in the drunk tank with the other college kid—she knows him, and he’s passed out. The light’s burned out in there, Dino. I thought I told you to call that in last week.”
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  “I put in the order. I’ll check on it,” he responds, then reaches for me. “Let’s go, Little Bo Peep.”

  I rub my wrists, following him down a long, sterile hallway. He pans a gaze that stops on the low cut of my square neckline, and I resist the urge to cross my arms over my chest. “Cute,” he says, opening a door and leading me into a dimly lit room. There’s only one cell in the space. A chill slips down my spine as his keys clack against the bars.

  “Well, lookie here, I found your sheep,” he says, swinging the door open. I step in and cast a wary look over the shadowy space. A heavy clunk rings as the gate closes, shooting a thousand pinpricks into my brain. It’s official. I’m an inmate. “See you in the morning, Peep.”

  I ignore him, focusing on a rustling sound. A glint of golden-brown flashes at the back of the cell. I blink and step closer, letting my vision adjust. Furry legs are stretched out. It’s my Wookie, lying on a low bench. I step cautiously closer to examine him.

  Sleeves hang from his waist like molted snakeskin, and his mask is lying in a dark heap on the floor beside the bench. One small sliver of luck glimmers into my worst day ever—I’m going to get a chance to look at him, and seeing as he’s passed out, I can stare as long as I want.

  I inch closer, listening to his breathing. A big hand rests on his chest, fingers spread over his dark T-shirt, rising and falling with each breath. He’s a big guy—he must be close to my brother Ben in size. His golden-brown hair looks effortlessly tousled, ending at the nape of his neck in waves that curl like the crook of a finger, beckoning me to move closer.

  Focusing on the sensual slant of his mouth, I admire the perfect shape of his lips—more full than thin, resting in an open crease, a space just wide enough to press into. In sleep he looks like one of those Greek statues—straight nose, high broad cheeks, strong jaw, and fresh-faced perfection. He’s the perfect mix of boy-next-door and raw masculinity. He probably wore the mask to keep the droves of women away.

  Something sparks a memory and my breath catches. Wait a minute. I know him. Well, I don’t know him-know him, but I know who he is. He’s Preston Rush—the quarterback of our football team. Football players annoy me—especially hotshot football players. I let out an exhausted breath. The one pearl of redemption that could have saved my day from complete disaster turns to dust.

  At our school, football players are waited on like they’re royalty while the rest of us college athletes wait in the wings. I didn’t realize it when my coaches recruited me, but SEU is a “football” school, and despite the protections of Title IV, decisions revolve around what’s best for the football team.

  I remember seeing him at the All-Athlete Good Will Games, surrounded by women and flashing his dimples. I’ve also seen his face plastered on promotional materials around school. He could be in big trouble, too. I cross my arms and stare at sleeping beauty. Big trouble.

  He’s even better looking up close—like, breath-catching, soul-sucking, good looking. Christ. I’m going to put that mask back on him. Pinching the wiry wig, I approach. The sweet, peaceful look on his face gives me reason to pause, as if I could burn the image of him into my memory. I wonder if I could get away with kissing him—just a quick, small peck. “Then I’d be able to tell Jace I kissed the god of pigskin,” I whisper, sauntering cautiously closer. He shifts, and a low moan parts his lips. That was a signal, right? Her words ring in my ears. Step out of the Priscilla Winslow box. He won’t mind, right? Of course he won’t mind. He’s a guy…and he’ll never know…and he’s frickin’ gorgeous. Stop being you and kiss him for God’s sake.

  “Okay, here we go. Brace yourself, Chewie.”

  My fingertips grip the padded bench, and I lean over him, staring. What the hell am I doing? I can’t kiss him! He’s passed out. How desperate am I?

  I’m chastising myself, hovering over him when his lids flicker open. All of a sudden I’m staring at the blue-gray irises that mesmerized me earlier, only this time I’m so close I could be lying on top of him.

  The corner of his eyes narrow, and he exhales a ragged breath. Everything in my body tightens. His gaze holds mine, and I feel what I felt in the hallway—magnetic energy pulling the loop that runs between my heart and head toward him. His expression softens, and I see recognition. “Peep.” His voice is gravelly, but he sounds relieved. It’s the second syllable he’s said to me—barely audible, at that—but giddiness fills my stomach, ballooning into my heart.

  “Thank you,” he says, his voice fading from the effort. Lids close and everything disappears. His chest sinks, and the slow, even sounds of restful breathing resume. I lean back. Phew. He’s going to pass out again. For a minute there I thought I was totally busted.

  I gasp loudly, sucking air. His big hand has locked around my wrist, and I’m stumbling, trying to pull back as he sits up. I’m busted.

  Chapter Two

  Preston

  I’m having the best dream—Little Bo Peep from the Rathskeller bar, complete with round green eyes, long flaxen hair, tight corset and white stockings, is about to kiss me. Fantasizing about Mother Goose characters isn’t usually my thing, but this one is seriously working for me.

  An image strikes my mind like lightning, illuminating the vision of my dream girl twirling a bo staff. That can’t be right. I shake my head. Twice. The imprint of a fist burns my jaw. Shit. Little Bo Peep jumped into the bar fight, and I’m in jail with her.

  I grab her wrist and pull her gently toward me. I blink as I sit up, trying to blow the dust out of my brain. I’ve been knocked half unconscious on the football field plenty of times. I’m usually pretty good at putting the pieces back together, but this makes no sense. “Are you all right?”

  Her mouth hangs in a perfect O as she stammers. “I’m sorry—I didn’t think you’d mind…”

  “Jesus, why would you do that?” I ask, frustration and confusion spilling out in my harsh tone.

  “I just wanted to wake you up…”

  “Wake me up? In a bar fight?” Her fingers curl around mine, and she lets out a soft squeak. My grip is too firm, and I release immediately, taking a breath. Uncertainty clouds her expression as I stand. My head starts to pound, and I feel the burn in my ribs.

  “Jumping in like that was a dumb ass thing to do…” I growl, closing my eyes and pressing my thumb against my temple. I feel her step close to my body, and when I open my eyes, she’s inches from my face.

  “Did you just call me a dumb ass? Seriously? For jumping in and helping you?” I could almost laugh. Little Bo Peep looks like a rag doll that’s been left out in a wind storm, and from the fierce expression on her face, I think she’s about to chew me up and spit me out. Brave girl.

  “I didn’t call you a dumb ass. I said it was a dumb ass thing to do.” Her pale green eyes are lit with amber sparks, and a charcoal-like smudge makes a half moon on the flawless skin of one cheek, ending at her bottom lip.

  I’m about to apologize, but the tip of her finger rises.

  “You were getting your drunken ass kicked, and I saved you,” she says, jabbing it to within an inch of my nose. “If it hadn’t been for me, you’d still be lying in that parking lot bruised and bloody—or worse.”

  She’s probably right about that. I owe her more than a jackass response. I raise my hands in concession, but before I can get them into her sightline, she slaps my chest and starts to shove. I trap her hands under mine.

  “Hey,” I say. “I’m sorry. Okay? I’m sorry.” I hold her hands to my chest and let out a breath. “I feel like shit, and this is a nightmare for me. I’m an athlete and being thrown in jail could be a problem.”

  My apology does nothing to take the edge off her glare. In fact, it further heats her face. She yanks her hands out from under mine and grips her hips. “I know who you are, Mr. Hotshot football player,” she hisses.

  Ruffles from her dress sweep my legs, and she swats a lock of hair from her cheek. “You want to know how I know?” she asks.

 
“How do you know?” Concern grows, stretching my insides like rubber as her angry expression melts into a look of despair. My hands close gently, resting on her shoulders. “How do you know?”

  “You’re not the only one on campus wearing a number eleven jersey. I know…” She steadies her jaw, finishing the confession in a broken whisper. “Because I’m an athlete, too.”

  Shock body-slams me. That’s the last thing I expected her to say. I search her face. Have we met? I should know her. A faint recollection flickers—a leggy blonde running past me at one of the All Athlete events. That’s it. That’s all I got, and I’m not even sure if it was her. How could I have missed her? I may have sworn off serious relationships, but I sure as hell haven’t sworn off thinking about girls—especially girls that look like her. Even on what looks to be Little Bo Peep’s worst day, she’s cute as hell.

  A pulse of guilt waves through me. It bothers me that I don’t remember her. Shit. I wonder what sport. She’s tall, and I can feel the lean muscle of her arms under my light grip. A gymnast maybe? That’d be totally hot—I mean what guy doesn’t fantasize about that range of motion. She’s probably too tall for a gymnast though. The way she was swinging that shepherd staff, she could be a golfer.

  “What sport?” I ask, humility flooding my voice.

  “Soccer. I’m the captain of the women’s soccer team. Priscilla Winslow.”

  “I’ve heard your name.” I’m not lying; I have heard her name. “You’re good. Really good.”

  “Yeah,” she says, sounding deflated. “I’m good.” She pushes my hands from her shoulders. “And now because I made the dumb ass mistake of helping you, I’m in huge trouble. Huge.” She spins on her heel and moves to the front of the cell.

  I watch her lean against the wall and sink to the floor, feeling her words like a punch to the gut. She raises her knees and drops her head on folded arms. Thoughts spin through my mind. I should have listened to my instincts when Tyler suggested the off-campus bar, but I didn’t want to abandon the two freshmen who were with us.