I was tempted to cancel the day and go back to bed, but I knew Gavin would have my head if I skipped out so early in the semester. I promised myself that I wouldn’t be long. After the interview and my classes, I could come home and sleep off the hangover, all the while making bogus mental agreements that I’d never get that drunk again.
Alex was still sleeping as I grabbed my backpack and audio recorder for the sit-down portion of the interview. I walked to campus, taking in the rarity of the warm sun on my skin this morning. I wasn’t much of a heat person, but the sunlight eased my stomach and throbbing headache.
Just as expected, the football team was already out on the field for practice. There were a few stragglers for a crowd; girlfriends of the players bathing in the sun as they watched their burly men tackle the shit out of each other. I took a seat on the bleachers to wait for their next break, making sure I could spot Jackson Tate. He was there, of course, wearing his number 13 jersey and those tight little football pants. While they practiced, I took out my notebook and scribbled down a few questions I could ask him. The real, in-depth interview wouldn’t come until later, after the homecoming game, but I knew Gavin would like to publish an introduction about Mr. Perfect, because apparently, there were people in our school who cared about Jackson and his football, if not to an incredibly creepy extent.
After about fifteen minutes, the coach blew his whistle and called for a break. Keeping my eyes on Jackson, I slung the backpack over my shoulder and walked down onto the field. He was chugging a bottle of water as I approached, giving me the side-eye as though he was preparing for something bad to happen. I knew I looked like a bum, but I couldn’t have possibly seemed dangerous or intimidating in any way.
“I’m with The Bengal,” I said, and held out my hand for him to take. “Can I interview you?”
Jackson was staring straight at me now, his expression cryptic. With the football under one arm, and a water bottle in the other hand, he stood a few feet away from me as if preparing to bolt in case I tried to jump him, or something.
“I know who you are,” he said. “You were at the bar last night.”
Oh, yeah. That.
Color rose in my cheeks. I’d never been a particularly charming drunk. I hoped Jackson didn’t remember me making a fool of myself trying to make small-talk with him.
“Yeah, sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“It’s whatever,” Jackson said, with a shrug. “How’s your head feeling this morning?”
“My head?” I repeated. “It’s . . . fine. Why?” And then before he could answer me, the blackout portion of my night started to come back to me in little, tiny, tragic bits and pieces of utter humiliation.
“Oh,” I said. “Oh.”
“You don’t remember, do you?” Jackson scoffed, slipping an eye-roll in there. “I walked you home. Well, dragged you. Your friend Alex asked me to.”
“Yeah,” I said stupidly. “Yeah, you sure did.”
I closed my eyes, wishing I was anywhere but there. The silence between us never seemed to end. I considered turning around and bolting for the door, transferring out of the school, maybe, or taking online classes so I wouldn’t have to show my face again. Instead of doing any of those things, however, I cleared my throat and took a deep breath.
“Thanks for that,” I mumbled. “You know, for the escort home. I mean, not escort because you’re not a hooker. I mean, I guess you could be, but I don’t think you are . . .” There was nothing else I could say to make this any worse, so I stopped talking for a second to pull myself together. When I was sufficiently sane, I looked at him and smiled. “I’m just here to interview you, though, so let’s move on, shall we?”
“Please,” Jackson said. The relief in his tone was clear. “There’s an office inside if you want to go somewhere quiet.”
Yeah, like I needed to be in a quiet room with this guy.
“Sounds great,” I said.
I followed him into one of the buildings where sure enough, there was a vacant office open. Jackson sat down in one of the empty chairs, still holding that silly football, and I sat down across from him. I pulled out my notepad, unable to meet his gaze. My face was burning, and I could only imagine what kind of swamp demon I resembled. This day was just getting better and better.
“First question,” I squeaked. I cleared my throat. “How do you prepare for a big game?” Jackson didn’t even hesitate before answering.
“Sex,” he said, and the expression on his face was completely neutral. “I have a lot of sex.”
I stared at him, my hand hovering over the pad in my lap. His brown hair was still damp from practice, and I could almost see a tiny smirk hidden behind shockingly bright hazel eyes.
“Sex,” I repeated. When Jackson nodded, I sighed and rested my hand in my lap. “Got anything Pg-13?”
“We’re in college,” he said with a shrug. “Besides, it’s the truth. Sex is great, don’t you think?”
“Sex is . . . Um, yeah, sex is good. I mean, it’s great. It’s . . . yeah.” I caught his eyes briefly, then looked away. I didn’t know where else to stare so I settled on the blank wall. I was fidgeting in my seat, trying to ignore the sweat starting to rise on the back of my neck and under my arms. Jackson was still staring at me, and I’d never felt so unsettled in my entire life.
“Are you okay?” he asked finally.
“Is it hot in here?” I said, and started to fan myself with the legal notepad in my hand.
“No, I’m perfect,” Jackson said. He smiled, just barely, one side of his lip rising into the smirk I knew he was hiding the whole time. I opened my mouth to say something severely inappropriate like, Yes, you are pretty perfect, and then closed it. Wow! Where in the hell was all this coming from? He knew he was making me uncomfortable, I could tell he did, but I was still trying to figure out why.
“So, football,” I said. “Something about sex.”
“That’s how I prepare for a game,” he repeated. “Sex. It helps me clear my head.”
“Of course, it does,” I said. My face felt even hotter now, and I knew without looking I was flushed red with humiliation. I didn’t even stop to consider what I was doing. I stood up and started to gather my things. As I made a trembling attempt to cram my notepad into my backpack, a textbook fell out and hit the ground, scattering a few research articles I had written all over the floor. I dropped to my knees to grab them before Jackson could, but he’d already reached for one and picked it up. I got to my feet and held out my hand, too flustered to say anything coherent.
“Secret articles,” Jackson said. I couldn’t tell if he was teasing or not. “Is it about me?”
“Oh, um, no.” I reached again to yank it out of his hand, but Jackson pulled back, his eyes on the paper.
“Did you write this?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said through gritted teeth. “It’s for the paper.”
“The school paper?” Jackson repeated, but he wasn’t looking at me. His eyes were still scanning over the typed article in his hand. “I’ve never seen the school bother publishing an article titled ‘Political and Social Awareness on the Impact of War on other Countries’.”
“Then I guess you don’t read it very thoroughly,” I snapped, and finally managed to rip it from his fingers. I stuffed the paper into my bag and straightened up, now more furious than embarrassed.
“Is the interview over?” Jackson asked. The innocence in his tone made me want to punch him in the face, especially after he’d successfully managed to get me all hot and bothered by, well, doing nothing at all. “You only asked one question.”
“Thanks again for last night,” I said. My hand settled on the doorknob to leave, but before I twisted it open, I turned back around to look at him. “But I think it’s a good idea if someone else interviews you instead of me.” I yanked the door open and slammed it shut behind me before Jackson even had time to respond.
Chapter 6
Jackson
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The door slammed as Grace Something stormed from the room. She was practically seething, I could tell, and I tried my best to hold back a laugh. She was too sensitive, easily riled up, and it was funny as hell. She felt embarrassed about last night, that much was obvious, and for some twisted reason, I was getting quite the kick out of it. Last night wasn’t the first time I’d put a drunk girl to bed, but generally, that task also involved waking up with said girl in the morning, after a night of fucking.
I’d initially been caught off guard to find that the same girl there to interview me for the school newspaper was the very woman I’d carried home the night before. It was a small enough school that my intention to never see Grace again was no longer a possibility. I was mildly impressed she was a writer, and even more so, if the article I’d seen was her handiwork. After meeting her last night, I guess I’d assumed that she was just like any other person that hung out at the bar on a weekday. She seemed smart and driven, and from what I’d seen of the article before she’d ripped it out of my hands, extremely well-informed.
“Dude, Coach is ready for another round.” My best friend, Tyler Hammond, poked his head inside the office. He was sweating; black hair damp around his face as he stared at me, cheeks flushed. “Who was that you came in here with?” he asked.
“Some girl from the school paper,” I said. “She wanted an interview.”
“Celebrity status, dude,” Tyler said. He clapped me on the back as I followed him back out to the field. “Have you banged her?”
“She didn’t get much of an interview,” I admitted. “She lost her temper and stormed out. And no, jackass, I didn’t bang her.”
“Oh, a firecracker. My kind of girl,” Tyler joked. While it was true that I wasn’t the kind of man who found myself in a whole bunch of long-term relationships, Tyler gave me a run for my money. That kid would screw anything with breasts and minimal common sense. The dumber they were, the more he wanted to get them into bed. It seemed to me, however, that Grace didn't lack knowledge and intelligence. She’d probably run circles around Tyler’s self-esteem, but I didn’t tell him that.
“Yeah,” I said instead. “She’s something.”
Coach blew his whistle, and the discussion was over. Tyler and I got into position on the field, but not before Ty had saluted to the blonde bimbos making eyes at him over on the bleachers. I put my head down, grunted, and continued with practice.
Sex. It’s all about the sex, you know? As a man, we’re pretty much content with any sex, with any woman; I mean, for the most part. Sure, all guys have their details. Some of us like blond-haired women, others like them thin and tall while some of us even enjoy the chubby chick. When you’re in college, sex is just part of the deal. There are women galore looking for a fling, some are even okay with a one-night stand. Those are my kind of girls because it’s all about the sex without having to get involved in the sappy crap like movie dates and Valentine’s Day gifts.
The chick lying in my bed tonight was someone new, a long-legged brunette with beautiful skin and a nasty chain-smoking habit. She was a dancer for the college drill team, so I couldn’t resist having those toned legs wrapped around my waist, but she wasn’t the kind of girl I would ever consider being with long-term. Not that I ever considered being with anyone long-term. I had other focuses that didn’t involve coddling an insecure relationship with a girl who had more looks than brains.
“I heard you were a good screw, but I had no idea,” the girl said after our third romp in the sack. She reached for the pack of cigarettes she’d sat on my nightstand and lit up. I wanted to tell her to take that disgusting habit outside, but I wasn’t finished yet.
“Yeah?” I said instead. “Who told you that?”
“Just a friend,” she said, then batted her lashes at me and shrugged. “Or two.” I laughed, pleased.
“You aren’t too bad yourself,” I said. The sex had been good. I mean, as good as emotionless, meaningless sex can be with a stranger. The girl, Breanne, I think, put out the cigarette and turned into me again, pushing the sheet off to reveal her naked body. She reached down and began to caress me, ready to go at it again. I was getting hard under her touch, my body reacting to the invitation with feverish anticipation.
“You up for another round?” She reached for a fresh condom on my nightstand, slipping it on me. Before I could answer, she was on top of me, sliding onto me, taking control. I placed my hands on her hips, closed my eyes, and let her do her thing.
Chapter 7
Grace
“Why didn’t you tell me?!” I wailed, plopping down on the couch. Alex came out of the bathroom with a wand of mascara in one hand and her toothbrush in the other.
“Tell you what?”
“That you had Jackson Tate walk my dumbass home last night,” I said. Alex squinted at me, as if trying to remember, and then it dawned on her.
“Oh, yeah, that.” She shrugged and stuck the toothbrush in her mouth so she could pull her hair up. “He asked if he could help, so I took him up on it,” she mumbled.
“It’s so humiliating. I probably acted like such an idiot.” I put my head in my hands and closed my eyes, wishing I could crawl into a hole and hide away forever.
“I thought you didn’t care what he thought,” Alex mused. She removed the toothbrush and stared at me, those brown eyes narrowing into something that I could only assume resembled a wild cat stalking its prey. I almost cowered.
“I don’t care,” I said, but looked away, unable to face her intense analysis. God, she was good at that. I looked down at my fingers instead, pretending to be interested in picking at a cuticle. “But I still wish I could remember all that happened. Like, what I might have said.”
“Do you, though? Do you really wish you could remember what happened?” Alex asked. Thankfully, she didn’t stare me down until I gave her an answer, but she smirked as she went back to the bathroom to finish getting ready.
“You did it on purpose,” I yelled at her. “Out of every person to ask for help, it had to be him.”
“Freak coincidence,” Alex yelled back. I sighed and crossed my arms, trying not to think too deeply about whatever stupid thing I might have said to him last night. Stupid things were a frequent occurrence in my life, and that wasn’t on anybody else, either. I was awkward, antisocial, and for the life of me had never been able to correctly apply makeup, match outfits, or style my hair. You’d think I’d get off lucky and be, like, super personable and charming or something since I couldn’t very well dress myself, but no such luck. Stupid was an everyday occurrence in every aspect of my life. And now, because of my careless mistake, I’d lost my temper and screwed up the interview. Gavin, was going to be pissed if I didn’t fix this, and soon.
“What should I do?” I asked, getting up to bombard Alex in the bathroom. She was applying her makeup meticulously, looking bored with the conversation at hand. Nothing rattled Alex. She wasn’t a stress eater (like me), and she didn’t nearly break down in tears if some random girl gave her the stink eye for no good reason (also me). I envied her calm because I was the farthest thing from it.
“About what?” Alex asked. For a moment, I wanted to kick her in the shin, but the urge soon passed as I remembered the time she’d pinned me to the ground with my arms behind my back for throwing a clothes hanger at her. Granted, it had been a wire hanger, but I wasn’t even aiming for her. Regardless, Alex fought dirty, and I had no desire to end back up on the floor again as she held me down.
“I stormed out during the interview and didn’t get anything,” I said instead.
“So, try again,” she said with a shrug. “Get your shit together and write the article that Gavin wants from you.”
“Just like that?” I said.
“Just like that.” Alex turned to look at me, grinning. “He’s just a boy. He probably still picks his nose and jacks off to raunchy romance comedies.”
“Thanks for that image,” I said, screwing up my face in disgust.
Alex always knew just what to say when it came to menfolk, even if it was all negative. She’d never wanted any part of it.
“Boys are gross. It’s fact.”
While she had a point, and it was probably true that females, in general, were cleaner and a bit more sophisticated, I knew I was straight. Sadly, the smell of a man’s cologne and the way they could put their strong arms around you and hold you forever still got me all giddy inside, regardless of the fact that they probably still picked their noses. Women just didn’t do for me what they did for Alex.
“Fine,” I said. I sighed heavily to make it clear that it wasn’t something I wanted to do. “I’ll try again tomorrow.”
Jackson sat down across from me in the empty office, tossing that stupid football from hand to hand as though his life depended on it.
“Let’s try this again, shall we?” I said. I was trying my best to be pleasant with him, but my jaw clenched uncomfortably with my fake smile. There was a ninety-nine percent chance he wouldn’t notice, though, because guys like Jackson Tate couldn’t see past the mirror.
“We can try this as many times as you want to, but my answer to that question isn’t changing,” he said.
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
I sighed and bent my head to the side, popping the tension from my neck. The urge to punch him in the face was both overwhelming and mighty appealing, but I knew if I could control my distaste for Jackson Tate long enough to write this stupid article, then I could convince Gavin to turn the assignment over to someone else. Hopefully, in time, I’d be free and clear of any more interaction with him.
“Nice sweatshirt,” Jackson said as I rifled through papers. I paused, glancing down at the Coexist symbol on my chest.
“You like the hoodie, or you like my boobs?” I asked, and then slapped one hand over my mouth in horror. “I’m so sorry,” I said before Jackson could respond. “I was only thinking it. I didn’t mean to say it.” Sweat was accumulating in all the worst places on my body, and I was positive my face was as red as the tacky wall paint behind us.
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