Backlash (The Rivals Book 2)

by Geneva Lee

  The room is tiny, about half the size of a Valmont dorm room. A small window looks out on the red brick building across the alley, and there’s a twin bed in the corner next to it. The rest of the room is filled with books. Wherever there isn’t room for a bookcase, shelves have been bolted onto the walls. I notice that most of the books are marked with white Dewey decimal stickers.

  “Is there anything left at your local library?” I say without thinking.

  “I didn’t steal them,” he says, a little wounded.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s fair.” He runs his fingers along the spines of a row of books, almost wistfully. “When the library around the corner closed, they moved most of their books to other branches. What was left over was sold four for a dollar. At that point, there wasn’t a single book from a bestseller list this century. I spent every dollar I could get my hands on. I looked for change on my way to school. I went so many times over their last month that the librarians ended up letting me carry off entire boxes for free, just so they wouldn’t have to take them to a landfill.”

  “I’m sure it had nothing to do with you loving books as much as they did,” I say. “How many of them have you read?”

  “Almost all of the fiction,” he says evenly. “Older non-fiction is pretty hit-and-miss. Racist historians from the 50s get old pretty fast.”

  I almost can’t believe he has read all these books. Did he do anything else? I find an average looking shelf, count the number of books, and multiply it by the number of shelves I see. “Sterling, there are probably two thousand books here. You’re telling me you’ve read almost all of them?”

  “I’ve seen the library at Windfall. You’ve probably read even more than me.”

  “Uh, no. Not even close. What happens in this one?” I put my hand on a book at random. It turns out to be Lady Chatterley’s Lover, by D.H. Lawrence. Whoops.

  “Don’t pretend like you don’t know that one. You like the Brits, remember?”

  “That doesn’t mean I’ve all of British literature.” I look around the room again. “I mean, you have.”

  “It’s not great, anyway. Too stoically British for me. You should read it.” A wry smile pops onto Sterling’s face as he adds, “Might give you pointers on falling for someone beneath you.”

  I shake my head. I hate it when he says things like that, but I don’t want to fight—so I pretend he means something else. “Are you saying you’re a libertine?”

  “Your virtue is not safe.” He pulls me toward him, his hands greedy for my body.

  Francie’s voice sounds behind us in the hall as Sterling gives my earlobe a playful nip. “I’m going to bed. Goodnight, you two.”

  She shuts the door, leaving us alone. “I still can’t believe she’s okay with me being in your room.”

  “Like people our age don’t sleep together in Valmont?”

  “We’re raised to sneak around,” I tell him. “It’s the proper thing to do.”

  “Wait, where were we?”

  “You were assailing my virtue.”

  “Right,” he says, and his hands are on me again. “Where do you come down on opening presents before Christmas?”

  He pops the top button of my red plaid pajamas.

  “We always open presents on Christmas Eve.”

  “What about Christmas Eve’s Eve? I’m not sure I can wait until Christmas morning,” he explains. “You are my present, right?”

  “As long as it won’t ruin Christmas or anything.”

  He pops another button, just between my breasts, and I can feel the familiar electric throb of his hands on my body. I close my eyes and let it take over.

  “See, that’s your problem right there, Lucky.”

  I peek down at what he’s talking about. “Huh?”

  “The bow is supposed to go on the outside of the present.” He points to the small silk bow sewn on my bra.

  “You know, I wasn’t sure I had it right. That’s why there are two bows.”

  “Two?” He fiddles with the drawstring on my bottoms. “Where’s the other one?”

  “You’ll have to look.”

  He bunches the fabric of my shirt in either hand and pulls me toward him. He peers down at my chest, inspecting my body carefully. “No, not here.”

  He drops on one knee, pulls up the loose flannel fabric of my bottoms. “Am I closer?”

  “You’re getting warmer.”

  His hands run up the backs of my thighs. When they reach my ass, he takes his time, clearly enjoying the inspection process. “It’s not here, either.”

  “You know, when I’m really excited for a present, I can’t help ripping the wrapping off.” It’s not exactly true. Most of the Christmas presents I’ve received seem to have been picked off a shelf during a brisk walk through Nieman Marcus. I learned pretty quickly not to get my hopes up.

  Sterling rises to his feet and fixes me with a hungry look. My eyes flutter again as I feel his hands grab the fabric around the clasped buttons of my top. A sharp yank separates one side from the other, and I hear the buttons cascade to the floor in every direction.

  “What am I going to wear on Christmas?” I gasp, but Sterling distracts me immediately.

  With two strong hands below my ribs, he lifts me from the ground. He’s pinned the cuffs of my pant with his feet, and they slide free of my hips as he lifts, pooling beneath me. That’s what I get for suggesting he rip open his gift.

  “Found it,” he says triumphantly. His teeth nip my skin as he bites down on the matching bow of my panties. When he gently lowers me to the small bed, his teeth are still clasped on it.

  He draws my panties off with the bow between his teeth, and I nearly combust. Sterling smirks as my hips wiggle closer. Sliding his palms down my inner thighs, he coaxes them open before dipping to yoke himself with my knees.

  I try to say something, but the feel of his breath there robs me of words.

  His warm tongue incapacitates me further, and I hear myself moan in pleasure as if I were outside my own body. He takes his time, moving slowly over a large area, then increases the tempo and pressure until I’m pulsing to his rhythm.

  He sucks my clit into his mouth, and it’s as if I can feel every drop of blood in my body go to meet him. I bite my lip, trying to stifle my pleasure. There’s no way these walls can stand up to the pleasure threatening to spill out of me. There’s a swirl and a nip and the first loud moan escapes.

  Sterling’s hand covers my mouth. Apparently, he’s worried about traumatizing Francie, too.

  His other hand spreads me, and then his tongue dips lower. I whimper against his palm, covering his hand with my own to help smother my noises. He seems to sense that I’m close, and his tongue thrusts into me while his hand clamps down on my cries.

  The pleasure is tidal, drawing me out and pushing me back. But something’s missing. The waves fade and I yank his hand away from my mouth. “I need you. Now.”

  “That bed is awfully squeaky.” He shakes his head, and a painful throb fills the absence of his mouth.

  “Then screw the bed.” I shove him away and drop to the floor. He gets the idea, falling back on his heels, as I reach over to my bag beside the bed and remove a condom. He watches, his eyes narrow and hooded, as I roll it into place.

  I climb onto him, straddling him just over the navel. I place his hands where I want them, one on my mouth, as before, the other on my hip, and then I lower myself until I feel the brief sting of latex followed by the sensation of every inch of him sliding into me. It only seems fair that it’s my turn to control things. Sterling stares at me, his face wearing a look of awe, as I circle around him.

  “Fuck,” he groans.

  My hips rise and fall in a tempo of their own choosing. When I can’t hold my release another second I grab his hands and throw them onto my ass. He pushes our hips together with all his might. It sends me over the edge, and Sterling crushes his mouth to mine, swallowing my cries, as hi
s own body tenses. We collapse into each other, sweaty and out of breath.

  “If I live a hundred years,” he says raggedly, “I’ll never see something that hot again.”

  “Challenge accepted,” I say, nuzzling into his chest.

  The next morning I wake up to blinding light streaming through the window. My hand reaches behind me and finds nothing but an empty mattress. Hauling myself out of Sterling’s bed, I rub my eyes, clearing the sleep enough to realize the light is so bright because it snowed.

  Snow usually comes late to middle Tennessee, arriving after the holiday season. The last white Christmas I remember was five years ago. I dig in my suitcase, pulling on a thick pair of fleece leggings and an oversized Valmont University sweatshirt. Then I bounce down to find Sterling.

  Rounding the bottom of the staircase, I pause to check out the house. We’d arrived so late last night that it was already dark out, and then we’d gotten caught in the kitchen with Francie. This is the first time I really get to see it. The living room is cramped, a miss-mash of old furniture from different decades pushed against the wall to make as much space to move as possible. An older television is propped on a cart in the corner—and there are books everywhere. I wonder if they’re Francie’s or Sterling’s. But there’s one thing missing.

  A Christmas tree.1

  “Sterling,” I call, retracing my way to the kitchen. “Where’s the…” My question fades when I come around the corner. He’s standing at the counter, rifling through a stack of envelopes while a black, plastic coffee machine brews a pot. That’s not what stops me, though. He’s standing there in nothing but boxers. No matter how many times I see him like this, I can’t help stopping to admire him,.

  He turns, a smirk twisting across his lips, stubble dusting his jawline. “Forget what you were saying, Lucky?”

  I shake my head, trying to clear my brain, which is as blurry as the swirling snowfall outside the window. In the end, I’m forced to close my eyes to regain control of myself.

  “Christmas tree,” I say. “Where’s the Christmas tree?”

  “In Central Park,” he says.

  The spell is broken, and I’m able to look at him again, careful to keep my eyes above shoulder level. “Your Christmas tree?”

  “We don’t do that,” he says.

  “You… what?”

  “Francie almost always works Christmas. No one else wants to,” he says. “What’s the point of putting up a tree for like five minutes?”

  My own family always put up a tree despite leaving for vacation on Christmas morning. I can’t understand not having one. “It’s tradition.”

  “We can decorate her cactus,” he suggests pointing to the small potted plant on the window.

  “Well, I know what we’re doing today,” I say.

  “Lucky…”

  “Nope.” I cross to him and wrap my arms around my waist. “You’ve been all of my firsts, Sterling Ford. Let me be your first Christmas morning.”

  “Do I get to unwrap you?” he asks, his hand sliding around to grope my rear.

  “Again?”

  “Well, I could have sworn I already did it, but here’s my present all covered up again.”

  “Get dressed,” I order him with a swift kiss. “I want to go out in the snow, and then we can get a tree and…”

  “Okay, slow down.” He drops the envelopes on the counter, but his eyes linger on them. I see one from Valmont on top.

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Bills,” he says tightly. “Looks like my scholarship didn’t cover everything.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask.

  “It’s nothing for you to worry about. I’ll talk with Francie. I just wish she’d told me. I should have been working this semester.”

  “You were going to school,” I remind him.

  A muscle twitches in his jaw, and his response is so even that I know he’s calibrating it carefully. “Not everyone has the luxury of being a full-time student. It’s not a big deal. I can find something on campus to help out.”

  He kisses me and dashes upstairs to get dressed. I stare at the envelope, fighting the urge to open it and see how much he owes. It would be easy for me to pay it off. I could even sweet talk someone in the administration to send me future bills by dropping my last name. Then, he wouldn’t have to worry, and Francie wouldn’t have to take holiday shifts. But if he ever found out…

  The bill is still on the counter, untouched, and I’m finishing a cup of coffee when Sterling appears downstairs, fully dressed.

  “Okay, show me how this Christmas thing is done, Lucky.”

  We head into the snow in search of a Christmas tree lot, but I can’t quit thinking about that bill and wondering what to do about it.

  The lot closest to Sterling’s is already closed, and we have to go another block to find one with a few trees left. All of them are scraggly, scrawny pines that look like they’ve lost half their needles.

  “I can see why you want one of these,” Sterling says dryly. “Aren’t these a fire hazard?”

  I study the tree he’s pointing to and am forced to agree he’s right. It’s clearly dead.

  “Let’s keep looking.”

  “Your lips are blue,” he says, fixing my scarf for the tenth time. “Let’s head back, and I’ll warm you up.”

  The offer is tempting, and I’m on the verge of giving in, when I spot a few smaller trees near the lot’s business office. The trees are only two or three feet tall, but they’re healthy.

  “There!” I point.

  “You want a Charlie Brown tree?”

  “A what?” I ask.

  He stares at me. “And I’m the one who doesn’t do Christmas, right?”

  The lot gives us the tree, which pleases Sterling, and because it’s so small it takes no effort to carry it back to his place. We spend the afternoon crafting ornaments from some of the old racist history books he never got rid of—it’s obviously the best use for them—and watching the Charlie Brown Christmas Special.

  When we’re finished with our homemade decorations, we stand back to admire our work.

  “It’s actually awesome,” Sterling says.

  “It’s perfect.”

  “What else am I supposed to do on Christmas?” he asks. “What do you do at home?”

  “We unwrap presents on Christmas Eve, and then we have breakfast the next morning before we go on a trip. Mom always planned them.” My voice breaks as I realize that this tradition is gone forever. Being in New York is distracting me, but it doesn’t change it.

  “Let’s open presents then,” he says.

  “Really?” I say. “You got me a present?”

  “Of course I got you a present,” he says, groaning. “I’m not a complete amateur—but it’s not much.”

  “I got you something, too. Something small,” I say quickly.

  “I haven’t wrapped it yet.”

  “Me either.”

  “We’re not very good at this, are we?” he asks.

  “It’s just practice for next year,” I say.

  “Keeping me around that long?” He manages to make this sound like a joke, but there’s an edge of something to it.

  “Give me a second to get yours.”

  We meet back in the living room a few minutes later and sit in front of our tree.

  “You first.” I thrust the bag from The Strand at him.

  A bemused smile cracks his mouth.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You’ll see.” He takes out the novel slowly, and I can’t get a read on him.

  “I saw you looking at it,” I say when he remains silent. “So I cheated and bought it.”

  “It’s wonderful,” he says in a quiet voice. “Better than my old library copy.”

  I can’t tell if he actually likes it. Maybe he’s disappointed to receive a book he already owns. Maybe I misread his interest. I break the silence, tugging on his hand. “My turn!”

  “Um, I should
really…” He scoots a little and I realize there’s a brown paper bag next to him—and he’s trying to hide it.

  “Is that it?” I snatch it before he can stop me.

  “Just… I thought of you, and it’s stupid.”

  The brown paper bag is stamped with The Strand logo, and I realize it’s the ‘reading material for the plane.’ Sneaky. That’s what he found funny. We both found a way to buy each other a book without the other one noticing. I open the bag and draw out a used copy of The Great Gatsby. It’s not a fancy one from the rare books room we visited. Most of its age is down to shelf-wear, like it had been sitting for a long time, unread. The cover is older, a simple illustration of eyes, and not much else. When I open it, I actually hear the spine crack. Inside the pages are slightly yellow but otherwise pristine save for notes scattered throughout.

  “I did that,” he admits. “This morning. I thought it would be cool for you to see what I thought. It’s dumb.”

  “I love it,” I say honestly.

  “It’s not nearly as nice as this,” he says.

  “It’s the words that matter. That’s what you gave me—its heart.” I crawl over to him and kiss him.

  “That’s all, I’m afraid,” he says. “Told you Christmas is pretty fast at my house.”

  “That’s all?” I repeat, pretending to be confused. “I could have sworn you had something else to give me.”

  He catches on quickly, and we spend the rest of the day giving each other our hearts.

  Francie’s shift turns into a double and by the time she makes it home, Sterling has crashed on the couch. He doesn’t even wake up when she tosses her keys loudly on the counter. I untangle myself, eager to have a minute alone with her.

  “You’re awake,” she says when I walk into the kitchen.

  “I’ve been watching Christmas movies. My mom loved them,” I explain, grabbing a seat at the kitchen table. Somehow it helps me feel closer to her to remember the little traditions. The ones that didn’t involve party guests and boarding passes. I’m finding she lives on in the spirit of the holiday more than in the grand gestures.

  “Sterling around?” She opens the fridge and pulls out a plastic container.