The Play: Briar U

by Kennedy, Elle

  “Are you sure you don’t want to go to Conor’s?” I fret.

  “No.” He kisses the top of my head. “I’m never leaving this room.”

  “Well, we have to leave it at some point to make an appearance downstairs.”

  “Fine. We’ll go down once every hour for twenty-minute intervals, then come back up here and fuck. After midnight, all bets are off and we stay in here forever.” His hand slithers down to pinch my bare butt.

  “You’re insatiable.”

  “Babe. I’m literally coming off a nine-month sex drought. If it was possible, my dick would be permanently inside you for at least three weeks.”

  “Three weeks?” I yelp. That sounds exhausting. Fun, but exhausting.

  “You’re right. That’s completely unreasonable. I’ll need at least three months inside you before my balls return to normal. It takes a while for semen production to regulate.”

  I snicker loudly. “Gross.”

  Voices echo outside my door as several of my sorority sisters pass by.

  “Well, if you do want to go and party with your friends, I wouldn’t fault you for it,” I say, carelessly stroking his ridged abdomen.

  “Not going anywhere, Semi,” he says stubbornly, his arm tightening around me.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  He snorts. “You’ll ask regardless of my answer to that.”

  “True.” My grin fades as I broach the subject I’d been avoiding since we first had sex. “Are you mad at me for pushing you to break your celibacy vow?”

  “No.” Nothing but sincerity there.

  “Are you mad at yourself?”

  “I was the morning after,” he reveals.

  “Really?” I say in surprise. This is the first time he’s admitted to having any doubts or regrets about us.

  “Yeah, for all of five minutes.” His calloused fingertips tease my shoulder. “Then I saw you lying there naked in my bed, and I wanted to keep breaking the vow, over and over again.”

  “But it was important to you,” I say guiltily.

  “It was, but…” His hand continues roaming my bare skin. “This feels more important.”

  He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t push him to. We lie there for a while, neither of us in a hurry to join the party, which has already started judging by the music that’s rocking the house.

  “Did you have a good time in New York?” After Christmas he spent a few days in Manhattan with Dean and his girlfriend.

  “It was fun. The Bruins were playing the Islanders, so Garrett got us into the box. Fucking amazing game.”

  I reach up and run my fingers through his hair. “None of your hair seems to be missing,” I tease.

  “It’s the gel, man. Stops me from pulling it out.”

  “What do you like better—watching live hockey, or playing it?”

  “Playing, obviously.” He doesn’t even hesitate.

  “Have you ever played in front of a crowd as large as the one in TD Garden?”

  Hunter chuckles. “No college arena even rivals that. Now that would be a thrill, eh?”

  I furrow my brow. “I still don’t get why can’t do it. From what Brenna’s told me, someone would sign you in a heartbeat. She says if you announced your interest, half the teams in the league would be courting you after your graduate. But you keep saying you’re not interested and it makes no sense to me. You said you don’t want to be famous, but I don’t believe that’s the reason. I mean, maybe it’s tied into it, but what’s the real reason?”

  “It’s the lifestyle, Demi. I have a problem with debauchery.”

  “No, I think you think you have a problem with debauchery,” I correct. “But from what I’ve gleaned, you don’t drink to excess, you don’t have any harmful sexual compulsions that interfere with your regular life, you don’t do drugs. You’re charming, so you could easily handle being interviewed or doing press.” I inject a note of challenge into my voice. “So what are you really afraid of?”

  Hunter is silent for a long time. He absently strokes my shoulder. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough. “If I tell you, do you promise not to make fun of me? Or judge me?”

  I almost laugh until I realize he’s serious. So I put on my best neutral tone. “I promise I won’t make fun of you. And I’d never judge you, Hunter.”

  “Okay.” His chest rises as he draws a breath. “I’m afraid I’ll cheat,” he confesses.

  “Cheat? Like in the game?”

  “No, the other kind of cheating.” He exhales in a slow stream of air. “All those road games, all those hotel rooms and hotel bars, all those women throwing themselves at me. I know I don’t have a sex addiction, but I’ve got my father’s genes and they don’t exactly have the greatest track record.”

  “Your father’s a narcissist. You’re not.” I plant a reassuring kiss on his shoulder. “You’re nothing like him, baby.”

  “He’d disagree with you on that. A few years ago he told me we’re two of a kind.”

  My eyes narrow. “Why on earth would he say that?”

  Hunter sighs sheepishly. “The summer before college, he caught me fucking a chick on our kitchen counter. Mom was visiting my grandparents that weekend, and Dad was supposed to be away on business, but he came home early.” An edge hardens his tone. “You should’ve seen how proud he looked to find me buck-naked and going to town on a girl I wasn’t even dating. I met her at a party the night before and she stayed over.”

  I try to imagine what my own father would do if he walked in on me having sex with someone in our kitchen. Commit a double homicide, obviously.

  “He was genuinely proud to think his son was a depraved cad. But I guess that’s not much of a surprise. I know Dad slept with at least three of his assistants—one I witnessed firsthand. And I just…I think about all the business trips he took over the years. I bet he had a woman in every city. I’m sure there were more affairs than Mom and I could even imagine.”

  “And you’re worried you’ll have a girlfriend or wife, and you’ll be away a lot and cheat?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “So you’re punishing yourself for something you haven’t even done.”

  His bare chest tenses. “That’s not it.”

  “That’s exactly it. You’re preemptively punishing yourself—depriving yourself of something you love, for fear you might do something you hate, some vague point down the line. That’s not a healthy way to look at things.”

  “No. I mean, maybe? Maybe that’s it, or maybe it isn’t. All I know is that when I decided not to enter the draft after high school, I felt relieved.”

  “And yet every time I see you watching Garrett and Logan play, there’s envy in your eyes.”

  Hunter’s ragged breath tickles my head. His chest rises and falls again. “Let’s put this on the shelf for now. It’s hurting my brain. Tell me about your holidays.”

  “I already did—we texted every day,” I remind him.

  “I know, but I like your voice and I want to hear you talk.”

  I smile against left pec, then offer a more detailed recap of my visit to Miami. I tell him about my new nephew, about my crazy aunts and my excitable cousins. Being a very Catholic community, Christmas is very much celebrated in Miami, and one of my family’s favorite traditions is a visit to Santa’s Enchanted Forest. I took my younger cousins there, and five-year-old Maria peed on one of the rides. While sitting in my lap. Fun times.

  “Do you speak Spanish?” Hunter asks curiously. “I just realized I don’t even know if you do.”

  “I understand it better than I speak it. Dad has a terrible ear for languages, so he only speaks English at home. Mom used to speak both to me because she didn’t want me to lose the Spanish, but I kinda have,” I say glumly. “Not entirely, though. I mean, I’d be fluent again in a week if I was around people who spoke it exclusively.”

  “I’d love to learn another language. You should teach me Spanish, and then we could practice toget
her.”

  “Deal.” I snuggle up closer to him. “Oh, and on the flight home, I tried bringing up the med school thing to my dad again. Mom is staying in Miami for another week, so it was just me and him. But he wasn’t having it,” I admit.

  Hunter strokes my hair. “You still having doubts about that?”

  “More than doubts.” I inhale slowly. “I don’t want to go.”

  It’s the first time I’ve ever said that out loud.

  “Then don’t,” Hunter says simply. “You shouldn’t go to med school for your father—you should go for yourself. You need to walk your own path, and that means following your own dreams, not his. Your first priority should be pleasing yourself, not him.”

  A laugh tickles my throat. I try to hold it in, but it ripples out.

  “What is it?”

  “I just realized what a sad pair we are.” I can’t stop giggling. “Here I am sacrificing my aspirations to be like my father, and you’re sacrificing your aspirations to not be like your father. That is fascinating.”

  “Jesus. You’re such a psychologist. Is this what it’s always going to be like? Lying in bed naked while you psychoanalyze us?”

  I prop up on my elbow, biting my lip. “Does it actually bother you?”

  “Nah.” He flashes his dimpled smile, and I lean down and kiss one of those adorable dimples. “It’s funny,” he continues. “Most of the time, you analyze and rationalize and try to find solutions. And then other times, you’re batshit crazy.”

  “I am not!”

  “You have a violent streak, you maniac. You smash people’s game consoles.” He grins up at me. “Quite the dichotomy, Demi Davis.”

  “Both crazy and sane,” I say somberly. “A rare condition, indeed.”

  “Anyway.” He strokes his knuckles over my cheek. “You don’t need to chase your father’s approval—you already have it. I don’t think he’ll disown you if you choose grad school over med school.”

  “You don’t know how he feels about PhDs, Hunter. For the rest of my life he’ll be making wisecracks about how I’m not a real doctor.” My buzzing phone captures my attention. “Shit, that’s probably Josie ordering me to come downstairs and hang more decorations.”

  I stretch across his muscular chest to grab my phone from the nightstand. Hunter uses the opportunity to slide one palm between us to cup one of my boobs.

  I shiver in pleasure, but my arousal dissolves when I see my father’s name. Speak of the devil.

  I click on his message, and my eyebrows soar. “Oh, this is interesting.”

  “What?” Hunter lazily caresses the swell of my breast.

  “My father is inviting us to New Year’s Day brunch tomorrow.”

  Hunter’s hand freezes. “Us?”

  “Yep.” I sit up and grin at his panicky expression. “He wants to meet you.”

  32

  Demi

  A few days after New Year’s, Hunter and I are back on campus walking toward the Psych building. It’s the final lecture of the semester and we’re supposed to be receiving our case studies back, but while I’ve got a spring to my step as we amble down the path, Hunter’s long gait is stilted and his expression is sullen. He’s been sulking non-stop since we had brunch with my father.

  “God, could you try to smile?” I demand. “It’s such a beautiful day.”

  “It’s minus-fucking-twenty and your dad hates me. It’s not a beautiful day.”

  I suppress a sigh. “He doesn’t hate you. He liked you.”

  “If by liked, you mean loathed, then you’re right.”

  “I see. Now he doesn’t just hate you—he loathes you. Someone’s been drinking the drama juice.”

  “And someone’s refusing to face the truth,” Hunter grumbles. “Your father did not like me.”

  I want to argue again, but it’s getting harder to find a solid defense for my father’s behavior.

  I refuse to say it aloud, because I don’t want to injure Hunter’s pride any further, but brunch was…awful.

  It did not go well.

  I really wish Mom had been there to create a parental balance, but she’s still in Florida, and it was me and Hunter versus my father from the get-go. After a whopping two questions about Hunter’s background, Dad determined he was dealing with a spoiled rich boy from Greenwich, Connecticut. Which is absolutely not the case—Hunter is the most down-to-earth person I know, and his work ethic is stellar.

  But my father is incredibly biased and impossible to please. He grew up poor and sacrificed so much to get to where he is now, so needless to say, anyone born with a silver spoon in their mouth already has one strike in my father’s eyes.

  And he wasn’t even impressed by Hunter’s athletic achievements. I thought for sure that would win him over. I not-so-subtly brought up how much work is required in order to excel in a sport, but I think by that point Dad was just trying to be difficult because he waved my comment off. Which is bullshit. He’s a big football fan, and I’ve heard him say numerous times that football players possess an incredible work ethic.

  Clearly, Dad is still on Team Nico. But I’m hoping he switches his loyalties, because I’m Team Hunter all the way.

  “He’ll warm up to you,” I say, giving Hunter’s hand a squeeze.

  He slants his head. “Will he? Because that implies I’ll be seeing him often.”

  I hesitate. We haven’t formally declared ourselves as “dating,” so I’m not entirely sure if he’ll see my dad again. Also, until we define our relationship, I’m trying to avoid PDA, so I drop Hunter’s hand as we reach the building, because Pax and TJ are waiting on the steps.

  “Ah! New boots!” Pax shouts when he spots me. His envious gaze devours my footwear, which is indeed new—black leather boots with brown fur, to match the hood of my parka. “I love!” he announces.

  “Thanks! I’d like to say I feel the same way about your hair, but…what the hell is going on there?”

  Hunter snorts. “For real, Jax. I’m not into it.”

  I roll my eyes. He’s well aware what Pax’s real name is, but now it’s just a running joke, and Pax plays along because he thinks Hunter is hot.

  “When did you get that done?” I ask.

  “And why?” TJ says, looking like he’s trying not to laugh.

  Sighing dramatically, Pax smooths a hand over the green streaks in his black hair. “This past weekend. And why? Because my little sister is in cosmetology school and her exams are coming up, so she was practicing her dye skills on me.”

  “I’m not going to lie,” I inform him. “It looks terrible.”

  “Gee, thanks, bestie.” He winks. “The guy I hooked up with last night didn’t seem to mind.”

  “Nice.” Hunter holds his palm up for a high five.

  Jax—dammit, now I’m doing it. Pax returns the high five, and then the four of us escape the January chill and enter the building. I notice TJ slide a curious look between me and Hunter, but he doesn’t say anything.

  We take our usual seats in the middle of the row, only this time Hunter usurps Pax’s place beside me. Once again TJ’s gaze takes note.

  Anticipation ripples inside me when Professor Andrews arrives with her two TAs in tow. Yes! Either my eyes are projecting what they want to see, or the teaching assistants are carrying our graded assignments.

  “Morning, ladies and gents. So… The previous times I taught this course, I used to return these at the end of the final lecture, with the simple goal of torturing everyone. I’m not certain what that reveals about my own psychological makeup—” Andrews grins at the class. “With that said, I’m in the mood to be nice today.”

  She’s behaving atypically goofy, but perhaps that’s because this is our last day. The TAs who ran our tutorials approach each aisle and begin calling out names. One by one, students get up to accept their assignments.

  Although everyone worked together on the projects, each paper was handed in and graded separately. I practically dive out of my seat w
hen my name is called. The moment the envelope that contains my submission is in my hand, I waste no time slicing it open. Beside me, Hunter does the same with his.

  A cover page is stapled to the front of my submission, and I almost shriek out loud when I see my grade.

  A-plus, baby.

  Hell yeah.

  Curious, I peer over at Hunter’s sheet. “What’d you get?”

  “B-plus.” He looks pleased with that. I had proofed his research paper and thought it was excellent, but I probably would’ve gone more in-depth about certain things, so I think the grade is fair.

  I flip through the pages of my case study to find that Andrews scribbled notes in the margins. The praise I find is ludicrously good for my ego. Things like:

  Terrific insight!

  Highly perceptive!

  Provocative…

  GREAT angle, she writes in the section where I discuss possible counseling tactics to try to help the narcissist reach the rare self-awareness. The slew of compliments has my ego swelling to monstrous proportions. This feels way more satisfying than the A-plus I got in Organic Chem. This one feels right.

  Hunter leans closer to whisper in my ear. “You look so hot right now.”

  I wrinkle my forehead. “Really?”

  “Oh yeah.” His breath tickles my cheek. “It’s that cocky look in your eyes. Never thought I’d get turned on by an academic, but fuck, I’ve got a semi, Semi.”

  I snicker softly. But I realize he’s not kidding when he straightens up and I glimpse the hot lust swimming in his eyes.

  I gulp through my suddenly parched throat, turning toward TJ as a distraction. “How’d you do?”

  “An A,” he replies, and Pax got a B, so all in all I’d say Abnormal Psych was a smashing success.

  Since it’s the last class, Andrews rewards us with a topic that I could probably spend a solid twenty-four hours listening to: serial killers. In fact, if you tally all the time I’ve spent watching crime shows, it probably adds up to a depressingly long portion of my life.

  Andrews begins to discuss a case that’s so macabre I’m on the edge of my seat. Ten minutes in, although she still hasn’t named the killer, I grab Hunter’s arms and hiss, “She’s talking about Harold Howarth!”