by Lyla Payne
“I get that you’re lonely, Rubes. And it sounds so stupid, what people say. But it’s the truth—when it’s right, you can feel it. You won’t have to try at all, you’ll just know.” Tears pooled in her dark eyes and Emilie pulled her ratty old stuffed polar bear into her chest. “Last year, you told me I deserved everything. You do, too, and you’re not even trying to find it. What if he’s here, at Whitman, and you miss out?”
She looked like an earnest kid, and guilt swelled against my throat so hard it pressed tears into my eyes, too. I should have apologized, but the words stuck in my throat.
“I know you care, Em. But believe me, he’s not at Whitman.” I stood up, stretching my legs and slipping my feet into a pair of flats that matched my green and white striped sundress. “Are you going to be here for a while?”
She nodded. “Yeah. I’m going to stay over. I have a meeting with a buyer in the morning and she’s picking me up here.”
The comment churned my stomach harder. I’d been so wrapped up in Liam, the play, the Coterie, and the website, that I hadn’t bothered to ask what was going on with her lately. I’d assumed that her life revolved around Quinn’s bed. Emilie had never been that way, would never give up the things that made her happy, like her art. I felt like a shitty friend.
“I’m going to grab us a couple of diet limeades, okay?”
I ran out without waiting for her response, needing some space and some air and a few minutes to calm down. It didn’t matter that what she’d said about Liam hit some chords. I had my reasons for not wanting a commitment, and for all of the trials in Em’s past, she’d never felt like a permanent outsider the way I did. Yes, Quinn had treated her badly for a while, but she’d never been discarded because of her DNA.
My insides were a confused mess. Anger over Emilie’s too-close-for-comfort accusations swirled into guilt over ignoring her, loneliness, and the deep-down surety that I didn’t want to be Liam’s booty call, but I didn’t want to be alone, either.
I banged out the front door, everything building into a scream that begged to rip from my lips. This was Whitman, though, and I’d been raised better. Instead, I stood on the front porch with my eyes closed, hands fisted, and counted to ten.
Then I did it again, because it still felt as though steam boiled out of my ears.
Halfway through a third count, company interrupted my attempt at calm. When I didn’t open my eyes, it cleared its throat.
“Ruby, can I talk to you for a wee sec?”
The accent and weird jargon announced Cole’s presence, but I still opened my eyes. He looked more gorgeous than ever in khaki shorts and a Whitman Swimming T-shirt, his tanned legs tucked into ankle socks and a pair of gray and green team tennis shoes. His T-shirt was thin enough to hint at the muscles the rain had displayed so clearly the other day. The sun had just dropped below the horizon, painting the world with shades of pink and purple. Afternoon faded to twilight, softening Cole’s shower—or maybe pool—wet hair and turning his eyes an impossibly light green.
I glared to cover up the way the sight of him crushed the air from my lungs, stood every cell in my body at the kind of attention West Point cadets strove for every morning. It brought back the way he had cared for me so effortlessly the last time we were together, and how good it would feel to step into his arms and let him do the same right now.
“Well, if it isn’t Cole Fucking Stuart.”
“That’s not actually my middle name, you know.”
“You probably have like six middle names to honor the generations of Scotsmen who came before you. Where are you hiding your kilt?”
“In my closet.” He tipped his head to the side like it was a ridiculous question.
For some reason, the image of Cole in a kilt made me hot all over. The barely beaten storm of negativity whipped back into a frenzy in my stomach. “What do you want, Cole? Is there a problem with the float?”
The freshman had been working on our Homecoming float. I’d seen texted pics but hadn’t been over to check on their progress in person.
“No. This is about you.” He ran a hand over his hair, looking unsure of himself for the first time since I’d met him. “I know you’re behind the sex ratings website.”
Breath wheezed out of my lungs for a different reason this time. If Cole could find out, I needed to talk to Noah about better security. The last thing I needed was trouble with the chancellor over this whole thing. I tried to hide my displeasure at the escape of my secret, but his keen gaze saw everything. “And?”
“And, while I appreciate the idea that the fairer sex has every right to expect certain things from Whitman men, I take issue with my own referrals.”
“Or lack thereof,” I corrected.
I swore I heard his teeth grind together. It seemed as though it was possible to get under Cole’s ruggedly serene exterior, after all. He obviously attached some importance to his reputation. Typical.
“Exactly. Those ratings are not reflective of any actual complaints about my…prowess.”
“Oh? Then what are they reflective of?”
“I’m afraid that’s my business, but you’ll need to take them down.”
My hackles rose. If I were a dog, all of the hair on the back of my neck would be ruffled. “I don’t need to do anything. You need to get over it. I’m sure with your face and your accent and your money and star swimmer status etcetera etcetera etcetera, that you’re not going to have any issue getting laid, regardless of your wake of disappointed exes.”
The insult hit home, even sandwiched between more compliments than I’d actually meant to offer, and shame flickered in his typically level gaze. Cole took a step toward me and then another, but if intimidation was his game, he’d come to the wrong place. I didn’t move, defying him with a pissed off expression of my own. The back of my mind whispered that being cruel to Cole to salve my hurt over Emilie’s assessment of my choices wasn’t fair.
I gasped involuntarily when Cole invaded my personal space. He looked down at me, green eyes blazing, but not with anger. Instead, I glimpsed a battle between desire, regret, and acute fear.
The first two I understood. The latter befuddled me.
Soft fingers brushed my cheek, spilling fire over my neck as they ran down my bare arm, and clasped my own. Dizziness appeared from nowhere, like some frat guys had dumped a barrel of trash can punch into me, and the world behind his face blurred. Staring seemed to be a bad habit Cole and I shared, but for long moments, neither of us seemed to notice.
If Cole had auditioned cold, walked into my theatre without a resume or a single referral, I would have been tempted to take a chance on him. Liam and I weren’t serious, and every cell in my body seemed charged with the certainty that Cole deserved a shot at the starring role.
He slowly lowered his face toward mine, fiery gaze fastened to my mouth. Oxygen heaved out of me and my heart pounded against my ribs. A tiny voice shouted from the recesses of my brain to remember Michael, and Cole’s ratings, and to push him away.
I didn’t move. Couldn’t. I wanted his lips on mine again, this time without an audience of ten-year-olds. Somewhere deep in the recesses of my mind, the desire pissed me off, but at the moment, fighting felt impossible. At the last moment, his breath fanning my hot cheeks, our lips less than an inch from connecting, Cole stopped.
My eyes flew open. When had I closed them?
“Since there seem to be some things about me that please you, hen, how about you let me prove those ratings are false?” His husky voice hit me in the gut.
Goosebumps broke out across my skin at the mere suggestion of jumping into bed with him. Then visions of my shattered expectations with Liam came to mind. I didn’t need any more disappointment in my life, and a bunch of my fellow ladies were screaming warnings from the rooftops. What was the point of my website if I wasn’t going to listen to it myself?
Underneath that excuse lay the memory of the wasteland of the second half of freshman year. I looked fo
rward to bumping into Cole a little too much, and having him leave me after he’d gotten whatever he wanted wouldn’t be easily shaken—I just knew it.
I liked him. His ease with the kids at the Coterie, his protective confidence, the way he obviously adored his family…it would all be too hard to say goodbye to.
I frowned, shaking off the lustful stupor that had apparently suspended time for a good five minutes, based on the fact that the sun had completely disappeared. “Nice try. I have a boyfriend, remember? And even if I didn’t, you and I would not work out.”
Cole frowned back, straightening up. I didn’t like making him frown.
“Why do you believe that?”
“Maybe you haven’t heard about me, since there aren’t any websites rating the girls of Whitman—at least not yet. I’m what people around here call new money, and that means that while Whitman admitted me and the guys here don’t mind buying me drinks and fucking me, I’m not the kind of girl you bring home to yer mum,” I explained, doing a pretty good impression of his accent with the last words. “You’re not only old money, Cole, you’re ancient money. We don’t mix.”
“For such a cannie lass, you can be majorly daft. First of all, I think my mum would love you, and since I’m the fourth of four boys, I seriously doubt any kind of noble responsibility is going to fall on my shoulders. Second, although the idea of fucking you appeals to me, that wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. Or at least, not all I had in mind.”
His words burned. They tried to strip away layers of protection put in place by my years in private high school and reinforced after two years at Whitman, layers I needed. Cole wasn’t better than me, and I appreciated the privileges of this life, but I couldn’t afford to believe he might be different.
Anger shoved heat into my cheeks at his stupid insistence that every belief I held was wrong. It almost overshadowed the fact that the easy way he spoke about his desire turned me on to a degree that might send me back to Liam’s for another try later.
“Well, whatever’s in your mind, you’d better get rid of it. You want to pretend there aren’t levels and social strata and classes within classes, because from the tip top, it’s hard to see the rest of us and even harder to understand. But I understand, Cole. And even if I were tempted to put myself in a position to get discarded by you, the fact that my website assures me it would be a waste of time ensures that I won’t.” I stepped around him, hopping down the front steps and then turning back to glimpse his reaction.
His body had gone rigid at the word discarded, shoulders hunched as though he wanted to shield himself from my words. The press of his lips betrayed frustration, making him harder than ever to read, and the fear returned to his eyes. Cole acted like a guy with something to hide, something that shamed him, and he definitely didn’t want to talk about it with me. The couple of times I’d managed to push hidden buttons rushed to the surface of my memory—when I’d suggested he was perfect or some kind of hero.
Then it all clicked into place.
He’d known this entire time that I’d started the website. It was the only explanation for why a guy like him would be so keen on playing the gentleman to a girl like me, and why he acted ashamed when I tried to make him out to be the good guy. He’d wanted to plant those seeds of doubt about the truth of his ratings before he came to ask me to take them down.
My own stupid attraction to him had almost let him get away with it, too.
Fury poured through my blood until it boiled, until his form almost disappeared behind the red haze veiling my vision. “I’m not taking those ratings down. The good news is, you can stop pretending to like me now.”
Surprise shot his eyebrows nearly into his hairline. I didn’t give him a chance to respond, just whirled and marched to my car. Frustrated tears pricked my eyes and I blinked them back, relieved they’d waited until now. Nothing would have been worse than letting Cole Stuart see me cry. I could not believe I’d almost fallen for his crap.
The image of him playing me like a fiddle for the past weeks—the lingering looks, helpful rides home, Homecoming plans, and constant flow of compliments—flooded me with shame. At least my worldview hadn’t been shaken. Cole and his ilk were still exactly the entitled assholes I’d always believed.
Chapter 9
Opening Night nerves crackled through my bloodstream, depositing a good, thrilling tension in their wake. No feeling compared to the shared adrenaline backstage, the distant murmur of the crowd as they settled into their seats, or the collectively held breath as the lights dimmed and the curtain rose.
Liam lay prone on the stage, the blood bomb exploded and seeping red liquid through his pressed button-down, and I looked up from where I’d thrown my body against his, tears rolling down my cheeks. A toy gun lay within reach and I snatched it, scrambling to my feet and shouting my final lines through my tears, voice clear through the stuttering sobs.
In the moment, I wondered if Maria would kill herself, and I almost felt the audience hold their breath wondering the same thing. Tension filled the auditorium as Maria restrained herself like the good girl she’s been raised to be, and she and her dead love were dragged offstage.
My tears dried quickly in the wings and Liam stood and crushed me in a hug, pressing a hard kiss to my lips and swinging me around.
“You were amazing, baby. We were amazing. Listen.” He grinned so wide it made him look like a lunatic, head tipped to take in the roaring cheers and slapping of hands on the other side of the curtain.
They parted a moment later and the smaller cast members raced out to take their bows before Liam and I ran through them and landed front and center. A huge smile stretched my own lips and my heart leapt around like a jackrabbit at the euphoria that came from hundreds of people on their feet, cheering for me.
The Opening Night performance didn’t go off without a hitch, but nothing happened that the audience would have picked up on—everyone covered the stumbles and missed cues with sure-handed grace. My face felt hot from the high that couldn’t be matched anywhere but on stage, and Geoff’s grin in the lobby said the night hadn’t disappointed him, either.
Two of the directors I’d met at the Coterie trailed him as he made his way to my side, slinging an arm around my shoulders and pressing a fatherly kiss to my sweaty hair. “Excellent work, Ruby. We’ll want to work on the beginning of the second act tomorrow night, but still. Excellent.”
“Give her a break, Geoff. The girl killed it.” Bobby smiled at me, sticking out a hand. “Seriously, I’m not even a West Side Story fan, but that was one of the best Marias I’ve ever seen.”
The compliments from real live New York City theatre people went to my head, popping like champagne bubbles. “Thank you.”
“Imagine how wonderful it would be to open an original play.” Brad added, appraising me with the kind of interest that sped up my heart for totally non-sexual reasons.
It brought to mind my theatrical heroes—women like Idina Menzel and Kristin Chenoweth, who first performed Wicked for the world, or the cast of The Book of Mormon. To get to be the first actress to breathe life into characters people would never forget…just the idea of it made my throat close. It was what mattered the most.
We chatted for a few moments before they were pulled away by a menagerie of faces. I walked back toward the dressing rooms floating on a cloud, and not even the sight of Cole Stuart waiting in the mostly empty hallway with his arms full of some kind of prickly purple flowers knocked me back down to earth.
He grinned back without hesitating, relief lightening his green eyes. I’d been pretty harsh the last time we’d seen each other, but a couple of weeks had passed and my temper had cooled. We’d been civil enough during Homecoming planning sessions and he hadn’t made another pass at me or mentioned the website.
Plus, this was my night. Cole Fucking Stuart couldn’t ruin it.
“You were pure dead fucking brilliant, Ruby Cotton. I fell in love with you right along with Tony.” H
e winked, his eyes alight in a way that tumbled my stomach into my curled toes.
“Thank you.” I nodded at the flowers. “What are those?”
“Oh! These are for you.” He handed them over, the thin white paper doing little to soften the pricks from the masses of thorns surrounding the gorgeous pops of purple.
“Are these a torture device or flora? Cripes.” The bouquet was embarrassingly huge—no one had ever brought me so many flowers at one time. They spilled over my arms, scraping every inch of exposed skin.
“They’re thistles. The flower of Scotland, but also, they remind me of you.”
“Oh?” Rearranging the paper to buffer my skin distracted me for several moments, long enough for my brain to wrap around the idea that he’d been thinking of me.
When I looked up, his green eyes had shifted darker, threads of gold sucking the air from my lungs. What kind of pheromones did Cole give off? I knew the guy had been trying to play me for weeks, but I couldn’t forget those moments on the porch, when his lips had hung a breath from mine, and how badly I’d wanted to devour them.
“Thistles are prickly, but beautiful. They were chosen as a symbol of defiance.”
“You think I’m prickly and defensive?”
He didn’t answer, choosing to give me an enigmatic smile, instead. “I came to watch tonight first and foremost because you’re belter onstage, but also to apologize for our misunderstanding.”
“You came to apologize to me?” I had been the one throwing insults at him like a baby with fistfuls of spaghetti. He had deserved every chunk of rained tomato-covered pasta, but still.
“I’m sorry if my request regarding the website made it seem as though I’d been deceiving you. That’s not my style. I asked you out the first day of speech because you’re absolutely stunning, I’ve been thinking about you since the first time I watched you onstage, and also we seem to have a certain…chemistry.”