“True. But forewarned is forearmed, yada, yada. Anyway, there’re definitely a lot of fish in the sea down here, so you shouldn’t have to worry about Matt at all.”
Any reply I might have made was lost, because the next moment, Quinn gave a cry and darted forward to where Leo waited on the sidewalk ahead of us. For the next few minutes, I was treated to a front-seat view of their tender reconciliation . . . which was kind of sweet and kind of icky. If it had been anyone else, I probably would’ve been sticking my finger down my throat, gagging.
Once they’d gotten their fill of each other—well, for now at least—we headed upstairs to Leo’s room. On the way up, we met some of his fellow football players, and all I could think was . . . yes!!!! I couldn’t wait to let loose and have some fun with people I never had to see again.
I was just defending my no-strings sex fun to Quinn when we opened the door to Leo’s room—and there stood Matt Lampert. I had a visceral reaction to him at first; all I could hear was his jeering voice in my mind, and all I could see was the perpetual cocky expression he used to wear.
But this Matt was different. He was teasing and charming, flirting with me and being at least tolerant of Quinn, though I caught a few of the saltier barbs he tossed her way. Leo didn’t put up with any of his shit, though, and I was glad to see that. I was also somewhat relieved that Matt didn’t leave with us when we left to go eat dinner.
After we ate, Leo took us to a bar and mini-dance club called Moonie’s. As promised, a bunch of the Carolina football players were there, and I hit the dance floor with them right away, shaking my ass, my boobs and everything else I had. I didn’t do any slow dances; instead, I boogied in groups of other girls and guys, screaming along to the words when I knew them.
After several songs, I dashed away to toss back the drink Quinn and Leo had ordered for me. They sat glued together at the huge booth we’d appropriated, and some other friends of Leo’s had joined them. I was just chatting with Quinn when a man I hadn’t met yet wandered over.
In some ways, this guy was the same as all the other football players I’d already gotten to know. But there was a subtle difference in the way he held himself and in the intensity of his green eyes . . . and when he grinned and that dimple popped out? Baby. My heart thumped in a way I recognized as a huge blinking DANGER sign.
That was why I acted like a total hypocrite, talking smack and sneering at him for being a football player. Here I was partying happily with his teammates, yet I sniped at Tate Durham—because he scared the hell out of me from the first words he spoke directly my way.
“Hey. Welcome to Carolina.”
I nodded. “Thanks.” Pretending I hadn’t noticed much about him up until now, I remarked, “You’re a football player, too?”
Tate shifted his weight and hooked his thumbs in the belt loops at the front of his jeans. “Guilty. You a fan?”
Of course, I knew what he meant, but I played obtuse anyway. “Of you? Seriously, dude. I don’t know who you are. I didn’t even hear your name.”
But what I said didn’t seem to bother Tate. He cocked his head, looking at me with a half-smile. “I meant, a fan of the game. I don’t have any delusions of grandeur, sugar.”
I felt my cheeks go warm, and my reply was a knee-jerk defense mechanism. “I appreciate football as a sport, yeah. I think most of the people who play it are assholes, though.” As the words tumbled off my tongue, I remembered that my best friend was in love with one of those dudes I’d just labeled assholes. Scrambling, I added, “With a few possible exceptions.”
Tate shrugged, and I didn’t miss how the movement of his arm made the material of his shirt cling to his muscled broad chest. “Hey, no arguments here. No one knows better than football players what dicks we can all be.” He grinned again, and dammit, there was that fucking dimple again. “But not all of us are that way all the time.”
I swallowed hard.“Yeah? In my experience, you’re all nice eye-candy and decent dancing partners. You’re good for fun, as far as that goes.”
“And some of us might be able to take it farther than fun.” Tate spoke low, and he held my eyes with his own. “If we had the right incentives.”
I didn’t know how to answer that. My immediate reaction was to flee, but I wasn’t going to be a wuss and go running away from confrontation, just because there was some kind of energy buzzing between this guy and me.
Before I could think of some way to ease away gracefully, Quinn spoke again. “Tate, why don’t you join us here? There’s space. And Gia, sit down, girl. Catch your breath. You were rocking it pretty hard out there with the guys.”
“I’m not ready to sit down yet. Come dance with me.” I stuck out my lip and treated Quinn to my best pleading look. “The music is smokin’.”
She shook her head. “I want to stay here with Leo. Go on, have fun. I’m enjoying watching you.”
I sighed. “Okay. I guess at least one of us should be enjoying herself.”
“Watch it, chick. I’m enjoying myself just fine here, thanks.”
“Whatever.” I let my gaze run over Tate again, but the need to get away from him was urging me to move. “See you boys later.”
Relief flooded over me as I joined my friends back on the dance floor—or at least it did until the music shifted down to a slow dance. I wrinkled my nose, grimacing, and made as if to head back to the booth, but Kevin, one of the football players, caught my arm and persuaded me to stay out with him.
Neither of us was taking the dance seriously; Kevin shuffled his feet back and forth like a kid at his first junior high party. He looked ridiculous, and I was laughing so hard that I could barely stand. When he spun me, I lost my balance, and for a second, I thought I was going to end up sprawled on the floor.
It might have been better for me if I had, because the arms that caught me and held me close to his body belonged to none other than Matt Lampert. I tossed my head and tried to play it off, pulling away, but Matt held me by the upper arms, and his eyes as they stared down into my face were serious and hungry.
“Dance with me,” he murmured, and then he didn’t give me the chance to say no. His arms slid around my waist. He pressed my hips against his so that there was no mistaking his interest. He didn’t try to hide the way he stared at my boobs, either.
“I don’t like to slow dance,” I blurted out.
Matt’s fingers spread on my lower back so that the tips of them covered my ass. “Don’t think of this as a dance. Think of it as . . . foreplay.” He eased his other hand between us, and cupped one of my breasts. His thumb stroked my aching nipple through the thin fabric of my dress.
“What are you doing?” If I’d been flushed before when Tate was talking to me, now I was positive my face was beet red. “People can see.”
“No, they can’t. It’s dark, and no one’s paying attention to us, anyway.” He pinched my nipple, and my knees threaten to buckle. “Where are you staying tonight?”
“Ummm . . .” I couldn’t remember my name just now, let alone where I was planning to sleep.
“Leo told me I have to stay away from our room, because he wants Quinn in his bed. So I figured you have space wherever you two are supposed to be sleeping, right?”
I swallowed. “We have a hotel room just off campus. Quinn said they can drop me off there, or one of Leo’s friends will drive me, if I’m not ready to leave when Leo and Quinn go.”
“That’s convenient. It just so happens that I’m one of Leo’s friends.” Matt moved his hand to my other boob. “Want some company?”
I knew I should say no. I knew it with crystal clarity. Saying yes would be a mistake of monumental proportions. But I couldn’t make my lips form the denial. Instead, I nodded.
“I want you to know what’s going to happen if I stay with you.” He bent his head down over my neck and spoke directly into my ear. “I’m going to fuck you. First time you’ll be on your knees with my dick down your throat before I take you up against th
e door to the room. Second time, you’ll bend over a table or desk, and I’ll pound you from behind. And then maybe we’ll try the bed, and I’ll eat you out until you scream yourself hoarse.”
I knew I should be outraged and horrified by Matt’s words. I knew I should slap his face and walk away, or at the very least, tell him what I thought of his filthy mouth. But the reality was that I was too turned on to do any of that. Desire pooled between my legs, almost as though he’d already touched me there. So instead of shutting him down in a truly spectacular way, I simply nodded and let him lead me off the dance floor and out of the bar, into the night.
Later, I’d wonder if that was the moment I’d stepped onto the path that screwed up my life for so many years, and I told myself that if I had it to do over again, I’d walk away. But the truth was that I wasn’t sure I’d have had that strength, even if I knew all the pain that would follow.
Now
When I woke up on Saturday morning, it was with an unfamiliar feeling buzzing around my mind. For a disorienting moment, I didn’t know what it was, and then slowly I realized . . . I was looking forward to something. I wasn’t waking up in dread; I was actually anticipating the day.
And it was all because Tate Durham was coming over to spend the day with me.
I lay still for a few minutes, mentally clamoring to find that safe and dependable foundation of depression and pain—the place that reminded me nothing could end well, because I didn’t deserve happiness or even contentment. I’d clung to that bedrock for over a year now, and I wasn’t ready to leave it yet. I knew that was why I’d resisted Tate’s easy, friendly charm the night before; he threatened my stability and equilibrium more than anyone had in a long, long time.
Tate was risky, because he made good things seem as though they were within my reach. Hope wasn’t a gift I was entitled to or even desired. The small voice inside me that argued with me about that—the voice that said I knew I was being ridiculous, that of course I deserved hope and happiness and all the wonderful things that really living might bring me—also agreed that Tate was dangerous. . . because as much damage as Matt had done to me, I had a sneaking terror that a guy like Tate could do even more.
He wouldn’t mean to hurt me, but he could. The pain Matt had inflicted on me had been largely intentional; he’d never shied away from cutting me deeply, and I’d been fully aware that it gave him some sort of sadistic pleasure. Those were the times I still allowed myself to remember most often. Those other brief episodes, when I’d seen glimpses of real vulnerability . . . those were what I worked the hardest to bury. When they furrowed upwards into my consciousness, usually in the form of dreams, I ended up curled up in bed all day, doing whatever I could in order to forget again.
Those were bad days.
Don’t leave me, Gia. Please, baby. I can be better.
Sucking in a deep breath, I tossed off the covers and threw my legs over the side of the bed. Movement often helped derail the bad thoughts, and this morning, I had something to get me motivated. When Tate had dropped me at my front door last night, he’d been vague about what time he planned to come over today. With any other guy, I’d assume that meant I shouldn’t expect him before mid-afternoon, but my gut told me that with Tate, there was every possibility he’d be over at daybreak, probably with donuts in hand.
With that in mind, I hustled myself into the shower, washing my hair quickly. I’d kept it cut short since high school; because I was, as Quinn diplomatically put it, petite, longer hair tended to overwhelm my face. Plus, I’d never had the time or patience with fussing over things like curling brushes, flatirons and so on. Most of the year, I simply towel-dried my head and ran my fingers through the fine strands. In winter, if I had to go out right after a shower, I might be forced to blow-dry my hair a little, but even then, it didn’t take long to make me look semi-decent.
I spent a few extra minutes under the water shaving the necessary parts of my body, all the while telling myself that it was just because I hadn’t bothered to do so all week, not because I expected anyone—least of all Tate Durham—to see or touch those parts of me. And I took the time to smooth my favorite body cream over my arms and legs, because it was winter, and I hated the itchiness of dry skin.
I’d just slid on a pair of well-worn jeans and a long-sleeved thermal shirt when I heard the knock at the door. Glancing at the clock, I allowed myself a smile; I’d been on-target about Tate being here early. It was just now ten. I congratulated myself for getting up and moving when I did. I wished I’d had a few minutes to straighten up the apartment, but in all honesty, it didn’t matter. The place was small, cramped and dingy, and it would’ve taken me a whole lot longer than a few minutes to change any of that.
When I opened the door, a surge of awareness hit me like a freight train. If I’d thought that spending time with Tate the night before might render me immune to my body’s primal reaction to him, I’d have been dead wrong. This morning, he was even hotter than he’d seemed last night, if that were even possible. The ends of his hair curled a little bit, probably from his morning shower. He’d shaved, and although I found scruff on a man’s cheeks attractive, his smooth face was undeniably irresistible.
But it was his eyes—those bright green eyes that drank me in like I was the cup of coffee he’d been craving this morning—they were what made it hard for me to find my breath. I stood there with my hand on the door, staring up at him, unable to speak or move for the space of several heartbeats.
And then he smiled, and that damn dimple popped out, shaking me from my reverie.
“Good morning, sunshine! Glad to see you’re awake. I was half-afraid that I might have to drag you out of bed.” From behind his back, he lifted a white box tied with a string. “I brought breakfast, since I was pretty sure you didn’t have anything on hand. It’s my favorite cheese Danish, from the bakery in my hometown. And it’s amazing.”
I smirked a little as I stood aside to let him in. “Danish. Well, I was close.”
He glanced down at me questioningly as he came inside. “Close?”
I shrugged. “I was thinking you’d probably bring donuts. But Danish is pretty close to my guess. And it’s the principle of it, anyway—I figured you’d come bearing breakfast.”
Tate shrugged out of his worn leather jacket and deposited it on the back of a kitchen chair, and I saw that in his other hand, he had a canvas bag, which he set on the floor. “My motto is, if you show up with food, there are not many people who will turn you away.”
Shutting the door, I locked it out of habit and frowned. “Did you really think I might turn you away, even if you didn’t bring me breakfast?”
He paused. “I didn’t want to take the chance.” Setting the box down on my miniscule table, he added, “Does that make me sound pathetic?”
“No.” I shook my head. “But it makes me sound like a total bitch. I probably owe you an apology for how I acted last night, when you were just trying to be a nice guy.”
“You weren’t a bitch.” His voice was gentle. “You were just reacting to a surprising set of circumstances.”
I pulled a knife from the drawer and set out to saw off the string that kept the bakery box closed. “Tate, you don’t have to be so nice to me. I already think you’re probably too good to be real. I know I probably come across like I’m about to splinter into a million pieces, but I’m tougher than I seem.” The knife slipped off the string and rammed into the palm of my other hand. “Damn!”
“Are you hurt?” He reached over my shoulder and grasped my hand, turning it carefully, probably looking for a gaping flesh wound.
“No.” I closed my fingers, hoping he didn’t notice the small tremor. He was close to me, the heat of his body radiating against my back. “Luckily, my knives are all really dull. I got them at a thrift store, and they suck. But at least they keep me from stabbing myself. Probably safer that way. I’m not sure I should be trusted with sharp objects.”
“Yeah, you might b
e onto something.” He let go of my hand and leaned down a little further, gripping the string on either side of the knot and jerking. It came apart immediately. “There we go. Got some plates? And how about coffee?”
“Uh, coffee? Like, the kind you add hot water to? Because I know I don’t know have that. When I want coffee, I stop at the cute little shop on the corner and tell the hot guy there exactly what I want, and he makes it happen.”
Tate grunted. “I knew I should’ve brought some with me. Well, do you have anything to drink? Tea bags? Juice? Milk?”
I thought for a minute. “Oh! Quinn gave me some kind of herbal tea as part of my Christmas gift. It’s in the cabinet. Will that work?”
“Depends. Will you swear never to mention to any of my teammates that I drank herbal tea? They’d revoke my man card.”
“Your secret is safe with me. If you want, I can run down to the coffee shop. It won’t take long.”
“No, the tea is good.” His mouth twisted a little. “I’m not risking losing you—uh, your company to the so-called ‘hot guy’ who makes your coffee magic happen.” Tate framed the words in air quotes.
I opened my mouth to reply and then shut it again. I’d been about to say something that might’ve come across as flirty, and I didn’t want to go down a path that would lead Tate into thinking I was interested in more than . . . whatever this was. Friendship, in this context, sounded like it was a poor second-best to something else—something I refused to acknowledge. And Tate hadn’t exactly been flirty. He’d bordered on it, maybe, when he’d called me by those cheesy endearments, but then again, that could just be who he was. I didn’t know him well enough to be sure.
And there was the rub. I didn’t know Tate Durham very well, and as much as he’d said Leo had talked about me, Tate didn’t know me, either. It was likely that he knew the surface story, about the girl who’d been Matt Lampert’s on-again, off-again girlfriend for almost four years at Carolina. But he didn’t know the dirt, the shameful secrets or the parts that I hoped could stay hidden forever.
Not Broken Anymore Page 4