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  My dick’s still hard and there’s a trace of a smile left on my lips.

  College just got that much better.

  Chapter 7

  Allison

  I shouldn’t be thinking about Dean Warren.

  I definitely shouldn’t be going to this game, for him.

  And the smile on my lips when he does a double take over his shoulder as I sit on the bleachers, that really shouldn’t be showing.

  He’s a mistake waiting to happen.

  The cockiness and arrogance mixed with the hard edge in his eyes, are what tell me that much. As if a simple look wasn’t enough to warn me off.

  He looks like the type of guy who will force you against a hard wall, who will lift your skirt up and rip off the thin fabric beneath it with a forceful tug. The type of guy who will hold you there while you scream as he takes you harder and harder.

  He’s the type of guy my mother told me I should stay away from…

  Good thing I stopped listening to my mother years ago.

  It’s a little late for me to start college, but hey, being thrown to the wolves when you’re legally allowed to drink isn’t the worst thing in the world. I’m only a year behind and that year was well spent. I wouldn’t trade spending time with my grandmother for anything. She needed someone and so did I.

  But now she’s gone.

  “Go State!” I yell out and clap after setting my bag down on the ground.

  There are maybe a dozen people on the small stands. It’s just a hobby team and there’s not even a real game today. Just some guys fucking around. Shirts versus skin and lucky for me, Dean happens to be one of the ones with no shirt.

  Just as I let my eyes roam down his body, he jolts forward and tackles the shit out of another guy—Jared, I think. It’s only when he stands up that I confirm it’s him.

  Rugby’s a violent sport in a lot of ways.

  The men crash together and I keep staring at one in particular. Then men slam into each other, the bodies brutalizing one another, all in the name of a good game.

  * * *

  My blood heating and my muscles coiling; I can’t watch, but I also can’t rip my eyes away.

  Thud. Thud. My heart pounds softer and softer as the memories slowly come back to me and I have to shove them away. Hide them, bury them deep down inside.

  Deep breaths. Calming, deep breaths.

  It only takes a glance in the wrong direction at the wrong time and it all comes back.

  I force a small smile to my lips, unclenching my fists and only just now realizing how my nails dug into my skin. As I reach down for the water bottle in my bag, I lift my gaze back to the field, only to find Dean staring back at me. The grim look proves he was watching me and knowing that I can’t breathe until I’m saved by the loud clap of someone else sitting in the bleachers behind me.

  Our gaze is broken and only then is my body willing to play it off. To relax and pretend like it’s alright.

  Dean is like a drug to a recovering addict.

  He makes me question everything. All the stupid shit I have planned.

  He makes me want to run, but at the same time, he paralyzes me.

  Five more minutes and I’ll leave, I promise myself.

  I’m waiting for them to break up their huddle, to keep playing, but that’s not what happens.

  The bottle nearly slips from my hands as Dean strides over to me and the other guys keep playing.

  He takes a seat next to me and I’m instantly hit with his warmth and masculine scent. His sweat is sweet and addictive.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks me.

  “I was watching this hot guy who has a crush on me play this dumb sport,” I tell him and fail to hide my smile as I add, “He gave up though.”

  He chuckles and that gorgeous smile flickers onto his face. “I wanted to make sure I told you before you left, that we’re having a party tomorrow night,” he tells me.

  “Didn’t you just have one?” I ask him, taking another swig from the bottle and fiddling with the plastic cap in my left hand.

  He shrugs and glances at the guys on the field, but I keep my eyes on him. “No reason not to have another one.”

  I roll my eyes and almost turn back to the field, but I stop myself.

  “You think if you get a little alcohol in me, you’ll have a better chance?” I ask him, although I keep glancing behind him to the field see who’s watching.

  Dean makes a show of looking over his shoulder in the direction I keep looking before shifting to block my view and standing a little closer. His broad shoulders tower over me. I haven’t been this close to him yet, and it only makes me want to be closer.

  I can smell his clean, masculine scent and feel the heat in his eyes when I meet his gaze. It’s a heady combination. To have someone you’re innately drawn to so close. To know they want something you want. But to also know it’s the last thing you should do. The temptation heats the tension in the air and everything around us turns to a blur of white noise.

  “I don’t need a better chance,” he finally answers me, his eyes narrowing. “I already told you, I want you and I’m not going to stop until you’re screaming my name just how I want to hear it.”

  “So confident,” I tell him although it comes out differently than I’d planned. It was supposed to be sarcastic, but instead, there’s a hint of reverence.

  “Come to the party,” he tells me like it’s a command and ignores the voices on the field. The ones calling out his name to get back. And I use that as my excuse to leave.

  “You go play, and I’ll see you this weekend,” I answer him without thinking.

  “You’re leaving already?” he asks me and I just nod.

  “I’ve got shit to do, now that I have plans for tomorrow.” He likes that; I can tell by the way he smiles, and it does something to me. Something it shouldn’t.

  “Twenty sixteen Broom Street,” he tells me, but I already know the address.

  Chapter 8

  Dean

  * * *

  “So what do you think about college?” Doctor Robinson asks me. He lowers his thick-framed glasses and sets them down on the notepad in his lap. “Is it a good change?”

  My right ankle rests on my left knee as I sit back, running both my hands through my hair. “Yeah, it’s different. It’s good,” I tell him.

  “Talk to me about it,” he persuades.

  “I don’t want to disappoint Jack, and I’m grateful. I still don’t know what I want to do though.”

  “Well, it’s only been one week and I’m sure Mr. Henderson wouldn’t have sponsored you if he thought you’d disappoint him.”

  “We all know it was a favor to my uncle. I live off favors,” I tell him flatly, although I don’t look him in the eye. My gaze is set on the ceiling fan in the center of the room. When I close my eyes I can just barely feel the soft breeze. I wonder if anyone else in college feels as lost as I do. Like this is their last chance. I’ve been living on last chances for years now, maybe this is supposed to be my normal.

  “Do you think you don’t deserve it?” he asks me and I lower my gaze so I can meet his eyes. His expression is curious.

  “A free ride to college isn’t something I ever thought I’d get.”

  “And anger management? How about that?” he asks me, shifting in the seat of his dark brown leather chair. “Is that something you thought you’d get?”

  A low chuckle makes my shoulders shake. “Yeah, that makes sense to me,” I answer him with a grin.

  “And how do you think it’s working for you?”

  “I feel good,” I tell him. “Years of being with Uncle Rob helped and all, but it’s nice to just say the shit I’m thinking.”

  “Have you thought about my last suggestion?” he asks me and I shake my head.

  “Well, yeah, I’ve thought about it,” I correct myself, realizing I was answering no to the wrong question. “I’m not doing it though.”

  “You don’t
think your mother would be interested in seeing your progress?” he asks.

  “I don’t see it as progress,” I admit.

  “Why’s that?”

  “I feel…” I pause and swallow thickly, bending forward and repositioning so my elbows are on my knees. I can feel the stretch through my back, loosening my tight shoulders and coiled muscles. “I like the team, I like the gym.”

  “The physical release?” he asks me and I can’t help but think of Allison.

  My fingers interlace as I nod. “Yeah, the physical release,” I say and look up at him to keep from thinking about what I’d do to her if I got the chance.

  “Anything else?” he asks as if he read my mind.

  “Nothing yet,” I tell him and hesitate, but decide to talk about her. It’s better than talking about my emotions. How easily the hate comes out. How I can’t control the shit I say and the shit I do sometimes.

  Well, maybe not so much that I can’t, but that I don’t want to.

  “There’s this girl,” I start telling him while I pick up the fidget block on the glass coffee table. It’s pointless. A block of buttons and switches that do nothing, but it keeps my hands busy.

  “She’s real flirtatious and cute. We have chemistry together.” After seeing his brow raise, I add to clarify, “The class.” It’s quiet as he scribbles on the notepad.

  “I keep running into her,” I tell him. “So, I guess she’s on my mind because of that.”

  “So you’re seeing her?”

  I shake my head and tell him, “Nah, I wouldn’t say that.”

  “Have you been physical?” he asks me.

  I tell him, no but in my head? Fuck yeah. Imagining getting her under me has been a good distraction.

  That first day in class, she was dressed in a tight shirt and a little ass skirt.

  The shirt wasn’t see-through like I was fantasizing about, but with the blue plaid skirt, she was pushing that schoolgirl look. And she did a damn fine job of it too.

  All during class, all I did was think about everything I could do to her. How I could bend her over the desk so easily.

  Every time she readjusted in her seat, I imagined me behind her, lifting her ass up and positioning her just how I wanted. I could hear how the desk would scrape across the floor as I pounded into her.

  It only took a few minutes before I was rock hard and eager to see just what I’d have to do to get under that skirt.

  The second class was over, Little Miss Brunette, my personal tease, was gone before I even shoved the fucking notebook into the bag.

  “Why do you think you’re drawn to her?” he asks me, pulling me from the explicit thoughts running through my head.

  “She’s got a mouth on her,” I tell him and think I should elaborate on how it’s what she says, that gets me going. But shit, either way, you look at it is accurate.

  “So, you’re going to pursue her?” he asks me, picking up the notebook again to jot something down.

  If by pursue her, he means fuck her until my cock is spent, then yes, that’s what I’m planning.

  I don’t tell him that though, I just nod my head once when he looks up from his notebook.

  “So you have your workout sessions, your team sport, you have a love interest,” he pauses as I snort, but then I clear my throat and gesture for him to continue.

  “Have you thought about changing your major?” he asks me, but then adds, “It’s just something to keep in mind. I know it’s still early, but undecided is not exactly what you want from this experience, is it?”

  “No, I definitely want to figure shit out,” I admit and toss the fidget block back on the table. “I feel wound tight, like I just need something.”

  “What do you need?” he asks me.

  “I don’t know,” I tell him honestly. I have a good idea why I’m like this. It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. But I don’t know how to change and even worse, I don’t know what I’ll be when I do. And that scares the shit out of me.

  According to the good doctor, college is where you go to find out who you are. So far I’ve learned I’m a man who has a vivid imagination when a sexy piece of ass wears a short, plaid skirt to class. There’s a shocker.

  Chapter 9

  Allison

  “Your flowers are dying,” I say the words out loud although there’s no one here. My fingertips brush against the soft petals on a single bloom that’s still alive. “This one will be dead soon too,” I say and purse my lips, letting my hand fall. “This window will be good for you though,” I talk as I water the first plant and then the next in the large bay window.

  It was my grandmother’s therapy. Plants need to be talked to, she used to tell me. I thought she was crazy, but I did it anyway.

  And when she gave me a violet of my own, I took her advice. Shame the thing’s dying. Maybe I should talk more.

  My throat feels dry and itchy when I stand back, no longer busying myself.

  “Miss you,” I whisper and wipe under my eyes. “You wouldn’t be so proud of me if you were here though,” I admit.

  The click of the air conditioner is met with the curtains swaying. They’re a bright white with bluebirds scattered across them. This is the only area in the entire house that’s decorated. And I don’t have any desire to put in any effort anywhere else. I can’t stand to be here any longer than I have to.

  Instead, I head to the kitchen for a cup of tea. The electric kettle is Grandma’s too. I guess living with her for the last six months rubbed off on me.

  The plants, the tea... well, maybe that’s it.

  Standing at the linoleum counter I look around the mostly empty kitchen. I don’t even have cutlery. But that’s okay, I don’t think I’ll be staying here long. Not any longer than I have to. “I brought your plants though,” I talk out loud like a fucking lunatic. Does it make it any better if I know I’m unwell?

  The kettle beeps and the light goes off, so I go about my business. Tea and then research. I pause after pouring the hot water into the porcelain saucer, remembering Dean.

  He’s definitely a man who leaves an impression. I smile into the cup, drinking it black and loving the warmth as it flows through my chest.

  “You’d hate him, Grandma,” I say with my eyes closed. “Or maybe not,” I shrug and remember how she gave me the advice, to get over one man by getting under another. It was only a joke to her, but hey, I think she was onto something.

  Just as I’m starting to relax, just as I feel a bit sane, my phone rings in the barren living room. My pace is slow and all the good feelings are replaced by ice.

  There’s only one person who calls me and I don’t want to talk to her. I will, but all she’ll get is the piece of me that’s left behind. She made her choice, and now we both have to deal with it.

  I take my time tossing the used tea bag into the trash, where it hits the empty box of hair dye. I absently twist the now-brunette curl dangling in my face around my finger as I walk to my phone to answer it. I don’t want to look like the girl I once was. I don’t want to be her anymore.

  “Hello,” I answer the phone, setting the cup down on the floor and sitting cross-legged to look out of the back sliding doors.

  “You answered,” my mother sounds surprised, and maybe she should be. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard her voice.

  “What’s going on, Mom?” I ask her, feeling a sense of loneliness I haven’t felt in a while. Maybe it’s not the anger that keeps me at a distance from her. Maybe it’s just because she’s a reminder of what happened.

  “I wanted to let you know I bought you a sofa.” Her voice has a feigned sense of happiness to it. Like she can pretend we’re okay and one day we’ll be back to normal. “I need your address so I can send it. And a TV stand too. And if you need anything else … “

  “Mom, you didn’t have to do that,” I tell her simply.

  “I wanted to, and I know that you quit, so money must be tight.”

  “I’m f
ine.” I hated that job anyway. It was just filling the time and numbing the truth of what I needed to do.

  “Will you let me send them to you?” she asks me and it’s the hurt in her voice that makes me cave.

  It’s not that I want to hurt my mother. I know she’s in pain like I am. I just don’t want to be around her. I don’t want to forgive her, because then it’s as if what happened was okay.

  And it never will be. Never.

  “Sure, I’ll text it to you,” I answer her out of guilt.

  “Thank you,” she says and I think she’s crying on the other end of the phone.

  “Are you okay?” I ask her.

  “I just miss you; I miss your grandmother too.”

  “I miss her too,” I say. “She’s in a better place now,” I say the words, but I don’t mean them. It’s only for my mother’s benefit. If it wasn’t for my grandmother’s death, I’m not sure my mother and I would even have a relationship. “I have to go, Mom,” I tell her as I watch the leaves on the trees behind my house move.

  “Well, call me,” she tells me hurriedly before I can hang up. “If you need anything.”

  “I will,” I answer although that’s not going to happen. I already know that and I’m sure she does too. “Thank you for the furniture,” I add. “I really appreciate it.”

  “You don’t already have anything, do you?” she asks me. “It didn’t seem like you packed much.”

  “No, I didn’t. Thank you.”

  I end the call as fast as I can. I know Mom wants to talk. But she’s saying all the wrong things.

  Then again, I am too.

  I’m holding back; I know that much is true.

  I know what I need to do, but it hurts to think about it. It’s going to change everything and I don’t know who I’ll be after it happens.