Better With You, page 5
“You dippin’ out?” he asks, and I nod, placing my half-eaten cupcake on the counter beside me.
“Classes tomorrow.”
He stops in front of me, eyes still fixed on my mouth.
“You’ve got icing,” he murmurs, and when he reaches up and rubs my lower lip with his thumb, I can’t stop the thundering of my heart.
He brings his thumb up to his own mouth and sucks on it, and I can’t fight the tremble that runs through my body. His eyes are full of heat, my head filled with flashes of what we did in his bedroom just a few hours earlier, and I have to take a slow, steadying breath.
“I think cherries might be my new favorite, too,” he whispers.
I give him a small smile, commit his brown eyes to memory, then step around him slowly and make my way down the hall and out the front door.
When I reach Baby, Alex calls to me from the small front porch.
“I still didn’t get your name.”
I pause and cock my head to the side. “You did a pretty good job sleuthing out the last mystery, Butch,” I say, and a grin spreads over his face. I swing my leg over my bike and ready my helmet. “Let’s see if you can go two for two, yeah?”
He lets out a laugh, and then I drive away.
4
I don’t hear from Alex all day. It’s not a surprise, really. We both got what we wanted out of the exchange. And though I’ve caught myself dazing off, reliving moments of last night or absentmindedly brushing my hand over the mouth-shaped bruise on my hip, I’m cool with the silence.
It may have been the hottest lay of my whole damn life so far, but I’m a young, sexual being, and dicks are everywhere—both literally and figuratively. I’m not concerned.
I go to my classes and manage to avoid conversation with everyone, which means I thankfully don’t have to explain to anyone that, no, I’m not scowling at you, that’s just the way my face looks. Around noon, I grab a smoothie with my friend Jesse in the student union. As usual, he carries the conversation rambling on about his mom, his med school interviews, and the new knitting project he’s working on. Then I head back to my apartment later that afternoon to knock out some cookie experimenting.
Ivy isn’t home when I get here, but that’s not unusual. She’s been studying for the LSAT like crazy, and though I miss her, I’m so proud of her. She’s come a long way from the scared, timid girl I roomed with sophomore year. She might be a little too chipper at times, might be a little too friendly and talkative, a little too obsessed with pros/cons lists, but she balances me. I like to think I balance her, too.
I was a mess when I transferred to Butler University sophomore year. Broken and sad and pissed off at the world. I’ll admit that I immediately judged the gorgeous, curvy, blonde bombshell who was to be my roommate in the dorms. Thought for sure we would clash, would hate each other, and the year would end up being a continuation of the nightmare I was currently living.
But she surprised me.
I surprised me.
Turns out, we were both dealing with some shit—both trying to find our way out of a personal darkness, trying so damn hard to heal—and together, we helped each other find a glimmer of light. Now here we are, senior year of college, roommates once more and slightly less broken with each passing day.
Ivy is my kindred spirit. My sister of the moon. My soulmate. I love that girl, and I’ll fight anyone who talks shit.
Well, I’ll have some choice words for them, anyway.
Let’s be real—I’m puny and unlikely to inflict much physical damage. Ivy made me go to self-defense classes with her one summer, so I know some need-based defensive moves, but I’m probably a goner in a street fight.
I sit down at the kitchen island with my notebook and a pencil. I’ve got cherries and a pair of chocolate brown eyes on the brain, and it shows in the cookie recipe I draft up. I don’t have the ingredients to bake it just yet, but when I do, I think this one could be delicious. I write out a shopping list to get me through the next few recipes, tally up the approximate cost, and stick it to the refrigerator with a magnet. I’ll have to ask Ivy if I can borrow her car—this much stuff requires a trip to the Wal-Mart, a few miles off campus, and I don’t think I could carry it all in a backpack on Baby, even if I wanted to.
I resist the urge to go count the money in my Crisco can. I know the total hasn’t changed since I last counted. The sticky note inside displays the same number it did before. But I feel like no matter how much I put in, I’m always having to take it back out again. I rub my chest. This is an important investment. Winning this contest would mean I could retire the Crisco can for good. I glance at the calendar on the fridge—the date of the Bakery On Main Cookie Contest is circled in purple highlighter, while two other dates, unmarked except for the ink on my skin, stare back me.
A promise and a debt.
Redemption-in-waiting.
I work on some homework for one of my accounting classes until my back and head ache. I luckily finished my required internship hours over the summer—any excuse not to have to go home—and all I have to worry about now are my final credit hours and business electives. Honestly, I really hate accounting. The internships were torture and unpaid. But I’m good with numbers, and this program guarantees a good paying job right after graduation. I glance at my pile of recipe notebooks—legal pads that Ivy gets for free from the law firm where she interns. Not all of us have the luxury of doing what we love for work. Sometimes, you just have to work so you can afford to do what you love.
Ivy texts around six to let me know she’ll be home by eight, and she’s going to bring home takeout from the burrito place on campus. My stomach rumbles, and I text her back a thank you. I didn’t even realize I was hungry until I saw the words “steak burrito” on my screen.
I pack my shit back up into my backpack and drop it on the floor of my bedroom, then take my glass of wine from last night out of the fridge, removing the plastic wrap lid and taking a sip. Snagging my phone off the counter, I walk out to the balcony and settle into my wicker bowl chair.
I’m reading this new enemies-to-lovers book on my e-reader app, and I’m just getting to the good part. I seriously love a good hate sex scene. Honestly, I enjoy them way more than the lovey-dovey sex scenes. Something about hate sex just seems hotter. Sexier. More enjoyable. My body tingles at the memory from last night that invades my head. The big hands that gripped me hard. The punishing, relentless pace. The deep, dark, commanding growls. The smattering of small bruises left on my skin.
Without thinking, I close out of the e-reader app and check my texts.
Nothing.
I go back to reading.
Ivy brings home dinner, and we eat it together in the living room while watching an episode of one of the true crime shows she likes. We don’t talk much. She’s exhausted, and I enjoy the silence. When she heads to bed, so do I.
I’m plugging my phone in on my nightstand when a text from Alex comes in.
I open it and find a single picture.
A picture of his thick wrist, adorned with woven bracelets, and his big, tan hand fisted around something red.
Red and cotton.
My underwear.
In spite of myself, I shiver.
Me: Where’d you find them?
Unknown: Under my mattress.
Unknown: Where I put them.
Unknown: Right before I made you come on my face.
Jesus. Now it’s in my head. The whole night, every lick and bite and kiss. All of it.
My entire body warms, my face flushes, and I release a small puff of breath. I’m thinking of how to respond, of what I could possibly say to regain the upper hand, when he sends me one last text.
Unknown: Sleep tight Sundance.
I put the phone back on my nightstand without replying. Then I pull out my vibrator and turn off the light.
“Coffee,” Ivy sings when I come stumbling out into the kitchen two days later, turquoise hair in a rat’s nest and yesterday’s eyeliner smudged. I’m fucking gorgeous in the mornings.
Ivy and I had some much-needed girl time last night, and I may have hit the wine a little hard since I don’t have an early class on Wednesdays. I haven’t heard a damn peep from Alex. Not a single word since he sent me that stupid picture of my underwear on Monday night. At first I was kind of bummed, and then I was pissed that I was bummed, but I’m good now. He was always temporary, anyway. I’m just mad I lost a pair of panties.
Ivy is already showered and dressed in her typical campus outfit—leggings and one of Kelley’s old shirts—when I plop into the chair in the kitchen. She slides a coffee mug in front of me, already poured and doctored in the way I like, and leans her hip on the counter.
“How you feelin?”
I close my eyes and take a sip of my coffee, then release a pleased sigh. “A little fuzzy, but mostly fine.”
I hear her slide something on the table and open my eyes to find two ibuprofens next to my coffee. I blink up at her. “I love you. You know that?”
“I love you, too.” She smiles. “Any plans with the baking aisle boy?” She eyes me with a small, knowing smile.
I mentioned Alex briefly, very briefly, last night. It was maybe two sentences, tops. But she senses something—the tiny droplet of blood in the water of my calm, cool demeanor. It’s that killer attorney instinct of hers, her mom-like intuition. Bitch is too freaking observant. For as oblivious as she is about her and Kelley’s “friendship” (heavy on the quotation marks), she doesn’t miss a thing otherwise. I’d be irritated if I didn’t love her so damn much.
I pop the pills in my mouth and shrug off her question with another sip from my coffee mug. I feel her eyes on me, so I keep mine closed as I swallow. She waits another second, just long enough to determine that I am not, in fact, going to talk about it this morning, and then she changes the subject.
“Kelley’s soccer thing is just drills tonight, but they’ve got a scrimmage next Wednesday if you wanna come with me. I asked Jesse already and he’s down.”
Kelley plays on an intramural soccer team that meets Wednesday nights. Ivy watches him play most nights, even when it’s just practice, but Jesse and I usually tag along when there’s a game.
It’s a whole thing.
Kelley will kick ass on the soccer field, Ivy will unconvincingly pretend like she’s not drooling over his hot bod the entire game, and Jesse will irritate the shit out of me with his constant bouncing, rambling, and immature jokes. Then we’ll all go get tacos.
It’s fun.
And anyway, is it really your found family if you don’t want to pummel at least one of them from time to time?
“Yeah, I’ll go. As long as I don’t get called in to the bar, I’m there.”
“Good.” She hits me with one of her warm, concerned mom looks. Her voice is soft and low when she asks, “And how’s your head? So far.”
I resist the urge to rub at my chest, to look at the calendar on the fridge, and answer her honestly. “So far, I’m okay. It’s already not as bad as last year.”
She nods. “I’m here if you need anything, you know? Anything at all.”
“I know, V.” She’s probably the only person who’s ever said those words to me and meant them unconditionally. “Thank you. I promise to let you know.”
Ivy smiles in that sunshiny way of hers, with her dimple on display and her blue eyes bright, and slips her messenger bag over her shoulder, just as my phone vibrates on the table beside me. I flick my eyes to the screen and my breath catches the teeniest, tiniest bit when I see a text from an unknown number. Alex.
“I’ve gotta go,” she says as she walks toward the door. “Tell baking aisle boy I said hello, if you see him.” She waggles her brows and I roll my eyes at her. Too. Freaking. Observant.
“Love you, V,” I say as she opens the door.
“Love you back, B,” she sings right before the door shuts behind her.
In spite of the pull to do so, I don’t touch my phone. I finish my coffee. Eat a pop-tart. Take a washcloth to my disaster of a face and a brush to my bigger disaster of a head. I get dressed in a pair of black fishnet tights, black cut-off jean shorts, and a The Used shirt. Then I throw on some socks, apply my standard eyeliner, mascara, and ChapStick, and slip into my Docs. Despite being September, it still feels like summer in Indiana, so I forego a jacket.
After I slip my backpack over my shoulders, I pick up my phone.
Unknown: Thoughts on John Hughes movies.
Unknown: And not just if you like them or not.
Unknown: Deeper.
Unknown: Go.
Ok, well that’s random. Lucky for him I have a whole drawn out response for this question, because I’ve thought about it a lot.
Me: I have a love/hate relationship with John Hughes. I used to really enjoy his movies, but the older I get, the more critical I get. I still can watch and enjoy them but I can’t help but recognize the flaws.
Unknown: You mean the racism and sexism?
Me: Exactly that. I mean, Sixteen Candles is hella problematic. Long Duck Dong AND encouraging date rape. Not cool at all. They’re full of stereotypes, too.
Unknown: Not to mention Andi should have chose Ducky.
Me: OMG YES SHE SHOULD HAVE. Blaine was a tool bag.
Unknown: How about Spielberg?
Me: Ugh I don’t want to love him, but I do. Did you know E.T. was the first movie to use product placement with the Reece’s Pieces? M&M’s were offered the spot but they turned it down.
Unknown: I did not know that.
Me: The more you know. *rainbow emoji*
Alex and I exchange a few more texts, and then I put my phone in my bag and head to class. I’m grinning from the text exchange. Who’d have thought we’d have this much in common? Definitely not me.
Classes blow. I’ve got two this afternoon. A 90-minute lecture and then a small 45-minute discussion class. The professor in my lecture has a voice that grates on my nerves, so I spend most of it texting in my group thread with Ivy, Kelley, and Jesse and doodling song lyrics in my notebook. These lectures are always posted online, but the douche takes attendance, so I have to show up.
My discussion class isn’t as bad. I make sure to speak up a few times to get my participation points. Having a 45-minute class after a 90-minute class makes me appreciate the shorter class more. By the time I’m done, I’m ready to be done.
I’m walking across the quad to the student parking lot, just about to shove in my earbuds, when I hear my name called.
“Bailey! Bailey Barnes!”
I halt my steps and look behind me to the voice. Well, what do you know? It’s Butch Cassidy. I fight my smile and force a suspicious glare as he jogs to my side.
“Okay,” I say on a sigh. “How’d you do it?”
He shrugs. “Facebook.”
“Facebook?” I laugh. “No way. My profile is locked down tighter than Fort Knox.”
“Yeah, but Bar 31’s page isn’t.” He grins proudly, and I squint at him.
“I don’t have anything connecting me to Bar 31. I don’t have my job listed.”
“On St. Patrick’s Day last year, a one Jada Simmons has the whole bar staff tagged in a post about green lager and Guinness.” He raises an eyebrow. He wants me to be impressed. I am, but I hide it.
“She tagged the whole staff,” I say slowly. “That’s a ton of people.”
He nods. “Twenty-seven.”
I widen my eyes and wave my hand in an okay, continue expression.
“Process of elimination.”
I bark out a laugh. “How? My Facebook profile picture is of E.T. wearing a dress and a wig from the movie.”
“Exactly.” His straight white teeth are shining bright. I swear the sun glints off them with a little sparkle.
I pause a minute, searching for an explanation, and then it dawns on me.
“The texts. Spielberg.” His grin is blinding, and he winks at me. “You’re a sneaky bastard.”
“I’m a clever bastard.”
“It could have been anyone. What if I didn’t have Facebook at all and you were creepin’ on some rando?”
“Thought of that, but then you stopped when I called out Bailey, so that’s when I knew for sure.”
I shake my head, then continue walking.
“What are you doing tonight?” he asks as he falls in step beside me.
“I have plans.” I don’t tell him they’re with my shitty Wal-Mart mixer and some baked goods.
“What about tomorrow?” I can feel him looking at me, so I shake my head with a playful sigh.
“Excitable and impatient.”
He just shrugs with a smile. “I know what I like.”
I pop a brow and slow to a stop.
“I’ve got plans, Butch. Tonight, tomorrow night, and the next night.”
“Are you always this difficult?”
“Are you always this persistent?”
One could argue that I’ve been a grumpy bitch to him, but he’s really digging in those heels. Big heels. On big feet. Jesus.
“When I want something, yeah.”
“And I suppose that’s me this week? Lucky me.” I do my best to hide the flicker of excitement that shoots through me, but judging by the wicked grin he’s sporting, I wasn’t successful.
“This weekend, then.” His unrelenting eyes search mine, and they dance with heat and suggestive promise. When he bites his full bottom lip, thoughts of Sunday night flash through my mind. His hands on me. His mouth on me. Him inside me. When his jaw clenches and his pupils widen, I know he knows what I’m thinking.
“Okay.” I give in. “Maybe this weekend.”
When I walk away, he doesn’t follow, but he calls out from behind me. “See you soon, Sundance. I’m looking forward to it.”
Yeah. Yeah, me too.
The past week and a half has been filled with classwork, bartending, and baking. A lot of irritation when it comes to my Crisco can, too, but it’s been alleviated by my texts with Alex and our clandestine meetings.
