HABIT, page 4
“Oh, my God!” I laugh out, cupping my mouth and hiding my wide-open lips.
James pulls the flask out and flips the cap, taking a swig. My eyes bulge out and my head turns to check over my shoulder and see who is watching this.
“That could be rancid!” I whisper-shout when my gaze lands on his again.
His shoulders shake with his quiet laugh and his lips pucker to hold in his smirk.
“You already knew it wasn’t, didn’t you?” I purse my lips and lower my eyelids.
James shrugs and takes another hit from the flask before passing it to me. I sniff a few inches from the cap, noticing it’s basically odorless.
“Vodka?” I quirk a brow.
“Maybe?” James shakes his head slightly.
“Maybe. That’s your comforting response. That what you want to drink out of a God-knows-how-long-it-has-been-in-here flask is possibly vodka.” I squint and study him, but he doesn’t budge.
“Pretty much,” he says.
I stare at him for a few quiet seconds before he reaches to take the flask back and let me off the hook. But before he can take it from my hands, I bring it to my mouth and tilt, letting the scorching liquid coat my tongue. I cough and instantly shove the flask back at him before running my sleeve over my lips, probably smearing my lip color, assuming there is anything left after running it under what tasted like turpentine.
“Right?” He chuckles.
“That is moonshine, James. That is not maybe vodka. That’s some straight-up home-brewed shit.” I cough again, the kind of hack a cat makes to rid themselves of a furball. I can’t help it.
James takes another swig then offers it to me again. I touch my fingertips to the metal side and push it away.
“No, thank you.”
“Suit yourself,” he says, his mouth curved with amusement. “If you prefer the finest selection of whiskey I swiped from the alumni stash, ask Theo.”
“Ah, so you’re the source for that stuff,” I say.
James shrugs.
“Maybe.”
He recaps the flask and tucks it back into its space in the drawer. Before he can close it, I reach in and swipe the nudie magazine and lay it flat on my lap.
“Let’s see what’s doing with these ladies, shall we?” I lift a brow as I glance up at him.
“Sure,” he agrees, sliding the door closed with the side of his leg and resting half of his weight on the desktop next to me. I’m tucked next to his side, his palm on the desk behind me and his bicep skimming my back. I’m tempted to lean into him, but instead, I flip through the first few pages of HOT LADIES.
“Original title,” I utter.
“Hey, nothing wrong with to-the-point marketing. Their readers knew exactly what they were going to get,” he says.
I snort out a short laugh.
“Readers,” I joke.
I can feel James’s breath against my neck as he peers at the magazine in my lap. My skin beads in reaction, and it takes me a moment to retrain my focus on the girl dressed as a sailor in the centerfold.
“What do you think? Your type?” I lift the magazine and turn it sideways to give us both the full picture. The magazine is from the nineties, so there’s a little grunge vibe to the model’s look. She’s not completely naked, either, though her nipples are on full display through the ripped-out pockets of her shirt.
“I mean, she definitely has something,” James says. I shift my head a tad and glance at him in my periphery, expecting his gaze to be on Tammy and her exceptional outfit, but his eyes are on my face.
“She does, huh?” I chew at the inside of my cheek, my skin buzzing with excited energy.
His eyes scan down my profile, lingering on the place where my bra peaks out from the draped neckline of my dress. His eyes flit to mine again, a suspicious smirk tugging at his lips. Twisting next to me, he brings his right hand toward my body. I brace myself, every nerve-ending in my body firing with electricity that he might kiss me. My tongue passes over my top lip to quell my eagerness and my eyelids grow heavy.
“May I?” His index finger outstretched and pointing toward my me. My brow pinches, because if he’s going to feel me up, this is literally the strangest approach I have ever seen. It’s even more awkward than the Mosely twins, who both spent time with me in the Rothschilds’ coat closet during their Halloween party when we were twelve.
“Uh, you . . . may?” I laugh through the words, baffled but still so aware of how close he is—his mouth, his hand, his body.
James reaches forward and slips his finger under the delicate chain around my neck, lifting the crystal pendant up and rolling it between his finger and thumb.
“My grandmother gave it to me when I turned sixteen,” I say, my throat a little dry. I don’t clear it, though. I don’t want to sound nervous because I’m not. I have him exactly where I want him. This is all going according to plan.
“It’s unique,” he says, the tip of his tongue caught between the front of his teeth before our eyes meet again. He smiles through it but doesn’t shy away from our stare. If he thinks I’m going to back down, he’s mistaken. Doubling down, I blink at him slowly then glance down to the crystal in his hand.
“I like that it matches,” I hint, knowing that his eyes have not missed the crystal stud in the center of my bra, the round curves of the black satin cups fanning out over the cowled neck of my green dress.
A soft laugh leaves his lips as his smirk grows higher on one side, his eyes dipping lower to the matching piece I mentioned. This time, he stares long and hard at the stud centered between my breasts, and I watch his eyes and mouth the entire time.
“It does indeed,” he finally says, a tinge of huskiness to his hushed voice.
He lets the pendant glide away from his hold and rest against my skin again, but his knuckle grazes against the sharp cut edge, tracing along the teardrop shape. I take in a long slow breath, my chest lifting and back arching slightly, my breasts aching under his stare. James breathes out quickly at my slight movement and looks off to the side, leaning back on his left palm again and running his other hand through his hair.
Satisfied that I got to him, if even just a little, I lift the centerfold back up and tilt my head to one side so I can study it as if I’m standing in the Museum of Modern Art.
“I don’t know. I think there’s only one Tammy,” I say. I close the magazine and slide off the desk, turning and handing the booklet to James, who is leaning back on both palms.
After a short pause, he reaches forward and takes the magazine from me and leans to the side to deposit it back in the drawer. I begin to walk away before he’s done.
“Where are you off to?” he asks.
I stop at the doorway and chew at my lip, that giddy feeling of having someone looking at me with desire temporarily easing the void in my chest. I look over my shoulder to find him leaning back on his palms again, his head angled to one side.
“Nothing else to see in that drawer. But thank you for showing it to me.” I blink slowly and let my seductive grin pinch the sides of my closed mouth.
“I’m going to go get something to drink from this century,” I add before turning to face the glass door again, gripping the handle and dragging it open so as to not draw attention from anyone else.
“Hey,” James hums at my back before I slip back into the archive room. I turn and press a palm against the glass wall, leaning my weight through the doorway so I can hear him.
“There’s only one Morgan Bentley too. Just so you know.” His smile lingers long after his words. He doesn’t move an inch, but his eyes stay on me. My cheeks heat, and though it is rare, it does happen from time to time—I am blushing.
“Enjoy your moonshine,” I finally utter, pulling the door closed behind me this time then turning to search out my roommates.
Nobody noticed where I went, and nobody seems to be missing James. The perks of surrounding oneself with those who are self-absorbed. My head swims from the mix of real whiskey and whatever the fuck was in that flask. But it’s the elation of James’s singular attention that has me truly buzzed. I don’t take another drink for the rest of the night. And James doesn’t leave that office.
Chapter 4
James
I definitely should not have drank from that flask. I think I’m still flammable. I was trying to be cool. Like the way Squints tricked that lifeguard, Wendy Peffercorn, into giving him mouth-to-mouth in the movie Sandlot. Only there was no mouth-to-mouth for me. And I don’t even know what my goal was. To get her super drunk? That’s not like me. I think she makes me nervous, and my dad has my head filled with all of these rules about sticking to business—football being that business for now.
And he’s right.
Really? If I want to get my ass into an elite university—which is pretty much essential if I hope to be a restaurant entrepreneur while my mom is still young enough to handle running a kitchen—it’s only the first step of many.
I’ll need to make connections, which being a winning quarterback at a place like Welles and then again at a school like Dartmouth or Brown can make happen. People are quick to lean into winners. And they’ll invest in winners with Ivy degrees.
“Slacker. Ass out of bed!” My dad’s heavy hand pounds on my door.
“Coming,” I shout. My own voice hurts more to hear than my dad’s did. This is going to be really hard. Why my dad insists on six a.m. lifting baffles me. He swears it builds character and preps those of us who want to go on and play in college for what’s to come. But isn’t getting enough sleep supposed to be critical for our development?
“If you went to bed earlier, you would not feel the pain in the morning!” he shouts from his own room. How does he read my mind?
I pull myself up to sit, my head pounding with every inch I rise. Last night was a bad idea. At least, the drinking part was. The Morgan part, that was impulsive. And maybe it was a bad idea too, but after staring at her social media the night before I got a little star-struck seeing her in person, I guess. It’s stupid. She’s not a movie star or anything. She’s a rich girl. A hot one. Who got popular on social media because she’s a hot, rich girl. I need to move past that and focus, like my dad says.
“I’m heading to the fieldhouse. If you aren’t the first athlete through those weight room doors, you’ll start your morning running bleachers.” My dad finishes his statement with a couple more pats on my door.
“Yes, sir,” I respond, my hands instantly moving to my temples. I rub slow circles in an attempt to stem the throbbing that reverberates throughout my skull. I can do this. I’ve partied and practiced before. Hell, my friends in southside threw series parties that would have knocked most of the Welles guys on their asses in an hour. It’s one workout. Then class. Then practice. Then . . .
My head falls forward and I catch my face in my palm, breathing out hard in an effort to psych myself up. One thing at a time. That’s how today is going to go. Thing number one? Cold shower and getting dressed.
I gather my clothes and drag my ass into the bathroom. I’m tempted to turn the water to warm, but I know better. If I do that, I won’t get out of this room for an hour.
It’s strange living in an apartment while the rest of my teammates bunk up in dorm rooms. Life is vastly different here, and while it’s nice having my own space, it also makes me feel like an outsider. I’m glad I met Theo, but I’m still not quite sure I can count him as a friend. Nothing feels solid yet—with anyone—but it’s early. I can lead this team. The buy-in will come. I have to believe that.
The cold water does enough to slap my face awake, but nothing is going to stop the pounding in my head. I throw on my workout clothes and chew three ibuprofens while grabbing the mango and spinach smoothie my mom left for me in the fridge on my way out the door. The sun isn’t up, and campus is empty. Despite the effect my hard steps have on my headache, I take them anyway, switching to a slow jog when I finish choking down my smoothie. What I need is water.
I fling open the fieldhouse doors and rush down the corridor toward the weight room, relieved to not hear the clanking of weights. I swing the door open and head toward the far corner to drop my gym bag and pull out my water bottle to refill at the station, but my dad’s telling cough slows my steps until I’m at a dead stop.
My head falls back, and I blink at the ceiling before swiveling to glance to my right where my father is standing with Mr. Sullivan and his son, Toby. There’s a fresh glint of sweat on Toby’s forehead, his hair damp with it. It’s five forty in the morning, and from the looks of it he’s already gotten in a run.
Fuck!
“Yes, sir,” I utter without pause. Spinning on my heels, I drop my bag by the entrance and suck down some water from the fountain instead of filling my bottle. I don’t make eye contact with anyone in that room, instead pushing back through the doors and retracing my path back outside and toward the football field.
The Welles bleachers are built into a hillside in two tiers. It’s bigger than most of the stands I’m used to, and I wonder if this place is full on game days. I feed off a crowd. I was a better quarterback at Public because of the fan base, and I hope I can find something similar here. I wonder if they will take to an outsider.
If you win them games, they will love you.
My dad’s advice cuts through my thoughts, and I suck in a deep breath at the base of the stands, clearing my head of everything else. After a short stretch, I begin my slow jog up the stands, every step increasing the blood flow through my body—and my head. I take half of my steps with my eyes closed, regretting every second of last night’s choices along the way. My dad didn’t have to give me direction. I know his rules. Ten sets for the first infraction, fifteen for the next. There won’t be a next for me, though. There’s never been a first before, and I’m livid that I let this happen. I’m also pretty sure Toby Sullivan is my new number-one enemy. No way he showed up here early on accident. This was orchestrated. Part of a bigger plan. And I’m going to out-pass the shit out of him this week.
By my eighth trip up the bleachers, my head pounding has calmed. Unfortunately, nausea has taken its place. Spitting every few steps, my mouth waters with the worst acidic bile that keeps reminding me of my poor decisions. I literally will my body back down the bleachers for my final set before falling palms first into the grass and heaving vomit in front of me.
My stomach instantly feels better, but the rest of my body pays the price. The headache comes roaring back, and my chest burns. I spit at the ground while panting, eventually mustering the strength to stand. I don’t know how I’m going to survive this, but I have to somehow pull off the performance of my life while feeling the self-inflicted effects of a life-threatening virus.
I’m pouring sweat, which is unusual for me, so I pull my shirt up, slipping my arms out and letting it hang around my neck while I cool down in wide circles with my hands folded on top of my head. I would do anything to get air into my lungs faster, but I’m pretty sure I’m pulling out all the stops with this. Once my pulse slows, I head toward the water station and flip the switch to turn on the pressure. I bend forward and douse my face, neck, and head, both wincing and rejoicing at the cold water.
I let out a growl to get myself amped, then march back into the fieldhouse. I twist my shirt around and slip my arms back through on my way into the weight room, which is now buzzing with music, the clanking of weights, and the voices of my teammates.
Grabbing my bag on my way in, I head toward the back corner to again fill my bottle with cold water. My body is both craving and refusing the idea of taking in more liquid, but I’m going to be super dehydrated if I don’t start chugging. I’m pretty sure I’m done throwing up. I’m also fairly certain I look like hell.
“Someone’s hungover,” Theo utters at my back. I’d laugh in response but nothing about how I feel is funny right now.
“How are you fine?” I glance over my shoulder and note his perfectly clear eyes, wide-awake expression, and the pink color in his cheeks. Asshole.
“I didn’t drink much. I didn’t see you all night, though. What, did you find a dark corner and drink alone like a bum?” He elbows my bicep.
“Something like that,” I mutter before bringing my bottle to my mouth and chugging down several large gulps. My stomach turns as the water fills it, but I push through, fighting the urge to throw up again. I won’t do that here. I refuse.
I run my sleeve over my mouth and flip my water bottle closed, setting it by my bag on the floor and meeting Theo and Cameron at the squat rack.
“We got our first sets in. You’re up,” Cameron says, patting the weight he’s already loaded with one palm.
“Right. Let’s do this,” I say, settling into position while the guys flank my sides to spot me as I move the weight away from the bars so I can begin.
“Kind of a pussy amount there, isn’t it, Fuentes?”
My jaw grows rigid at the sound of Toby’s voice at my back.
“Go play with your blocks in the corner where your daddy can see you,” Cameron spits back at him.
Toby’s breathy laugh fades as he leaves behind me and I turn my head to the right and meet Cameron’s stare.
“I got your back. I hate that guy,” he says.
“Thanks,” I grunt out, the weight growing heavier on my shoulders.
I return my focus to the whiteboard in front of me, my dad’s scribbled writing filling the space with our workout plan for the day. I should have left with him this morning. I should have been ready before he was today. I failed, and I can’t let that happen again.
“Six,” Theo says to my left as I push my way toward my first set of ten. The weight is easy for me, but every time I exert myself, my veins swell and my body wants to curl up and die. I swear my head is going to pop off my neck before this morning is done.
Somehow, I manage to get through the full workout without a single cheat. While being late by not being early is my dad’s second edict, cutting corners when it comes to putting in the work is his first.
