Beneath The Skin (A College Obsession Romance) (62 page)

I use the washcloth over the back of my head, unsure if I’m bleeding there too. Soon, my whole face is a mess of wetness, and I have a bandage slapped over my cheek, which stings when I apply it. I run a hand through my hair and stare at my reflection, the bitterness and the fury sizzling beneath my eyes.

After I lock up the apartment behind me and make my way down the road, I curse the fact that I forgot to check the condition of my own room. It’s probably a fucking mess. I was too occupied cleaning up my face, lost in my boiling anger and picturing a hundred and twenty alternative ways that encounter could’ve gone—all one hundred and twenty ending with me standing over their bloodied bodies. Still, even wearing my anger as armor, I find myself looking over my shoulder twenty times on the way to the bowling alley. Better safe.

Just before I reach the glass doors, my phone gives a shake in my pocket, startling me. I wince as I reach to grab it, some totally new and annoying ache in my shoulder making itself known. I free the phone and lift the screen to my strained eyes:

DMITRI

Clayton! Where are you?

I sigh, ignoring it since I’m already here. I push my way in, the stench of the place dancing unwelcomed up my nostrils. The guy at the counter waves, then flashes me a number of fingers, his hands opening and closing two times to indicate lane twenty. I give him a nod of thanks, then make my way.

Brant whips around the corner out of nowhere and grabs me for a hug. I snort and wince in pain, caught off-guard by him as he thanks me profusely for coming.

Then his face changes when he gets a good look.
“The fuck happen to you?”
I think he asks. I shrug and wave him off. He grabs my arm, stopping me as I try to move past him. Reeling me around to face him again, he asks,
“You fall down the stairs?”

I could laugh if I didn’t know it’d hurt like fuck. I lick my lips and say, “I’m fine,” with my voice sending tremors up my jaw and to my cheek.
Even speech hurts.

He frowns, then beckons me over with a shake of his head. I follow him to lane twenty where I see the opposing team has set up shop. Through the crowd of them, I catch Dmitri with the rest of what I take to be Brant’s team: two Hispanic chicks—who, if I recall, are an on-and-off couple, but no one talks about it—and a computer nerd black dude named Josiah who’s a head taller than me and always seems to be smiling.

Dmitri rises from the bench the second he spots me, rushing up to my side.
What happened?
he signs.

I use as few signs as possible:
Nothing. Fell.

He shakes his head:
You should clean up. Bathroom. You’re bleeding through your bandage.

I huff irritably:
It’s not
that
bad.

Dmitri lifts his eyebrows, which carry his glasses up a bit with them:
Yes, it is. Dessie is in the bathroom. Fix yourself up before she returns.

The spelling out of her name sobers me at once. Of course she’s here already. I’m late. I move my hands:
How long has she been here? How long has she been waiting? Do I really look that bad?

When Dmitri’s eyes avert, I realize I’m too late.

I turn to find Dessie standing there. My god. She gets more beautiful every time I see her. She’s wearing some cute white peasant top thing over a pair of jeans that hug her sexy, curvy shape. They hang low on the hips, leading my disobedient eyes straight to them—and my imagination straight to what smooth sexiness resides underneath.

And her pretty face … it’s evident from the subtle makeup and the pink of her lips that she fixed herself up a little for our hanging out tonight. Even with the smog of our regrettable environment, I swear I can smell her through it—lilac and fruit and something else I can’t name, something fresh and inviting.

I can’t trust myself in a room alone with her. I would rip off that innocent-looking white top and strip down those hot as fuck jeans.

Fuck … what I’d do to her …
I’d own those lips for longer than just one fleeting moment in a cherry-picker, that’s for sure.

So mesmerized by her, I belatedly realize her lips are moving.
“What happened?”
she’s asking.

I shake my head, then murmur a word to her.

“What?”
she says, leaning in closer.

I guess the place is louder than I realized. I tell her, “It’s nothing. I’m fine.” But the words rattle my jaw and I wince against the pain.

Dmitri steps in, puts an apologetic hand on Dessie’s shoulder, then signs:
Maybe you two should go back to the apartment and hang out. I’ll stay and support Brant. You’ll have the place to yourself for at least a couple hours, maybe more.

I feel my face flushing. I don’t know if it’s because of the attention Dmitri’s signing is earning us, or if it’s because of the pain, or if it’s because he’s basically giving me permission to take Dessie back to our place and have ample time …
alone together
.

He seems to be relaying the message to Dessie, as he leans into her and says something. I feel my heart jerk awake, hopping around inside my ribcage as I wonder frustratedly what he’s saying to her.

She gives a shrug in response, then says something back to him. I look at her eyes questioningly. She spreads her hands, then says something to me. I don’t quite understand until Dmitri signs:
She said yes. You two can hang at the apartment. It’s too loud here.

Too loud. What a concept.

I lift a brow at her. “You sure?”

Dessie nods, the waves of her long, brown hair dancing when she does, and her cheeks seem to flush the same shade as her beautiful, kissable lips. Fuck.

Behave, Clayton.

DESSIE

Oh my god. We’re going back to his place.

This breaks about ten of the rules I set for myself before agreeing to this whole “innocent hanging out” thing with Clayton Watts.

My hands are sweating.

My mouth has gone so dry, I’m sucking on my tongue.

I can barely put one foot in front of the other without threatening to trip myself on the way down the street to his place, which is apparently a couple blocks over from the
Throng
.

“So …” I say out of habit as we walk, then shake my head, feeling dumb. It’s not like we can talk on the way.
This was such a stupid idea.
When I turn to look at him, however, he seems to have noticed my mouth move. “Sorry.” I laugh, feeling dumber. “I, um … So … You fell?”

Clayton nods slowly.

“Dmitri told me,” I explain, speaking slow. I don’t know if he can see my lips in the semidarkness that well. I deliberately time my remarks for when we pass each streetlamp along the road. “And Dmitri said he doesn’t believe you.”

Clayton chuckles dryly, though he doesn’t smile.
He looks in pain
. My heart crushes in.

Even as we walk, he keeps his eyes on me. I get the feeling he’s trying not to miss a word of what I’m saying. Instead of feeling self-conscious, I feel oddly touched by the gesture.

“I didn’t realize everything was so close,” I tell him. “Bowling alley, just down the street from the
Throng
, which is just a block or two from
your
place, which is right across the road from
campus
…”

He smiles. I’m not sure he got what I said, but I smile back anyway and continue walking alongside him in the quiet. I try to ignore how nervous I am.

We reach his apartment complex. His place on the first floor faces the main road, visible through a tall, wrought iron fence. He pushes a key into the door, then holds it open for me. I walk past him and catch a hint of his cologne.
God, he smells like sex
.

“Thirsty?”

The sound of that one soft, sexy word tickles me, sending chills up my neck. “I could maybe use a little something,” I admit after turning around to face him with a muted smile. “Yes,” I answer with a nod, just to be more clear. “Whatever you have.”

He walks past me, the door shutting loudly at his back, then pulls open the fridge. He turns, lifting a questioning, expectant eyebrow.

A spike of confidence hits me, inspiring me to straighten my back and take one step toward him. “I’ll help myself. How about you take a seat on the couch?”

His brows pull together. “Huh?”

I grip his arm—
oh my god, he’s so fucking meaty
—and guide him around the kitchen counter to the living room. He stares at me the whole time with questions in his defiant eyes. “As far as bandaging your own wounds,” I tell him with a smirk, “you suck at it.”

He frowns, his eyes narrowed as I lead him to the couch, letting him sit. I’d almost call those eyes cute if he didn’t look so damn dangerous all the time.

“Sit here,” I tell him plainly, pretty sure he didn’t catch what I was saying on the way to the couch. “I’m going to rebandage your wounds.”

“No.”

“Yes. But first, a drink.” I leave him on the couch with a frustrated expression, helping myself to his fridge and searching for something safe to drink.

My eyes land on the tequila.

I return with the bottle and two shot glasses. He eyes me suspiciously when I set them on the coffee table in front of us. “To relax,” I explain to him with an innocent shrug. “Where’s your bathroom?”

He meets my eyes late, distracted.

“Bathroom,” I repeat.

He points to the hallway by the kitchen. When I enter it, I pull open the medicine cabinet and find a first aid kit. Upon closing it with a bang, I see my face in the mirror. I look so … tense. Who am I fooling, trying to act like I’m in charge?
I’m about to rebandage Clayton Watts’s face. I’m in Clayton Watts’s apartment and I’m about to have my hands all over his face.

I take a deep breath in and blow it out.

When I return to the couch, I find Clayton sitting there with the two shot glasses in his hands, filled. Jaw tightened, he looks up at me with a severe look in his eyes, then offers a glass.

I sit on the coffee table across from him, take the glass, then clink it softly against his. “Bottoms up!”

He kicks his back in one animal gulp. I … slowly sip mine until it’s empty. Holy hell, that shit is strong. I turn my head to cough, my eyes watering instantly.
It’s not going to take much,
I realize.
One’s enough.

But by the time I’ve recovered, he’s already poured us seconds.

“Oh.” My eyes widen. “I was just—”

“Bottoms up,” he says with a smirk, cutting me off, then kicks his second one back.

I give mine one rueful look, then slowly knock it back. Hissing afterward from the back of my throat, I find myself laughing and blinking away the burn. “Wow!” I shout.

When my eyes meet his, I’m instantly sobered. The intensity in his stare reaches deep into me.

Focus, Dessie.
I set the shot glass down a skosh too hard. Popping open the little medical supply kit, I fish out a butterfly bandage and a tiny antiseptic wipe.

When I reach to take off his bandage, he recoils. I give him a warning look. His eyes flash challengingly. Is that a snarl on his lips?

When he finally relaxes, I gently peel the bandage off.
Why does this feel like I’m negotiating with some wild beast?
I frown at the ugly gash underneath. I have this strange blessing of having an iron stomach; nothing makes me sick, not the sight of blood, nor vomit, nor even big gaping wounds. Maybe I’m supposed to be a nurse. Maybe I’ve missed my calling.