Fading Out (2 page)

I watch as he sets down his tray and takes a plastic fork to cut through the cake. He slices it in half, or as close to half as he can make it, then places the larger piece on my plate next to the soppy mashed potatoes (which also happen to remind me of Stoney). I really can’t wait until I feel completely free of that place…

Giving my head another hard shake, I clear my tangled thoughts. “Um, thanks,” I say. “But really. It’s just cake.”

“You’re clearly new, right? The carrot cake is the only reason anyone actually eats here.” A slow smile curls his lips, causing my chest to flutter. “Hence why there’s only one piece left. Try it,” he adds, nodding toward my half, that smile touching his lips.

God, but he’s beautiful. I have a weakness for beautiful boys—beautiful boys with superior attitudes that leave me in defeated piles of shame and regret. No. No, not this time.

I can’t come undone.

I contemplate this and look down at my tray. I might be overreacting. I mean, he might just be trying to give me some cake. And he’s the second person at my new college to actually talk to me, besides my professors and random students asking about assignments. And the way he looked at me in the line…right into my eyes. It just about stopped my heart.

But then, as I’m really, truly considering him, he says, “Are you a freshman? I mean, did you transfer here or…do you live around here?”

I’m having a difficult time figuring out which of his questions to answer first. “Um, junior, and I transferred here. And no, don’t live here. Well, I guess I do now.”

He’s staring at me so intently, as if he’s trying to connect my words to something, that my stomach does a weird dip. My skin flushes with heat, sending a buzz to my head.

“You don’t have any family, say, a few towns over?”

What? I shake my head. “Nope. Not that I know of…” I trail off, hoping he’ll elaborate. This is getting awkward fast. “Oh. Well actually, my parents just bought a house in Wisteria.” But they own houses all over the country. I don’t voice this, however.

“Huh.” Slowly, he licks the remnants of cream icing off his finger. And not in a way that’s at all innocent.

His blue eyes roam over my body, lingering, invasive. His tongue swirls around the tip of his finger while his gaze practically peels away my clothes, sending a warm trill through my belly. It’s ridiculous. And then, because of how cliché it all is, and how lightheaded I suddenly feel, I laugh. Full-on, crazy woman laugh. He did not just try that lame move on me, did he?

“I’m sorry,” I say, waving my hand that’s not clutching the tray. “Thanks for the cake. But I need to go.”

Another laugh barrels from my mouth at the absurdity. I should’ve put it together before; the broad shoulders, muscles, cocky demeanor, entitlement (over a piece of cake!). I have a good bit of experience with his type, and I promised myself
never again
.

This guy can only be a jock.

I
’ve been launched
into the past.

When this girl turned and spoke to me—it was like déjà vu. Like I was seeing a ghost. And maybe that’s why my brain isn’t sending the proper signals to my mouth, and I’m saying the dumbest shit. For one brief, terrifying moment, I thought she was Alyssa.

But she’s not. And I quickly realized that. It’s impossible. But I just can’t stop staring at her; she reminds me so much of the girl that plagued me—that
still
plagues me. Right when her big amber eyes met mine, I felt like I’d been slapped.

Just the way Alyssa slapped me; palm against face.

But this girl…she is hot. So similar it’s freakily uncanny, but she definitely has her own sexiness. Just something all of her own. She’s model thin minus the height. In every way my type, and she’s perfectly proportioned. She’s covering her body up pretty damn well with all those layers, but I can see a hint of toned, round curves just beneath.

Despite the resemblance, there’s something I can’t place about her. Something skittish and unsure, but assertive at the same time—it’s conflicting. That’s what really sets the divide. Alyssa was soft-spoken and tame. This girl has a livewire buried just beneath her surface. And that vigor radiates off her at a high volume. It’s drawing me in; everything around us so quiet, like I need the silence to hear what she’s not voicing with words.

These are my thoughts as she stands here, manically laughing and waving her hand in the air. Her dark ringlets of hair falling over one shoulder, drawing my gaze right to her small but ample chest. Her head cocked back, like I’ve just said the funniest shit ever—and I’d like to believe that. Feel flattered and stroke my ego. But the reality comes as a blow to the stomach when I realize she’s laughing
at
me.

Dammit.

Do I have something on my face?

“So…bye,” she says, dropping her hand and gripping the tray with both now. Her knuckles turn this white color. She’s so high-strung—a strange desire to unhinge her sweeps through me. Just to see how she’ll respond. I need more. Just
more
.

I make one more attempt to fix whatever’s off by running my hand over my face, hoping to clear any icing away, feeling like a completely awkward dork right out of high school. Or hell, like I never left.

The memory of Alyssa has dragged me right back to the past. I’m unnerved.

But I’ve missed my chance. She’s gone.

As I watch her walk away, her narrow hips swaying, sexy—but with no intention of being sexy—an easy smile curls my lips, pushing away some of the unease. That’s what’s so hot; she has no clue. But I feel like I just got called out. She—and I really wish I would’ve caught her name—saw right through that lame-ass move. Offering her a piece of my cake? Did I really just go all grade school there?

I pop my finger into my mouth to finish off the icing.

For some reason, I don’t think bragging about being quarterback is going to win over any points with her. I’m glad I didn’t go there, even though I was about to…I was getting desperate to keep her from leaving. And really, every other girl at Braxton goes for that shit. Don’t fix what’s not broken, right? Though, no—I’m definitely thinking she’s nothing like any of those girls.

“Burn.” This from Gavin—my center—my main guy on the field and off.

My jaw clenches as my gaze quits the little hot girl and swings to him. “Not yet,” I say.

He chuckles. “Dude. She straight up dissed you, man. But hey, she’s new, huh? Give her till the end of the day to figure out who you are, then she’ll be spreading those skinny little legs wide open.” He flops down onto one of the plastic chairs and makes a crude motion with his hands and mouth, miming going down on a girl.

Gavin has no filter. Or shame.

I force a laugh. Because really, you have to laugh at the guy, or it’s just sad.

Laney, as if on cue, ambles over from her designated table and plunks onto Gavin’s lap. Her high ponytail swats him in the face, and he yanks on it, pulling her face toward him so he can devour her mouth.

They’re not a couple—just on again, off again fuck buddies for the past few years. Whenever they’re single and bored. The smacking and sucking noises can be heard over the chatter of the cafeteria.

Forgoing my initial inclination to chase after the chick that laughed at me and walked off with the other half of my carrot cake, I settle down onto a chair and dig into my piled-high plate. I’m already dismissing the eerie notion that she looked anything like Alyssa. It was the lighting. Or the angle. She just caught me at an off moment. Moving on. That was a blast from the past I don’t want to revisit.

Until I find out her name, I’ll just give her my own to completely separate the two. But, damn, if she hasn’t hijacked my whole brain. I can’t get those amber eyes out of my mind…

Gavin pulls his head back and says around Laney, “Coach still riding your ass about beefing up?”

Grateful for the diversion from my morbid thoughts, I nod, forcing down the starch-filled biscuit. “I’m six pounds away from goal weight.”

He adjusts Laney on his lap, maneuvering her to the side so he can get to his food. “That sucks.”

I huff a curt laugh. Not to sound like an ass, but that’s probably about the most sympathetic and enlightening thing I’ve ever heard come from the guy’s mouth.

“Thanks, dude.” I lift my fork to dive into the cake but pause. The flimsy utensil hovering over the icing. I didn’t realize it in the moment with my thoughts racing, but it’s been a long while since I was prompted to do anything—even as little as sharing the last piece of my favorite dessert—for anyone else. Especially a girl. Ever since sophomore year, since I made starting quarterback, I’ve had girls falling over themselves to make sure I was taken care of.

Clothes. Food. Sex. You name it. I’m like a prized stallion here at Braxton—and I’m really not trying to sound asinine. Or vain. It’s just the truth. For nearly three years I’ve been pampered, groomed, and indulged to assure the team’s victory. So very estranged from my bleak high school years where I was a skinny runt nobody.

Football changed my life.

And the events that rocked it right out of control.

“I’m out,” Gavin says. He bucks Laney, making her giggle, then lifts her up to stand. “See ya on the field. Fucking Keebler is riding my balls in algebra.” He’s gone before I can acknowledge this. Keebler—professor from hell—might be the reason why Gavin gets benched for a while. Which would really hinder our game. I need him on the field.

I hurriedly stuff the last of my lunch into my mouth, still chewing as I jump up to leave. Unlike Gavin, who gets his shit worked over pretty hard, the professors are a little more slack on me. Doesn’t mean I don’t get a good ass chewing from time to time.

Just recently, Professor Collins took an interest in me, requesting I work an extra half hour before class to improve my writing skills. It’s the reason why I now eat lunch in the boring cafeteria rather than at Jack’s Bar Wench downtown with the rest of the team. I have less than five minutes to make it to her class.

On my way out, I glimpse the new girl once more. Poking sadly at her salad. It is a pretty sad salad. But from here, at a safe distance, I note the differences between her and Alyssa—the things I couldn’t register as clearly in my shaken state. The slender nose that buds out to a cute button. The slight cleft in her chin. The full top lip that plumps her mouth into a sultry pout.

She looked just similar enough to evoke my guilt. And I’ve clung to that for a long time.

A sudden, fierce desire to go back in time to just a few minutes ago sweeps through me. I wish I’d said something else—I don’t know. Maybe I can salvage something from that awkward encounter. And what’s more, I don’t just want to; I
need
to—I need to know about
this
girl. She’s triggered some neurotic side of me that I fear will only get worse if I don’t see this through.

Maybe I’ve been given a second chance…some shot at redemption.

With one last peek, I note the carrot cake is missing from her tray with a crooked smile. Score a couple points for the QB.

F
irst day from hell
.

But I survived. Sort of. I got through each class, loaded down with course work literally coming out of my binder, and I managed not to attract any unwanted attention. The main staff at Braxton knows why I’m here. That I was kicked out of my last college and that I had limited choices as to where I would attend next.

The dean let me know, not too subtly, in front of my brooding parents that he was uncomfortable with why I selected Braxton. Even though I assured him it was a top choice. Still, it wasn’t
my
choice at all. My father picked the most out-of-the-way school imaginable, where he could hide his shamed offspring.

It’s not like I made Internet star status with my scandal. Hardly. No one particularly cared at Dartmouth. While I was being reprimanded, another student became a YouTube celeb with his hazing stunt. The images of a guy—his buttocks burned so badly after being torched with a Bunsen burner—were all over campus.

Still, being caught with speed was all it took for them to toss me out. I wasn’t a student body icon. I wasn’t on a sports team or a club leader. Despite my prestigious name and my father’s standing with the school, they had no real qualms about replacing me with another highly regarded student that had been waitlisted.

Because I’m not a future leader of tomorrow.

And that’s fine, really. My aim was never that high. I never wanted the pressure of living up to that standard; I have enough stress just meeting my family’s expectations. I remind myself of this as I trudge down my dorm hallway, weighed down by my assignments. I have so much work to make up, just so I can barely pass this semester after missing months of school. And Braxton prides itself—small private university that it is—on academic achievement.

And football.

Every few steps, there’s another poster glorifying the Braxton Bobcats. Booster signups for new members apparently started this week, and a signup sheet is stationed at every turn. Vanessa has talked non-stop about us joining—the reason why she’s been racking her brain for a raffle ticket idea. She even got those sample tickets printed to show her commitment. If she can’t be a cheerleader, she said to me during our first encounter, then she’ll be the next best thing.

I noticed, in my short time here, that she doesn’t so much as talk about supporting the team as a whole, as she does about some player named Gavin. Why she insists on eating lunch in the cafeteria—where
he
eats. She’s never come across as shy to me, just the opposite. But when it comes to matters of the heart, I know just how awkward it can be. How much you want the other person to notice you without having to be the one to put it all out there.

My stomach lurches as I push my room door open, memories of my one brief attempt at a relationship invading my thoughts. So much wasted effort for nothing. I won’t be getting mixed up with another selfish, conceited jock, that’s for damn sure.

Besides, after the disaster that was Stephan, my father vetoed all jocks from my most eligible bachelors’ list. He doesn’t know the whole truth, only that I was “involved” with someone he considers beneath my status. And he blames me for allowing a “fling” to get so out of hand I’d turn to drugs.

God, if he only knew.

Shaking off my unsettling thoughts, I close the door and toss my tote on the floor.

“Good!” Vanessa hops off her bed and bounds right for me. “I so did not want to go by myself. Haley isn’t feeling well, so she’s not going tonight.” She grips my shoulders and pushes me toward the closet.

“Whoa…what?” I dig my heels in, stopping myself right before the open closet door. Outfits are strewn around, littering the floor, like they exploded from the closet. “Where?”

She sighs. As if it’s so tiring that I’m utterly clueless. I can’t help but agree with her sentiment. “The bonfire, A. It’s the big send off before the Bobcats go fight our nemesis tomorrow.”

I will never get used to this we’re-all-about-our-football-team school mentality. Oh, well, regardless, this is my new home for now. I better learn to embrace it.

With that decided, I hesitantly allow Vee to dress me in clothes my stepmother would have a stroke over. But hey, this was my parents’ choice. Dartmouth has its flaws, too, but those are overlooked because of the prestige. Now, I’m a Bobcat, Becca.
Embrace it
.

T
he crackle
of a roaring fire and beat of deep, bass-filled music pricks my senses, heightening my anxiety, as Vee and I shuffle across the loose beach sand.

This bonfire party is close to the North Carolina shoreline, just a few miles away from campus—and I have to admit, I’m kind of disappointed it’s nighttime. I haven’t been to the beach in ages. Even though Stoney Creek is located near the Florida coast, we never took group fieldtrips anywhere. It was more of a lock-yourself-away-from-the-world-until-you-feel-safe-to-reemerge type deal.

And although my parents own a beach house along the coast of St. Augustine (hence why I was admitted to Stoney in the first place; their little secret place to stash the child who shall not be named, banned from Dartmouth of the elite), I spent far too many tiring days of study at school to visit much.

Now, with the cool night air whipping at my cheeks, destroying the painstakingly grueling hairstyle Vee attempted, having tamed my rebel curls, a surge of homesickness rushes over me with each crash of the waves, amplifying the effect.

Regardless of my discomfort, I love the ocean.

Like, not the way someone says, “Oh, I love the ocean!” This is a serious obsession. I have collected a ridiculous number of killer whale stuffies and shells and anything else ocean-y I could get my hands on since I was a kid. It was always my secret dream to run away from all the pressures of living up to my family’s name to simply buy a cottage on the beach, where I could do whatever the hell I wanted.

I haven’t thought about that fantasy in a long time, though. It was quashed right alongside all the other desires I had before college, when the realization really sunk in that my life was already planned out—my father relaying how after I graduate, we’ll have my match decided and an engagement announcement.

I did appreciate his attempt to make it seem like I was going to be a part of this decision. He said, “
we’ll
have…” But I knew even then that was just a formality. I may get some say, but ultimately, it will be from a preselected lineup of his approval.

A little piece of me—scratch that,
most
of me—died that day. Any hopes I had for college—being on my own for the first time, experiencing new, exciting things,
freedom
—all blown to hell in one single, family brunch.

And I know, it’s not the 1800s; I’m a woman of the twenty-first century who has rights and doesn’t have to bend to my father’s will. Yet, knowing this doesn’t mean one can affect that change. Old money doesn’t work like that. I’m a debutante. A
debutante
. The word just sounds archaic.

Before my junior year of college, I had a “coming out” ball. I was presented, like an auction prize, to eligible men of equal status and old money to start something akin to a bidding war. Wining and dining my father, making professional propositions, talking about a merger between families like it’s a business deal.

And that’s just what it will be; a business deal. I’ve grown up aware of these customs, so it wasn’t so much as shocking as it was finally comprehending the absolute finality. I’m sure if I tried to explain this to Vee she would be outraged. But it’s just the way things are. I’ve accepted it, and the thought of trying to fight the inevitable is just exhausting.

I would be cut off from my family. I don’t care about the wealth; it’s the thought of severing a link to my blood, to the people who have known me forever, that terrifies me. I have no one else.

As Vee steers me toward the crowd circling the blazing fire, amber light blooms around us, illuminating the scene. Girls wearing skimpy outfits with some kind of Bobcat attribute. Guys in football jerseys, their faces painted blue and white—totally reminding me of Braveheart. A line wrapped around a keg stand near the flames, which I think might be dangerous…but I silence my inner nerd.

Just go with it.

I can feel the fire’s warmth before we’re even close; it’s huge. Embers pop and sizzle into the glow of what looks like low-hung clouds. The humidity casting everything in a hazy blaze; peaceful, if not for the rowdy mob—shouting, laughing, music thumping. A post stands erect in the center of the roaring flames. I stare harder into the orange inferno, and realize the wooden beam is dressed in a football jersey and sporting a helmet.

“Engleton,” Vee says, nodding toward the fire. “We’re roasting our rivals.”

“Wow. That’s…fierce,” I say, and she laughs.

The bonfire gives off plenty of heat, but I’m still relieved I changed into a hoodie and jeans at the last minute. The cool wind off the ocean is biting. And I just wasn’t comfortable in that mini skirt. I can almost envision my father’s disapproving glare.

“I don’t know about you,” Vee says, nudging my shoulder with her elbow, doing her best to keep balance in the loose sand with her wedge sandals. “But I really need a drink.” I follow her gaze toward the keg, to where the guy she was mooning over during lunch today stands filling a red plastic cup.

My insides revoke this idea; nausea roiling against my stomach lining. But I follow her anyway, if only to be of moral support in her endeavor to gain Gavin’s attention. My own self preservation is making me glance around suspiciously, seeking the whereabouts of Ryder—the guy Vee informed me I was talking to during my awkward moment at lunch.

I’d rather not be subjected to anymore of his egotistical tactics. Despite how funny—although, yes, obscene—they were. I mean, did he really think licking his finger and checking me out was hot? That’s a total girl move. Vee enlightened me that I should feel honored, as Ryder hasn’t had to attempt picking up a girl all on his own, like…ever. Regardless, I wasn’t too impressed.

His ice-blue eyes and ripped abs be damned.

I’m not here to be a one-night lay for the star quarterback of Braxton. A notch on his bunk bed. I’m not exactly sure why I
am
here…but it’s certainly not to become the butt of some locker room joke. That wouldn’t be a great start to my new college career.

And as if just thinking his name can summon the football god himself, Ryder appears next to me, plastic cup poised and ready to be filled. And damn. He’s shirtless. My eyes go right to his ripped abs, my gaze being drawn lower—to the muscles defining the V just above his jeans. A hint of a tattoo peeks above his boxers…and, oh, my God.

Jerking my gaze upward, I focus on his chest. And ugh. That doesn’t help. I’m useless. I just allow my eyes to roam unabashedly, because really, the guy is all man, and I can’t help it. He has another tattoo on his upper arm, and I might as well leave now.

I’m through.

“How you doing, carrot cake?”

Against my will, my lips twist as I try to keep from smiling. His face is painted white and blue, and he’s still ridiculously cute. I shrug. “All right. And the cake was all right, too.”

He grabs his chest in mock horror. “Just all right? I’ll have you know”—he takes the tap from Gavin and commences to fill a cup, then hands it off to Vee—“I never share my cake with anyone. Especially not my very favorite carrot cake.” He fills another cup and hands it to me.

I accept, tracking his movements as he digs out a bottle of water from a cooler. “Should I feel flattered?” I say. These bold words are not mine. I have no idea where they’re coming from. To keep from looking and getting lost in his adorably squinted gaze, I avert my attention to Vee, who’s sipping her beer. I refuse to look into her eyes, either.

I feel kind of shitty, actually. She’s all but in love with this guy Gavin, since like freshman year, she says. And Ryder is giving me all this unwanted attention, whereas she’s dying to have any at all. Truth be told, though, Ryder’s probably only interested because I’m likely the only girl on campus he hasn’t nailed yet.

I plan to keep it that way.

Ryder hasn’t responded to my jibe, and I take the silent moment to look at him, cup to my lips, partially concealing my face. He boldly lowers my cup, revealing my face to him. Then he runs the backs of his fingers over my cheek, brushing my stray curls aside.

My breath stutters on my lips. The feel of his rough hand, warm and purposeful in its pursuit, makes my chest tighten. Just one action—one touch—and my traitor heart is begging me to move closer to him. To discover just what those hands are capable of.

As he drops his hand, his teeth bite into the corner of his bottom lip, his eyes now wide and animated. His blue gaze drills into me, studying, marveling, like he’s trying to unravel some kind of mystery. Or challenge, maybe. But no… Oh, no. I take a sip of beer, needing to moisten my suddenly dry throat. That’s not at all how I intended him to take it.

“You should feel very flattered,” he finally says. “In fact, feel free to make an offer of thanks at your earliest convenience.”

And that does it. All reason returns to my distracted brain, and my eyes go wide.
Why did I think I could be civil with this guy
? I
so
knew better.

He must catch the connotation of his words, and realize that I’m offended, because he says, “Wait. No…”

But it’s too late for backpedaling. I got his message, loud and clear.

I fan my hand, as if that will help hurry the beer down my throat. My eyes tear up, and I choke out my words. “Listen,” I say around a cough. “Can we like, not?”

His expression morphs into one of confusion, his eyebrows knitting together. His smile hardens into a tight line. “Not what, carrot cake?”

Vee kicks my foot, but I ignore her. “This whole…high school routine. You know.” I nod, hoping he’ll catch on and I won’t have to spell it out. But of course,
jock
, with only one thing on his mind, so I have to. “I’m not going to sleep with you,” I blurt.