Fading Out (4 page)

“
O
h
, shit. Incoming. Duck, bro, duck!”

The urgency in Gavin’s voice makes me do the exact opposite of his warning. I pivot and come face-to-face with a scowling little carrot cake.

Against my will, my mouth tips into a smile as I spy the pinched frown pulling at her full, soft lips. She’s so cute, it’s actually painful. I’m starting to see her in a whole new way—so distinctly unalike the Alyssa from my past that I can’t believe I ever compared the two.

She’s obviously still pissed about the ocean dunk. And honestly, I felt like a total shit later that night—my actions reminding me of
his
. I’m ashamed I somehow channeled any part of him. It scared me, that split second of realization, where I behaved just like him.

But with how things turned out at the game, I haven’t given it any more thought. Maybe a subliminal form of denial, of rejecting that initial realization—I’ve worked hard at being the exact opposite… But I should apologize. Stuck up or not, this girl didn’t deserve to get that side of me.

“You arrogant ass,” she seethes through clenched teeth, and my head snaps back.

Okay…she’s still
really
pissed. “Hey, you got me first. Can we call a truce?”

She mock laughs. Again with the manic cackle. It’s a little disturbing and raises the hairs along my skin. As she glares at me, I can almost see the storm of angry thoughts swirling around her little head. “Truce? After the crap you pulled?”

I feel my forehead crease as shock and confusion wash over me. “You can’t still be this mad about the other night. Look,” I say, widening my stance into a looser, hopefully less defensive posture. “I’m sorry. Really. That was asinine of me. Can we move past it?”

“Sure, that works out great for you, considering you get to have the final blow. Right?” When I just stare, I’m sure my confusion registering on my face, she continues. “You like, egged my car. But with condoms.” She stresses the last word.

Behind me, Gavin, Jeremy, and Devon erupt into laughter. My eyes close and I release a heavy breath.
Fucktards
. When I open my eyes again to chance another look at her, she’s tapping her foot, amber eyes wide and expecting.

Looks like team morale was low enough after the loss to push the guys to release a little steam. And the fact that they didn’t clue me in beforehand means this was a gift. Something to cheer up their QB. I could try to explain that to her, but I doubt it would help the matter. I’ve seen her Jag, know the money somebody—either her parents or whoever—dished out for that car. I wonder how much shit she’s going to get into if there’s a repair bill. Shit, I hope not.

Also, I’m guilty by association. The guys probably thought I’d get a kick out of this, that it would help boost my spirit. Despite my game being on—for the whole season; we’re undefeated except against Engleton—we lost by a measly two points. That burns worse than if they’d slaughtered us. And all my guys know is that this girl got to me. Bad.

As I stand here, silent, contemplative, racking my brain for something that could defend the guys while also not making excuses for them, she loses her last bit of cool.

“Oh,” she says, shaking her head, dark curls bobbing along her shoulders. “It is so on. You think I’m some little—” her eyes squint as she tries to grasp the word she’s searching for “—
prude
. From some hot shot school. Some little rich girl who’s had everything handed to her so this shouldn’t be a big deal—but it
is
. I don’t take shit from anyone, Ryder. Especially privileged jocks that get free rides through college because they can toss a pigskin.”

Ouch.

But she’s not done. “I’m a Wyndemere. We don’t accept defeat. We stomp out the opposition.”

Well, at least I now know her last name. Apparently, an important one. And the fact that we have something in common—I don’t accept defeat, either. I almost smile. “So what…this means war?” I roll my shoulders and cock my head, just to aggravate her a little more. I really shouldn’t press her. But I can’t help it. She’s so feisty.

Her smile transforms her face. Open. Bright and gorgeous. Hell, it’s a shame she’s a snob. I could get lost in her for a long damn while.

“I wouldn’t dare utter such a cliché,” she says. “But, if I must, then revenge is a dish best served cold.” She glares at me. “Contemplate that one.”

She turns and storms off down the hall, not giving me the chance to respond. My gaze follows the side-to-side swish of her cute ass as she goes.

“Dude. I don’t know, man,” Gavin says. He anchors one meaty hand to my shoulder. “Some chicks are just too psycho to fuck with. She looks like one of them.”

I turn to face him. “Then why’d you guys fuck with her car?”

“We were just effing around.” This from Jeremy, who’s zipping up his backpack as if he’s already over it all. I actually agree, and reach for my bundle of books by my feet. “She’ll calm down. Just say the word, and it’s history, bro.”

I nod. “Okay, then. The word. No one messes with her from here on out.” I glare at each of them in turn.

Devon shrugs. “Psycho prude is all yours, dude.”

After I get a few more details about what they did, I set off toward the parking lot, dreading seeing her Jag. As I reach the first row where I’m parked, I keep my eyes purposely on my Jeep. I mean, she did dump a cup of beer on me—but the decimation of her car by prophylactics was a bit extreme by comparison. They said they used milk, so it’s not going to ruin the paint, at least. I’d have offered to pay, of course, if that was the case.

Or made the team chip in.

Maybe I should have them wash her car.

These thoughts continue to cloud my head, but they can’t overpower the main thought I’m trying to ignore. This chick might physically resemble Alyssa, but she doesn’t act like her. Arian reminds me of the snobs from my high school—the girls who wished they were Alyssa. And I really, really wish she didn’t. I wish—from that first moment I saw her, met her gorgeous eyes—I’d have said or done anything different. That I didn’t pull this side out of her.

My parents about killed themselves working two jobs each to afford the private school tuition, to give me a chance at a good education and scholarship opportunities, so I could follow in my brother’s footsteps.
Then
, the pride of our family.

And me, being the poor, skinny kid with a cheap haircut and my brother’s hand-me-downs, didn’t make the cut for any of the elite social groups. Instead, I spent those four long years stuck in thriller novels. Trying to ignore them, to avoid getting my ass kicked, and pretending that I didn’t want to be accepted.

I slam my Jeep door and crank the engine.

That’s the past. What suck fest my high school years were, I’ve more than made up for them in college. It’s like thinking about a distant, long forgotten friend. Someone who you can’t help but feel sorry for, but who you don’t care enough to reach out to.

Ryder the loser is no more.

The Ryde
—quarterback legend—put him out of his misery.

So I won’t let this snooty girl with daddy issues make me feel—even for a second—like that pathetic guy again.

I peel out of the parking lot, not giving her or her threat another thought.

“
S
o
, I guess this means you don’t want to sign up for the boosters.”

I glare at Vee through the misty rainbow above the spray of water. Then I imperiously go back to hosing down my car.

Her hands fly up. “Understood. Clearly.”

Nothing could convince me to sign up for a group whose soul mission is to celebrate—no,
worship
—a football team. The very team who’s responsible for why we’re both here at a carwash soaking ourselves in soapy water. I’ve been drenched twice now. Out in the cold.

I know her comment is a joke, meant to calm me down and put things into perspective. But I’ve been fuming ever since we left campus.

I’m not yet ready for jokes.

Only… “How close do the boosters actually get to the team?”

Vee pauses, the soppy sponge in her hand drizzling sudsy rivulets down the hood of my car. She looks up at me. “What is your wicked brain concocting?”

I shrug, then hang the hose on a hook along the cement wall and grab my own sponge.

“No, A.” The soft lines of her forehead crease. “Let it go. Just let it go.”

I want to believe she’s worried about my welfare—which I do, ultimately. She’s a very caring person. In the short time I’ve known her, I’ve seen her devote her free time to many small acts of kindness. She affects a tough and feisty demeanor, but she’s also one of the sweetest people I’ve ever known. Unselfish and with a huge heart.

But I also know that if there’s one thing to trigger a girl’s needy, greedy side, it’s a guy. And if I do anything to piss off the team—well, more than I already have by humiliating their starting quarterback—that means pissing off Gavin, too. Maybe even crushing any chance Vee has with him. Because she’s too good a friend to abandon me, she’ll go down right alongside me.

I don’t want that for her. I may think the football team as a whole is a bunch of misogynistic a-holes, but Vee’s allowed to have her own opinion of Gavin. I won’t allow her to be any part of this. I refuse to tarnish her rep.

For a minute, while I scrub the dried milk from the silver paint, I weigh the outcome. I should probably listen to her and let this go. Really, it’s just a dumb prank—only, it’s more than that to me. My whole life, I’ve bowed out in the midst of any confrontation. With my parents, teachers, peers. I carved a secluded little section in the world for myself, content to exist solo. Just so long as no one looked too closely.

I’ve known guys like Ryder most of my life. Even dated them. Hell, if he has any real money at all and didn’t play football, my father might even arrange our marriage—he’s just the type my father would endorse. Only, Ryder doesn’t act the part. He’s too…rough around the edges. Not polished like a socialite.

A brief image flits before my vision. Ryder’s clear blue eyes studying me, as if he wanted to know
me
. His broad shoulders, corded, muscular arms, the squinty corners of his eyes, dark hair falling over his forehead. That moment when we first made eye contact.

The callused skin of his fingers as the grazed my skin. Hands that have seen hard work.

Warmth pools in my stomach, and I forcefully push the memory away. I can’t deny the guy has it. He’s every girl’s wet dream. I’d have to be blind not to acknowledge that he’s hot. And for a split second in the lunch line, when he gazed at me, I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. I truly wanted him to be interested in me—and I allowed myself that small hope too soon before reality crushed it.

All my future prospects are only interested in marrying Jonathan Wyndemere’s daughter. I’m a name without a face. But Ryder
saw
me. Or at least, I thought he did. Then everything just got so ugly and went all wrong.

Besides, he’s a jock. It’s not just a title, or a cliché. It’s who he really is; how he views the world.
His
world. As if it belongs solely to him, and everyone merely exists to orbit around his sun.

Just like Stephan.

My three-month detour into narcissistic jock world that left me reeling, on the brink of self-loathing.

“Ari.” Vee’s questioning voice pulls me from my downward spiraling thoughts. “You’re not really thinking of retaliation, are you?”

I toss the sponge into the bucket of soapy water. “No, I’m not, Vee. I’ll get over it.”

She nods slowly, watching me, trying to figure out if I mean it. Then, “Well, hey. Maybe joining the boosters would put a stop to all this. I mean, they couldn’t very well keep picking on one of their own, ya know?”

I raise my eyebrows. “Are you trying to gaslight me?”

She laughs and goes back to washing the car. “No.” But then she stops scrubbing and places her hands on her hips, soaking her tee further. “Okay, maybe a little. I know, I’m being somewhat selfish, but I still need numbers for my raffle idea to be considered.” With a sigh, she adds, “I’m sorry this happened, and I’m sorry that you and the school ‘it’ boy have major sexual tension…but you could still help a girl out.” She bats her long eyelashes at me.

“Oh, my God,” I say, purposely avoiding her comment about Ryder and me having any form of sexual tension. “Will you just admit why you’re really doing this?” When she shrugs, averting her gaze, I moan. “If this guy is worth all this effort, Vee, then why not just talk to him.” I tilt my head. “No one should make you feel inferior.”

She rolls her eyes. “Wow. Where did this spunk come from, all of a sudden?” She shakes her head and dips her sponge in her bucket. “The Ryde really fired you up. Maybe this little spat was a good thing for you.”

She’s avoiding, too.

But as she says this, my immediate reaction is denial. To fall back on my claim that all I want is to coast unnoticed. Only, I realize with a start that Ryder’s antics, not to mention his gorgeous…everything, has awoken something inside me. Ignited a fire—one I never thought existed in the first place.

It might just be a distraction from all the tension currently binding me—but it feels like something close to relief not to be so focused on my issues for once.

For that, I’m sort of grateful. Still doesn’t mean I excuse his ego, however.

With a determined edge I’ve never owned before, I say, “All right. Tell me about this raffle idea. I’ll see what I can do.”

She actually squees.

It makes my insides fizz happily for her.

I
need
some kind of anchor. Something to make me feel secure in my new environment. While at Dartmouth, I had my weekly movie club. Lame, maybe. But unlike book clubs, where everyone tries to outsmart and outwit each other (college is nothing if not competitive), I could easily find the time to slip in a couple hours a week to indulge a movie.

And truthfully, it was the only way I’d allow myself the guilty pleasure. Anything that pulled me away from my studies was unacceptable to my father, but he couldn’t scoff at a social activity that promoted camaraderie among his people.

As I gaze over the signups on the cork bulletin board, my finger scanning such items as chess club, documentary divas, ECON club, I finally locate the boosters. It’s definitely not my club of choice, but despite my annoyance with “The Ryde” and all things football, I predict it will at least keep me busy. Anchored. Grounded. And joining will make Vanessa happy. I owe her that much.

Two birds, one stone
.

I scribble my name on the signup page.

Truly, I had wanted to use the leverage for my revenge…but when it comes right down to it, what the hell is one girl against a team of football gods? The thought was petty.
I
was petty. Embarrassed, actually. And possibly even my feelings a little hurt. When Ryder called me “twigs” it stung—the car prank driving the mortification even deeper.

It’s better if I focus on the boosters as a way to help Vee accomplish her goal, do something to repay her kindness toward me, rather than for my vindictive reasons. Besides, I’m pretty awkward. I’d probably just screw it up, anyway.

I’m decided in my efforts, mentally letting go of the childishness of last week, when I hear a deep voice. It resonates in my chest. Makes the hair along my skin stand at attention. It’s that commanding.

“Really, carrot cake?” Ryder says. “The boosters?” He’s leaning against the wall, his forearm flat against the corkboard, elbow angled upward. He’s wearing a blue jersey with the number 16 scrawled above the high-riding hem. Peeking just below is a slab of hard, chiseled flesh that becomes painful to pry my gaze away from.

His hairline around his face is damp with sweat, as if he’s just come from practice, maybe.

Like he knows what his presence—his
body
—is doing to me, the bundle of nerves I become whenever he’s near, he moves closer, forcing me to back against the corner wall. Stretching his arm higher, his body bracketing me in, he smiles. All cocky. It’s for just this reason I’ve avoided him whenever our paths cross.

I clear my throat and tear my gaze away from his defined chest to his eyes. Damn, that doesn’t really help. “Thought I’d invest myself in Braxton’s claim to fame,” I say. “School spirit and all that.”

His smile widens, making some stupid, annoying flutter in my belly. “I can’t really see you as the peppy type.” His eyes languidly travel over my body, my gray pencil skirt, my black silk Chanel blouse. I feel I could combust under his scrutiny. “But hey, whatever blows your skirt up.”

And like that, my defenses flare. I turn my attention back to the board, already dismissing him. He continues, unperturbed. “Look. I’m sure you’re not quite over—”

“Actually,” I cut in, focus hard on the upturned corner of a page. “I
am
over it.”

From my peripheral, I watch him run a hand through his disheveled dark hair. “Oh, well good.” He pauses, the awkwardness between us a solid wall. “Glad to hear.” Then he reaches out and hooks a finger through the belt loop of my skirt. My nerves attack every inch of my body, tingles awakening my skin. Logic fights for dominance over the sudden assault of want that pervades me as he tugs me flush against him.

I can feel the brush of his rough jeans through my thin skirt. My breasts tighten and ache, and my nipples pebble as they rub against his hard chest.

I’m willing my breathing to regulate, but my quick breaths are tripping over my lips as his body heat presses against me. Setting my whole damn body aflame. My thighs tremble at the feel of his thumb rubbing a path along my waist. Traitor. My body is the ultimate traitor.

As he looks down at me, lips parted, his eyes flick over my face. Then, “I did want to apologize…”

My breath stills as I wait to hear his next words. But then, like it wants to be acknowledged as its own being, my stomach growls. Loudly. Oh, God.

I close my eyes.

I can feel his gaze hard on me. I don’t have to look to know the surprised, probably about-to-crack-up look he’s wearing right now. And I’m proven right when he says, “Damn, carrot cake. You should feed that beast.”

Warmth prickles my cheeks, and my eyes fly open. Truth is, I’d been so ill over my choice to sign up for the boosters—one of the most popular clubs on campus; whose members openly mocked me last week—that I skipped breakfast. And lunch. Just to give myself the extra boost of confidence I sorely needed.

This moment, right here, proves how out of touch I am with that side of myself.
Confidence and me
?—two polar opposites on other ends of the planet.

“Thanks. A lot,” I say, pushing out of his hold. Then I turn and all but run down the hallway.

“Wait.” He quickly catches up to me, his long legs swallowing the short distance. I keep my gaze on the floor, watching his feet take one step for my every two. “I didn’t mean it…”

I stop, and he turns to face me. “You have no filter. Like, zero.” I make an “o” with my hand.

Thick brows arch over clear blue eyes. “You’re so sensitive. I was joking.” He makes a face that almost looks as if he’s pained. Then adds, “Something, which, you clearly don’t care for.”

Oh, so now I’m uptight? Right, well, I guess I am. I’ve been through near hell these past months—enough hell to probably make anyone a bit high-strung, but I’m not explaining this to him. “Forget it. Just, please, leave me alone. Okay?”

Sinking his hands into his pockets, he lifts his shoulders, looking almost childish—too young for the body containing him. Like he’s been reprimanded. For a second, a pang knocks my chest.

“I was actually hoping for just the opposite,” he says.

“What?”

He drops his chin, his features becoming serious. “I don’t want to leave you alone. I’d like to get to know you.”

“Why?” It’s out of my mouth before I can stop it. Crap. I glance away, at the students milling behind him, at the taped posters clinging to the gray walls. At anything to distract me from his answer.

He takes a moment longer than needed for such a simple question, and each second that ticks by is torture. Maybe he was just setting me up—waiting for me to fall into that trap. Like getting to know me is some form of sick foreplay to break down my defenses and humiliate me further. Though I’m not sure what would top condom bombing my car.

That thought makes my stomach sink. Then he’s stepping closer to me, crowding my space, sucking up all the air from between us. I inhale the warm scent of him. Fresh aftershave or cologne, woodsy. Fall leaves. Leather from his backpack strap. He’s too close.

“Because,” he says, a low rumble in his throat, ridiculously long lashes sweeping his angular cheeks, “when a girl…I mean, a
beautifu
l girl…throws beer in your face, you kind of have to get to know her. Figure out what makes her tick. And try to make up for being a complete douchebag to her.”

I snort. The dumb noise vacates my nose without my permission. I swear, I have no control over my bodily functions around this guy. It’s embarrassing.

Recovering by quickly following up with a cough, I clear my throat. Look up. Hell, I shouldn’t have done that. His lips are tipped up in an inviting, full smile. Eyes squinted in that cute way of his that makes him seem innocent—but with just a hint of bad beneath.