In Ruins (9 page)

Tucker glares at me, muscles tensed. I wait for him to strike back with some cutting words, but instead all I get is a slow nod. “You're right,” he says simply, and then he turns and walks away without a single glance back.

Devin drags me to the party the next night. I don't put up much of an argument. It's not worth it. I've already tried explaining that there's someone at the lacrosse house I don't want to see, but it went right over her head. And I suppose I can't blame her for wanting to go to the hottest parties. This is the only college experience we're going to get, after all.

I'm still feeling out of it, as Tucker described it, and I need a distraction anyway. I've realized recently that Tucker's physical presence is irrelevant. He's here with me regardless, whether he's in the room or not.

Fortunately the party is crowded and it's easy to lose myself in the masses. I bury my troubles deep below the surface, and chat with the girls about nothing important. I'm careful not to drink too much, but I do have a nice buzz going, and I have to admit it helps.

“Hey, Carleigh.” Ben Aronin slips from his ever-present crowd of eager girls to say hello.

“Hi.”

“Having a good time?” he asks, the dutiful host.

I smile—it comes easily as I look up at his handsome features, trying hard not to compare them to Tucker's. “Beer and music, what's not to like?” I shrug.

Ben's mouth lifts into a grin of white, perfectly straight teeth. It's the kind of grin that obviously gets girls exactly where he wants them, but I can't help but think it's missing something, and I try to convince myself it's not the roguish slant of Tucker's, or that one slightly crooked incisor it reveals. I need to shake myself out of this funk. To stop wallowing in the reminders of the two men I've loved in my life—the one who hurt me and the one I hurt as a result.

So I focus on talking to the nice, handsome, innocuous guy in front of me.

He asks me how I'm liking school and tells me about fall training. Lacrosse season doesn't start until mid-winter, but that doesn't mean the team isn't already hard at work, in the weight room almost every morning, on the field practicing drills most afternoons, and scrimmaging on weekends.

“But I try to enjoy the freedom now before our schedule gets rough,” he tells me.

“I can tell.” I gesture to the party.

Ben smiles. “Well, these don't stop during the season. In fact, they only get bigger.” He sighs, as if the team having these parties is more of an obligation than something he particularly enjoys, and that surprises me. He seems so in his element.

“You don't like big parties?” I ask.

He shrugs. “They're fine. They were exciting when I was a freshman. But, you know, it's hard to get to know people when it's so crowded, and when you feel responsible for making sure people are having a good time.”

I smile wryly. “Seems like you already know everyone,” I point out. I nod over his shoulder to the girls who surrounded him a just minutes ago, several of whom are shooting glares my way. “In fact, I think your harem over there is already missing your attention.”

Ben follows my gaze and runs his hand through his hair. “They don't know me,” he says softly. Again, he surprises me with his sincerity.

“Anyway, how are your classes?” he asks, changing the subject. “Regret taking Zayne's yet?” His smirk is teasing, but his eyes shine with playfulness.

I give him a light punch on his arm, silently noting the firmness of his biceps. Ben is definitely well-built. “You could have warned me about that final project!” I scold, my smile betraying my humor.

Ben throws his palms up in surrender. “Hey, I thought you weren't afraid of a difficult class?”

His amusement is contagious and I can't help but laugh. “I'm not. But it would have been nice to have a heads-up.”

“Okay, okay,” he concedes. “My bad. Anyway, I'm sure you'll do great.”

I sure hope so
. “Yeah, well. It would be nice to win and start with that A. The range for the rest of the teams is crazy. Anywhere from a B plus to a D plus? Talk about subjective.”

Ben nods. “No kidding. My team came in second last semester, and Zayne thought our video was funny, so he started us with B's. But then he heard about some stupid argument we'd gotten into in, like, the second week, and docked three of us a full grade for not being
professional
enough. I aced all of the quizzes and participated as much as anyone else, and I ended up with a B- in the class because of that damn project,” he grumbles.

“But I shouldn't even complain. One of our defenders was on the second-place team and he got a bad peer review from a girl on his team he was stupid enough to blow off after sleeping with at a party, and he ended up with a D on the project. He got a D+ in the class, which dragged down his entire GPA, and he ended up benched the entire season.”

“Benched?” What does one have to do with the other?

Ben nods. “Yup. All NCAA athletes have to keep a 2.8 minimum GPA. He's just lucky he wasn't here on an athletic scholarship, because that would have been gone as soon as he got benched.”

Ben takes a sip of his beer, oblivious to my stunned expression. Because
Tucker
's here on an athletic scholarship. Which means he's got a hell of a lot more riding on this project than I realized—far more than I do. Sure, I want that internship, but Tucker's entire college education could depend on it. And he wouldn't even be stuck in Zayne's class if it wasn't for me. If he hadn't been trying to escape the one we'd planned to take together.

Familiar guilt threatens to crush me, but I force it away.

“Have you been to Bottega?” Ben asks out of nowhere.

I blink at him.

“It's a great little Italian place. It'd be nice to get off campus. Let me take you.” His confidence is back in full force, and I'm a little taken aback that he's asking me out.

“I just got out of a pretty serious relationship,” I murmur, and I peek over his shoulder to the crowd in the next room. Like I summoned him, Tucker stands in the corner, flirting with that same redhead from a few weeks ago.

“All the more reason to get out and have a good time,” Ben offers.

My gaze strays back to Tucker, redhead's pink manicured claws on his arm, and I wish I could say it's not what makes my decision, but that would be a lie. “Okay,” I tell him. “Sounds like fun.” It doesn't really, but that's my problem. Because it should,
shouldn't it
?

My eyes find Tucker again, and this time, he finds me in return. I expect his disinterest or his usual disdain, but what I don't see coming is his anger. His eyes widen and he glares—not just at me, but at Ben, who doesn't even notice I'm not paying him attention anymore. When Tucker starts marching through the faceless bodies in our direction, I tell Ben I need to use the restroom and get the hell out of there.

I do go to the bathroom. I fix my makeup and reapply my lip gloss, if only to take the time to let Tucker get over whatever suddenly pissed him off, which was most likely simply my presence.

It's getting late, and I wonder if I should just leave. I head down a hall toward the backyard, which is far less crowded now that the air is getting colder. On the way, I walk right into a stocky, solid body. Ricky Vance, the drunk douchebag who basically cursed me out for not letting him buy me a drink that first night out, turns to see the klutz who bumped him and I wince. I don't want another scene; I just want to leave.

“Hi—uh, Carleigh, right?”

Fortunately he doesn't seem to be drunk tonight. “Uh, yeah,” I murmur.

He looks sheepish, and I think he might be about to apologize, but then his gaze veers over my shoulder and his brows slip into an anxious frown. “What's up, Green?” He directs his words behind me, and I tense.

I turn to face Tucker, but he's staring at Ricky. “Those chicks from SDT were looking for you,” Tucker murmurs, but it feels like he's saying something else.

“Gotcha,” Ricky replies, and just like that, I'm alone with Tucker.

“Didn't he call you a bitch or something a few weeks ago? Now you're flirting with him?” he sneers.

“I wasn't flirting with him,” I say defensively. And I really, really wasn't. But it isn't Tucker's damn business either way.

“And what about Ben? You weren't flirting with him either, huh?” Tucker's tone is hateful and accusatory and my hands clench into fists. I wasn't flirting with Ben—not really. But I did agree to let him take me out.

“What do you care what this
stranger
does?” I hiss.

Tucker's nostrils flare and I watch frustration color his face red. Suddenly he grabs my elbow and leads me farther down the empty hall and around the bend to a row of closed doors. “And Ben's not a stranger? You don't know him!” Tucker growls.

“This is my school, too!” I snap. “I'm allowed to have the same college experiences as everyone else!”

Not the right thing to say
. Tucker's eyes widen and he grits his teeth, and then he drags me roughly through one of the doors and slams it shut behind him. He sucks in a deep breath to calm himself, and then he's stalking toward me until I'm backed up against the wall. “College experiences, huh? Like hooking up with a stranger?” His voice is low and vaguely threatening, and for the first time, I'm frightened. I know he'd never physically hurt me, but the predatory glint in his eye makes me think there's something to fear other than violence.

“That wasn't—” My voice is too soft, too shaky, but my words are cut off by his touch as he trails his fingers down my throat, over my racing pulse.

“You think he can touch you like I can?” Tucker asks hoarsely.

No
. No one can touch me like he can; I know that. I shake my head.

Tucker runs the pad of his thumb roughly over my bottom lip, watching its progress with a hunger I've missed desperately. Instantly my body responds, and I sag back against the wall in surrender. But his eyes are filled with more than desire. The anger, the contempt—they're still there, perhaps stronger than ever.

He holds my jaw in place and leans down slowly, completely out of synch with the fervor in his gaze, and softly brushes his lips over mine. “You want to be kissed by a stranger?” he breathes into my mouth.

I don't know if he means Ben or himself, so I say nothing.

His free hand skates down my side, lingering on the side of my breast before continuing to my hip. “I can kiss strangers, too,” he growls, and then his mouth slams savagely over mine. He kisses me with all of his frustration and rage, taking no prisoners as his tongue plunders my mouth.

I kiss him back just as fiercely. My heart might ache with his abuse, but my body—it is completely his, and it responds the only way it knows how—it attacks right back. We're all hungry hands and pressing hips, and then suddenly Tucker wrenches his mouth from mine and spins me to face the wall. I gasp as he pushes his hips into my ass, and I feel the vigor of his arousal, and it's a heady feeling after all this time. I hate that I take pride in it, but I do. I love that no matter how he despises me, he can't stop himself from wanting me any more than I can him.

His lips slide harshly up my throat. “You wanna get fucked by a stranger?” he rasps into my ear. He glides his teeth over my earlobe, and God help me, I
do
want him. Even like this.

But I won't admit he's a stranger. He will
never
be a stranger. “Just you,” I breathe.

I feel his sharp intake of breath, and something in him breaks. His hands explore and claim, slipping under my skirt and over my ass until they're teasing the front waistband of my panties.

“This means nothing,” Tucker growls. And maybe it doesn't. But right now the pain in my chest is overshadowed by the need between my thighs.

I can't agree with him, but I know better than to argue. Instead, I grind my ass back against him, and he groans my favorite sound.

His arm shoots up and he fists my hair in warning. “You are not in control here. This is my house, my bedroom, and this is just a hookup between strangers. Understand?”

His free hand slips inside my panties and starts stroking me the way he knows drives me crazy. He knows my body like a connoisseur, and he works me expertly.
Stranger, my ass
.

“Do. You. Understand?” he repeats, and he gives my hair a soft tug. It doesn't hurt, but it makes his point. I hear a rustle behind me and I know he's putting on a condom. This is really happening.

“Yes.”

He takes my thong from behind, pulling the front taut against me and the middle out of his way, and then his fingers are inside, testing me before his erection replaces them, positioned to take me. I try reaching back to touch him, but I get another tug on my hair, and I let out a short, startled yelp.

“Hands on the wall,” he orders gruffly.

I obey without hesitation, as he knew I would. When Tucker makes love to me, it's the only time he can count on me not fighting him.

But this isn't making love
, I remind myself. He's about to hate-fuck me, and it both disheartens and excites me in the strangest way. He grabs my hips and yanks me backward two steps, and I keep my hands pressed painstakingly against the wall. Only now can I feel that he's removed his shirt and shoved away everything else that separated us.

He strains between my thighs and rubs himself back and forth against me, taunting, promising.

I whimper a desperate plea.

Thankfully, he heeds it, thrusting himself deep inside me. He chokes off his amorous groan, but I sigh with both need and relief. He's the only man I've ever wanted, the only one I can fathom ever wanting, and I know this is only a fleeting moment, but at least physically, for now, I have him, and I try not to think beyond the merciful present.