Life Interrupted (10 page)

             
When Tripp walks in wearing a simple dark gray t-shirt, dark jeans that are cuffed at the bottom, and black vans, I have my answer but it’s not one I like.  Jesus, does he have to be so effortlessly sexy? His eyes find me within a minute and I incline my chin, smiling even when Lovely Lauren slides up next to him.  She’s wearing a dress that fits like a second skin and leaves little to the imagination with its low neckline and barely-there-skirt.

             
Suddenly, I’m wishing I had taken Katie up on her offer to dress me instead of wearing my standard skinny jeans (these ones are royal blue) and an off the shoulder top that’s basically a gray sweatshirt that someone hacked up and put some rhinestones on. 
At least I’m wearing gladiators and not Chucks,
I think and inch closer to Dean. 

             
“Isn’t that you’re friend?” he asks and motions to Tripp and Lauren who are walking toward the drink table.

             
“Yep.  And his girlfriend, Lauren.”  Who is also my arch nemesis…because she’s pretty and petite and everything he wants.  Beer me.

             
“Drink?” I ask and he nods.

             
An hour later, Dean and I have convinced Katie and Doug to keep it in their pants long enough to cut cake and sing happy birthday.  After Katie blows out her candles and gives a squeal akin to the one SJP is so famous for, she drags me onto the dance floor where I stand in place and she breaks it off like she’s trying out for Jersey Shore. 

             
When hands grip my hips from behind, I smile over my shoulder at Dean.  “Are you any better at this dancing thing than me?”

             
“Nope, but I know how to stand here and hold onto you.”

             
“Is that a line?” I ask and he grins.

             
When Katie stumbles, I lean forward and grip her arm.  “Okay, birthday girl, let’s get you some air and some water.”

             
“Nooo,” she whines and throws her arms around Doug.  “I’m fine, Flow.  Relax, dance.  Have fun.”

             
I eye her and then I shift my eyes to Doug.  I might have a little bit more respect for him since the day Dean told me he’s not exactly a leach—and I do mean
little
—but my confidence in him to be Katie’s better half is still minimal.  “You better hold onto her and you better make sure she doesn’t get hurt.”  I give him my most intimidating look to make sure he understands I’m not just talking about tonight.

             
He swallows audibly before he nods.  When he presses Katie closer, she giggles and they begin spinning again.  Dean’s hands slide down my hips and he turns me so we’re facing and I smile at him, accepting the kiss he brings me in for, working not to be frustrated by the lack of sparks.

             
I open my eyes and his are hooded as they look at me, and all of a sudden, I feel claustrophobic.  “Are you hot? Want to get some air?”

             
He nods, leading the way over the windows, grabbing me a bottle of water on the way.

             
“You looked pretty great on the court today,” he says when we’re standing in a relatively quiet corner.  “I really liked your uniform.”

             
Dean’s grin is all boyish charm and I can’t help but laugh as he makes a show of wiggling his eyebrows.  “You should have seen the original one that Katie wanted us to wear.  I had to throw a considerable tantrum to get just the briefs with the half shirt dry fit.”

             
“Maybe you should run some of the other choices by me, a kind of fashion show.  I’m great with advice.”

             
“I’ll remember that the next time I need some help with my wardrobe.”

             
I don’t resist when he pulls me closer, and though I still don’t feel the magic, I let him kiss me, let myself feel it and respond, let my hands crawl up and into his hair.  This kiss is a little less patient, his force a little more sure, and still, I can’t quite muster up the fireworks that I’ve only felt one other time in my life.  Disappointed, I shake that thought from my head and lean back to smile at him. 

             
“Looks like a repeat of spring break two years ago.”  Tripp’s voice is like a bucket of cold water and I whip my head around to see him sauntering over, sans his arm candy.  “At least you’re marginally sober this time, Rae.”  The use of that nickname is as much a slice as the words.  “Don’t forget to use protection, never know where college boy has been.”

             
Dean steps forward and suddenly they’re chest to chest.  “Man, I don’t know you but I do know you can’t talk to her like that.”

             
“Yeah, you don’t know me.  Just like you don’t know her, so back off.”

             
Stepping between them, I shove Tripp back a step.  “No you back off,
Jackson Herbert
.  What is your problem? You’ve been a dick all day.”

             
He seethes at the use of his name and I’m momentarily pleased. 
That’s right, dickhead, you mess up my name, I mess up yours.  I’m no sissy.

             
“Maybe I’m just looking out for you, like I tried to do two years ago when you got
pregnant
.”  His eyes are blazing as he stares down at me and I wonder that I can still see how beautiful they are when his head is shoved so far up his ass.  “He knows you’re an easy mark, Rachel.  Don’t make another mistake.  You have to think about Gracie, too.”

             
I’m still reeling from his first comment, but the minute he tells me to think of Gracie my body acts instinctually and I’m landing a fist on his jaw, the contact singing up my arm and making me want to wince in pain.  Instead, I stare at him as he takes the hit and his head snaps back.  When he reaches his hand up to press it to his jaw, our eyes meet and mine burn as they stare into his.  “How dare you,” I whisper before turning and walking out. Someone calls my name, but I don’t turn around, not until I’m all the way home.             

             
Two hours later it’s closing in on midnight and I’ve sent Katie and Dean a text to let them know I’m okay.  When Dean texts back and asks if I want company, I reply no, though I’m contemplating going to Stacy’s house so I don’t have to be alone.  I know I should say yes and let him come over, explain exactly what happened tonight and thank him for stepping in when Tripp said those things, but I just don’t want to see him.  Despite how great he is, I can’t feel about him what I want to and I know it isn’t fair.

W
hen there’s a knock on the door, I wonder if Dean ignored my answer and came anyway.  I open it and see Tripp standing on the other side and I instinctively go to slam it again.  A worthy opponent, Tripp slaps one hand on the door before it smashes his nose and holds out the flowers he has gripped in the other.  This stops me. It’s unexpected.  Usually when he acts like an idiot and I punch him, he comes over with a pizza and some videos.  Flowers aren’t our style; they’re for girlfriends, not friends.

             
“I know you probably don’t do flowers,” he says and I detect a hint of embarrassment in his voice.  And he’s right, I don’t do flowers, but not because I have anything against them, I’m simply not the type of girl who inspires hearts and flowers and poetry from people, boys in particular.  If a part of me mourns the fact that the first bouquet I’ve ever received comes from Tripp as an apology for being a dick, I ignore it.  I have bigger issues with the boy standing on my doorstep right now.

             
I cross my arms over my chest and stay in the doorway, which causes Tripp to sigh and run a hand over his hair after he puts his foot against the door to keep me from slamming it.  A smile twitches at my lips because he knows me so well, but I refuse to let it thaw my anger right now.  Whoever he is to me, he embarrassed me, and worse, he made me doubt myself and who I am and for that he deserves to pay.

             
“Is your mom home?”

             
“No.”

             
“Can I come in?”

             
“No.”

             
“Rachel, I’m sorry,” he says.  His blue eyes meet mine and in them I can see the sincerity and the confusion, but it doesn’t matter. It would be enough from someone else, but not from him. 

             
“What are you
sorry
for, Tripp? For calling me a whore?” I ask and he flinches.  Whether it’s because of my icy tone or the word, I don’t know and I don’t care.  “Or are you sorry for embarrassing me in front of my date, who, by the way, wasn’t someone I met tonight like you implied. Or maybe,” I continue before he can cut in, “you’re sorry for implying that because I’m a whore who’s so easily seduced, I’m an unfit mother.”  My eyes are burning into his as I take a step forward and shove him in the chest.  “Which of those offenses are you
sorry
for, Tripp?”

             
“It’s a pretty long list,” he jokes and I snap.

             
“Fuck you,” I say and turn to slam the door again. 

             
“Rachel, wait.”

             
“Why?” I yell and whirl around again.  “So you can call me another name? Or so you can yell at me and call me a bad mom because I went on a date?” Tears are burning in my throat and eyes but I refuse to let them fall and humiliate myself further.  “I’ve already heard what you think of me, Tripp, and I don’t feel like hearing anymore.”

             
“Rachel, stop,” he says and takes a step inside.  I take an automatic step back so we aren’t touching and his face contorts.  “You know I don’t think that you’re a whore.”  He stumbles over the word.  “I know how much you love Gracie, how much you do for her.  It amazes me.”

             
I want to focus on that—that he could be amazed by me.  But I can’t, because all I can see is Tripp two hours earlier, staring at me in front of a house full of people as he grabs my arms and accuses me of being the very thing I fear the most: selfish, careless with myself and people’s feelings, with Gracie.  So instead of accepting his apology I shake my head.  “Then why would you do that to me? Jesus, Tripp,” I whisper and meet his eyes again.  “Those things you said? They hurt, and worse was the way you looked at me and made me feel like I deserved to be yelled at.”

             
“Oh, God, Rachel, I’m sorry.  I’m so fucking sorry.”  He reaches for me and I step back again.

             
“You’ve already said that and it’s not enough.  Why, Tripp? Why did you do that to me?”

             
“Because you were with someone else!” he explodes.  “Because you let him touch you and hold you and dance with you and I couldn’t stand it.  It made me insane.”

             
I stare at him wide eyed, my breath coming out in shallow pants as an aching pressure builds in my chest.  I stay still even as he steps forward and reaches a hand over to brush a finger down the tendril of hair that has escaped from my hair tie. 

             
“Seeing you with that guy tonight, watching how close you were? It killed me.  I’m sorry I said those things, but I couldn’t stand seeing you with him for another second.  The thought of someone else hurting you like before, touching you.”  He closes his eyes and breathes deeply before opening them again.  His voice is low and mesmerizing, his eyes blazing blue and rendering me speechless.  He moves forward so we’re almost touching, our lips a breath away. “I’ll kill the next guy who touches you.  They don’t deserve you.”

             
Those words snap me out of my reverie and an unwelcome vision of Lauren wrapped around him tonight comes flashing to the front of my brain.  His lips are almost on mine when I bunch my fist and plow it into his stomach, causing his breath to release in one big whoosh.  The color drains from his face and he leans over with his hands on his knees.

             
“You don’t get to decide who touches me and who doesn’t, Tripp.  Not now, not ever.  I can take care of myself.”

             
Satisfied that it’s me rejecting him this time, I turn to walk inside and let out a muffled squeal when his arm snakes out and grabs my wrist, hauling me back a step.   

             
“That’s the second fucking time you’ve punched me tonight,” he says through clenched teeth.

             
I ignore the shiver that runs through me as the heat from his hand courses through my body, and I slit my eyes, trying and failing to jerk my hand free.  “That’s the second fucking time you’ve pissed me off.” I repeat his words and watch his eyes light with humor even as he increases the pressure on my wrist.  “Let me go or there’s going to be a third,” I say and take a swing with my other hand. 

             
I’m off balance and he catches my hand easily, twisting until both of my hands are cuffed behind me and smashed between us, his front to my back. My breathing is labored now as I struggle, and even though I want to blame it on anger I know it’s because of Tripp and how it feels to be this close to him, to feel the heat from his entire body and his breath on my neck as he holds me close and squashes all of my attempts to break free.

             
“I can do this all night,” he whispers in my ear, causing a shiver to run down my spine.

             
Bastard.

             
Desperate to get away now, to find my balance and erase the need that has settled low in my belly, I let myself go still and limp in his arms, curving my back into him a bit more intimately.  He inhales and his grip on my wrists loosens just a little, but it’s enough.  I slam my heel down on the top of his foot and throw my head back.  He’s taller than me so I miss smashing his nose, but I hit his chin with enough force that I catch him off balance and am able to wrench one arm completely free and turn.  Before I can use my free hand to bloody his nose, he catches my wrist again and yanks both hands above my head, slamming me back against the open door frame, pinning my body with his.

             
His hips pin mine and our bodies line up almost perfectly.  I feel my legs go weak as the angles of his body press against all of mine and I struggle even harder, desperation in my every movement.  This is too much, this closeness, this feeling that is anything but painful as charges of electricity pulse everywhere he touches.

             
“You’re fucking insane,” he pants as I try to bring my knee up between his legs.

             
“Me?” I hiss.  “You’re the lunatic who keeps manhandling me and calling me names, trying to tell me who I can and can’t hang out with.”  I arch my back and try to thrust him forward with my hips, the pressure low in my belly tightening as he groans. 

             
“Sweet Jesus, Rachel, hold still.”

             
“Get. Off. Me.” I pant it out, aware that my body is trembling and it has nothing to do with anger. 
My God
, is all I can think. 
My God, I can feel him everywhere.
For the first time in my life I feel helpless and out of control, overpowered, and it disgusts me to realize that I like it.  I like that he’s stronger than me, that he can make me feel weak and needy and helpless.

             
“Get off me.”  I reiterate my plea, but this time my voice is weak and breathy, lacking any if my earlier conviction.

             
“I can’t,” he says, and he’s so close his breath flutters over my mouth as he rests his forehead against mine.  We’ve both stopped struggling and now I can feel the rapid beat of his heart against my chest, mirroring that of my own.  The tingling is back full force and I have to swallow and look away when his eyes shift down to my lips.

             
“Don’t,” I say, my voice barely audible.  His lips graze my ear and I have to shut my eyes against the tears that spring there.  I want him so much it hurts, but that’s the problem.  I know that no matter how great it is now, this pain is nothing compared to what it will be when he leaves.  “Tripp, don’t. It’s not fair.”

             
“Don’t what, Rachel? Don’t want you? Don’t touch you?” he asks as his lips move from my ear to my neck, kissing a line to my collarbone.  “It made me crazy when I saw him kiss you tonight.  When you put your arms around him and kissed him back, I thought I was going to kill him.”  His tongue sweeps out and soothes over the goose bumps that his words bring to my skin, leaving a trail of heat that travels all the way down my body to my center where it curls with the tight ball of need already there.

             
This is a bad idea
, I think even as I turn my head to meet his lips, but I can’t help it.  He’s everything that I’ve ever wanted, everything that pulls at me like no one else has or can.  I hear his sharp intake of breath as our lips meet and then we’re all heat and lips and tongues.  His body presses even closer as his tongue pushes at my lips, begging for entrance.  When I open my mouth, he sweeps inside, claiming every inch of it before sucking my bottom lip between his lips and repeating it all over again. 

I can’t breathe.  I don’t care.

              This time when I arch my back it isn’t to push him away.  He switches his grip to release one of his hands, using the other to keep my hands bound above my head as he strokes his free hand down the side of my body, his thumb brushing the swell of my breast before moving to my ribcage and then to my waist.  At my hip, his fingers dig in, pulling me closer and then he is sliding his hand down the back of my thigh to hitch my leg up and around his waist.  His lips continue assaulting mine as he presses into me, center to center, ripping a groan from both of us.

             
He releases my hands to sweep his other hand under my tank top and across the skin of my back and abdomen.  My hands go to his head, then around his neck, wrapping him close and hitching up until both legs are wrapped around his waist, his hands supporting me as he walks inside and kicks the door shut.  I’m vaguely aware of the sound of the door closing, aware of him walking down the hall to my room, a walk he’s made many times.  But this time is different; there’s a tangible feeling in the air, an urgency to come together that’s never been here, not even two years ago on that night we don’t speak about.

             
Before I can think, before I can wonder if this is really a good idea, we’re falling to the bed, me still wrapped around him, his weight pushing me into the mattress and causing a fire to light in every part of me.  His lips leave mine to travel down my neck and over the swell of my breasts above my tank top.  I shove at his shirt until he pauses and raises up enough to yank it over his head and fling it on the floor, gracing me with an up close look at his perfect abs and chest covered in smooth, taught skin.

             
Nothing could have prepared me for the difference of two years.  The last time I touched him like this he’d been lean and hard, a boy growing.  Now, sweet Jesus, now he’s filled out, with broad shoulders and a tapered waist, muscles roped in his arms and shoulders.  His abs are like little life rafts in the sea, sitting there in their perfect glory, defined, each beckoning to me to touch, to feel, to taste.