Vérité (2 page)

“Faster!” I demanded. “I love it when you’re rough.” I squeezed his ass, tilting my pelvis to allow him to slide in even deeper.

“Easy,
Tigger,” he panted, calling me by his nickname for me in that sexy French drawl, but not bothering to slow his pace. He was always in control, even if I thought I held the power.

I was kneading the shit out of his ass with my hands as he ran his tongue over my neck. He nipped and sucked before biting a bit harder, causing my orgasm to build in preparation to barrel through me. I didn’t want it to start or end because it always finished the same—with me wanting more.

“
Monsieur
, I’m coming,” I semi-yelled or gurgled, I wasn’t even sure because I was unraveling, tightening my thighs around his waist like a vice.

“Tigger,
ma chérie
.” He growled the sweet words, pumping faster, his release vibrating through my bones. A drop of sweat fell off his brow into my cleavage, and he leaned in to kiss me.

My entire body trembled; I was shaking with release and need all at the same time. I never wanted that feeling to end.

At that moment the door from the hallway into Pierre’s office banged open, apparently not locked as securely as we’d thought. The fancy diploma hanging on the wall above my head—the one that read
DR. PIERRE DUBOIS
—rattled from the impact, nearly falling. It didn’t really matter if it had because within a matter of days, the gilded frame was gone. And so was Pierre.

It all ended, and I felt like my life was over.

One year later

“Y
es, sir. I’m older now. Wiser. Smarter, I promise. I swear I’m ready, Coach Wallace,” I said as I nodded, yet I suspect it was more for me than him.

My coach knew what progress I’d made over the last year. My therapist and my guidance counselor had kept him up-to-date without revealing anything personal, but up-to-date, nonetheless.

“I know, hon—” He stopped and caught himself before he automatically called me
honey
. With me and my history, using any term of endearment was an extremely bad judgment call. Even though we both knew he didn’t mean anything by it, it was in his best interest to be professional.

With a pained glance at me, he started again, keeping himself on the straight and narrow. “I know, Tingly. I just want to make sure you’re ready to handle it all again. School, homework, the practices and upcoming meets.” Obviously uncomfortable, he fidgeted with his hands before folding them on the desk in front of him.

Coach Wallace was wearing his dark-green-and-white university tracksuit as I sat across from him wearing jean cutoffs and a dark gray tank top. I hadn’t worn my uniform in a year. My teammates told me it still hung in my locker, awaiting my return.

The others didn’t get me, but they missed me, or so they said when they texted or called. Mostly it was Nadine who stayed in touch; we’d been recruited together. Like the other girls, she wondered why I couldn’t love frat boys and jocks, or why I didn’t think beer pong was just
the best
. Or, wait—wasn’t skinny-dipping in the university pool even better than beer pong?

Getting in trouble for either of those minor infractions was nothing, nowhere near as severe as what I did. Maybe those girls who seemed so immature and silly were just inherently wiser than me, because banging my French professor in his office and getting caught by the head of the department was pretty damn bad.

Even better was when my professor’s fiancée, Patricia, came bouncing into the room a few seconds later, babbling about wedding cake tastings and honeymoon destinations only to find me
in flagrante delicto
with the man she was going to marry. In just a few months, as a matter of fact.

For me, it had been the worst possible scenario. Pierre’s semen had dripped down my leg while I stood there trying to cover myself up with a varsity track hoodie. It was the only thing close enough to grab as my underwear lay torn and tattered on the floor at my feet.

So there I was, Tingly Simmons—athlete, foreign language major, professor fucker, and obsessed idiot girl—definitely not a frat rat or beer-pong player extraordinaire. I was only at this school because of my athletic prowess, and I had no explanation for my embarrassing behavior other than I was utterly, totally in lust with Dr. Dubois.

And now, a year later, I was doing everything I could to pick up the pieces of my fucked-up life.

“I’m really good, Coach Wallace,” I said with a fake smile plastered on my face. “My shrink signed off on my progress, and my counselor has me signed up for a full course load. And since I took three more credits over the summer, I won’t be too far behind. Maybe just a semester.” I laid it on thick; it was critical that he accept me back on the team. Being on the track team meant that I could keep my athletic scholarship, plus I needed something to focus on to keep myself out of trouble.

I sat there pulling at one of the frayed strings hanging from the hem of my jean shorts. My long blond hair hid my tanned face as I looked down, which was good because I preferred not to look Coach in the eye. He’d been immediately called to the scene and had been the only eyewitness other than those who’d found us—when I was caught with my hand in the proverbial cookie jar.

Except the cookie jar was a giant hunk of a French professor complete with wavy blond hair, heavy cologne, an aristocratic accent, and false promises.

“Great! That’s all I needed to hear.” The relief was obvious in the coach’s voice. “Practice is still at six a.m. sharp. Be at the track at quarter till, so shoes are tied and drinks are drunk. I still don’t wait for anyone. Oh, and Tingly, there’s a mandatory nightly study hall for new athletes this year. It starts tonight over in Henderson Hall at seven o’clock. And before you argue, there’s not much I can do about it. Since all your trouble started at the end of last summer, before your season got under way and we were lucky to redshirt you last year, you’re considered a
new
athlete again this year. I know you’re almost caught up credit wise but according to the rules, any student athlete coming off redshirting a season needs to adhere to the academic study session policy. So you’re stuck attending study hour with the other newbies.” Coach Wallace ran his hand along his forehead, clearly not entirely comfortable speaking about my
trouble
as he explained the rules from the academic handbook.

I nodded, finally lifting my eyes to meet his. “Okay. Thank you,” was all I said before I stood to leave.

“And Tingly?”

I stopped in my tracks. “Yeah?”

“Welcome back. I look forward to you competing this season.”

I managed another nod and a thank-you before I headed out, avoiding the locker room and anyone else who might want to see how I was doing.

Back in my dorm room, I stepped out of my jean shorts and tank, tossing them on my bed before changing into running shorts and a sports bra. I quickly pulled on socks and laced up my running shoes—extra tight, borderline painful, the way I liked them—and tied up my long hair in a ponytail. Snatching my iPod Shuffle and a water bottle from the counter, I was out the door and pressing
START
on my pacer watch before any of my roommates noticed me.

I started off fast, and my lungs quickly adjusted to the burn. As my feet hit the pavement, striking first with the ball of my foot, I glanced down at my watch. I was running a steady 7:20 pace, and I decided to keep it there for about five or six miles. Speed and endurance were my only true friends these days. They had kept me company through my darkest hours, and the days and months since Pierre left.

Pickles. Dr Pepper. Poisson. Petunias. Purple. Pimientos. Penelope. The artist formerly known as Prince.

Needing to dismiss Pierre from my mind as soon as he popped in it, I used one of the little coping tricks I learned in therapy. Anytime Pierre and his feathered blond hair and sea-foam green eyes appeared in my rattled excuse for a brain, I was supposed to think of anything else positive that began with the letter
P
. The concept was ridiculous, but it worked.

I played this game for about a mile or so, and then my mind was temporarily free of
him
.

Checking my watch, I kept pushing myself, making a second loop around campus before I headed up to the agriculture department. Clocking cows at ten o’clock and a barn at high noon, I continued barreling forward. As I ran back toward campus, College Avenue came into view, and my mind drifted to the weird contradiction that was my university.

Hafton State University, a Division One school, was situated in the middle of Ohio near the bustling cities of Cleveland, Cincinnati, and Columbus, but surrounded by miles and miles of pristine farmland. Hafton, the school’s namesake, was the quintessential small town, ripe with big-city wannabes and earthy granola crunchers.

My friends—or my classmates, to be more accurate—were a strange mix of agriculture majors and business-minded people, nothing like me in their professional or personal pursuits. And none of them slept with their professor, or fell in lust with him. Not one of them was desperate or foolish like me, or had a nervous breakdown when her professor chose his fiancée over her.

Then again, none of my classmates came from a bullshit family and a fake place like me; they weren’t needy and craving attention and acceptance like I was. They were more worried about finishing their exams and calling
next
in a game of beer pong because they were “normal” college students.

As for me, I was searching for someone, anyone who would love me as I was, for who I was, no matter what truths were revealed. I just didn’t have a clue who that might be or if he even existed.

I
tapped softly and peeked inside my roommate’s door. “Hey, Ginny, I’m going to go eat. Want to go?”

She looked up from her book, and I felt like I’d been hit in the gut with a sledgehammer. She was so insanely pretty, all blond and blue-eyed, and she was always happy and content. If she wasn’t playing soccer or studying, she was reading. She was the picture of perfection—everything I wasn’t. My mom would have adored her if I’d wanted her to be a part of my life after fleeing from California.

“What time is it?” She turned to grab her iPhone, then hit the home button and looked at the display. “Oh, wow, it’s five thirty. Sure. Let’s go.”

My hair was damp and up in a ponytail. I’d jumped in the shower and rinsed off after my run, then threw back on my cutoffs and tank.

As I grabbed a sweatshirt and crammed it into my backpack, Ginny asked, “What’re you doing? I thought we’re just going to the dining hall.”

She’d let her hair down and blond waves framed her lightly freckled face, and the citrus scent of her shampoo that filled the room depressed me, making me feel even more inadequate. I couldn’t even play the role of cheerful-smelling coed.

“Yeah, I know. We are. But I gotta go to study hour at seven, mandatory pre-season study session for newbie athletes. I’m considered brand-spanking new these days,” I replied before grabbing my keys and walking toward the door.

“Bummer, but it’s good you’re back, Ting. I know it’s hard, but you’re gonna be okay,” she said as she trailed behind me, her ID and key rattling on the lanyard around her neck.