You and Everything After (3 page)

Her friend is still working on Nate, but I can tell my brother’s not taking the bait this time. He keeps checking messages on his phone, asking about scores when other people walk by—scores for games that I know there’s no way he’s interested in. Cass, or
Adrianna,
is standing on the tips of her toes looking over the crowded living room for the keg. The party is starting to really get going now, and I know she’s not getting to that keg for at least fifteen minutes. And when she does, there’s a good chance it’ll be dry anyway. She turns back to me; I hold up my makeshift platter of tequila and raise an eyebrow.

“Yeah, tequila it is, I guess,” she sighs, coming back to lean against the wall next to me. I hand her one of the tiny paper cups, and when our fingers touch, we both react, almost dropping the liquid.

“Damn, sorry. I thought you had that,” I say, catching it just before it spills, minus the few drops that splash over the side onto her. I’m nervous in front of her, and it’s really fucking weird. She licks the tequila from the top of her hand, then reaches to take a new cup from my lap, my pulse racing the closer she comes to touching me.
What the hell?

“Paige?” she says, elbowing her friend and handing her a drink. They have an odd exchange at first—her friend looking at the drink for several seconds and then at Cass—almost like she’s scolding her. “Just take the stupid drink, Paige.”

Before the quiet grows any more uncomfortable, I pick up a cup and hand it to Nate, raising my brows high, urging him to
do
one shot—
just one, man. Come on.
After an eye-roll and a heavy sigh, he takes the drink from me, tilts it back, and lets it slide down fast, which thankfully, has Paige mimicking his actions and doing the same. Without pause, Cass downs hers quickly. Before I can blink, she reaches for another, and it goes just as fast.

I’m pretty sure she’s drunk
way
before she realizes it. I’ve had two, maybe three shots, but she’s gone and refilled the cups twice, which would put her at about…six, I think. “So…wanna play a game?” she slurs, as she sloppily pulls up one of the patio chairs, pushing it right in front of me, and sitting down—our knees touch. I can’t feel it, but I swear just seeing her bare legs grazing mine is the hottest sensation ever. Or maybe I’m drunker than I think I am, too.

“Sure, I’m in,” I say, moving the plate of empty cups from my lap to the table at the side of us. I lean forward and crack my knuckles, watching as she tries to crack hers. It’s cute, the way she acts tough. She holds her hands out flat and nods at me to do the same. When I hold them in the air in front of her, she studies them for a few seconds and then pulls them a little closer before resting her hand flat in mine, her knuckles on top.

“You hit the top of my hands, I take a drink. I hit the top of yours, you drink,” she says, and her friend coughs loudly behind me. “You’re not playing, Paige. Butt out!”

“I know I’m not
playing,
Ca—” her friend starts, but Cass interrupts.

“Adrianna!” she inserts, then pulls the corners of her mouth into a proud grin. She’d be the worst spy ever, but I’ll play along.

“Yeah, Paige. Wait your turn. Adrianna and I are playing now,” I say, keeping my eyes on Cass’s the entire time. When I stick up for her and use her fake name, she smiles and her cheeks flush red.

“Fine,
Adrianna,
” Paige says. “Just don’t go crazy with tequila. I’m not taking care of you.”

“Okay…
Mom
!” Cass says, breaking our stare, and raising her eyebrows a hint at her friend. “You go first,” she says, her gaze on me again.

I know this game. Nate and I used to play when we were kids during long car rides. I don’t think I’ve ever played it as a drinking game, though, so this should be interesting. I stare into her eyes and feel her hands hovering against mine; I twitch two or three times just to see her jump.

“When am I gonna do it? Is it…now?” I shout and jerk, but don’t really move my hands. On instinct, she quickly pulls her hands into her chest; I have to admit, I’m impressed that she’s still so nimble—given how lit she is on tequila. Slowly, she slides her hands back over mine, her eyes intensely watching for any muscle twitch or movements. Then, in a flash, she looks into my eyes again.

“Pussy,” she teases, a tiny smirk tugging at her lips, and holy fuck is it hot when she talks like that. I can’t help the grin that crawls up the side of my mouth as I keep my eyes locked on hers.

“Princess, I’m no pussy,” I say, slowly enunciating each word, and pushing my hands so they’re firmly against hers. Her breath hitches when I do, and her palms heat up from the friction of touching me. Her eyelids grow heavier, and I can tell the alcohol is really hitting her system now, so I don’t waste my time. With a swift movement, I swing my right hand out from under hers, reaching for the top of her left hand—catching her unexpected. Only somehow…what the hell? My hands are flat together, and I’ve missed her completely.

“I’m no
princess
,” she says, her hands untouched against her chest and the mischievous grin lingering somewhere between sexy and pissed as hell. “My turn.”

Yes, I do believe it’s her turn. Because
I
have no fucking clue what to do now, but goddamn do I want to figure it out.

Chapter 3

Cass

“How, in the name of all that is holy, are you awake…and moving!” Paige’s voice is muffled by her pillow, which she has secured over her mouth and eyes to block out the closet light I just turned on.

“It’s just easier if you push through the pain. Want me to open the window?” I ask, laughing when she pulls both hands away from her pillow to flip me off. I love teasing Paige when she’s hung over.

“Touch that curtain, and I will end you,” she seethes, which only makes me laugh harder. Paige has flair for drama.

We drank a lot last night, but I’ve drunk more before. It’s been a while, but my tolerance still seems to be okay. And we came home early—mostly because the guy Paige had her eye on left early, and she got bored. I could have played the flirting game all night though. We never talked about anything personal me and…
huh
, mystery man. No names—at least, not my
real
name. I think he knew I was faking it, but he played along, which was…nice.

I slapped hands with him for about thirty minutes, maybe longer, and our conversation stayed on the surface. Double-meaning comments, laced with flirtation, but nothing deeper. As soon as I could tell it was going somewhere, I left. He went to the bathroom, promising he’d be right back, and I told Paige I was ready to go home. I’m a little embarrassed by it now that I’m sober, but as far as he knows, I’m Adrianna—might as well be Cinderella.

“I’ve got a noon with the personal trainer. I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” I whisper, knowing Paige has already drifted back to sleep.

When I found out they had someone on campus that worked with people…like me…I jumped on the appointment. Not that I really need anyone to push me through workouts, or to teach me things. I’m pretty self-driven when it comes to exercise, which my mom is always quick to point out I should do
less
of. The doctors disagree—or rather, they don’t
all
agree. So I do what makes me feel good. And since I left soccer behind in high school, I’ll stick with pushing my body in the gym.

Rowe is standing by the elevator, and I can tell she’s talking to someone, but I can’t see the other half of the conversation until I’m right behind her. And suddenly, he’s here. Our eyes are like magnets. My heart starts to literally throb, my chest pounding with a quick rhythm I’m pretty sure I can’t hide. My palms are sweaty, my mind racing with fear that he’s going to call me Adrianna—or that Rowe is going to call me Cass. Either way, I’m going to look like a lunatic to both of them. And I can tell by the way his mouth is curling into a knowing smirk that he’s ready to pick up where we left off—the flirting game. Thing is, I’m
way
better at that after I’ve had a few shots of tequila.

“You missed a hell of a party last night. You’re coming to the mixer with me tonight, no excuses,” I say to Rowe, looping my arm with hers, basically using her as a human shield for my embarrassment.

“Hey…” he starts to speak, and my body instantly flushes from the piercing stare of his eyes. “I think I met you last night.”

“Yeah, we hung for a bit I think. I got pretty shit-faced,” I say through a nervous laugh. I feel like such a loser, and I have no idea why I’m pretending I don’t remember every second of my time with him last night.
He
was the first vision in my mind when my alarm went off this morning…and I’ve been daydreaming about his stupid dimples and crystal-blue eyes ever since I first saw them at that burger joint I went to with Paige.

“What was your name?” He’s calling me on my bullshit.

“Cass.” I give in quickly, my secret identity of
Adrianna
now dead here in a freshman-dorm hallway.

“Cass,” he says, his damned dimples punctuating my one-syllable name as it glides from his smirking lips. “That’s right. I’m Ty.”

I can’t help but admire his arms as he stretches his hand toward me in introduction. They’re strong and toned in a way that screams of discipline, and as much as the girl part of me wants to admire them for the sex symbols they are, the physiology nerd in me wants to study his arms and learn how to make more just like them. I catch Rowe staring, too, and I realize we’ve both been gawking at him like a piece of meat for several seconds now.

“Rowe and I were just heading out to the gym. We were going to stop by a few of the buildings on the way. You know, scout out our classes? Wanna come? You look like you’re heading that way,” Ty says.

I have no idea how he knows Rowe, and I also have no idea where the jealous pang deep in my chest is coming from. All I’m sure of is that I hate the way it’s making me feel, and I’ll be damned if I act out on it and add to my checklist of crazy. “Sure, sounds great,” I say, plastering on a fake smile to hide the twisting feeling in my gut over the thought that maybe Rowe took my place in line for Ty’s attention.

The elevator ride is…awkward. Rowe’s hands are fidgeting together like she’s nervous, and Ty…he’s still grinning. I catch his glance at me, and I keep trying to speak, but every time I open my mouth, my brain shuts down. I’m utterly void of anything clever, funny, or interesting. God, why did I even get up this morning?

By the time we get outside, Rowe’s grip on my arm is so tight, it’s turning into a tourniquet. “Hey, are you…okay?” I whisper in her ear.

“Sorry,” she says, letting go of my arm, realizing exactly how hard she was squeezing me. “Not good with strangers.”

“You don’t really know him?” I ask, my nerves inching up another tick. Ty is a few feet ahead of us on the main walkway, but I swear he’s trying to listen to our whispering. His head is tilted just enough—it’s the same tell I have when I’m dropping in on someone’s business.

“Just met him this morning,” Rowe says, her arms stretched out on either side, her face panicked. Now I’m really curious why he was talking to her in the first place, and I can’t help but wonder if he knew she was my roommate—
goddamned stupid hope and heart
. I grab her arm again and tug her forward with me so we can catch up.

“So, ladies, where are you from?” Ty asks, and I catch his eyes start at my legs and work their way up to my face. The attention is intense, but I like it. This is
way
better than that jealous feeling I had a few minutes ago.

“My sister and I are from Burbank,” I say, and immediately I can tell he’s trying to see the relationship between Rowe and me. Rowe clears it up quickly though, explaining we aren’t sisters. Then, they’re both looking at me a bit puzzled.

“My sister’s our other roommate. You met her last night, too. Paige?” It hits me suddenly that Paige and I never really mentioned this to Rowe, and her reaction is priceless. She stops short of calling my sister a bitch—not that it wouldn’t be accurate, or at least partially accurate—so I make her feel a little better by calling Paige’s bitchiness out for her.

“I’m from Louisiana originally,” Ty says, and suddenly the honey-glaze accent that smolders from his mouth comes together like a gorgeous puzzle. “I’m in grad school, but my brother’s a freshman. We thought it’d be cool to live together, so we both settled on the same school. They have a great business program here, and a hell of a baseball team, so it worked out.”

“Nate’s your brother,” Rowe says, and now I’m wondering who the hell Nate is. God, do I hope he’s not the guy Paige was all over last night…for Rowe’s sake.

“I think I saw him last night, too…” I say with a questioning face, just feeling him out on this. “My sister was
all over
him,” I say, and Ty quickly confirms it.

“I remember her. She’s cute,” he says, and I don’t know why it feels like such a massive punch to my ego that he thinks my sister’s attractive, but it does. “Not my brother’s type, though.”

Great. So does this mean she’s yours? I keep that conversation in my head, and do my best to look unaffected, letting my eyes take in the various buildings on either side of us, the trees, the other students—anything to keep me from frowning a big, fat-ass frumpy face.

When we get to the gym, Ty offers to find Nate for Rowe. I turn my focus to my friend and her bright pink face. I’m not sure when she met the man Paige called
Mr. Dreamy Muscles
half of the night, but it’s clear she’s into him. Her face grows even redder when he walks over, and when they talk she starts to stare at her feet. It sounds like they had plans this morning, and while she originally thought he stood her up, it turns out it was just miscommunication. When Rowe’s not paying attention, I let myself get a good look at Nate’s face—I can tell by the way he’s looking back at her that whatever is sparking between them goes both ways. Paige is going to be pissed. But she’ll get over it, and she’ll find herself a different poster boy to chase down. She always does.

And me…well, I had a nice round of flirting, but it looks like that’s as far as this train goes for Mr. Dreamy’s brother and me, since he’s fully engrossed in something on his phone, barely paying attention to me or his brother anymore.

“Rowe, I’ve got to go. I have an appointment with a personal trainer in ten,” I say, glad to have an excuse to leave Ty without looking desperate or uncomfortable. “I’ll see ya back at the dorm.”

I slip my watch from my wrist and tuck it into my workout bag, willing myself not to look at Ty, not to see if he noticed I was leaving. I give a small wave to Rowe and grant Nate a smile, then spin on my feet and head to the main doors to meet with my trainer. But I’m weak, and I turn at the last second, pushing through the door with my hip and looking up—and damn if he isn’t staring right back at me—smile, dimples and all.

Shit. I like this one. And he is going to play me.

Ty

I’m not sure what I did to deserve this fortunate run of luck, but I’m going to enjoy the ride. Cass just left for her personal-trainer appointment, and my first appointment is in exactly ten minutes. I’m pretty confident that isn’t a coincidence.

I pass through the men’s locker room so I can see if she’s the one waiting for me, and I actually bite my knuckles when I see her sitting there at my appointment table. With a quick “thank you” to the heavens, I push through the locker room doors and almost make it to where she’s sitting before she notices me.

“So, you must be…Cassidy Owens,” I say, flipping through the forms tucked on my clipboard, pulling the cap from my pen with my teeth. I’m doing my best to keep my grin in check. Her entire body flushes the second she sees me—the light shade of pink taking over her skin, even brighter next to the yellow blonde of her hair.

“Tyson Preeter,” she says, her eyes closing just a little while she puts it all together.

“Well, this is going to be easy; you’ve already heard about me,” I wink and hand her the check sheet to go through her goals and objectives for our first session.

“It was in the email. And now I feel…well…pretty stupid that I didn’t put that together. Ty…Tyson,” she says with a slight wince. Her eyes stay on me for a few seconds as she taps the pen to the top of the clipboard. “This…is weird now, isn’t it?”

“It’s only weird if you make it weird…
Adrianna,
” I tease, wanting her to know that yes, I in fact remember every little detail from our first encounter last night. Hell, I remember every detail from the first time I saw her—even the smell of the gum she popped when she walked by my booth at Sally’s. And, not just remembering all of this shit, but obsessing over it? Yeah, for me, that’s a little weird.

“Right…Adrianna,” she laughs, whipping through a few items on the check sheet, pausing at the goals section, and looking up at me through a few wavy strands of hair that she quickly pushes back behind her ear. “That…uh…that was an experiment. You know, just to try out being someone else. Just for an hour or two.”

We stare at each other for a heartbeat longer than normal, and I can feel this tiny shift in the air between us. “Yeah, I get that,” I say. No joke or jab, just me getting it. And I do. She has no idea how much I
get
that.

“I don’t really have any goals,” she says, pushing the barely-filled-out checklist back at me.

“That’s fine. We’ll come up with those together after today,” I say, giving a quick glance at her history. My clients are all supposed to be working through something—injuries, disabilities—but she didn’t write anything down. “You rehabbing something?” I ask, my pen hovering over the line to fill it in for her.

“No, I’ve got nothing. I mean…my joints pop from years of soccer, but that’s about it,” she answers fast, and now I’m worried that she’s not supposed to be working with me.

“You…sure you’re supposed to be
my
client?” I ask, hoping like hell that even if she’s not, she’ll stay.

“Oh, I’m yours; I requested you,” she says, her eyes flashing wide quickly with embarrassment. I pounce on this.

“Ohhhh, I get it,” I say, turning around and filing her paperwork in the lock drawer.

“Get what?” she asks, her eyes squinting with hesitation.

“You’re a stalker,” I smile, just in case she doesn’t realize I’m bullshitting her. “I mean, it’s understandable. This happens all of the time.”

“What does?” she asks.

“Me. Stalkers,” I say through a feigned sigh. “I’ve had…many.”

“Oh, I’m sure you have,” she says, folding her arms up in a challenge. I like this. I like this a lot.

“Oh yes, there’s an entire cellblock at campus police for the women who have tried to get to me in the past and failed,” I say, grabbing my gloves and urging her to follow me to the bench for some basic weightlifting. “You’re the first one to completely make up a name and sign up for my…ahem…
services
, though.”

“I did NOT sign up for your services!” she chokes, half playing and half real. I can tell she’s a little offended.

“Uh…” I start, looking at her—taking in her entire body, which is wrapped perfectly in those tight-ass workout pants and a matching tank top. Then I turn to the side and gesture to the sets of weights on either side of us. “You sort of did.”

“Well, yes, I signed up for your personal training. But I’d hardly call that
services,
” she says, straddling one leg over a workout bench and positioning herself in a way that has me feeling a lot less like working out. I’m staring; I’m staring and I’m thinking and I’m…not hearing a single thing she’s saying right now.