Four Years Later (9 page)

“This is Marcy.” Des shoots the blonde a lusty gaze, which she returns with gusto. “We just met. But we’re already old fucking friends, right, Marcy?” She doesn’t respond.

“Awesome,” Owen mutters with a jerky shake of his head. “We just stopped by to get my keys. I need to take Chelsea home.”

“Don’t go home, not yet! The party just started. Have a beer, smoke a bowl, fucking relax. Or maybe get relaxed by fucking around for a little bit. Whatever.” Des laughs when Owen shoots him a disgusted look. “Man, since when did you turn into such a downer?”

Owen doesn’t reply. I feel like things are being said without words and I’m not catching on. Not that I would. I don’t know anything about Owen beyond his school file and what little information I’ve gleaned since meeting him.

We leave the porch and head into the house, which is filled with smoke, lots of people, and loud music. The kitchen is especially packed as they all drink beer either from cans or the infamous red cups. There’s a keg on the dining room table, and I wonder just how spontaneous this party was.

Considering I have zero experience with keggers, I have no idea how easy it is to obtain kegs of beer.

Everyone in the room seems to look at me like they wonder where I came from, not that I can blame them. They don’t know me. I’m sure they all know Owen. They’re in his house, after all. And I’m just some silly girl pretending that she knows what it’s like to be young and easy and carefree.

The girls glare. The guys stare. I feel like I’m on display, that Owen is lord and master of the house and if they could, they’d all bow to him and thank him for finally coming home.

Heaving out a big sigh, I push past my dramatic thoughts and keep close to Owen, not wanting to lose him since the deeper we get into the house, the more crowded it becomes. When he grabs hold of my hand and yanks me close, I literally gasp, surprised that he’s actually touching me. His fingers curl around mine and I try to ignore the reaction that pulses through me from his touch, but I can’t. I swear my knees just went weak.

He pulls me closer and I feel as though I’m going to die. I can smell him, autumn and sweat and the slightly stale scent of working in a restaurant for hours on end. “My keys are in my room,” he yells into my ear. The music in the house is deafening. “Just keep close—we’ll grab them and then we’re out of here.”

I nod and give him a smile, which he returns. The sight of it makes my heart go pitter-patter and I try to ignore it. This crush I have on my freaking student is so not appropriate.

Owen entwines our fingers and leads me through the crowd and down the short, dark hall, stopping at the door at the very end. He pushes it open and glances around, probably checking to see if anyone’s in there, and then he’s walking inside, leaving me no choice but to follow him since he’s still holding my hand.

Disentangling myself from his grip, I look around, trying to take it all in while Owen goes in search of his keys. His walls are blank. The furniture is nondescript though the bed is massive, covered in brick-red sheets and nothing else. I take a step back from it, suddenly nervous. How many girls has he brought to his bedroom before me?

Ugh.
No way do I want to think about that number.

I’m all alone with Owen in his bedroom. If I were bolder, I’d try to make a move. It’s the perfect opportunity to at least try and kiss him. Though I have no idea if he’d be responsive. I don’t think he’s that into me. He’s just being nice. Probably felt sorry for his poor tutor when he saw her getting harassed out in front of his workplace.

“Shit,” he grumbles as he kneels down and starts digging through a pile of clothes that sit on an overstuffed chair. “I always lose my keys.”

“Want some help?” I offer, because I’m a nice girl and I always offer help to someone in need.

If I could roll my eyes at myself right now, I so would.

“I’m good. They’re probably in a pocket in my jeans. That’s where I usually find them.”

I go to his dresser and check it out. There’s a mirror, a jar full of quarters, and a shallow dish full of miscellaneous change. There’s also a lighter, a discarded, faded dollar bill, and a picture in a frame. I pick it up and study it. It’s a photo of a really pretty girl with blond hair and the same green eyes as Owen. She’s wearing a wedding dress and smiling for the camera, her arm slung around Owen’s shoulders. He’s also looking at the camera, a big grin on his face that makes my breath catch. The guy who I can only assume is her groom is looking at the bride like she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

It’s a wonderful photo, full of love and joy. I can only assume the girl is Owen’s sister, since they share a lot of the same features. And the guy is vaguely familiar.

“That’s my sister and brother-in-law.” Owen’s right behind me; I didn’t even hear him approach, and I carefully set the frame back on top of his dresser, a little embarrassed I just got caught snooping.

“He looks familiar,” I say lamely, turning to face him. He’s standing so close I can feel his body heat, and my body sways toward his as though I don’t have any control.

Which I don’t.

“He’s Drew Callahan.”

Oh
. I blink up at Owen. A living legend around these parts, people still talk about Drew Callahan, especially now that he’s gone on to play for the NFL. Which means …

“Seriously? Your brother-in-law is a professional football player?” My jaw drops.

“Yeah. I thought you knew. Everyone knows.”

“I didn’t.” I tilt my head, studying him. “Is that why you play football?”

“He’s been a big influence, yeah.”

“How about your dad? Does he like football?”

Owen goes stiff all over, his expression eerily blank, as are his eyes. “I don’t know what that asshole likes. I have no idea where he is.”

“Oh.” I should never have asked. My parents are a sensitive subject, too. I don’t like talking about my father at all, so I get it. “I’m guessing you’re close to your sister?”

“Fable? Yeah, she practically raised me.” The blankness disappears, replaced with a warm fondness that shows just how much she matters to him. “She just had a baby.”

“So you’re an uncle.” The thought warms my heart. The visual of Owen holding a baby in his arms makes me feel all shivery.

“Yeah. She’s cute.” He holds up his car keys. “Found them. Are you ready to go?”

Disappointment crashes over me.
No!
I want to shout.
I want to stay. I want to go back out there and have a couple of drinks. Get a little buzzed. Maybe even “smoke a J,” which I’ve never done before in my life, though it sounds like it could be fun. And after I get a little high and get a little drunk, maybe I could drag you back in here and lock the door so I can kiss you. Fall into your arms, feel your hands press all over my skin …

A rapid knock sounds before I can find my tongue to answer him and the door slams open, revealing a tall guy who’s almost as broad as Owen standing in the doorway on wobbly feet. “You
do
have a girl in your room,” he says, sounding shocked as he rocks back on his heels. “Shit, I owe that asshole Des twenty bucks.”

“Get the fuck out of here,” Owen says, though he doesn’t sound that angry. “We were just leaving, so you can tell Des nothing happened. You don’t owe him shit.” He turns to look at me. “Ready to go, Chels?”

I like that he just called me Chels. No one does. I have no cutesy nicknames and I always wished I had.

“Don’t tell me this is the tutor.” The guy trips into the room, stumbling over his own feet until he’s standing just in front of me. “You are, aren’t you? The tutor? I remember you.” He’s pointing at my chest, his tone a mixture of accusations and laughter.

“Um …” I don’t know if I should be honest or not. I’m not a liar like my dad, so I prefer to stick to the truth. And I remember him, too. He was at the diner with Owen along with Des. “Yes, I am.”

“Well shit, Owen. You got her into your room this quick? Sly motherfucker.” The guy grins. “I’m Wade. Owen’s oldest, dearest friend.”

“You’re going to be my
deadest
friend if you don’t shut your mouth and get out of my room,” Owen says, his voice low and rumbly and sexy as can be. What sort of sick perv does that make me, that I like it when he sounds all angry and growly?

I should be mad. He talked about me to his friends—most likely in a lewd and inappropriate way. More than anything, I should be offended. This means he doesn’t take me seriously.

Instead, I’m thrilled. That he actually talked about me beyond the “I have a tutor and I don’t want to see her” realm fills me with hope.

As though maybe I do have a chance with him.

Grinning, Wade stumbles back out much the way he came, sloppy and a little drunk. The minute he’s gone, I turn to Owen.

“How does he know about me?”

“Uh …” He looks vaguely uncomfortable, so I push for more.

“Did you talk about me to him?”

“He’s my roommate. So yeah, I talked to him about having a tutor.” He shrugs, going for nonchalance, but I don’t believe him.

There’s more to this story than what he’s saying.

“So why would he say that you worked quick and that you’re sly? What’s that all about?” I feel like a dog with a bone, but I have to find out what he might have said.

“You don’t want to know,” he murmurs, keeping his gaze averted.

He has it all wrong. “I definitely want to know.”

Anticipation thrums through me as I wait for what feels like forever. He remains quiet. Runs those long fingers through his hair again, rests his other hand on his hip. He looks frustrated. It’s a good look on him.

Everything is a good look on him.

“You’re going to be offended,” he finally says.

“I’ve been offended since the moment I saw your house and your friend started cursing at you,” I say, because it’s true. Their … colorful language is horrible.

You’re such a prude.

Fine. What can I say? People don’t curse around me. They never really have. Kari drops the occasional bomb, but nothing major. The minute I find myself in Owen’s stratosphere, all I hear is foul language.

He smiles at my remark. “I think I like that you find me and my friends offensive. Maybe I can corrupt you.”

My entire body goes liquid at the promise in his voice. I wish he would corrupt me. Toss me on those red, red sheets and pull my clothes off until I lie there naked, pale against the dark, scared and trembling and excited when his hands finally, finally skate across my body …

“You’re avoiding the question,” I say, my voice shaky, and I lick my lips. When I glance up, I find him staring at my mouth.

My lips tingle as if he actually physically touched them.

“They think I’m going to try and …” He huffs out a breath, thrusts his hand in his hair, and tugs. Hard. “Let’s get out of here, Chels. You need to go home.”

I let him drop the subject. Let him steer me out of his room, down the hall, through the crowd in his house and outside to his car. All the while his hand is at the small of my back, his fingers branding me through the lace and the tank top I’m wearing. He doesn’t say much, though everyone calls out to him. Yelling his name, begging him to stay, offering him a drink, a smoke, a cup, a bottle, a bong.

This is not my scene. Owen is not my scene.

It doesn’t matter. Despite it all, I still want him.

And I find that incredibly frustrating.

The second we get into my car, I breathe a sigh of relief. Fuck, that had been an utter pain in the ass. All the people in my house, all the questions from Des and Wade, and then the finishing touch with the interrogation from Chelsea.

Shit
. I barely survived it all.

It’s past one in the morning and I’m fucking exhausted. I have class later in the morning and for the first time in a while, I plan on going. Only to please the girl sitting next to me and to help get my grades up—but if I don’t get some sleep and soon, I’m gonna skip.

And that’s gonna suck.

She gives me directions to her apartment in this subdued voice that makes me nervous. Why, I’m not sure, but she’s scarily quiet, keeping her head bent, her fingers busy as they scrape across the tops of her thighs. Back and forth, back and forth in this rhythm I can fucking hear since she’s dragging her nails along the denim.

I check out her legs when I hit the brakes at a stoplight. She has slender thighs. Thighs I wouldn’t mind grasping hold of and spreading. Just for me. Just for her. I bet no guy has ever stepped between her thighs before. Placed his hands on them and pushed her wide open. I have a feeling I’d be her first.

For whatever strange reason, I like that. Makes me feel all possessive and shit.

The light turns green and I hit the gas extra hard, making the car jerk as it lurches forward. I can feel Chelsea’s eyes on me. She’s probably wondering what the fuck is wrong with me and I can’t give her an answer. I have no freaking clue what’s wrong with me.

Yeah, you do. She’s what’s wrong with you.

Within minutes I’m driving into the parking lot of her apartment building, pulling into an empty spot. She climbs out of the car without a word and I do the same, following her as she walks down the sidewalk, then cuts across the grass.

“I got this,” she calls over her shoulder. “Thanks for the ride.”

Now she’s dismissing me? Screw that noise. “I’m not going to let you walk into the darkness and disappear without at least making sure you get to your front door.”

She stops and turns on me, her expression downright ferocious. “So, what? You’re a gentleman now? Give me a break. Like you care. You won’t even answer me when I ask you a question.”

Jesus.
So we’ve circled back to that again? I know exactly which question she’s talking about, too. “You don’t want the answer. Trust me.” I already told her what they thought she was to me.

An easy lay. A quick fuck. She’s not, though. Not at all.

“Actually, I do. I’d
love
the answer.” She marches toward me, her eyes blazing with indignation. She’s furious and beautiful and when she reaches out to shove at my chest, my entire body reacts at her touch.