More Than a Memory (5 page)

“
W
here exactly is this party
?”

Liam settles into the passenger seat of my truck as I pull away from his dorm room.

“It’s a Sigma Chi party,” he says.

“A frat party? That’s where we’re headed?” I don’t have an issue with frat guys, but they tend to stick together and aren’t very welcoming to guys they think are there to poach their girls.

“Sigma house has two sororities across the street. The Delta Phi Lambda is stuffed full of women. Those bitches are smoking hot and easier to fuck than hookers.”

I cut my eyes over to him. “My sister is a Delta at Washington State,” I inform him through gritted teeth.

“Is she hot and easy?” Liam asks with a lopsided grin.

“Do you have a death wish?” I snarl.

He holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Calm down, dude. It was a joke.”

He wasn’t joking when he said it, but by the tone of his voice, I can tell he now regrets the words. I narrow my eyes and turn my gaze back to the road, deciding to let it slide this time. One more mention of my sister, though, and I’ll lay his ass out.

“Turn up here,” he says, pointing to a row of taillights. “We might as well park down here and walk to the house. Probably won’t be able to find anything closer.”

Pulling into a grassy field, I park between two other cars, the owners unloading and grabbing things out of the trunks.

The walk to the Sigma house is quick. Music blares through the sound system and out the front door. Hips gyrate to the heavy bass on the porch and across the sloping lawn. My eyes skirt across the crowd, short skirts, high heels, and barely-there shirts—if you can call them that—fill my line of sight. Women have to make up at least two-thirds of the party, from what I can see, all different levels of inebriation, their tits and ass on display for anyone who’s not blind. I nod in approval as couples pair off and find dark corners to make out in. A ball player I recognize from practice hands me a beer, and I twist the top. As I take a long pull, my eyes dart back and forth, trying to decide where I should post up for a while.

A warm hand slides up my back, and I grin, turning toward the attention.

“Hey there, handsome.” Her drawl is slow, betraying her attempt to sound sober.

Simone, the sexy as hell non-student.

“Hey, Simone.” I nod toward the red cup in her hand. “You get an early start?”

She grins and lifts the cup to her lips. “Always.”

“This party is pretty big,” I say, looking around, trying to ignore her fingers as they skate down my stomach and hook inside the waist of my jeans.

“The first frat party of the semester is always big.” She stumbles closer to me, and I have to catch her by the arms to keep her from knocking us both over.

“Easy,” I whisper in her ear as she lays her head against my chest.

“Wanna get out of here?” Her face tilts up and her eyes meet mine. She blinks rapidly, and I lift a brow, trying to decide whether she has something in her eyes or she’s attempting to look sexy and failing. I appraise her. Still sexy, but nowhere near as put together as she was that first day in class.

“I just got here. Do you need a ride home?”

She nods and bites her lip. “I need a good,
hard
ride.”

I grin down at her. Only nine o’clock and she’s drunk and ready to fuck. I wonder if she was a Delta before she graduated. With that thought, I make a mental note to check on the Delta girls in Washington. If Emerson is slutting it up in college, I’ll lose my damn mind.

Simone presses her tits harder against my chest, and as much as my dick needs the attention, drunk girls are not my thing. I’ve seen too many friends hook up with a chick who has buyer’s remorse the next day and shouts rape.

Simone doesn’t seem like the type to complain even if the entire team gangbanged her, but I’m not willing to take my chances. Besides, if a girl can’t participate, there’s really no point. Most guys are just looking for a girl to sink inside of, but I’m more interactive than that.

“Do you want to give me a ride?” she whispers against my jaw.

“You’re drunk, beautiful.” I push her hair off her forehead. She is gorgeous, in an overly done up sort of way.

She nips my bottom lip and the sweet scent of strawberry daiquiri, or something similar, wafts up. It’s not entirely unpleasant, and I don’t push her away when her tongue brushes my lips.

Just because I don’t like drunken sex doesn’t mean I’m not down for a little impromptu make out session.

I suck her cold, fruit-flavored tongue into my mouth, and her breath hitches. Her hands move to rest near my zipper, and my cock thickens, angling toward her touch.

“You want me,” she pants, her fingers finding my straining erection over my jeans.

“You’re drunk,” I remind her even as my cock thrums behind the denim.

“I can fuck drunk,” she assures me, taking my lips again.

Her body swivels against mine, rubbing seductively, enticing me to break my own rules. I pull my mouth from hers, my cock straining against my zipper, and trail kisses down her neck, the chemical taste of her perfume stinging my tongue as I lick her skin. I drag my head away and take a long pull on my beer. You’d think it would be a turn off, but I can’t recall ever hooking up with a girl who didn’t leave makeup, perfume, or lotion of some sort on my tongue.

Her eyelids flutter open, her eyes glazed over and heated. She turns her attention to the zipper of my jeans as the beer washes her taste from my mouth and I stop her just before my dick pops out. We’re still standing in the front yard of the frat house. I haven’t even made it inside and she doesn’t give one fuck that she’s about to flash my junk to all the sober people walking up.

“Whoa,” I tell her as I button my jeans.

She half-stumbles back a step and sticks out a pouty bottom lip. Honestly, she’d be adorable if it weren’t for the disheveled hair and slightly ruined makeup.

“Let’s get you out of here,” I say, wrapping an arm around her.

“Finally,” she says, her tone husky.

She steadies herself against my side as I pull out my phone to let Liam know I’m giving her a ride.

It takes three times as long to get her back to my truck than it took for Liam and me to get to the house. It’s to be expected, I guess. I’d pick her up and carry her, but I’m not going to be the guy seen carrying some drunk chick away from a party.

And it takes almost as long to get her into my truck. High heels and being overserved do not mix. Eventually, we’re both secured inside the cab and heading toward her place.

“Is this it?” I ask as the GPS tells me I’ve arrived at the address she gave me.

I peer up at the two-story house and let out a low whistle.

“Yours?” I ask as Simone unbuckles her seatbelt.

“My parents,” she says, sliding closer and straddling my lap. “They’re not home. You could come up.”

“Not tonight, beautiful.” Reaching over, I grab her phone from beside us on the seat and enter in my number. “If you remember me tomorrow, give me a call.”

Desperate lips crash against mine, and I let it happen. I know my limitations, and Simone is nowhere near them. She begins to rock on my dick and I grip her ass, allowing her tongue to sweep against mine. Her soft mewls turn into loud moans, and I wince in pain as she grinds too hard. Mistaking my wince for pleasure, she continues her assault, forcing me to pull her off my lap. The last thing I need is her breaking my cock before I get to fuck her with it.

Lying back on the seat of my truck, she attempts seduction by spreading her legs, forcing her tight dress to inch higher up her smooth thighs. My mind flashes back to Olivia’s gorgeous legs as she stood from the couch the other day and I thicken even further in my jeans.

I kiss Simone with renewed fervor, forcing her to moan into my mouth. Knowing that sound is now going to get me in trouble, I pull my lips from hers.

“Fuck, you tempt me.”

“That’s the point.”

“Not tonight.” I pull her to a sitting position and climb out of the truck.

When I make it to her side to help her down, she’s beyond excited. “Coming in?”

I shake my head. “Just making sure you make it in safe.”

Ten minutes later, I’m driving back to the apartment, a deep ache in my nuts. I’m either chivalrous or an idiot. Simone had a lot to drink, but she seemed more buzzed than inebriated when I left her house. Normally, I wouldn’t turn down a buzzed chick. Hell, you couldn’t really go to a college party and find a girl who hadn’t been drinking a little bit, but after the thought of Olivia crept into my mind, I wanted to be anywhere but there.

* * *

T
he ding
of a text message forces me to push the blankets away from my head. I’ve been lying here awake for a while, but refuse to get up. I grab my phone off the bedside table, several texts lighting up the screen—Liam, Emerson, and multiple from Simone.

Liam’s texts are bragging about the chick he bagged last night and how I missed the best strip tease ever. Apparently, some chicks climbed onto the dining room table and went wild, Coyote Ugly style. I frown, hating that I missed it.

Emerson texts about random stuff, including how much she despises the Ubers in Pullman, rude jocks, and an insanely itchy spot on the back of her calf, which she insists is necrotizing fasciitis. A trip to the emergency room the last time she thought she had it resulted in the doctor pretty much calling her an idiot and giving her an itch stick for her mosquito bite. I blame binge watching Grey’s Anatomy and the news pertaining to what’s going on in Texas as her reasoning behind the self-diagnosis.

Simone’s texts are a combination of apologies and requests to meet up later. I don’t think she has anything to apologize for, but the gesture is nice.

Ignoring Liam and my wacko sister, I text Simone back with plans to meet up later this evening.

After a quick shower, and no sign of Olivia, I head out to get breakfast.

Once back at the apartment, I linger in the kitchen, making as much noise as possible, but my elusive roommate never shows her gorgeous face. After fifteen minutes, I leave the food I got for her in the fridge with her name on it and head back to my room. I hardly ever see her eat, and hope she enjoys the breakfast burrito.

A
fter he left last night
, I couldn’t get him out of my head, and the shame I felt over that wouldn’t ease. I needed to know how long I had to deal with this—how long before my life would go back to normal without Bryson screwing everything up. I thought I could adapt, had even convinced myself everything would be okay, but it wasn’t working any longer. When my mother texted back, telling me he signed a two-year lease with the option to extend after he graduated, my chest tightened. I didn’t know how I was going to survive this.

When the text about kissing him came through—as in, her asking me if he’s kissed me yet—I stopped responding. She loves Duncan as much as I do, so how she can so readily shove me off onto another man is beyond me. And now I question whether she actually sought out a male roommate rather than just accepting Bryson because he was the first interested.

My heart wants me to avoid him at all costs. My body wants to spend every moment with him that I can. I’m honestly torn. I dream about how his lips would feel on mine, about him coming into my room and holding me at night. These dreams all end the same: he morphs into Duncan seconds after our connection is made.

Avoiding him isn’t making things better—it doesn’t keep thoughts out of my head. Every Duncan chat makes me feel guilty for feelings and thoughts I can’t control. My mother doesn’t understand, and my friends are long gone. I almost gave in and asked for help in a live forum the other day, but writing it down gives the thoughts life and that’s the last thing I want to do.

I wait half an hour after I hear him leave this afternoon, making sure he isn’t just heading out to grab lunch or something, before I escape my room to shower and get ready for the day. After spending my normal hour washing and shaving—I may not leave the apartment, but I’m not disgusting—I pull on sweats and a tank top and head to the kitchen to make coffee.

Finding the bag on the top shelf with my name on it when I open the fridge to get the coffee creamer makes me smile. Bryson is sexy as sin, flirty, and buys breakfast for his roommate. This man is going to be the end of me, I just know it.

The bag contains one of the biggest breakfast burritos I have ever seen, and I don’t waste a second getting it on a plate and heating it in the microwave.

I moan at the first bite as a zesty cheese sauce hits my tongue. Fast food places don’t deliver, so it’s been a while since I’ve had one of these.

“Damn,” Bryson says, startling me. I drop the burrito on the plate and clutch my chest, trying to tame the rapid increase of my heart. “Mine wasn’t
that
good.”

Spinning around, I face him with narrowed eyes. His smile is playful, but his eyes are hooded as he watches my mouth while I chew.

“I thought you were gone,” I say, still flustered by his appearance.

“Clearly.” His arm brushes mine as he reaches into the fridge to grab a water.

“Thank you for breakfast.”

“Probably would have been better at eight this morning when I got it, rather than four in the afternoon.” He cocks an eye at me, a little too close for comfort. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

I size him up, the lie sitting on the tip of my tongue, but I decide against telling him anything other than what he already knows. This apartment is too small not to run into each other more than we have. “I have.”

I want to tell him being around him makes my pulse race, even when he’s not sneaking up on me, or that my palms grow sweaty around him, but I can’t. Vocalizing the affect he has on me isn’t an option, especially forbidden feelings that aren’t fair to Duncan.

He leans against the cabinet opposite of me, but doesn’t speak. The expectant way he’s looking at me makes my skin tingle and my nerve-endings come alive. The silence between us becomes thick, but he doesn’t question my confession.

“How was the party?” I ask around another bite, needing to break this apparent showdown we have going on. Plus, small talk is safe, right?

“It seemed like it would’ve been a good time, but I didn’t stay long.” He continues to watch my mouth, which unnerves me.

I frown down at my food before wrapping the rest of the burrito up and putting it back in the fridge. I don’t have a problem eating in front of people; however, him watching me like he wishes it was
him
I was eating makes me self-conscious. Turning away from the fridge and back toward him, my gaze lands right on his crotch and I avert my eyes, ignoring how he’s adjusting himself.

“You have plans tonight?” I narrow my eyes at him. “Of course you don’t have plans.”

“I do,” I argue, crossing my arms over my chest. “A Netflix marathon of
Criminal Minds
is on my agenda.”

His lips twitch as he tries to hide a grin. “So, you’re into crime shows?”

I huff a laugh. “Not really, I’ve just watched pretty much everything else.”

“I can change my plans. Want to go watch a movie you haven’t seen?”

“Like Redbox?”

He shakes his head. “Not here. Like at the movie theater.”

I shake my head in response.

“I know you have a boyfriend, Olivia. I’m not hitting on you.”

Mild disappointment washes over me, his declaration putting a dent in my self-esteem. “I know you’re not.”

“But the answer is still no?”

I nod. “What are your plans?”

He looks away, almost as if he doesn’t want to answer. Maybe he didn’t really have plans after all.

“I’m meeting up with a chick from school.”

My face falls, my reaction angering me, but I school it back to passive. I have no say over what he does or who he does it with, but I didn’t realize how lonely I’d become until my heart panged at the knowledge that he’s leaving. I’m on dangerous ground.

“That sounds like fun,” I lie, pushing away the lingering twinge.

“I can stay here,” he offers.

I stiffen at his words. The idea of spending even more time with him scares me more. The hopeful look on his face is unnerving. I don’t want him to stay, but I’m struggling with the fact that he’s meeting up with a female rather than some of his baseball buddies—things I have no right to be concerned over.

“That’s ridiculous, Bryson. You should go out. Have fun with your friends. You don’t need to hole yourself up in this apartment. You have no obligation to keep me company.”

He watches my face, his eyes scrutinizing every emotion, reading into each nonverbal clue, and I pray he can’t see through the indifference I barely manage. I hold my breath and let it out as he stands up from the counter, thankful he didn’t find anything.

“I’m going to get ready then.”

He watches me for another long moment before heading out of the kitchen to his room.

My shoulders drop and a sigh escapes as I head back to my room and close the door behind me. I lean against the wood, attempting to get myself under control. Regret, sadness, loneliness…hurt? I don’t understand why, after so long, I would feel any of these emotions, especially when it comes to Bryson. And especially when it’s not in a way that he’s hurting me, but where I’m hurt because he’s not staying.

I know I’m doing this to myself. For months, I’ve lived in self-pity, refusing to interact with anyone, and I’ve found solace in my reclusiveness, but now I’m questioning everything.

* * *

T
he front door
unlocking startles me awake. It wasn’t until I heard the door close and lock that I left my room again, and I only made it through a single episode with Dr. Reed before succumbing to the sleepiness I feel all the time.

I smile, but before I can lift my head from the couch to greet Bryson, I hear a feminine giggle.

“Shhh,” he says, “you’ll wake my roommate.”

Lying on my left side, my back facing the open living room, all I find when I open my eyes is the fabric of the couch, preventing me from identifying the girl he’s brought home. Is she pretty? Does she have long blonde hair like I do? I hate that I’m not facing outward because it’s thwarting my ability to get a gauge on his preferences, but wanting to know his predilections upsets me more than the cackling girl he’s brought home.

There are a few hushed words and more giggling. “Think she’d want to join us?”

Not in a million years.

“I wish,” Bryson mumbles before leading her down the hall to his room.

For a man who claims he’s not flirting with me, he sure didn’t have a problem throwing that little nugget of information out there.

I stay on the couch until I’m certain he’s not going to come back out, then hightail it to my room, not even bothering to turn the TV off and risk drawing attention to the sudden silence.

I turn the lock on my bedroom door, which is something I never do. I’ve never felt unsafe or uneasy with Bryson here, but I have no idea who this girl is, and I’m not taking a chance of her somehow ending up in here.

The loud giggling, throaty moaning, and occasional bump of the head board against our shared wall draws my attention. I can practically picture what’s going on in there, and the images on replay in my head are almost enough to drive me insane.

I glare at the wall, pissed at how inconsiderate he was by bringing her back here. And to think I was worried about Emerson living here and having a boyfriend. At least the annoyance with a female roommate having sex in the next room wouldn’t be filled with emotional confusion over the parties involved.

Pulling up the most aggressive playlist on my phone, I put in my earbuds and pull a pillow over my head, but it does nothing to help the situation. I can still hear them. Well, I can hear
her
. He’s not making a sound. I want to bang on the wall and tell her she’s not auditioning for a damn porno, but I’m afraid the interruption would only make it last longer.

I haven’t had trouble falling asleep in months. It’s been the easiest thing for me to do since Duncan left, but tonight is different. Tonight, my brain won’t pull itself away from the image it conjured up of Bryson’s face and what it looks like when he’s about to orgasm. Do his teeth scrape over his lips as he tries to hold back a moan, or does a soundless gasp escape his perfect mouth? Does he lean in, kissing her as they mutually fall over the edge?

The room goes silent, leaving only the music in my ears, and minutes later, the front door opens and closes. I can’t help but feel sorry for the girl, but at the same time, I smile as my mind calms and weariness takes over. Contemplation of why I’m giddy about Bryson being a premature ejaculator is still bouncing around in my head as I succumb to sleep.