Double Dared (The Boys of Elmwood U #2)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

taylor

“Not to spoil the ending, but you can see where this is headed,” I said, practically poking Jason with my elbow. “The KGBs never got the gnome back, and Jason can’t pass by their house anymore, while none are the wiser that the little fellow currently sits on a stack of old books up in my room.”

The guys laughed while Jason waved the waiter over and signaled for another round of beers. The night was young, and so were we.

“Show of hands, who here’s heard this tall tale before?” Jason called.

The vote was unanimous.

“Good stories are worth retelling,” I said, shrugging the jibe off.

“Twice before?” Jason asked, his gaze boring into me with a challenge.

My eyebrows flattened as all the hands rose. “Fine. Point proven, assholes.”

“Three times,” Jason declared.

All hands went all the way up.

“Ugh, go finger yourselves,” I said, grabbing the beer practically off the tray. Jim slapped my hand.

“Never while I’m holding it,” he said.

“You still love me,” I tossed back. Jim rolled his eyes, but he smiled anyway. “Just because I tipped his tray off-balance twice and footed the bill, he suddenly won’t trust me.”

“Should we keep counting?” Jason asked.

Logan waved his hand while Finn lifted his up to indicate the fourth vote.

“At least I have some stories to tell,” I protested.

Jason settled back in the booth with arms crossed on his chest and a satisfied smile on his face. “That’s the point, T. You live off your fading glory.”

“And you, my friend, have settled for domestic life before you had a chance to carve your name in the annals of history.”

“He said anals,” Finn ruled.

This earned him a few cheap laughs. Nothing worth writing home about.

“I’m not obsessed with winning every bet and seeing through every dare,” Jason said, comfortable with himself as ever. Some, but never myself, would have called it obnoxious. I warned him, I did. He just wouldn’t listen. He had his whole himbo persona worked out and wouldn’t take notes.

“I wouldn’t call it an obsession. I’m just cool,” I said.

“I dare you to admit you are obsessed with dares,” Jason declared.

“Or else?” I asked.

“You will forever be known as the biggest coward at this table,” he said with satisfaction.

“Biggest, you say? I wouldn’t mind snatching that record,” I shot back without thinking.

He turned to the other guys for support. “Am I crazy? We’re all seeing this, right?”

The guys nodded, entertained and amused like they were supposed to be. I’d do anything for a laugh. No joke was too self-deprecating, and no dare was too difficult if it made for a fun night in our booth.

Silence settled at the table then. We each developed an instant and intense interest in our individual beers, eyeing the foam, looking at the bubbles, checking how much condensation had already pooled under the rim of the tall glasses.

Finn’s beer was hazy, Jason’s was a clear wheat one, and Logan sipped a red ale that stank like the dentist’s office.

Greg’s was a malt that looked more like molasses than beer.

I seemed to be the only sane person at this table, having a moderately hoppy IPA that had a bitter tang to it, but a roasted aftertaste was worth acquiring this particular taste.

“How about the one where our initiates kept swapping their jerseys every time Professor Colby turned his back to the class? It took the poor guy—”

“Forty minutes to catch them,” everyone finished in unison.

“We need better stories,” I conceded.

There was little we hadn’t covered in our weekly beer sessions.

We had shared our bests and worsts in throwing stones and one-night stands, dug deep into the embarrassing memories, be it from childhood or recent affairs.

We had exhausted every inside joke and imported new ones only to see them fizzle out.

“If only I had a stick,” I sighed to Jason. “I could poke you and make you do something fun.”

“I’m pretty sure Jason gets all the poking he needs,” Finn said.

“And I’m pretty sure you should stop hate-criming our friend,” I said.

“Bisexuals get to say it,” Jason overruled.

“I apologize for being a sexual minority at this table, then,” I said, raising my hands.

“Join the fun side,” Finn offered, inviting me with his index finger.

“What, now? Buy me a dinner first,” I said.

“A nice one.” I nodded for emphasis. “Someplace where they bring out breadsticks and those little olives that don’t have pits in them that I have to spit out discreetly into a napkin, then worry what to do with the napkin, and tuck the napkin with the pits into my pocket, only to forget all about it until laundry day and drop them in front of the whole laundromat. ”

“That was oddly specific,” Jason said. “Care to tell the story?”

“No,” I replied miserably. It hadn’t been a fun night.

“Let me get this straight,” Finn said, leaning in. “You’re willing to sell yourself for some olives?”

“Nice ones,” I emphasized.

Greg checked his wristwatch and lifted his beer to drain the last of his sticky molasses.

“Whoa, hold on a hot minute,” I said. “We’re not leaving. It’s barely nine.”

“Sorry,” Greg said in his no-nonsense way, ending my protests. “I’d say I have places to be, but I think I’ll just head to bed.”

“Let’s face it,” I said, putting my palms on the table and presiding over the council of boring twenty-year-olds.

“Being a young desirable takes work, and we’ve been throwing in the towel.

I’m open to suggestions, but I’ll also be the first to admit it, the glue that binds us is the dares.

So.” I turned my hands over and lifted them a little to give the spotlight over to them. “Do your worst.”

“And you’ll do it?” Greg asked, his eyes sparking with interest.

“No questions asked,” I said. “I’ll do anything to be interesting again.”

This dragged out a few chuckles. They were of the evil sort, conspiring and plotting. “Alright, let me see,” Finn began. “I’ll give you a fiver if you can walk into the KGB and draw a minimum of three penises on their foreheads before you’re caught.”

“And beaten senseless,” Jason said. “We don’t mess with the KGBs when it’s hot, Finn.”

“It’s more fun when it’s hot,” Finn grumbled.

I turned to Jason for ideas. His were often the best. Often, mind you.

He was also responsible for some of the worst examples of disaster and debauchery that had ever taken place in the Bel House.

Still, if he could only make the wheels turn in that empty head of his, we’d have tales to spin for weeks.

“I’m out,” Jason said. “I have my domestic life to think of. I can’t die young. Or worse, have someone shave my head in my sleep out of revenge.”

“No, we can’t risk those sexy curls,” I said. “It’s where all your prowess is stored.”

“I have one,” Greg supplied. “And it could be the best one yet, not to brag.”

“Shoot,” I said.

Greg pointed his finger right at me. “You are the most chaotic, rambling, random person I know.”

“Thank you. Takes work.”

“And you once boasted there’s nobody you couldn’t flirt your way to a date with,” Greg said.

I waved my hand. “Pass. Too easy.”

“Now, bear with me,” he said, his deep voice making the table vibrate. “I hereby challenge you, as the Bel council is my witness, to get a date with…” His finger joined the finger of his other hand to do a little drumroll that went on a tad too long, then swept around the table and pointed at Finn.

“Right,” I said, lifting one eyebrow skeptically.

“No, not him, asshole,” Greg said. “Finn, will you lean to a side, please?”

Finn leaned away from me with exaggerated relief.

I shot him a pained look. “Ouch.”

He shrugged.

“That one,” Greg said.

We all turned to the person several empty tables away from us. Sitting in a corner lit by the three small lamps in the nooks in the wall, with a glass of something brown and a big chunk of ice in the middle of it, a book in his hands, and a black turtleneck elongating his neck, was my target.

And it was a target I knew in passing.

“No chance,” I said. “He just broke up with his girlfriend.”

“That’s dangerously close to bi erasure,” Finn suggested.

“Sue me. I don’t just assume someone is bi until I’m proven otherwise.”

Finn shrugged again, but I felt like he was blaming me for something now.

“So what if he’s straight or freshly heartbroken? You’re the one who said you could flirt with anyone and score a date.”

“Are you scared?” Jason asked, chuckling.

I glared at him. “I’ll go and fucking marry him in a blink, so no, Jason, I’m not scared of picking up a guy at a bar.”

“What’s stopping you, then?” Greg asked.

“Oh, maybe the fact that there’s such a thing as a reasonable expectation of success. You guys don’t take these dares seriously.”

They laughed. It was Finn who offered some additional context.

“Look again. He has a perfect goatee, the softest-looking hands I’ve ever seen, an immaculate sense of style, and, not that I’m looking, but when we walked over to the bar…

let’s just say, when he goes to the gym, his priority is the shape of his glutes.

You can’t tell me he isn’t at least curious.

That’s your opening. Your reasonable expectation of success. ”

“Unless you don’t think you’re up to it,” Greg said. “In which case, I just thought of a fun one. It requires a couple rolls of toilet paper.”

I shot him a look that I wished could cut.

“Oh, is that it? TP pranks? Fine, I’ll do it.

You guys get another round and sit back.

” I got up and straightened my sweater a little, then bunched it again.

I had never had a passing interest in men, but I’d been the target of their interest in a few clubs when I took up the role of Jason’s wingman.

It was a flattering thing to be mooned over by a man who had his shit together.

Frankly, I’d wished I had been into them.

It would have saved me a great deal of trouble I’d run into otherwise.

Even so, most men realized soon enough that it wasn’t heading anywhere, and I still didn’t know what the giveaway had been. It would be useful knowledge now so I could avoid doing whatever had outed me as straight.

I neared his corner without a clear plan, but I scanned my target in a moment or two. His hair really was perfect, his goatee was trimmed with obsession, and his style was immaculate. “Harrison, right?” I asked, placing a hand on the back of a chair opposite him.

He didn’t lift his gaze off the page he was reading. “Yes.”

“I noticed you reading, uh…” Crap. I should have noticed what he was reading. “Lord Tennyson?”

“Is that a question?” he asked, voice a soft, deep rumble, eyes still moving over the page.

“No?” Dammit. “No. I’m a fan, myself.”

“Really?” Harrison asked, finally lifting his gaze only to allow me to look into the very image of cold skepticism. I raked through my head for any scrap of information I could recall about Lord Tennyson, but I came up blank.

Harrison’s skepticism hurt even more than Finn’s leaning away.

“Didn’t he write The Ode to the Goldfish?”

Harrison’s frown was as fascinated as it was horrified.

I straightened a little to recite it, drew in a deep breath, lifted my chin. I cleared my throat. “O, wet pet.” I paused. “By Ogden Nash.” I inclined my head for the applause that never came.

Half snort, half laugh shook Harrison’s broad shoulders for a second. When you add it all up, I’d say I was doing a pretty good job. “I know a shorter one. It’s called In Memory of the Horse David, Who Ate One of My Poems, by James Wright.”

After a moment of silence, I got it, and a laugh left my lips easily. “That’s very good.” I pulled the back of the chair a little. “Can I join you?”

Harrison’s gaze swept over my face, and he inclined his head, closing the book over his finger. “Sure.”

I pulled the chair back and sat down, elbows on the wooden table between us, my posture conspiratorial as I leaned in like I had a secret to tell and he was the only man I trusted. “I’ve got a proposition.”

“Is it a dare?” he asked, folding his arms on the table and leaning in, matching my energy.

My heart tripped. I’d already invested effort into this, and he just had to see through my plans. “Does it matter?” I asked.

“No. I’m going to say yes to it.”

The printer ran out of ink, and my script turned into a blank page. I had no idea what to say to this. “I…”

“How about noon tomorrow?” Harrison asked, raising an eyebrow flirtatiously.

Was he…inviting me on a date instead?

I swallowed and nodded. “Noon sounds great. Don’t get drunk and sleep through it.”

Harrison’s eyebrow moved from coquettish to challenging, its arch rising high enough to be considered a public monument. He was too triumphant for my liking. “I’ll see you then. There’s a place on Whitmore Street that makes great coffee. You can’t miss it.”

I nodded, then hesitated for a moment. He knew what this was, right? Or did I just step into a bear trap? I needed to toss my lasso real quick before leaving the table. “Give me your number,” I said, placing my phone on the table.

Harrison’s eyes narrowed for the shortest moment, and then he pushed his phone across the table until they touched. Color rippled across both screens.

“Whoa.”

He chuckled. “Our phones just French-kissed.”

My cheeks heated up under the intensity of his dark gaze. Right. This hadn’t gone how I’d imagined it, but I’d call it a success. “Whitmore Street,” I said. “Noon, tomorrow.”

Harrison nodded, then picked up his book again.

I read my cue expertly, took my phone, and strolled back to the booth, where the guys snickered and pretended they hadn’t been watching. They might as well have been holding a flashing sign throughout.

“So?” Jason asked.

I turned my phone around to show Harrison’s number. “Noon, tomorrow.”

The guys rolled their eyes.

“It’s just too easy,” I said, shrugging as I slipped into the booth and picked up my beer. “Too easy.”

But underneath the confidence I presented to my friends, I wasn’t entirely sure how I felt. Had I even done the dare, or was I just scheduled for an appointment?

I glanced at Harrison over my shoulder. He sat with his back to the corner and his gaze moving over the yellow page of the old poetry collection.