Chapter 6 Stella
Stella
I feel guilty admitting that I slept like a baby in Colt’s bed. He, on the other hand, looks like a zombie as he sips his black coffee, squinting at the morning sun.
“I’m sorry I hijacked your room,” I apologize.
“You didn’t hijack anything,” he says, setting his to-go cup back in the cup holder in the console of his truck. “I offered it to you, remember?”
“Still, thank you. I know you didn’t sleep well on the couch. I would’ve taken it but… I got freaked out.”
“Can I ask… did something happen?” he questions timidly.
It doesn’t take a genius to get to that conclusion from the signals I’ve been giving him.
I nod my head, confirming his thoughts. He visibly tenses, knuckles going white on the steering wheel.
I can’t believe I’m about to tell Colton Crosby, of all people, about the worst day of my life. But he’s helped me through two different instances already, so I think he deserves the truth.
“At the end of last year, I went to a graduation party for some of my old teammates. Everyone was drinking, but I didn’t turn twenty-one until this month, so I was the DD, but I didn’t mind.
“There was this guy, Dylan. He had been—I don’t know—crushing on me, I guess, all semester.
But he just gave me weird vibes, you know?
I told him I wasn’t interested multiple times, but it didn’t seem to make a difference.
” I pause and look at Colt, trying to gauge a reaction, but his face is stoic.
“Anyway, Dylan was at this party, and he was hammered. I’m talking obliterated.
I don’t know if he was just drunk or if other substances were involved.
Either way, he found me dancing with some of my friends, and he grabbed me.
He started feeling me up and grinding on me.
All of my friends were so drunk, they just thought we were dancing, I guess.
“Eventually, I was able to shove him off of me, but not without him leaving some bruises behind from where he had been holding me so hard. I ran for my car, not caring that I was leaving my friends behind. I was just terrified. I could feel it in my gut that something bad was going to happen.
“Dylan chased me, grabbed me, tried to put his hand down my pants. I kneed him in the crotch and got away again, but it didn’t have much effect.
He grabbed me by the neck and slammed me into the side of the car, and threw me onto the ground.
The only reason he didn’t do anything worse was because of the car alarm.
People came to check out the noise, and he ran for the hills.
They found me lying in a pool of blood from where my head had been busted on the road. I still have the scar.”
I stop talking because I know I’m just rambling now. Colt is seething with silent rage. He’s clenching his jaw so tight I’m worried his teeth are going to crack.
“Please say something,” I whisper into the silence.
“Fuck, Stella, what do you want me to say?” He runs a hand through his hair, obviously distraught. “That fucker better be in prison. He could’ve killed you.”
“He’s not,” I say reluctantly. “I filed for a restraining order, but they never actually found him. He’s still out there somewhere.”
Colt lets out a laugh that can only be described as manic, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing.
“So, that’s why I don’t like parties. Or drinking. Or men who party and drink. I know it was one freak incident, and not all men are like that, but it was just so recent, and I can’t seem to move past it yet.”
He pulls into a parking spot outside my building, finally arriving, and turns to face me.
“I want you to listen to me very carefully, okay?” When I nod, he continues.
“I am so sorry—so fucking sorry—you went through that. You’re right, not all men are like that, but there are enough men like that in the world that I don’t blame you one bit for being cautious of them all.
You don’t have to move past it. It’s only been, what, four months?
You’re at a new school in a new city, far away from everything you’ve known, because some sleazy motherfucker drove you away from your home.
” He pauses, taking a much-needed deep breath.
His eyes shine with anger on my behalf. “If anyone, and I mean anyone gives you trouble ever again, I want you to call me. I’ll be there, no matter what. ”
He scrunches his nose, trying to fight the emotions no doubt battling inside his head. “God, I’m so sorry I pushed you. No wonder you didn’t want to talk to me. I was—”
I cut him off before he can say anything else. “Hey, no, no, stop. I was wrong about you. Just because I don’t date doesn’t mean you’re anything like him. I was jumping to conclusions, and I misjudged you, Colt.” I reach over and put my hand on his, hopefully conveying sincerity.
I feel hot tears prick my eyes as he looks at me, and suddenly, he’s pulling me to his chest as I sob into his shirt.
The built-up tension, anxiety, and fear that had been compounding since I moved here finally breaks free.
It feels so good to tell someone the whole story.
Better yet, someone who makes me feel safe.
I truly feel safe with Colt, and last night’s actions proved it.
He didn’t try to make up an excuse to stay in bed with me.
He went to the couch without hesitation.
I realize, too, that even though he’s flirted with me, Colt has never been overly pushy. Instead of asking me to hook up, he asked me on a date. Somehow, when I least expected it, I stumbled upon a good, respectful man.
“So, where were you all night?” Summer is lying on the couch of our dorm in a pair of pink boxer shorts and a blue camisole.
Registering her question, I nearly come to a complete stop in the doorway, but force myself to keep walking. Why the hell does she care?
“Oh, um, I stayed late at a friend’s house studying and decided just to sleep over,” I answer noncommittally.
She hums before gracefully climbing to her feet.
Where I’m athletic—all lean muscle and curves— Summer is modelesque.
She’s slim and dainty, projecting an air of confidence that a person can only have when they know they’re attractive.
Her blonde hair is pulled back tastefully in a claw clip.
She’s perfectly put together, even when she’s just lazing around at home.
I’ve never been overly self-conscious. I think I’m pretty, and I’m happy with the way my body looks most days. But I’ll never be small and petite, never look the way my roommate looks. Suddenly, I wonder if Colt ever compares me to her, and a sinking feeling takes hold in the pit of my stomach.
As if my thinking his name causes his presence to manifest in the conversation, Summer says, “A friend told me she saw you putting your number into Colton Crosby’s phone yesterday.” The smile that’s plastered on her face is sickly sweet, but lined with a sharp edge of disdain.
I pause, acutely aware that she has, in fact, not moved on from the night they spent together, regardless of whether or not she’s been with someone else since.
“We’re partners on a project for class,” I reply as I try to make it across the kitchen to my room, but she steps in my path.
“He texted me, you know, after we had sex. I guess he enjoyed it so much that he got my number from someone. I have to admit, I rarely sleep with the same guy more than once, but I’ve had my eye on Colt since freshman year.
That man is delicious—figuratively and literally.
” The malicious grin she’s sporting somehow gets even darker, her eyes narrowing to look at me.
I school my features into what I hope is a neutral expression. I know, for a fact, Colt didn’t text her for another hook-up. Right? Trying to figure out her angle, I ask, “Really? So, did you see him again?”
“Oh, absolutely!” she steps a hair closer to me, so that we’re nose to nose. “I’ve fucked that man every night for the last week,” she drops the fake-as-shit smile and continues, “until last night.”
Now I’m genuinely confused. I would’ve known if she’d had a guy—had Colt—over to the dorm.
But I did notice that she hasn’t been home much this past week, not that I’ve ever cared about her whereabouts before.
Doubt creeps into my bloodstream like frost over a window.
How else would she have come to the conclusion that I was with him of all people last night?
My mind jumps back to the kiss we shared outside Ale Mary’s. Surely he wouldn’t have left the bar and sent a booty call to my roommate after that, right? I think about the way he asked me on a date, how he flirted so effortlessly with me in his room, how he was jealous when Beau tried to hit on me.
The version of Colt I’ve created in my head, and the longstanding opinion I’ve believed about every other party boy, combine into one messy, jagged ball of uncertainty and hesitation.
She must see the doubt in my eyes because she doesn’t give me the chance to respond. “He’s mine,” she whispers threateningly. “I’ve waited years for him to notice me, and you’re not going to just show up here and steal him out from under me.”
Without really processing my next words, I say, “Maybe you should worry about finding some dignity before you start worrying about who I’m spending my nights with.”
Her eyes flash with rage, but before she can get out another word, I shoulder past and shut myself in my room.