Chapter 24
TWENTY-FOUR
jade
I sleep so hard that when I wake up, I’m not even sure my orgasm was real until I look at my bedside table. There’s a glass of water, a bottle of Advil, and, under the pills, a handwritten note:
I heard an orgasm can prevent a raging headache but just in case I heard wrong.
I smile and fall back against the pillow.
The memory of Reeve’s hands makes my body flush warm.
A small part of me wanted him to be clueless and bumbling when it came to getting me off, a confirmation he’d never have any sort of real power over me, but I was dead wrong.
I’ll never be able to hear talk of a quarterback’s magic hands without remembering the way he worked my body into a frenzy.
For the next few days, we text back and forth a couple of times, but there’s no mention of what happened in my bathroom.
I keep expecting him to make some boastful reference to getting me off or tease me for falling asleep without returning the favor, but things stay G-rated.
I’m surprised and a little relieved. We’re friends first. The kissing, etc.
is just a bonus, and I don’t want our hookup to change that.
We make a plan to grab food and study for my Spanish test on Wednesday night, and he doesn’t even take the bait when I ask whether we should meet up in public or at my place.
That’s when surprise and relief turn to something more complicated.
I have zero regrets about what went down between me and Reeve in my bathroom, but the longer he goes without mentioning it, the more I wish he would.
Because despite my better judgment, that night has me feeling something for him that goes beyond appreciation for his fingers.
What is it? I don’t know. I’ve never had trouble separating sex from emotions before.
But the heady mix of memories—his touch, his lips, his voice, the feeling of safety when I’m in his arms—has me missing him hard.
And when I force myself to push away thoughts about his future, my future, and even the steamy memories of us together, what’s left is that feeling of longing .
. . to know him, to connect with him, to let him know me.
I don’t know what to do about that. I just know I have no room for it in my life.
Wednesday evening, five minutes after our designated meeting time, I knock on the front door of the football house.
Cam opens up.
“Hey,” I say. “Is Reeve here? He was supposed to meet me.”
“Yeah, he’s in his room.” He opens the door to let me in.
“Is he okay?”
“He’s fine, just moody. Did he ask you to come over?”
“Do I care?”
His eyebrows go up. “Bold move.”
“What’s the big deal? What, is he transforming into a werewolf or something?”
“Find out for yourself.”
I move past him toward the stairs and catch sight of a near-empty pizza box and a couple of used plates on the table. “He ate already?” I ask Cam, who puts his hands up in response.
“Staying out of it.”
Upstairs, I march toward Reeve’s room and knock on the door. Music is booming through the walls, so I bang my fist a few times. The door opens and Reeve sighs when he sees me, giving me a look like I’ve exhausted him already.
“Yeah, that’s right, time to deal with me.”
He braces his arms on either side of the doorway, blocking me out but softening the blow by offering me a sweet, sweet view of his cut biceps. “What’s the problem, Jade?”
“We’re supposed to study and you stood me up.”
“I didn’t stand you up. I texted you I couldn’t meet.”
“And then you didn’t answer when I asked why not.”
“Can you give me five minutes to respond? You don’t need to hunt me down.” He looks tired and humorless, which is not a look I’ve seen on him before.
It occurs to me he might have a girl in his room, a thought that sends hot, fiery jealousy coursing through me.
My jaw tightens, and it takes all my strength not to peer over his shoulder and try to see around the corner.
“Are you alone?” I try to sound indifferent, but my dark tone is anything but.
Reeve’s usual arrogance makes a brief appearance in the form of a smirk. “Yeah, I’m alone.”
The amount of relief that comes over me is concerning. “Are you mad at me? About the other night?”
“Huh?”
“When I left you with your dick in your hands?”
He snorts. “Seriously?”
“I didn’t do it on purpose.”
“Hell, Jade, I know that. Even if you did—I mean, I wouldn’t be mad at you.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I had a shitty day.”
I study his face. Whatever relief I felt is replaced by worry.
He must see it, because he forces a smile that not even a baby would buy. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Seems like it is.”
He holds me in his gaze, then drops his arms and turns into his bedroom, shoulders slouching.
I guess it’s my invitation. His room is cluttered with piles of junk, books, and clothing, but it smells like clean laundry.
There’s not much decor to speak of, but what little there is revolves entirely around football: photos of him and his teammates grinning and sweaty in their jerseys, an autographed helmet, a framed green-and-white jersey with “Dalton” on the back, maybe from his high school days.
No pictures or posters of women to be found.
I follow him and sit on the edge of the bed, watching him take a seat in his desk chair.
“I don’t like being around people when I’m in a bad mood,” he finally says. “I handle things on my own.”
“Good, I don’t want to handle things for you. I want to grab dinner and study for my Spanish test together.”
“I’ll get you back on the Spanish, okay? We’ll meet on campus at lunch tomorrow.”
“Okay,” I tell him. “But we’re still hanging out tonight.”
“Jade.” He looks impatient.
“No, really. I have an idea.”
“I don’t want to.”
“You haven’t even heard it.”
“I don’t want to go out and I don’t want to be around people. I’ll just be an asshole.”
“You already are, so it’s fine.”
He shakes his head, but he’s almost smiling.
“Come on,” I insist while I have him on the line. “I set aside my night for you. You owe me.”
“I owe you? Ha. After the other night, you owe me. You owe me big, honey.”
The look that passes between us sizzles with heat. I can’t argue, so instead I stand up and head for the door. “Just get dressed. I’ll wait for you outside.”
“Jade,” he protests, getting to his feet.
“Don’t worry, it’ll be worth it,” I promise, then slip out the door and head downstairs. I’m bluffing, of course. My idea’s pretty uncool, but that’s the fun of it.
Five minutes pass while I stand outside watching the sun sink low in the sky.
I zip up my jacket as a breeze rolls through, sending brown, crispy leaves rolling and scratching their way up the sidewalk.
Six minutes, then seven. I watch a little girl and her father across the street drape a strand of orange-and-purple Halloween lights along their front porch railing.
Halloween is weeks away, but the girl is decked out in a frilly purple princess costume.
Just when I’m ready to head back inside, the front door opens and there’s Reeve, looking incredibly good in faded jeans and a slim-cut navy-blue shirt that emphasizes the slope of his broad shoulders.
“I guess I win,” I can’t help saying.
“Yeah, you win an evening with a grouchy asshole. Just like you deserve.”
“You’re kidding,” Reeve says when I park the car in a sprawling field on the grounds of the Thirty-Seventh Annual Shafer Carnival. Even with the windows closed, the scent of fried food and sugar permeates the air. “The carnival? This was stupid when I was six.”
“Oh, yeah, I forgot you grew up in this town. Whoops.”
“Uh-huh. Great plan.” But he gets out of the car anyway.
“Well, good. Now you can show me all the dark corners where you used to feel up the head cheerleader in high school.”
“You mean junior high? By high school, my hands weren’t under her shirt, they were on the back of her head.”
“My sincere apologies,” I say, pretending the thought of his hand on the back of some girl’s head doesn’t make me hot with jealousy. “Let’s go.”
Despite the fact that it’s a perfect night with a light breeze and the setting sun leaving a watercolor rainbow in the sky, the carnival sucks, and Reeve is intent on letting me know it.
“Duck pond?” he says as we walk past row after row of colorful game booths. “I had that shit mastered by kindergarten. And what loser can’t figure out how to beat the ring toss? Carnival games haven’t evolved in fifty years, and dumbasses still end up losing a month’s paycheck on them.”
“God, you really are an asshole when you’re in a bad mood.”
“You were warned. But seriously, this shit’s for kids. Look at the High Striker—that nine-year-old just hit the top.”
Judging by the swarms of shrieking, sticky children that keep dodging around us and the giant strollers we navigate past, he’s right.
“Okay, big man. Let’s see you win a prize, then.”
“Ooh, tough challenge. Next why don’t you dare me to throw a ten-yard pass.”
I turn to him. “I mean it. Win a prize for me. Whichever one I want.”
For the first time all night, there’s a light in his eyes. “Tell you what . . . you beat me at a game and I’ll make sure you go home with whatever shitty prize your heart desires.”
Now I’m figuring him out. Make it a competition and he’ll agree to anything. “You’re on. Which game?”
“Take your pick.” His smile has never been cockier.
I look around, taking in the options until I spot the one I was hoping for. “That one,” I say, pointing.
“Balloon darts?” He lets out a hoot. “Girl, you must have a real hard-on for public embarrassment.”
I take him by the arm and head for the booth with the wall of rainbow-colored balloons. “Sure, stud.”
“Honestly, I should feel bad for you, but it’s your own fault. If you were any normal Shafer coed, you’d have been watching my games for three years and you’d realize the stupidest thing you could do is challenge me to any kind of throwing contest.”