Sweet Ache

Chapter 4

QUINLAN

The seminar has been over for thirty minutes. So why am I still sitting in my car, forehead pressed against the steering wheel, and mind going a million miles an hour as I try to process the riot of emotions coursing through me? I’m always even keeled. I may have a hot temper, definitely have a smart mouth, but I’m always able to process my thoughts and respond intelligently.

So why in the hell do I feel like a flustered mess who knows I definitely made an ass out of myself in that stupid lecture with Hawkin?

And why do I even care?

I groan out in frustration knowing full well the mistake I made.

How I told Hawkin I was his TA when I have no desire to see him again. My plans were to hoof it across campus back to Carla’s office and tell her no way in hell I was going back—so why am I sitting in my car instead?

And why did I give the upper hand I battled for away so easily with that stupid parting statement? I basically implied I’ll be sitting here next week with bells on waiting to assist him in any way possible.

Now I’m just being dramatic.

I groan in frustration because I damn well know that I made a mental slip with my comment, but I’m pretty damn sure parts of me secretly wanted the chance to assist him in all sorts of ways.

I’m so frustrated with myself, especially since my mind won’t stop envisioning him, smirk on his lips, challenge in his eyes, or the rough edge to his pretty-boy looks. I swore off men. Told myself I needed a break, that I needed to focus on my thesis rather than getting hurt again, so why am I sitting here thinking about him? I stare at the ceiling for a moment in an attempt to convince myself that there’s no shame in being attracted to him, in wondering about the sound of his voice and if he talks dirty in bed. None of that matters because he’s an asshole and I may be drawn to the bad boys but they are not mutually exclusive.

Acknowledging that he gets me hot and bothered doesn’t mean that I still can’t drop the class.

Time to pull on my big-girl panties and go tell Carla I can’t do this. Save yourself from yourself.

Pep talk in place I put my hand on the handle of the car door and look up before I open it to see Hawkin and his friend whose seat I took walking about twenty feet in front of me down the row of cars. My breath hitches and I tell myself it’s just because I’m surprised at seeing him there.

And of course I sit and stare, observe without him knowing. Take in the faded jeans worn in all the right places, the black T-shirt tight on his biceps with a Rolling Stones emblem on the front, and the black combat boots. I watch him push the brown hair off his forehead and smile that lopsided smirk that makes parts within me clench that shouldn’t be clenching.

He throws his head back and laughs, obviously at ease with the guy who accompanied him to the lecture. I take a closer look at his friend, as Hawke’s physical presence is far enough removed that I can pay attention to something other than him. Then my thoughts snap into line and I recall vague tabloid images of the band to realize that it’s Vincent Jennings, Bent’s bassist.

I watch them a few more minutes as they laugh. Hawkin pulls out a bag of Skittles and pours them straight into his mouth, and I just grin at the little-boy gesture in a grown man. They bump fists a couple of times before I notice the bodyguards not far behind. Just as I’m sinking into the idea that he might not be too much of an asshole, that I was overreacting to being called out, I watch two female students wearing their sorority letters approach them.

I’m immediately conflicted because a part of me wants to watch the exchange while another larger part doesn’t want to because I already know deep down that I’m going to be jealous.

And the notion that I even care pisses me off, but in true female form, I can’t bring myself to look away.

The girls giggle and flirt as they introduce themselves. Hair is twirled, eyelashes are batted, and backs are suddenly arched so that tits are front and center between them and the men. I roll my eyes at the sight, then narrow my gaze when that lopsided grin tugs up Hawkin’s mouth in a way that makes him the perfect combination of sheepish and wolfish. As he signs something for the sample-size brunette with boobs proportionate to a Barbie doll’s, I watch her make her move.

She reaches out to touch the cuff of his shirt on his bicep. He hands her back her pen and then laughs as he pulls up the sleeve of his shirt so she can see the tattoo she’s obviously asked about. I cringe when her hands immediately reach out to trace the ink that I can’t see because she’s now blocking my line of sight. I shift my gaze to Hawkin’s face, watch him watch her coo over his tat.

“It’s just ink, honey. Got a pen in your backpack with some don’t you? Get over it already,” I mumble, knowing damn well I want to know what the tattoo design is. And before I finish saying the words, she’s lifting up his shirt to see if there is another tattoo there. “Brazen little hussy.”

I grit my teeth at the sight of her hands touching as much of his bare skin as she can while he just grins at her—and Vince is equally occupied with the other way too perky Delta Sig girl. Seconds turn to minutes and before much time passes, Hawkin’s arm is around Barbie’s shoulder and the four of them are walking somewhere off campus.

By the time they disappear, his hand has conveniently slid down her back and is resting comfortably on the curve of her ass.

Shaking my head, I start telling myself I shouldn’t be surprised, can’t be angry at what I’d already pegged him for. Once a player always a player.

Time to go visit Carla.

“Ugly Heart” plays through the speakers as I flop back on my couch, research notes scattered all around the table in front of me and the cushions beside me. I hum along, trying to decipher my scribble that made perfect sense when I took the notes but now seems like a jumble of incomprehensible mishmash.

It doesn’t help that my talk with my adviser was fruitless. Every attempt to explain the exact reason why I couldn’t assist Hawkin’s seminar fell on deaf ears until the conversation ended with the one word everyone dreads hearing: Don’t disappoint me, Quinlan.

And then of course my mind shifts toward him. “Go away!” I mutter and begin to sing the lyrics to drown out the unwelcome thoughts.

“Maybe I’m just crazy; maybe I’m a fool….”

I sing the words on autopilot, my thoughts scattered and loneliness setting in. It’s been six months since Rick and I called it quits. Six months since I walked in on him in bed with another woman naked and moaning after being with him for a year. The player who swore he’d changed just for me obviously hadn’t. So I took his key off my ring, then walked away from his apartment with a promise to never be that girl again.

After working so hard at my relationship with him and it ending the same way that my previous two relationships had, I vowed to revisit my undergrad days of casual dating where it’s fun and uncomplicated. Sex without strings, without happily-ever-afters. To never date a player again.

So now I ask myself: Why have I been fine for the past six months, not a day spent moping since my ego was bruised yet again and I swore off men, but now I’m sitting here wanting a guy to keep me company? And a complete player nonetheless.

The song switches and of course it’s a Bent song. The irony. The person behind the voice on the radio is the reason I’m feeling this way when I don’t want to be. He’s irritated me enough to get under my skin and that takes a lot to do.

Rylee’s words sift through my mind. I need to have some wild, reckless sex. The funny thing is I have been, so why do I feel so unsatisfied? Just as quickly the answer hits me—because it’s sex without emotion. It’s akin to having the ice cream to make a sundae and then realizing you don’t have any toppings, cherries, or hot fudge. You eat the ice cream nonetheless, but you aren’t fully satisfied.

My phone rings and I welcome the distraction from my pathetic thoughts that compare sex to sundaes. Yes, I’m in desperate need of help. Or an intervention.

“Hey, Layla!” I greet my oldest and dearest friend.

“I need to get drunk,” she groans.

“And I need to get laid,” I confess. Then I toss my pen on my open book next to me, thinking that maybe the physicality will clear my head from thoughts of a particular rock star.

“Well shit, that sounds like the perfect combination to me.” She sighs, my ever-ready partner in crime.

“True.”

“But I’ll stick to the drunk part…. Last time I wasn’t too successful at the getting laid thing. I’m no good at it. I was with Sean way too long to remember how to play this game.”

“Lay, you played the game just fine … but I think you scared the shit out of the guy you determined was your fun for the night.” I laugh as I recall the look on the poor guy’s face.

“You think it was too much?”

“Telling the guy your vagina needed a hug and could his penis provide it? Yeah. Just a tad much.” She starts laughing with me because the deadpan expression she had when she asked the question was so damn hilarious.

“I was drunk. And horny. Can’t fault a girl for trying.” I love her and her take no prisoners attitude.

“It was one for the record books,” I confess.

“So let’s try again tonight. I promise I’ll be on my best behavior this time around. Let’s go find some hot guys and have a fun-night-stand.”

“I’m just, ugh …” I laugh. “It sounds so easy, but it’s always more complicated than that.”

“Like what? The hangover or the walk of shame the morning after?” she asks.

“Both. Remembering names, that awkward moment when you randomly see each other on campus … Shit, I’ll take the hangover and get myself off to avoid all of that. After Rick the Prick,” I say with a sigh, “I’m done for a while.”

“Yeah that’s funny. I think I heard that before him and the guy before him,” she teases with nothing but the truth. “Besides, never date a guy with a name that rhymes with prick or dick. There’s just something wrong with that…. It’s like you’re just asking for him to be one or something.”

“It makes dirty talk easy though in case you forget his name in the heat of the moment,” I explain, knowing from experience.

Her contagious laugh fills the line—the one that gets me every time. “So you in? Wanna go drink away our sorrows?”

“Sorrows? Since you can’t say happiness without saying penis, I’m assuming it has to do with a man…. What’s going on with you?” I ask, immediately concerned although I think she’s handling her breakup rather well considering the length of time she and Sean dated.

“Ugh! I had my first help session today, and I already want to stab my eyes out from giving the same explanation over and over,” she says, referring to her question-and-answer session for students who need help grasping the concepts in the main lecture. But then again, I don’t understand what a TA session has to do with a man.

“We were probably just as bad when that was us.”

“I know! But add to that Sean stopped by to make sure that I was okay—like he really cares—and all I really wanted to do was knee him in the nuts.”

“Well,” I muse, finally getting to the heart of her trouble. “At least you’re progressing from wanting to cry over him to wanting to inflict the pain he deserves for dumping you.”

“I know,” she says, then the line falls silent for a moment. I know she’s trying to sound strong, like their breakup hasn’t hurt her deeply, so I give her the silence to regain the fraudulent resolve in her voice. She sighs, her sadness palpable. “So see, we need to go out and have a drink. Celebrate us not being whiny first years and maybe have another three or four to make us forget the fact that we both need to get good and laid.”

My smile spreads wide until I look down at the papers littering my lap. “Layla,” I groan, “I wish I could, but I’ve gotta get moving on my first draft….”

“You’re seriously going to leave me high and dry?”

My mind flashes to how I’d rather be wet and low with Hawkin, and I hit the heel of my hand to my forehead to stop the insanity. “It’s so tempting because it’s been a fucked-up day for me too…. I just really need to make some headway here before I seriously screw myself with procrastination.”

“I know … but it’s still a helluva good idea. Well, I’m going to—oh my God! I totally forgot! Did you hear who was on campus today?” She says in a rush and from the excitement in her voice I’m really hoping she says Brad Pitt or something but I have a feeling I know exactly who she’s talking about.

“Who?”

“Hawkin—come-to-momma—Play. What I wouldn’t give to play him,” she murmurs as if she’s fantasizing doing just that. “I guess he’s doing some kind of seminar that I’m going to have to crash just so that I can—oh shit! A cop’s behind me, call you right back!” She ends the call abruptly, not willing to risk another ticket for talking on her cell phone and driving without a Bluetooth device. Guaranteed she’s most likely lost the last one she bought like she did the five before that.

I lean back and exhale, thankful for the momentary break in conversation so that I can figure out how exactly to tell Layla about my run-in with Hawkin. And then I wonder why my immediate reaction is that I don’t want to confide in her. Don’t want to knock him off the pedestal she’s set him on even though it’s not warranted. Just because he has a voice begging for sin doesn’t mean he’s the stellar guy she thinks he is.

Besides, it’s not like I’m going to see him again anyway so why am I even stressing over it?

My phone rings in my hand and startles me so much I answer it without looking. “That was quick, Lay!”

A masculine chuckle fills the line. “I’m anything but quick, but the lay part I can make sure of.”

What is it with men and everything being turned into sexual innuendo today? And of course as much as I want to roll my eyes, my lips form an involuntary smile.

“Luke? How—”

“You told me I was focused on the wrong numbers … so I found the right ones,” he says and I can’t help the little flutter in my stomach from the thought that he went the extra distance—like he always seems to do—to try yet again.

I emit a nervous laugh, unsure how to really feel about his continued pursuit. I fall back to my standard use of sarcasm whenever I’m uncomfortable. “Oh, how sweet of you! Were things going so well for you that you needed some rejection so you searched me out?”

“Charming as always,” he replies, humor in his voice so at least I know he took my comment how it was intended.

Unlike a different asshole from earlier today who couldn’t take a hint to save his life.

“You know you can’t resist me.”

“The answer’s still no, Luke.” I know he can hear the fondness in my voice.

“Don’t believe I asked but thanks for shooting me down … again,” he teases.

“And again and again.” I laugh. “How’d you get my number?”

“I have my ways,” he responds, and I have a gut feeling that Rylee is meddling here, handing him my phone number on the sly.

“Are those ways going to end up with my brother’s fist in your face?”

“If it did, would you come kiss it and make me feel better?”

I sigh into the line in response to his relentless pursuit. “Hm. Probably not. I’m not very gentle.”

His laugh is deep and rich and full of suggestion. “You’re such a goddamn tease, you know that? Maybe I like it a little rough.”

“Walked right into that one didn’t I?” I chuckle, feeling a sincere smile on my face for the first time since meeting Hawkin earlier today.

“Sure did.”

It dawns on me that he might be calling for a real purpose, and that I’ve made an incorrect assumption. “So … what can I do for you?”

“You sure you want me to answer that?”

“Give me the PG version,” I state.

“Ah, now that wouldn’t be any fun now would it?” The line falls silent for a beat. “How about we go out sometime?”

One of these days the man is going to wear me down to nothing until I relent. We’ve been following the steps of this dance for so long.

“You sure are tenacious…. I think you need to find a hobby or something to occupy your time besides racing.” It’s so fun to tease him, and in fact it makes me miss Colton and our constant banter.

“Tell me about it. We’ve got a three-week lag until the next race. I need something to chase now since there’s not a spoiler in front of me, so once again I’ve set my sights on chasing you.”

“Well there’s your problem, Mason.”

“Problem?”

“Why you’re having a little dry spell on the track.”

“A dry spell?” He coughs the words out.

“Yep. You can’t cross the finish line in first place if you’re always chasing. You need to figure out how to lead, cowboy, then you just might have a chance at taking the checkered flag.” I hear his laugh and know that I’ve had enough of cocky, overbearing men today. “Maybe next time, I’ll say yes. Good-bye, Luke.”

“I’ll take that as a maybe,” I hear as I end the call.

I immediately dial Layla. “Did you get a ticket?” I ask when she answers.

“Thank God, no.” Relief floods her voice.

“Good because I’ve reconsidered. Ready to go get liquored and laid?”

“Well, at least one of them,” she laughs out.

“I’m aiming for both.”