Sweet Ache

Chapter 10

QUINLAN

The lecture hall is noisy as I sit down in the last row as part of my perfectly timed entrance. I don’t want to see Hawkin, don’t want to deal with his bullshit—or the unexpected pang I feel at wanting him to look up and notice I’m there.

Get over it, Westin.

Somehow I’ve become a sappy female, and I’m usually so far from sappy it’s ridiculous. I wanted casual. Well, you can’t get any more casual than a guy who rejects you. Besides, if a guy’s not interested, I know how to brush it off and move on. Plenty of fish in the sea—one pectoral fin is the same as the next, just hopefully a little bigger.

I had thought Rick’s irrefutable demonstration of how men are like bras—that they hook up behind your back—had hardened me some and made me not care…. So why are things with Hawkin affecting me so much?

That’s the question I need an answer to but even after moping around like a lost puppy the past few days, I still don’t get it, don’t get him. We flirted, he made the first move when I was trying to show him the PA system, and so how am I left to feel like I’m the one inferring there was something more there than there really was?

He initiated the kiss on the porch. He led me from the kitchen to go upstairs. And then he said see-ya like nothing happened.

Maybe I’m just stressed about the couple of snags I’ve had with my thesis. The writer’s block that’s made a permanent place on my creative doorstep needs to leave sooner rather than later. It has to be the stress contributing to my vulnerable emotional state.

Not Hawkin per se, just the combination of everything all at once.

So when his voice fills the room, I hate that I immediately sit up taller hoping that he looks up and acknowledges me like some road-battered groupie who follows him from city to city wanting any scrap they can get from him.

Pathetic. Yep, that’s what he’s reduced me to and it’s not very attractive.

I keep my head angled down, pissed off at myself for how stupid I’m being. I don’t want to feed the insanity if he does actually look my way. I busy myself with double-checking notes for a different class, purposefully ignoring him. If I could stick my earbuds in and get away with it I would.

Anything to tune him out because all I want to do is let him in.

An hour later I sigh in relief as a few students in the class clap when the lecture finishes. I did it. See, Quin, not a problem, you can be in the same vicinity as him and not fall to his charms. My confidence boost rings false seeing as how in a lecture hall filled with hundreds that feat is a little easier to accomplish, but I’ll take what I can get.

When I rise from my seat I make the fatal error of looking down to the front of the room. And of course he’s talking to some coed but his eyes find mine, causing that punch of carnal lust to hit me hard. I reason that I’m just horny and need to get good and laid. The kind of laid that leaves your knees rubbery and your body feeling like it’s floating on a cloud while you wait to come down from its euphoric high.

The kind that allows you to lose your thoughts for a while.

We stare at each for a beat. Long enough for the jolt of chemistry between us to reach across the distance and attack my senses. That panicked feeling hits me chased by unfettered lust. I force myself to turn abruptly and walk the few steps up to the door and out of the auditorium, feeling like I’ve gained a bit of my good sense in walking away from him on my own accord, this time.

And yes I’m walking away but I do so knowing I’m most likely walking away from that rubbery-knee postorgasmic glow as well. Something tells me that Hawkin screws like his voice sounds, seductive, a little rough, a lot thorough, and with a lot of tongue.

A girl can’t go wrong when there’s a lot of tongue involved.

I groan to myself as I walk across campus to the department offices, the idea of a night with him making me want and need. The image of Hawke and his ice-cream cone returns to me. I chastise myself, tell myself that there are plenty of men out there who are skilled in bed and that I’m just too damn picky. The only conclusion I draw is that the only way to get over the repeated image in my head of sex with Hawkin is to have sex with someone else. Preferably mind-blowing sex with someone else. So I vow that I will accept the next offer made to me for a date—or a fuck—to get over the player that is Hawkin Play.

I welcome the cool air as I enter the department and toss my bag on one of the desks set aside for grad students to catch up on paperwork or miscellaneous tasks for their professors.

I text Layla and tell her to study this afternoon so that we can meet up later for some drinks and some flirting with strangers. I feel a bit more centered when she replies with a hell yeah! because it’s a step toward burying any remnant of Hawkin from my mind, by either alcohol or great sex.

I know I’ll find the first, at least.

Shifting through papers, I work at getting caught up with administrative stuff for Professor Stevens: class requests, grading papers, adjusting syllabi. I’m in the middle of entering grades in the computer when something catches my eye out the window. I glance up and see Hawkin standing a ways away on the grassy area surrounded by a few other students.

Despite telling myself to look away, to ignore the sadness I saw in his eyes after he argued with Vince the other day, I can’t. Even though I know he doesn’t deserve my compassion, a part of me feels for him anyway.

So I watch him make the group around him laugh aloud while they hang on his every word, and I’m sure there are stars in their eyes from getting his attention. I glance to the left to see Axe standing there, attention wandering as he waits for his playboy of a boss to finish making coeds’ panties wet.

I hate the bitterness I feel that he’s giving them attention when he gave me none, least of all any consideration toward me in explaining why he flipped off like a switch after most definitely being turned on. And then of course I’m mad at myself for being upset at him over a situation I clearly didn’t understand.

This right here is why I swore off men. The schizophrenic combat of emotions they cause is something I don’t want to battle right now when I have to worry about my thesis. I shake my head, frustrated at myself—and him.

When I shift my gaze back, a pebble of anger ripples through me. Most of the crowd has dispersed and yet two remain, the Delta Sig girls from last week.

I roll my eyes out of reflex, batting away that tinge of jealousy that I shouldn’t feel. Hell, a few kisses don’t hold any of the strings that bind two people into a relationship. And yet I watch: the flirting, the intimate body language, the looks she darts his way that lead me to believe they’ve shared more than just the kiss we have.

His hand slides down her backside again, fingers playing idly in her back pockets in a way that irritates me enough to force my attention back to my work, trying not to remember the feel of those hands on the bare skin of my own back. Damn if it doesn’t sting to know he wants her and not me.

Go Delta Sig! Not.

When I glance back up a moment later, unable to resist the impulse any longer, the lot of them are nowhere to be seen. Thank God because my bitter, party of one was getting to be a bit dramatic for my tastes. To think there are women who thrive on this feeling, live their lives always wanting and never walking away, astounds me.

I’m just about finished entering the grades when I hear footsteps behind me. I’d heard Carla’s voice earlier so I expect to see her when I turn around.

Boy am I wrong.

Hawkin’s hips are resting on the empty desk behind me, arms folded across his chest so that once again I’m afforded a glimpse of the tattoos that call to my curiosity. His head is angled to the side, black boots crossed at the ankles and the smirk pursed on his lips also lights up the gray of his eyes.

“Can I help you?” I ask in a terse tone. He raises one eyebrow in response and that’s about as nice as I’m going to get so he better take what I give him or he needs to turn around and walk right out.

“Well, good day to you too.” His eyes narrow as he appraises me, trying to get a feel for my mood although he should clearly know why I’m upset. He unfolds his arms and toys with the wrapper on the Tootsie Pop in his hand.

“It was until you walked in.”

“Oh! That’s cold!” He laughs with a shake of his head and a lick of his bottom lip that has my eyes darting down to watch it, and my mind drifting to other thoughts about tongues and licking and … I have to make a conscious effort to look back up and meet his eyes.

“Well, you know all about being cold, now, don’t you?” I lean back in my chair and cross my arms over my chest.

Something flashes in his eyes that I don’t quite catch before it clears. “C’mon, Quin … don’t be that way. Just do me a solid and let’s forget about it. Why don’t you come with me to an event I have this Saturday? Yeah?” He flashes a disarming grin that I’m sure would have most women’s panties falling to their ankles, but not mine. I’ve experienced how quickly he can flip the switch from being interested to uninterested. I can’t imagine how it feels when he’s yanking the sheets off you, when his interest is gone, after just having had sex.

“Sorry, I have plans,” I tell him knowing full well I told myself that I was going to accept the next offer that came my way that might possibly result in mind-blowing sex. Little did I know it would come from him.

And so goes my life.

“You have something better to do than hang out with me?” That cocky smirk is back, the one that makes me want to fist my hands in his shirt and do dirty things to him, but I just shake my head, holding fast to my slowly weakening resolve.

“I know that’s hard to believe but on Saturday I need to watch my paint dry,” I deadpan.

His laugh fills the air, rich and deep, and even it sounds melodic. He points the sucker at me and just shakes his head and a part of me caves that he finds humor and not offense in my comment. “Friday then?”

“Paint drying.”

“Sunday, then?”

“Paint will still be drying.” I fight the urge to crack a smile at his playfulness and the way he’s angling his head and staring at me with a boyish smile on those sculpted lips of his.

“Damn, I would have never guessed you led such a fascinating life.”

“Yep. So you see, I don’t have time to go out. Sorry.” We hold each other’s gaze and I know he sees my interest. And as much as I want to consent to going with him, I need to do this for me—say no so that I can look in the mirror when I go home and know I’m thinking with my head and not my Bermuda triangle—the place where my thoughts go to die and lust acts without recourse.

“C’mon, you know you want to see if the rumors are true.” That lopsided smirk appears again and I hate the feeling it evokes in me—giddy schoolgirl begging for attention comes to mind and I just want to brush the thoughts off my shoulders. Too bad the only place they’ll fall from there is in my lap and that in itself is the crux of this problem.

“Rumors?” There are probably too many for me to guess so I’ll let him tell me what I need to worry about.

“Yeah.” He nods his head, lopsided smirk now a full-blown panty-dropping smile. “If I play a woman like a guitar.” He wiggles his fingers in front of him and raises his eyebrows.

Thoughts flicker through my mind that I don’t want there. His fingers running over me, manipulating me into rapturous oblivion. Damn. “You really need to get some better lines. The women that fall for those are ones you need to steer clear of … like Delta Sig girl. I’m sure she’d love to spend some more time with you after you beguile her with witty one-liners like that.”

I raise my eyebrows in a silent Yes, I saw you but then realize that in that one little sentence, I gave him the upper hand. I let him know that I was paying attention to him and his actions and by the derisive tone in my voice that it bugs me.

We both toy with the silence between us, him waiting to see if I’ll say more and me wondering if he’s going to call me on the carpet as to why I won’t go with him on Friday but I’m pissed that Delta Sig just might.

“I’m sure she would,” he finally says, “but perception can often be misleading.”

What? Please talk female here because I’m not following your cryptic answers. “Yes, it can. Like when a guy kisses you senseless one minute and then pushes you off the porch the next. Something like that, right?”

I notice him register my hurt and his expression falters as he figures out how to respond. “Exactly like that. What could have been perceived as pushing off a porch may have really just been a guy trying to prevent a mistake from happening.”

And the minute the words are out of his mouth, his eyes widen and my back straightens in incredulity that he really just went there. His comment stings in ways I never expected—and that tells me I’m way too invested already. I can tell myself till I’m blue in the face that I won’t date a player like him, will date only casually, but the spear of disappointment that shoots through me tells me I want more.

“Well, thank God! I didn’t realize I would’ve been such a horrible mistake—”

“No! That’s not what I meant—”

“I don’t believe I heard you stutter.” Emotions run at a rampant pace through me, hurt, anger, disbelief. I shake my head and look out of the window as the sting of tears unexpectedly burns the back of my throat.

I’m not an overly emotional girl. I’m not one of those annoying criers who sheds a tear when someone looks at them cross-eyed, so why the hell does his comment create such a visceral reaction from me?

“Quin.” His voice is low and apologetic, like gravel scraping my ears.

“Just leave it, Hawke. Point made. No worries about that girl wanting anything more from you. I’ve got to get back to my work.” I turn my back without saying another thing, once again mad at myself for allowing him to cause such internal conflict within me.

And that’s scary in itself because all we’ve shared are a few groping kisses. I should see the sign blinking HEARTBREAKER a mile away, but instead all I feel is that he’s worth the risk.

He blows out an audible breath behind me and yet I don’t hear any footsteps walking away. I busy myself, well aware of the heat of his stare burning in my back.

“Can I get your number?”

Sarcasm weaves through my laugh mixed with a quiet thrill that he asked. And then it’s dashed when I realize he’s only asking to save face. “Now you’re just making me feel like a pity case. No need for you to scrape the bottom of the barrel.”

“That’s not it at all. Between Hunter and Vince … I just wasn’t … I can’t explain it here. It’s complicated…. I wanted to call you to apologize but didn’t have your number.”

I hear the sincerity in his voice but at the same time can’t be sure if it’s real. “Mm-hm.” It’s the only thing I say, needing him to go and leave me be so I can go out with Layla, lose myself in someone else for a few hours—or more—and make that sweet ache I feel for him not so sweet.

“So can I get your number?” he asks again.

“Your charm isn’t going to work on me this time rocker boy.” I set my pen down so that I don’t use it to write out my number and glance over to him.

“Yes it will,” he says, that shy smile that calls to me turning up one corner of his mouth. He makes a show of putting the lollipop in his mouth before he nods and walks off.

Of course my mind veers to Rylee’s comment in Sonoma about how many licks it takes to get to the center of a certain Tootsie Pop. Different man, same thought, I think while I watch every delicious inch of his backside as he walks with that swagger out the door. Gotta love a man asserting himself and then walking away with the confidence that he will get what he wants.

And I’m not going to lie, a little thrill shoots through me but only for a minute before I shake the idea off that has heartbreak written all over it in an extra thick Sharpie. The writing is definitely on the wall and no matter how pretty the ink looks, it will still bleed through and stain the layers beneath permanently.