The Mistake

  Breathing heavily, he wrenches our mouths apart. “Should I be worried that your roommate is going to walk in on us?”

  “No, she’s not coming home tonight. She went to some bar in town, and then she’s planning on crashing with this girl Caitlin from Kappa Beta. Which I think is a really bad idea because the last time she went out with Caitlin, they almost got arrested for public drunkenness, but then Ramona flirted with the cop and—”

  Logan shuts me up with another kiss. “No would have sufficed,” he murmurs against my lips. Then he reaches for my hand and places it directly on the hard bulge in his pants. In the same breath, he cups my sex over my PJs.

  Oh crap. Downstairs action alert.

  I’m not worried about my response to his hand—one slow glide of his palm is all it takes for a burst of pleasure to erupt inside me. Nope, it’s my hand that triggers the rush of nervousness. The hand that’s currently stroking the erection straining behind Logan’s zipper.

  I’ve given handjobs before, plus a few blowjobs that I know were a huge success because…well, semen and all that. But I don’t have enough experience to consider myself an expert penis-wrangler or anything. And all those past penis encounters involved one guy, my high school boyfriend Brandon, who was equally inexperienced.

  If the rumors I’ve heard about Logan are true, then this guy has slept with half the girls at Briar. Sounds like an insanely high statistic, so I’m sure it’s not accurate, but he’s definitely hooked up with more people than I have.

  “Is this okay?” he asks as he strokes between my legs.

  I nod and stroke him again, and a tortured moan slips out of his mouth.

  “Fuck, hold on.” He shifts on the mattress, and my heart stops when he unzips his pants. He eases them down just low enough to free his erection from his boxers, then tugs on the waistbands of my PJs and underwear.

  A second later, his hand grazes my bare sex, and my hips lift involuntarily, seeking closer contact.

  Logan teases the tip of his index finger over my clit. “Better?” he says, his voice thick and raspy.

  So much better. And so good it makes my head spin, limiting my response to a breathy mumble of nonsense.

  Smiling at my incoherent answer, he leans in and kisses me again. With his free hand, he grasps my right hand and brings it to his erection, gently wrapping my trembling fingers around the shaft. He’s long and hard, his smooth, hot flesh sliding easily inside my closed fist.

  My body is on fire. Waves of arousal swell in my core, and when he pushes his middle finger inside me, my inner muscles clamp around it, the pressure so intense I forget how to breathe.

  We don’t stop kissing. Not even to come up for air. We’re both panting, our tongues tangling and our hands hard at work. His thumb presses on my clit as his finger moves inside me, and the pleasure spiraling through me gathers in strength, a tight knot of anticipation that causes the movement of my hips to become even more erratic.

  Minutes pass. Or maybe hours. I have no idea, because I’m too caught up in the incredible sensations. I stroke his erection, squeezing the blunt head on each upstroke, until his hips start moving too, and a rough command leaves his mouth.

  “Faster.”

  I quicken the pace and he thrusts into my fist with a low groan, his breath tickling my lips as he breaks the kiss. His eyes are closed, his features taut and his teeth digging into his bottom lip.

  “I’m gonna come,” he mumbles.

  Excitement ripples between my legs, and I know he can feel how wet I am because he groans again and his finger plunges deeper, faster. A few seconds later, he sags into me, his forehead resting on my shoulder as his hips flex forward one last time before going still.

  As wetness spurts onto my hand, his eyes slowly open and the sleepy pleasure swimming in them takes my breath away. Holy shit. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything sexier than the sight of John Logan right after he’s had an orgasm.

  His breathing is still labored as he meets my gaze. “Did you come?”

  Crap. Right. His finger is still lodged inside me. No longer moving, but a reminder of the orgasm I’d been about to reach before I got distracted by the way he looked when he was coming, the restless grind of his hips and the sexy sounds he made.

  But I’m too embarrassed to admit I didn’t finish, and since he already did, I feel awkward asking him to keep going.

  So I nod and say, “Uh-huh. Of course.”

  A shadow of doubt passes through his eyes, but before I can blink, he sits up abruptly and says, “I should go.”

  I ignore the equal doses of disappointment and irritation that tighten my belly. Seriously? He can’t even stick around for a few minutes of post-hook-up small talk? What a prince.

  It’s even more awkward now. He grabs a tissue from the box on the end table and cleans up. I pretend to be cool and composed as I pull up my pants and watch him do the same. I even manage a casual smile as he uses my phone to call a cab. Fortunately, he gets through right away this time, which means the awkwardness doesn’t last long.

  I walk him to the door, where he hesitates for a beat. “Thanks for having me over,” he says gruffly. “I had fun.”

  “Uh, yeah, sure. Me too.”

  A moment later, he’s gone.

  5

  Logan

  I walk into my bedroom after my morning shower to hear my phone ringing. And since everyone my age texts instead of calls, I know exactly who it is without having to check the screen.

  “Hey, Mom,” I greet her, gripping the edge of my towel as I head for the dresser.

  “Mom? Holy shish kebob. So it’s true? I mean, I thought I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy twenty-one years ago, but that seems like a distant memory. Because if I did have a son, he’d probably call me more than once a month, right?”

  I laugh, despite the needle of guilt pricking my chest. She’s right. I’ve been a crappy son lately, too busy with the post-season and term papers to call her as often as I should.

  “I’m sorry,” I say with genuine remorse. “It always gets crazy busy at the end of the semester.”

  “I know. That’s why I haven’t been bugging you. Are you studying hard for your exams?”

  “Sure.” Yeah, right. I haven’t even cracked open a book yet.

  Mom sees right through the noncommittal response. “Don’t BS your mother, Johnny.”

  “Fine, I haven’t started yet,” I admit. “But you know I work better under pressure. Can you hold on a sec?”

  “Yup.”

  I set the phone down and drop my towel, then yank a pair of sweatpants up my hips. My hair is still wet, sprinkling droplets down my bare chest, so I rub the towel over my head before picking up the phone again.

  “Back,” I tell her. “So how’s work going? How’s David?”

  “Good, and great.”

  For the next ten minutes she chats about her job—she’s a manager at a restaurant in Boston—then tells me what my stepfather has been up to. David is an accountant, and he’s so boring that sometimes it’s painful to be around him. But he also loves my mother with all his heart and treats her like the queen she is, so I can’t exactly hate the guy.

  Eventually she gets around to my summer plans, taking on that guarded tone she always uses when she brings up the subject of my father.

  “So I take it you’re working with your dad again?”

  “Yup.” I make an effort to sound relaxed. My brother and I agreed a long time ago to keep the truth from Mom.

  She doesn’t need to know that Dad is drinking again, and I refuse to dredge up that old bullshit for her. She got out, and she needs to stay out. She deserves to be happy now, and boring as he is, David makes her happy.

  Ward Logan, on the other hand, made her miserable. He didn’t hit her or abuse her verbally, but she was the one who had to clean up his messes. She was the one who had to deal with his drunken tantrums and constant visits to rehab. The one who dragged him off the floor when he came
home wasted and passed out in the front hall.

  Fuck, I’ll never forget the time when I was eight or nine, and Dad called the house at two in the morning. He’d been slurring like a maniac and freaking out because he’d drunk himself stupid at a bar, gotten in the car, and had no idea where he was. It had been the dead of winter, and Mom hadn’t wanted to leave my brother and me at home alone, so she’d bundled us up, and the three of us drove for hours searching for him. With only half a street name to go on because the sign had been covered in snow and Dad was too drunk to walk over and wipe it away.

  After we’d found him and hauled him into the car, I remember sitting in the backseat feeling something I’d never felt before—pity. I felt sorry for my father. And I can’t deny I was relieved when Mom shipped him back to rehab the next day.

  “I hope he’s paying you accordingly, sweetie,” Mom says, sounding upset. “You and Jeffrey work such long hours at the garage.”

  “Of course he’s paying us.” But accordingly? Fuck no. I make enough to pay for rent and expenses during the school year, but definitely not what I should be making for full-time work.

  “Good.” She pauses. “Can you still take a week off to come visit us?”

  “I’m planning on it,” I assure her. Jeff and I have already worked out a schedule so that each of us can head to Boston to spend some time with Mom.

  We talk for a few more minutes, and then I hang up and wander downstairs to find something to eat. I prepare a bowl of cereal, the no-sugar, all-bran bore-fest that Tuck forces us to eat because for some reason he’s against sugar. As I settle at the eat-in counter, my mind instantly travels back to what happened last night.

  Leaving Grace’s room five seconds after she’d jerked me off had been such an asshole move. I know that. But I had to get out of there. The second I’d recovered from that orgasm, my first thought had been, what the hell am I doing here? Seriously. I mean, yeah, Grace was awesome, and sexy, and funny, but have I sunk so low that I’m now randomly finger-banging chicks I don’t even know? And I can’t even use alcohol as an excuse this time because I was stone-cold sober.

  And the worst part? She didn’t even fucking come.

  I clench my teeth at the reminder. There’d been a lot of moaning, sure, but I’m ninety-nine percent certain that she didn’t have an orgasm despite her telling me that she had. Or rather, lying to me that she had. Because when a woman drops a noncommittal “Uh-huh” after you ask if she had an orgasm, then that’s called lying.

  And that half-assed “yeah, sure, me too” she gave me about whether she had fun? Talk about bruising a guy’s ego. Not only did she not come, but my company didn’t do it for her, either?

  I don’t know how I feel about that. I mean, I’m not an idiot. I don’t live in a magical bubble where orgasms fall from the sky and land in a woman’s bed every time she has sex. I know they fake it sometimes.

  But I’m fairly confident I speak for most guys when I say that I like to think they don’t fake it with me.

  Damn it. I should’ve gotten her number. Why the hell didn’t I get her number?

  I know the answer to that, though. This past month, I haven’t cared enough to ask for a girl’s number after a hook-up. Or rather, I’ve been too wasted before, during and after the hook-up to remember to ask.

  The thud of footsteps from the corridor snaps me out of my thoughts, and I glance up in time to see Garrett stride into the kitchen.

  “Morning,” he says.

  “Morning.” I shove a spoonful of cereal into my mouth and do my best to ignore the instant jolt of discomfort, while at the same time hating myself for even feeling it.

  Garrett Graham is my best friend. For chrissake, I’m not supposed to feel uncomfortable around him.

  “So what’d you end up doing last night?” He grabs a bowl from the cupboard, a spoon from the drawer, and joins me at the counter.

  I chew before answering. “I hung out with this girl. Watched a movie.”

  “Cool. Anyone I know?”

  “Naah, I just met her yesterday.” And will probably never see her again because I’m a selfish lover and bad company, apparently.

  Garrett dumps some cereal into his bowl and reaches for the milk carton I left out. “Hey, so did you call that agent yet?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “Why not?”

  Because there’s no point.

  “Because I haven’t gotten around to it.” My tone is harsher than I mean for it to be, and Garrett’s gray eyes flicker with hurt.

  “You don’t have to bite my head off. It was just a question.”

  “Sorry. I…sorry.” Real articulate. Stifling a sigh, I take another bite of cereal.

  A short silence settles between us, until Garrett finally clears his throat. “Look, I get it, okay? You didn’t get drafted and it sucks. But it’s not like you’re out of options. You’re a free agent now, and you’re not locked in with a team, which means you can sign with anyone if they want you. And they’re totally going to want you.”

  He’s right. I’m sure there are lots of teams that would want me to play for them. I’m sure one of them would’ve even drafted me—if I’d entered the draft.

  But Garrett doesn’t know that. He thinks I’ve been passed over these past two years, and—have I mentioned what an asshole friend I am?—I’ve been letting him think it. Because fucked up as it sounds, having my best friend believe I didn’t get picked bums me out a helluva lot less than admitting that I’m never going to play for the pros.

  See, Garrett had a choice about not opting in. He wanted to earn his degree without the temptation that comes with being drafted. A lot of college players choose to ditch school the moment a team holds the rights to them—it’s hard not to when you’ve got a pro team pulling out all the stops to coax you into leaving college early. But Garrett’s a smart guy. He knows he’d lose his NCAA eligibility if he did that, and he also knows that signing a contract with a team doesn’t guarantee instant success, or even playing time.

  Hell, we both saw what happened to Chris Little, our teammate in freshman year. Dude gets drafted, goes pro, plays for half a season, and then? A career-ending injury takes him out. Permanently. Not only will Little never step foot on the ice again, but he spent every dime of his signing contract on his medical expenses, and last I heard, he went back to school to learn a trade. Welding, or some shit.

  So yup, Garrett’s playing it smart. Me? I knew from the start I wouldn’t be going pro.

  “I mean, Gretzky went undrafted, and look at everything he accomplished. The guy’s a legend. Arguably the best player in hockey history.”

  Garrett is still talking, still trying to “reassure” me, and I’m torn between snapping at him to shut up, and hugging the living shit out of the guy for being such an amazing friend.

  I do neither, choosing to placate him instead. “I’ll call the agent on Monday,” I lie.

  He offers a pleased nod. “Good.”

  The silence returns. We cart our empty bowls over to the dishwasher.

  “Hey, we’re going to Malone’s tonight,” Garrett says. “Me, Wellsy, Tuck and maybe Danny. You in?”

  “Can’t. I’ve gotta start studying for exams.”

  It’s sad, but I’m starting to lose count of all the things I’m lying to my best friend about.

  *

  Grace

  “I’m sorry—can you repeat that?” Ramona stares at me in utter disbelief, her eyes so wide they look like two dark saucers.

  I shrug as if what I’ve just told her is no biggie. “John Logan came over last night.”

  “John Logan came over last night,” she echoes.

  “Yes.”

  “He came to our dorm.”

  “Yes.”

  “You were in this room, and he walked in, and then both of you were here. In this room.”

  “Yes.”

  “So John Logan showed up at our door, and walked inside, and was here. With you. Here.” br />
  Laughter bubbles in my throat. “Yes, Ramona. We’ve established that he was here. In this room.”

  Her mouth falls open. Then slams shut. Then opens again to release a shriek that’s so earsplitting I’m surprised the water in my glass doesn’t jiggle Jurassic Park-style.

  “Oh my God!” She runs over to my bed and flops down. “Tell me everything!”

  She’s still wearing her party clothes from last night, a teeny minidress that rides up her thighs when she sits, and silver stilettos that she kicks away in an excited blur of legs.

  When Ramona had walked into our room, I’d lasted all of three seconds before spilling the news, but now, with her staring excitedly at me, reluctance jams in my throat. I’m suddenly embarrassed to tell her what happened last night, because…well…I’m just going to say it: because it was underwhelming.

  I had fun watching the movie with him. And I loved fooling around with him—at least until those final moments—but the guy got off and then left. Who does that?

  No wonder all his hook-ups take place at frat parties. The girls are probably too drunk to notice whether they have an orgasm or not. Too drunk to realize that John Logan is selling nothing but false advertising.

  But I already opened my big mouth, so now I have to follow through and give Ramona something. As she gawks at me, I explain how Logan showed up at the wrong door and ended up staying to watch a movie.

  “You watched a movie? That’s it?”

  I feel my cheeks warm up. “Well…”

  Another screech flies out of her mouth. “Oh my God! Did you fuck him?”

  “No,” I’m quick to answer. “Of course not. I hardly even know him. But…well, we did make out.”

  I’m hesitant to disclose any more than that, but the revelation is enough to light up Ramona’s eyes. She looks like a kid who’s just gotten her first bicycle. Or a pony.

  “You made out with John Logan! Eeeeeh! That is so awesome! Is he good a kisser? Did he take off his shirt? Did he take off his pants?”

  “Nope,” I lie.