The Mistake

  I lick her clit in a slow, teasing stroke that makes her moan. She falls back on her elbows, and I peer up to find that she’s closed her eyes. Her lips are parted, her pulse visibly throbbing at the center of her throat, and that’s all the encouragement I need to keep going.

  My tongue travels down her slit to her opening. She’s soaking wet. Hell. Maybe I should be worried about repeating the old coming-in-my-pants fiasco, because my balls draw up so tight they damn near disappear.

  I clench my ass cheeks to control the wild tingling at the base of my spine and focus on making her feel good. I lick my way back to the swollen bud that’s begging for my attention, gently flicking my tongue against it, kissing and sucking and gauging her every response to find out what she likes. Slow and soft, I determine. Her moans are more desperate and her hips rock harder when I tease her.

  Except teasing her is teasing me, and now my dick is pressed up painfully against my fly. Damn thing will probably bear the impression of my zipper by the time we’re through.

  I ease the tip of my index finger inside her, and I’m immediately rewarded by a throaty cry.

  “Good?” I murmur, gazing up at her.

  Her eyelids are droopy. “Mmm-hmmm.”

  Satisfaction streaks through me, egging me on, making me even more determined to send her toppling over the edge. I resume my task. Sweet, languid strokes to her clit while my finger inches deeper and deeper, until it’s finally lodged inside her. She’s tight. Really tight. And wet. God. Really wet.

  And if she doesn’t come soon, my pants are about to get wet too, because I’m so close to exploding that—

  “I’m coming,” she moans.

  And hell yes, she is. Her clit pulses against my tongue as her pussy squeezes my finger like a steel glove. She’s not a screamer. Not much of a moaner either, but the breathy sounds that leave her mouth are hotter than any porn star noises I’ve ever heard.

  I ride out the orgasm with her, stroking her inner channel and sucking on her clit as she shudders quietly on the bed. Several seconds later, she starts to laugh, squirming as she tries to move out of my grasp.

  “Too sensitive,” she chokes out.

  I lift my head with a grin. “Sorry.”

  “Oh my God, you are not allowed to say that right now. Not after…” She sucks in a breath. “That was…amazing.” She’s slow to sit up, her eyes hazy with pleasure. “I have no idea what else to say. Thank you?”

  Laughter bubbles in my throat. “You’re welcome?”

  My legs feel unusually weak as I stand up. I’m still ridiculously hard, but the alarm clock on the night table reveals I have exactly eleven minutes to trek over to the library. Under any other circumstances, I wouldn’t care about being late, but this is the last study group before tomorrow’s marketing final, and I can’t afford to miss it. I’m already going into the exam with a D in the course, so failing the class is both a scary possibility and an outcome I refuse to let happen. The course is a prerequisite for my degree, and I have no desire to retake it next year.

  “I need to go or I’ll be late for study group.” I meet her eyes. “Can I get your number?”

  “Oh. Um…”

  Her hesitation sparks a pang of anxiety. One of the rare times I ask for a girl’s number and she’s uncertain about doling it out? After I rocked her world?

  Jesus. Is my game slipping?

  I raise a brow, my voice taking on a note of challenge. “Unless you don’t want to give it to me?”

  “No. I mean, yes, I do.” She bites her bottom lip. “Do you want it now?”

  I force a laugh that I hope sounds flirty rather than nervous. “Now would be good.” I grab my phone from my back pocket and open a new contact page. “Hit me.”

  She rattles off a series of numbers. So fast I have to make her stop and repeat it. I type in her name and press enter, then tuck the phone away. “Maybe we can hang out again sometime? We could watch the next Die Hard in the lineup…”

  “Yeah, sure. That sounds great.”

  Seriously? Another “yeah, sure”?

  What the hell does it take to get an “I’D LOVE TO!” from this chick?

  “Okay. Cool.” I gulp. “I guess I’ll call you, then.”

  She doesn’t say anything, and in the ensuing silence, I’m overcome with a wave of discomfort.

  Then I dip down and do the stupidest thing ever. Which says a lot, because I’ve dabbled in my share of stupidity over the years.

  I kiss her forehead.

  Not her lips. Not her cheek. Her fucking forehead.

  Real smooth, bro.

  She looks up at me in amusement, but I don’t give her the chance to comment on my dumbass move.

  “I’ll call you,” I mumble.

  And for the second time in three days, I leave Grace’s dorm feeling like a jackass.

  *

  Grace

  My psychology lecture is three hours long, and I can honestly say I didn’t hear a word the professor said. Not one single word.

  For one hundred and eighty minutes, all I did was run through every incredible second of every incredible thing Logan did to me this morning.

  Can you nominate anyone for sainthood, or are there eligibility requirements?

  Can you nominate someone’s tongue for sainthood? Or maybe there’s an orgasm-giving award that the Department of Sexuality hands out?

  If so, Logan deserves to win it.

  I’m still flummoxed that he showed up at my door and pretty much demanded I let him give me an orgasm. I guess his ego is as sensitive as that Cosmo article said it would be, but you know what? I found it kind of charming. And oddly satisfying that someone as confident as John Logan was actually doubting his sexual prowess.

  It’s funny. Less than a week ago I was bemoaning the lack of excitement in my life, and now look at me—sexy hockey players showing up at my door to excite the hell out of me.

  Fuck it. I’m giving myself the award.

  Logan continues to dominate my thoughts as I meet Ramona and the girls for lunch, joining them at our usual table against the back wall of the cavernous dining hall.

  Carver Hall is my favorite place on campus. Whoever constructed it must not have paid attention to the rest of the buildings on campus, though, because Carver has a rustic chalet-style feel to it. High ceilings, wood paneled walls, and ornate light fixtures that cast a soft yellow glow over the room instead of the fluorescent lighting you find in the other meal halls. And it’s only two minutes from my dorm, which means I get to bask in its splendor on a daily basis.

  I set my tray on the table and pop open the tab of my root beer as I sit in an empty chair. “Hey,” I greet everyone. “What are we talking about?”

  Ramona, Jess, and Maya instantly clam up, their expressions taking on secretive gleams that tell me precisely what they were talking about.

  Me.

  I narrow my eyes. “What’s going on?”

  Ramona glances over sheepishly. “Okay, so don’t be mad…but I told them about Logan.”

  Annoyance spirals through me, but it’s mostly directed at myself. I don’t know why I bother telling Ramona private things anymore. Asking her to keep a secret is like throwing a ball and asking a dog not to chase it. Well, I threw the damn ball, and now Ramona’s scampering back with it. And this year she happened to meet and become BFFs with two girls who gossip even more than she does. Jess and Maya spend so much time dissecting other people’s lives they should create a website and give Perez Hilton some competition.

  “So is it true?” Jess demands. “Did you seriously hook up with him?”

  I feel uncomfortable discussing Logan with them, but I know these girls, and they won’t let up until I give them something. Trying to appear casual, I twirl some fettuccine around my fork and take a bite. Then I glance at Jess and say, “Yep.”

  “That’s it? Yep?” She looks aghast. “That’s all you’re going to say?”

  “I told you guys, she’s being supe
r hush-hush about it.” Ramona grins. “Obviously we need to remind Grace about the number one rule of friendship. AKA not skimping on details when you made out with the hottest guy on campus.”

  I chew my pasta. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

  Maya speaks up, a mocking note in her voice. “You know, considering the complete lack of details, one might think it didn’t even happen at all.”

  One might think?

  My head swivels toward Ramona. Unbelievable. Is she spreading that around now? Letting people believe I’m some crazy pathological liar?

  Ramona is quick to defend herself against my unspoken accusation. “Hey, we cleared that up, remember? I totally believe that you fooled around with him, babe.”

  “Twice.” The confession slips out before I can stop it. Damn it.

  Ramona’s jaw falls open. “What you mean twice?”

  I shrug. “He came over again this morning.”

  That gets me two gasps, followed by two high-pitched squeals—from Jess and Maya. Ramona remains strangely quiet, but when I study her expression, it’s impossible to decipher.

  “Oh my God. He did?” Jess exclaims.

  “When was this?” Ramona asks.

  Her tone is way too polite to not raise my hackles. “Right after you left for class. He didn’t stay long, though.”

  Her dark eyes stay shuttered. “Did you at least get his number this time?”

  “No,” I admit. “But he has mine now.”

  “So you still have no way of reaching him.” It’s not a question. It’s not even a particularly pleasant statement. There’s an edge to her voice, and when I glance across the table, there’s no missing the smirk on Maya’s face.

  They don’t believe me.

  Ramona can deny it until she’s blue in the face and backpedal until she’s in another state, but my best friend still thinks I’m making it up. And now she’s recruiting our friends into doubting me too.

  Our friends?

  The scornful voice raises a good point, and as I think it over, I suddenly can’t think of a single person I’ve hung out with this year that Ramona didn’t introduce me to. The one time I invited a few girls from my English Lit class to come over, Ramona laughed and chatted with them all night, told them what a fabulous time she had, and then, after they left, informed me they were boring and that I wasn’t allowed to bring them over when she was around.

  Damn it, why do I let her dictate my life like that? I tolerated it in high school because…hell, I don’t even know why I tolerated it. But we’re not in high school anymore. This is college, and I should be able to spend time with whoever I want without worrying about what Ramona will think about them.

  “No,” I answer through clenched teeth. “I have no way of reaching him. But don’t worry, I’m sure my imaginary hook-up partner will get in touch with me sooner or later.”

  She frowns. “Grace—”

  “I’m heading back to the dorm to work on my paper.” My appetite has disappeared. I pick up my half-eaten dinner tray and rise to my feet. “I’ll see you later.”

  Maybe I’m naive, but I thought college would be different. I thought all the gossiping and backstabbing and bullshit ceased to exist once you left high school, but I guess mean girls can be found at any level of the education system. It’s like visiting a farm—if you go there not expecting to see piles of cow shit everywhere, then you’re in for a rude awakening. And there’s a good SAT question for you. SCHOOL is to MEAN GIRLS as FARMS are to _______.

  Shit. The answer to that is shit.

  Ramona catches up to me the moment I burst outside, her heels clicking on the limestone entrance as she hurries toward me.

  “Grace, wait.”

  My jaw tenses as I turn around. “What now?”

  Panic lights her eyes. “Please don’t be pissed at me. I hate it when you’re pissed at me.”

  “Gee, I’m so sorry you’re upset, Ramona. What can I do to make you feel better?”

  Her bottom lip quivers. “You don’t have to be sarcastic. I came out here to apologize.”

  For fuck’s sake, if she launches into her whole crocodile-tears act, I might actually lose my shit.

  “I’m not having this conversation with you again,” I say in a cold voice. “I don’t care if you think I’m lying. I know I’m not, and that’s all that matters to me, okay? Just know that I find it incredibly insulting that my best friend since I was six years old believes I—”

  “I’m jealous,” she blurts out.

  I stop talking. “What?”

  Her face collapses as our gazes lock. She lowers her voice, then repeats herself. “I’m jealous, all right?”

  Hell must have frozen over. There’s no other explanation for what I’m hearing. Because in thirteen years of friendship, Ramona has never admitted to being jealous of me.

  “I’ve been trying to get with Dean all year,” she laments. “All fucking year and he doesn’t know I exist, and you just hook up with his best friend without even trying.” An oddly vulnerable look softens her features. “I’ve been acting like a total bitch and I’m so sorry. I was insecure and I took it out on you and that wasn’t fair, but please don’t be angry with me. It’s your birthday on Wednesday. I want to celebrate with you, and I want us to be good again, and I—”

  I interrupt with a sigh. “We’re good, Ramona.”

  “We are?”

  The anger that had been flowing so freely through my veins dissipates as I glimpse her hopeful expression. This is the Ramona I invested thirteen years of my life for. The girl who listened to me babble for hours about my high school crushes, who brought my assignments home whenever I was sick, who taught me how to put on makeup, and threatened to kick the ass of anyone who so much as looked at me the wrong way. She might be self-absorbed and shallow at times, but she’s also fiercely loyal and unbelievably kind when she drops that bad girl bitch act.

  All the bullshit with Jess and Maya back there still stings, but I can’t bring myself to throw away years’ worth of friendship over something so trivial.

  “We’re good,” I assure her. “I promise.”

  A brilliant smile fills her face. “Good.” She flings her arms around my waist and bear-hugs the hell out of me. “Now let’s go home so you can tell me every dirty thing John Logan did to you this morning. In explicit detail.”

  8

  Logan

  I drive to Munsen on Wednesday morning, my enthusiasm level sitting firmly on its usual spot on the super-happy-fun-time scale: zero.

  It’s rare that I’m forced go home during the school year, but sometimes I have no choice. Usually it happens if the part-time mechanic at my dad’s shop can’t cover for Jeff when he takes Dad to his doctor’s appointments. Today is one of those instances, but I assure myself that I can handle a couple hours of oil changes and tune-ups without losing my mind.

  Besides, it’ll be a good warm-up for the summer. I tend to forget how much I hate working in the garage, so on that first day back, it’s like being sent to the front lines of a war zone. My stomach drops and fear pummels into me, as I realize that this will be my life for the next three months. At least if I dip my toes in today, I can get some of the panic out of the way.

  Jeff’s van is already gone when I park my pickup in front of Logan and Sons Auto Repair. The name is kind of ironic, seeing as the shop was already called that long before my parents ever had kids. My granddad ran the place before my dad took over, and I guess he’d been hoping to sire a lot of strapping male offspring. He only sired one, though, so technically the place should be called Logan and Son.

  The shop consists of one small, brick building, the interior of which only has room for two lifts. But the meager square footage doesn’t really impact the business since it’s not exactly booming. L&S does well enough to cover expenses, my dad’s bills, and the mortgage on our bungalow, which sits at the back of the property. Growing up, I hated that our house was so close to the shop. We used to get woken up
in the middle of the night by customers pounding on our door because their car broke down nearby, or by phone calls from the tow truck company saying they were bringing over a vehicle.

  Since my dad’s accident, the close proximity has actually become convenient, because it means he can get from home to work in less than a minute.

  Not that he spends much time in the garage anymore. Jeff is the one who does all the work, while Dad drinks himself stupid on the living room recliner.

  I walk up to the dented metal door, which is shut and locked. A lined piece of paper sticks to it with a jagged strip of duct tape, and I instantly recognize my brother’s handwriting.

  YOU’RE LATE.

  Two words, all caps. Shit, Jeff was pissed.

  I use my set of keys to unlock the side door, then step inside and hit the button that sends the huge mechanical door soaring upward. It’s still cold out, but I always keep the door open, no matter how frigid the weather is. It’s my one requirement for working here. After a while, the overpowering odor of oil and car exhaust makes me want to kill myself.

  Jeff has left me a list of tasks, but luckily, it’s not too long. The older model Buick parked on the concrete needs an oil change and a headlight replaced. Easy peasy. I throw on a blue jumpsuit with the L&S logo on the back, turn the radio dial to the first metal station I find, and get right to work.

  An hour passes before I take my first break. I chug water from the sink in the office, then pop outside for a quick cigarette.

  I’ve just snubbed the butt out beneath my steel-toed boot when the sound of an engine hums in the distance. My chest tightens when I glimpse the front bumper of my brother’s white van slicing through the trees that line the long driveway.

  Like a coward, I duck back inside and race to the raised hood of the Buick. I bend over and pretend to give the engine a spot check, while also pretending I’m too focused on my work to notice the car doors slamming and my dad’s harsh voice as he snaps something at my brother. I hear two sets of footsteps, one slow and laborious, leading away from the dirt driveway, the other a fast angry thump as Jeff storms into the garage.

  “You couldn’t come over and say hello to him?” my older brother demands irritably.