The Mistake

  How long does an erection have to last before it’s considered bad news? Three hours? Four? No way this movie is that long, right?

  God, I fucking hope not.

  10

  Grace

  For the first time in forever, I’m not angry with Ramona for persuading me to go out on my birthday. I wanted to avoid all the fanfare by simply staying home, but she’d dangled Jason Statham under my nose like a little British carrot. We’ve been friends long enough that Ramona knows all my weaknesses—and exploits them at all costs.

  But I owe her big for using Statham as a bargaining chip tonight, otherwise I wouldn’t be sitting next to Logan right now.

  With that said, I’m still not sure how I feel about him. He didn’t make the best first impression when he raced out of my dorm that first night, but I can’t deny that his second impression was a screaming-orgasm success. So I guess he’s got a checkmark in both the pros and cons columns at the moment.

  Make that two checkmarks in the pros department—because halfway through the movie, he kisses me.

  Not a peck. Not a lingering caress of his lips. It’s a hot, tongue-tangling kiss that makes my heart pound harder and louder than the deafening explosions blasting from the screen. I lose myself in it, in him, in the skillful stroke of his tongue and the warmth of his hand as it curls around the side of my neck.

  It isn’t until I hear chuckles from the guys on the other side of me that I remember where we are. I self-consciously pull away, and Logan’s heavy-lidded gaze rests on my mouth, which is wet and swollen from his kisses.

  He leans in closer. “On a scale of one to ten, how much would you care if you missed a few minutes of the movie?”

  I think it over. “Two?”

  “Thank God.”

  He tugs me to my feet. Since we’re on the aisle, we don’t have to shuffle past anyone, thus sparing ourselves and everyone around us that awful ‘scuse me, so sorry disruption that moviegoers hate. Still holding hands, we tiptoe down the steps. I spot Dean and Ramona’s heads near the front row, but neither of them notices us making our escape.

  “Where are we going?” I whisper.

  All I get in response is a mischievous smile. He leads me down the dark corridor toward the auditorium doors, but rather than go through them, he veers left and turns the knob of a door I hadn’t even realized was there.

  We’re in a closet. It’s pitch black and reeks of cleaning supplies, but suddenly Logan’s body presses up against me, and all I can smell is him. I gasp when his mouth covers mine, because I didn’t see the kiss coming. I can’t see anything actually. But I sure as hell can feel. The hard muscles of Logan’s chest straining beneath his long-sleeve shirt. The seductive coaxing of his tongue as it slips through my parted lips and fills my mouth.

  I wrap my arms around his neck and eagerly return the kiss. In a heartbeat, he backs me into the wall, one muscular thigh thrusting between my legs. The unexpected contact triggers an instant jolt of arousal that spirals to my core.

  He kisses me like he can’t get enough, sucking on my tongue like it’s made of candy. Then he cups my ass and yanks me closer, grinding our lower bodies together.

  “I wish I could fuck you right here.” He growls the words against my neck before sinking his teeth into it, bringing a sting of pain that he immediately soothes with his tongue.

  I hadn’t realized my neck possessed so many sensitive nerve endings. I’m on fire, every inch of skin prickling with awareness, tingling each time his lips travel over my feverish flesh.

  My clit swells, aches, and the tension between my legs grows and grows until I’m shamelessly grinding against his thigh in a desperate attempt to ease the ache. I’ve never fooled around in public before, and the notion that anyone could walk in and catch us right now is so thrilling that my hips move faster, craving more friction.

  “Oh fuck, keep doing that, baby,” he mutters. “Rub your pussy against me.”

  Oh. God.

  Dirty talk is…different. And exciting. And I’m so turned on I can no longer formulate coherent thoughts.

  He kisses a path back to my mouth, his tongue plunging deep, mimicking the movements of his hips. If someone told me a week ago that John Logan would be dry humping me in a movie theater closet, I would’ve laughed my fool head off.

  But here we are, and it’s frickin’ amazing. My clit throbs every time the seam of his fly presses into it, and either I’m completely misinterpreting the wild tingling in my core, or…I might actually come this way. Fully clothed, with no contact other than his thigh rubbing my…oh God, yep, I’m about to come.

  A desperate noise tears out of my mouth, but it’s instantly swallowed up by another blistering kiss from Logan, whose hips rock harder, faster, until the knot of pleasure explodes in a rush of pure bliss that sweeps through me, buzzing in my fingers and curling my toes.

  Logan’s head falls in the crook of my neck and he lets out a low grunt. Breathing hard against my skin as his entire body trembles.

  “Fuck. That was so hot,” he groans a few seconds later.

  His arms wrap around me, holding me tight to his rock-hard chest as we both recover, our breathing labored and our heartbeats hammering in unison. A full minute passes before he releases me and takes a step away.

  My eyes have adjusted to the darkness, and I see him reach for a stack of paper napkins on a nearby shelf. His hand dips inside his pants before crumpling the napkin and tossing it in the wastebasket by the door.

  Then he’s back, his voice husky as he brings his mouth to my ear. “Happy birthday.”

  I start to laugh. I have no idea why, but this entire hook-up was so surreal that I find myself quaking in amusement, which elicits a deep chuckle from him.

  “Thank you,” I answer between giggles.

  His lips graze mine for one fleeting moment, and then he takes my hand and leads me to the door. He pauses in front of it, bowing gallantly before holding it open for me. “After you, gorgeous.”

  Aw hell. Those three words turn my heart from a solid to a liquid. A warm, gooey pile of mush in my chest.

  Well, at least I’ve figured out how I feel about him.

  I think I might be crushing on the guy. Hard.

  *

  Logan

  The next evening, I’m battling Tucker to the death in an intense game of Ice Pro when Dean wanders into the living room, shirtless and barefoot. He rakes a hand through his spiky blond hair before settling on the armchair next to the couch.

  “Listen, I need to talk to you about the freshman.”

  “What freshman?” Tucker voices the question even as his eyes stay glued to the screen.

  Mine do too. “You mean Grace?” I say absently.

  My team is kicking Tuck’s ass, probably because the idiot refuses to play as anyone other than Dallas, who’s been eliminated from playoff contention, what, a million years in a row? I, of course, play exclusively as Boston, because that’s the team I grew up cheering for and the one I envisioned myself playing for someday.

  “Yes, I mean Grace. Unless there’s another freshman you took to the movies and sucked face with the whole time?” Dean’s remark oozes sarcasm.

  I pause the game to take a sip of my Coke. Yup, Coke. I’m still making an effort to dial down the partying. Well, that and my first exam is tomorrow, and I don’t want to show up hung-over.

  “I didn’t take her to the movies,” I answer. “We ran into them there, remember?”

  “Oh, I remember. I also remember the sucking face part. Seriously, bro, every time I turned around, you were going at it like porn stars.”

  It’s a good thing I haven’t told him what we did in the closet. He’d probably have a field day with that one.

  “Wait—you’re going out with a freshman?” Tuck’s expression is unreadable, but I’m pretty sure I hear a chord of relief in his voice.

  “Naah, we’re not going out.”

  “Good,” Dean says, nodding briskly. “Those young
er chicks bring way too much drama to the table.”

  Tucker snickers. “Drama? Is that what we’re calling the Bethany incident now? Because that wasn’t drama, dude. It was stalking.”

  “It was a pain in the ass, that’s what it was,” Dean mutters. “And thanks so much for reminding me of it. Now I’m going to have nightmares tonight. Jerk.”

  I roll my eyes. “Don’t worry, Grace isn’t like that. No drama whatsoever with her.”

  Which is one of the reasons I’m so drawn to her. She’s the most uncomplicated girl I’ve ever met. Plus, when I’m with her, I don’t think about Hannah at all, which is—

  So you’re using her to not think about Hannah?

  The accusation flies into my head like a hockey team on the offensive.

  No. Of course I’m not using her.

  Am I?

  No. That’s crazy. I genuinely like Grace, and I fucking love hooking up with her.

  But…she does happen to be a great distraction from all this Hannah bullshit.

  A great distraction?

  Jesus Christ. I’m such a fucking bastard.

  As guilt floods my stomach, I suddenly comprehend the irrefutable shittiness of what I’ve done. And in that moment, I realize I can’t see Grace again. How can I when a part of me views her as a distraction? When I still experience that awful clench in my gut every time I see Garrett and Wellsy together? When I’m still consumed with envy and anxiety and so much self-loathing?

  I’d texted Grace my number earlier and was planning on asking her if she wanted to hang out tomorrow night, but there’s no fucking way I can do that now. I might be an asshole for unintentionally using her as a diversion, but now that I’m conscious of my asshole-ness, I refuse to let it continue. It wouldn’t be fair to Grace.

  “No drama?” Dean echoes, jolting me from my troubled thoughts. “Yeah, sorry to break it to you, but the drama train has already left the station. That’s what I came down here to tell you.”

  I frown. “What are you talking about?”

  “You know Piper?”

  Tucker snorts. “Did you really just ask that? We all know Piper.”

  My frown deepens, because if Piper Stevens is involved in whatever Dean’s about to tell me, then it sure as hell ain’t gonna be good. Piper is the puck bunny of all puck bunnies. She’s also hot as fuck, which is why half the guys on the team have slept with her. Which, by the way, is an accomplishment she’s incredibly proud of and happy to advertise.

  I have no problem with that, though. Every time I hear someone refer to her as a slut, I threaten a beat-down, because what the fuck? Most of the dudes I know have screwed their way through college, and nobody bats an eye when they do it. So no, I’m not about to judge Piper for her very active sex life.

  Nope, what I have a problem with is the fact that she’s a total bitch who spreads nasty rumors and gossips more than a Hollywood tabloid.

  “I was chilling with Niko this afternoon and he told me Piper’s been saying shit about your freshman,” Dean says flatly.

  My spine stiffens. “What?”

  “Yeah, apparently Piper’s little sister is friends with Grace, and I guess Grace told her about the two of you hooking up? Except for some reason, the little sister thinks she’s making it up?”

  “Are you asking me or telling?” I grumble.

  “Both? I don’t know. I’ve given up on trying to understand the complexities of women.”

  “Preaching to the choir,” Tuck says solemnly.

  Dean makes an exasperated noise in the back of his throat. “All I know is that Piper’s spreading it around that some pathetic freshman is lying about doing you, which is obviously bullshit since I had a front row seat to your hook-up last night—you know, when your tongue was bobbing for apples in the back of her throat?”

  “The theater was packed with Briar students. If you saw us, then I’m sure other people did too.”

  “Oh, they saw you, dude.”

  “Then why is anyone even buying Piper’s bullshit? I wasn’t trying to hide that we were going at it.”

  “Hey, if you say shit with confidence, people are going to believe it.” He shrugs. “Anyway, figured you should know that Piper’s being Piper again. She’s tweeting about it too, Niko said. She made up some catty hashtag about your girl.”

  What? I snatch my phone off the coffee table and launch the Twitter app. “What’s the hashtag?”

  “No idea. I’m sure you can find it if you go on Piper’s account.”

  I quickly type Piper’s name in the search box, click on her profile, and proceed to skim the first dozen or so tweets on the page. Each one causes the anger in my gut to burn and bubble and simmer, until finally it boils over and sends me stumbling to my feet in pure outrage.

  Oh hell no.

  11

  Grace

  You know those anxiety dreams where you’re walking down the hall in high school, or getting up on the stage of an auditorium to give a big speech—and you suddenly realize you’re buck naked and everyone is staring at you? And then all those pairs of eyes get bigger and bigger and it feels like hot lasers boring into your skin?

  I am currently living that dream. Sure, I’m fully clothed, but despite Ramona’s numerous assurances that nobody is staring at me, I know I’m not imagining the curious looks and knowing smirks from my fellow students.

  Damn Maya Stevens to hell. That bitch did the impossible—she made me afraid of walking into Carver Hall, my favorite place on campus.

  It’s actually rather impressive that even limited by one hundred and forty characters, Maya’s sister managed to spin a beautiful tale of a pitiful, woe-is-me heroine whose fierce yearning for a certain hockey player leads her to fabricate a grand love affair filled with burning loins and endless passion.

  In other words, Piper’s calling me a fucking liar.

  “This is so humiliating,” I mutter as I pick at the chicken stir-fry on my plate. “Can we please just go?”

  Ramona’s chin sticks out in an obstinate pose. “No. You need to show people that you don’t give a rat’s ass about what Piper is saying.”

  Easier said than done. My brain knows that I shouldn’t care about some asinine Twitter bash fest, but my stomach hasn’t received the memo. Every time the words #GracelessLiar flash in my head, my insides twist into a mortified pretzel.

  What the hell is the matter with people? It’s infuriating how they grant themselves the right to say whatever hurtful poison they want, without giving a shit about the person they’re hurting. Actually, you know what? I’m not even pissed at the rumormongers. I’m pissed at whoever invented the Internet and handed the assholes in the world a platform on which to spew their venom.

  Fucking Internet.

  My best friend treats my silence as an invitation to keep babbling. “Piper’s a bitch, okay? You know how possessive she is about the hockey players. She acts like every single one of them belongs to her, which is total bullshit. She’s probably consumed with jealousy that you managed to land one of the star players, who, by the way—” Ramona lowers her voice to a conspiratorial pitch “—she’s been chasing after since freshman year, but he keeps shutting her down.”

  Sweet mother of Moses. Now we’re gossiping about Piper? Are there any mature adults at this motherfucking university?

  “Can we please not talk about her?” I clench my teeth, which makes it difficult to take a bite of the noodles I’ve just raised to my mouth.

  “Fine,” she relents. “But know that I’ve got your back on this, babe. Nobody talks shit about my BFF and lives to tell about it.”

  I decide not to point out that Piper wouldn’t have been talking shit in the first place if someone hadn’t implied to Maya that I’d made everything up.

  “If you want, we can talk about my misery,” she says glumly. “As in, the fact that Dean didn’t ask for my number after the movie last night—”

  Ramona stops talking when footsteps sound from behind us. My sh
oulders tense, then relax when I realize the footsteps belong to Jess. Then they tense all over again, because it’s Jess. Lovely. Let another round of torture commence.

  “Hey,” Jess greets me, her eyes awash with sympathy. “I’m so sorry about this Twitter bullshit. Maya shouldn’t have said anything to her sister. She’s such a gossip.”

  If I had a dictionary on me, I would’ve opened it to the H’s, passed it to Jess, and forced her to read the definition of HYPOCRITE.

  Luckily, my phone buzzes before I give in and hurl a bitchy retort her way.

  When I see Logan’s name on the screen, my heart does an involuntary flip. I’m tempted to hop up on the table and wave the phone around to prove to everyone in Carver Hall that contrary to what Piper Stevens has posited, John Logan is “aware of my existence.” But I resist the urge, because unlike some people, I don’t need a dictionary reminder—I already know the meaning of futile.

  Logan’s message is short.

  Him: Where u at?

  I quickly type back, Dining hall.

  Him: Which 1?

  Me: Carver.

  No response. Okay then. I’m not sure what the point of that conversation was, but his consequent silence has a dampening effect on my already flailing self-confidence. I’ve been dying to talk to him since last night, but he hasn’t called, texted, or attempted to make plans. And finally he gets in touch and this is the result? Two questions followed by crickets?

  I’m horrified to realize I’m on the verge of tears. I’m not sure who I’m even upset with. Logan? Piper? Ramona? Myself? But it doesn’t matter. I refuse to cry in the middle of the dining hall, or give anyone the satisfaction of seeing me rush out five minutes after I got here. The girls at the neighboring table haven’t stopped smirking since I sat down, and I can still feel them watching me. I can’t make out a word of their hushed discussion, but when I glance over, all five of them quickly avert their gazes.