The Hook Up (Game On Book 1), Page 3

  Iris sighs, her slim shoulders lifting high before dropping. I bite my lip to keep from smiling, but she sees and plays on my weakness. “Come onnn, Banana.” Like a kid, she taps her feet on the ground in an impatient dance. “I don’t want to go alone. I need a girlfriend with me tonight.”

  I snort. “Where do you want to go anyway?”

  Her white teeth flash, a sharp contrast against her bronze skin. “A party.”

  “No.”

  “Anna! You haven’t even heard me out.”

  “You know I hate parties.” With the passion of a televangelist on Sunday morning. I suck at small talk and mingling. Give me a booth in a bar and a few good friends, and I’m a happy girl. But parties suck.

  Slouching back, Iris picks at the edge of my notebook. “I’m not going to leave you alone. We’ll hang out.”

  “We can do that anywhere.” I eye her with suspicion. “Why this party?”

  She starts paying undo attention to the condensation on my cup, tracing patterns over it with the tip of her finger. “Well… Henry—”

  “Fuck.”

  “You have the filthiest mouth, Anna.” This isn’t a new complaint. She makes it constantly. Not that she’s wrong. I curse when I’m stressed. Or annoyed. Okay, I curse all the time.

  “No shit?” My cussing also tends to increase when Henry Ross is mentioned. Henry and Iris have been going out for two years, so you’d think I’d accept his presence in Iris’s life. But I have to grit my teeth every time I see him. He’s a smarmy asshole who treats Iris like window dressing. He doesn’t so much talk to her as talk at her.

  And though my friend is smart, funny, gorgeous, and independent, Henry is her kryptonite. He weakens her, rending her blind to his many faults. Sure, he’s good looking, dark-haired and dark-eyed with a nice smile. He’s also the captain of the lacrosse team and makes sure everyone knows it. But I’m fairly certain he cheats on her. There are too many times when he doesn’t answer her calls or has “important team meetings,” you know, on Friday nights or holidays such as Valentine’s Day. Yeah, right.

  As much as I wish I could tell Iris to ditch him, experience with my mom tells me that I’d only strengthen her resolve and drive a wedge between us.

  “I know you don’t like Henry,” Iris says now.

  While I’m able to keep my mouth shut, pretending to like him is more than I can take. The sleaze always, always, eyes my boobs and ass. Not in the normal way a guy might make a note of them, but in a way that makes me feel covered with slime.

  “But he asked me to bring you,” Iris continues.

  Of course he did. He knows I don’t like him. Which he takes as a challenge to piss me off. Henry might be a dick, but he’s a smart dick. He knows I’ll look like a jerk if I resist his attempts at polite interaction.

  “Why would he do that?” I ask.

  “Because he wants me to be happy.” She says this like it’s obvious. “And he knows I want to have a friend with me at his parties.”

  Because he’ll ignore her within five minutes of getting there.

  “This isn’t one of his team parties, is it?”

  “No.” Her eyes are wide and pleading. “It’s just a party, Anna. Geesh.”

  “Fine,” I snap. “I’ll go.”

  Instantly, Iris hops up and down in her seat. “Yes! We’ll have fun. And then we’ll go dancing.”

  Iris is my opposite in all ways small. She loves reality TV, finds movies too long, and only reads when it’s for an assignment. Her idea of fun involves a credit card and an open mall, and she has harbored a massive crush on Justin Bieber, despite all his WTFuckery, since her junior year of high school. Her continuing love of The Bieb is evident by the fact that her favorite nightshirt is a My World concert tee. And while the image of his face plastered over her boobs is more than creepy, I hate that she hides the shirt whenever Henry comes around. Or rather, I hate that Henry makes her feel like she should to hide it for fear he’ll make fun of her.

  Despite myself, I glance at the spot where Baylor had been. He’s gone and is probably making plans of his own. I suddenly feel restless. Wrong. Like I don’t know who I really am anymore. Which makes no sense. Maybe I’m coming down with something.

  AS I RARELY go to parties, I have no idea what to wear. Jeans and a t-shirt will just get me sent back to my room by Iris. She is definitely of the “if it ain’t tight you ain’t wearing it right” school, especially if she’s planning to hit up clubs afterwards. However I am just as definitely of the “I refuse to be uncomfortable in the name of fashion” school of thought. So where does that leave me?

  After forty minutes of cussing and general clothes throwing, I’m in a black camisole with a built-in bra, which is fairly daring for me, considering the size of my boobs, and a soft, A-line skirt that hugs my hips but swishes around my thighs and ends a few inches above my knees.

  Not wanting to leave my room, I procrastinate by peering into the mirror. My hair has a fuzz factor of three, which is acceptable, and my skin is clear. I apply a sweep of smoky-lilac shadow to make my eyes appear greener and dab a berry lip stain on my lips. So then, I’ve done all I can.

  I tromp out to the living room for inspection time. Iris, as usual, looks fantastic. I don’t even know how she does it; she’s wearing tiny black leather shorts and a silky indigo top that hangs over one toned shoulder and is open in the back. If I wore something like that I’d look horrible, but she’s so lean and small, perfection on platform stiletto ankle boots that remind me of horse hooves for some reason.

  Her dark eyes narrow as I stand there.

  “What’s with the boots?” she finally asks.

  “You’re wearing boots.”

  “Ankle boots. Totally different.”

  “These are Fluevogs,” I protest. “Victorias.” Black-rubbed emerald green leather, they lace up to mid-calf and have an ornate heel that resembles the legs of Victorian furniture. They are quirky, and the most expensive shoes I own. My mother gave them to me for my twenty-first birthday, and I kissed her for it.

  Iris lets out a long-suffering sigh. “You look like you’re going to a vamp ball in them.”

  “Watch it, Little Miss Belieber. I can still stay home.”

  She cringes. “Sorry. You know how I get before going out.”

  Yeah, crazy. Because she might disappoint Henry the Dickhead.

  She strides over to me, taller now in her insane shoes, and gives me a kiss on the cheek. The light, flowery scent of her perfume surrounds me. “You look gorgeous,” she says. “God, I wish I had your curves.”

  “We can do an exchange, because I’d love to rock those shorts without terrifying the populace with my thighs.”

  “Fine, my thighs in exchange for your boobs.”

  “Deal.” We both laugh, having made this deal numerous times before.

  We take Iris’s car because I don’t trust Henry to drive me home, and I have a feeling she might go off with him later. So I’ll drive hers back. I’d take my Vespa, but Iris doesn’t like to drive to parties alone, and frankly, I’d get helmet head if I did.

  Iris taps nervously on her steering wheel as we drive along listening to Adele.

  “Why are you so worked up?” I finally ask. “More so than usual, I mean?”

  Her eyes are wide as she glances at me. “No reason.” And then she turns down a street.

  Frat houses line the block. “Iris! You said this was an off-campus party.”

  But it’s clearly one of Henry’s horrible team bashes. Which involves beer bongs, guys pissing on the lawns—among other lovely locations—and basic imbecilic behavior. I was suckered into going to one once before and vowed never again.

  “Look, I’m sorry, okay?” Her expression is desperate. “But Henry really wanted me to go, and you’ve been moping around the house lately.”

  “I have not been moping!”

  “Staring out the window,” she insists. “Like some tragic Jane Austen heroine.”

&
nbsp; “Austen’s heroines aren’t tragic. They are empowered.”

  “Says you. All those repressed feelings and prideful denials.” Her snub nose wrinkles. “Pathetic. Just own your emotions already.”

  “Stop trying to change the subject. You kept this from me on purpose. Not cool.”

  Iris sighs as she pulls up in front of a big old colonial that’s lit up like summer. People spill from the open door, and a girl, laughing manically, tumbles onto the lawn in a pile of limbs.

  We both wince before Iris lifts her pleading eyes to me. “I just didn’t think you’d come if I told you.” She clutches my arm, and her hand is cold. “Forgive me, Banana?”

  “You should have taken George.” George is Iris’s twin and my other best friend. He usually goes to these parties with her, watching over his little sister while simultaneously hitting on all available women. It works for them. “Where is he, anyway?” I grumble.

  “He says he’s got a headache.” Iris’s mouth flattens in annoyance.

  “Suspect.” George never gets sick. He’s practically inhuman that way.

  Iris pulls out her lipstick and quickly reapplies while glancing in the review mirror. “That’s what I said.” Her words are muffled as she stretches her lips to get a good coat of glossy red over them. “But what could I do?”

  “Not torture me?”

  With neat efficiency, she caps the lipstick and plops it into her purse. “Well, where’s the fun in that?” Her eyes sparkle in the low light of the car. “Besides, maybe you’ll see someone you like.”

  “Iris…” My warning glare is lost on her because she’s already jumping out of the car with surprising sprightliness, considering her heels. I follow, knowing I’ll regret it.

  IT’S FRIDAY NIGHT, and I’m tired. My body hurts from a brutal practice. Not much difference from any other day, only I haven’t been sleeping well and it’s wearing on me. A certain redhead occupies my thoughts to a sleep-depriving degree. When I close my eyes, I picture her. Hell, I picture her with my eyes open too.

  Mostly, I think of her in profile because that’s what I see when I watch her in class. The smooth arch of her graceful jaw, the rounded crest of her cheek that plumps when she smiles, the small, delicate shell of her ear. Curves. Anna is endless curves.

  In my mind, I map the pale column of her neck down to where it swoops out to one of her best curves: her breasts. Large. Fuller on the bottom so they give the illusion of pointing upward, and more than enough to fill my hands. Soft. I know they will be.

  I’m just enough of a shit that I long for the days when our classroom gets chilly and she wears one of those cotton shirts that does nothing to hide the points of her nipples pushing against the fabric. Damn, but that sight never fails to make me hard. I’m fairly dying for the chance to peel off her shirt and expose those nipples that so readily stiffen. I want to know their color, their exact size and texture. She’s fair-skinned, so they might be pale pink, but I’ve seen the shadows those sweet buds make beneath her white shirts, and I suspect they’re a nice tawny rose that will go darker when sucked.

  Yeah, I’m a sick bastard. But I doubt any guy would blame me. And I can’t help myself. When I’m not thinking about her breasts, or the narrow dip of her waist and the rounded curve of her fine ass, I’m thinking about her voice, that syrup-thick southern drawl that makes my skin prickle. I’m in the South now. Accents like hers surround me on a daily basis. Why it is that her voice affects me more than others, I don’t know. Nor do I care. She talks and I want to listen. Endlessly.

  I’ve got it bad. Bad enough to be sporting semi-wood in the middle of a crowded room. And she’s not even here.

  I take a sip of water, not really listening to the chatter around me. What does she do on her nights off? Frequent clubs? Hang out at a coffee house and chastise unsuspecting men on the unfairness of the glass ceiling? That makes me smile. I love the way her pert nose scrunches up when she’s irritated and her wide green eyes narrow into slits. Like she won’t hesitate to kick someone’s ass if she thinks they deserve it. Totally hot.

  The water I’m drinking is warm and tastes of plastic. I set the bottle down harder than necessary. An antsy, irritable feeling grows within me. I don’t want to be here. I’ve heard all these stories and jokes a thousand times before. And while I love my guys, I’m bored. I want to hunt down Anna Jones, rattle her cage, and see what she throws at me. But I don’t know where to start looking. And it pisses me off.

  I’m about to tell Gray that I’ll see him tomorrow, maybe hit the sack in an effort to at least try to get some needed sleep, when I feel a familiar tightening in my groin and along my back.

  I have no explanation for how or why it is that I know when she’s near. I just do. Like a magnet to metal, my body swivels and my head lifts. And there she is.

  Everything stops. My heart in my chest. My brain function. Fuck me sideways. Just someone stick a fork in me. I’m done. She isn’t in her standard t-shirt and jeans, or one of her soft little sweaters. She’s in some strappy top that barely contains her breasts, those creamy, beautiful breasts that bounce and jiggle with each step she takes. Those breasts are going to be the death of me. I’m afraid I’ve audibly groaned.

  And damn if I’m not the only one who’s noticed her. Too many eyes are glued to her chest. My hands clench. I’m no different than them, maybe worse, because I’ve made a habit of staring at her. But I’m itching to smack heads, send those eyes forward and off of her. I also have the sudden urge to whip off my shirt and tuck her into it.

  She makes her way farther into the room, and I see the skirt. A swishy black thing that clings and sways around her pale thighs. Strong yet soft thighs that I know would feel so good parting for me, that would wrap me up and hold me tight. Je-sus.

  A frown mars her face, drawing her auburn brows close and pinching her lips. If there is anything I love more about her than her breasts, it’s her lips. Deep pink and plump, those lips entrance me. Lips I’ve wanted to kiss since I first laid eyes on them.

  She isn’t happy to be here. And she scowls back at a pair of girls who look at her as if she’s an intruder. I know those girls. Sports groupies. “Cock Jugglers” are what Gray calls them. And though it’s crude, it’s fitting. They’ve serviced more than half the team. Ugly experience has taught me to keep far away from them. I don’t like the smirks they’re giving Anna. She shouldn’t be here. We shouldn’t. I want to take her out of here and just drive somewhere. Maybe to that coffee house in my imagination. I’d be happy to have her lecture me on all the ways I annoy her.

  Her eyes scan the room as if seeking a way out.

  Look this way, I tell her in my head. Look at me. Give me those wide, green eyes. Lock them on to me with that intensity I feel down to my bones.

  Look at me.

  Look at me.

  As if she hears me, her pale shoulders tense, and my body seizes with hot anticipation. Her long lashes sweep upward and, bam, those eyes find mine. It’s like being blindsided, only heat and breathless pleasure overwhelms me instead of pain.

  Her full lips part as if she’s taking a shocked breath, and I find myself doing the same. Jesus, I want her. She watches me, a mixture of anxiety and raw excitement gleaming in her eyes. I need to find a way to erase that anxiety. I need to know her better. Nothing on earth is stopping me from going to her.

  Adrenaline rushes through my veins and my heart rate increases. Game on.

  INSIDE THE HOUSE is just as I feared. Packed, hot, and loud. Guys appear to make it their sole purpose to shout out to one another. Inane music is pulsing through the speakers and bouncing off the walls.

  Eyes follow me as I walk by. I don’t belong. They know it. I know it. Girls frown as if trying to figure out why I am here and who invited me, and guys take long looks at my boobs. I’m now cursing my choice of top. And Iris.

  Iris, who darts like a minnow through the crowd in her quest to find Henry. The instant she does, he pulls her in and sticks
his tongue down her throat. His hands grab her ass to haul her in closer.

  Yeah. I don’t have any desire to stand next to them now. My only refuge is to find a beer and a corner to nurse it in. Because of my three-inch boot heels, I hover at 5’10.” High enough to see over most other girls’ heads. High enough that when I move into another room, I instantly spot him. And he’s looking directly at me.

  Drew Baylor.

  Of course. I am now officially going to kill Iris.

  I want to look away, but I can’t. I never can when it comes to him. His mouth hangs open slightly, as if he’s shocked to see me here, which makes two of us; I’m shocked to be here. But then, as if it dawns on him that it’s really me and not a nightmare, his lips quirk up at the corners and a glint comes into his eyes.

  I wonder if all my happy parts are somehow connected to his smile because they flare at that expression, going warm and tingly. Which annoys the hell out of me.

  Then he moves, walking away from the group of people surrounding him without a backward glance.

  Disabled as I am by my uncooperative body, I stand unmoving as he comes for me. His big body cuts through the crowd like a blade. God damn, but he looks fine, his long striding legs encased in worn and faded jeans that hug his thick thighs. His moss brown t-shirt clings to his chest like a love song, highlighting the breadth of his shoulders and the leanness of his waist.

  In a room filled with boys, Drew is a man here. Bigger, stronger, and just more. In an odd way, he doesn’t belong here either. But the difference is they want him to belong.

  His eyes stay locked with mine the whole time. It’s unnerving. And enough to make my toes curl in my beloved Vogs.