Page 13 of Sweet Ache (Driven 6)
Thank fuck I’ve never lost. The few tats I have are for a reason, a reminder of my life’s lessons in some abstract way or another—not because I lost some dumb-ass bet like they all have.
He glares at me, still cross over it. “All I’m saying is that if we’re betting, then I want proof this time that you sleep with her.”
“Sure thing. Hop on in with us if you’re that desperate for proof,” I offer without any conviction.
“Perfect.”
I snap my head over at him as we stop for a beat in the auditorium’s foyer to finish our conversation. “Fuck no. I was joking!”
And it’s not that we haven’t done something like that before—two of us with one or a few more girls. A tour bus is only so big and there’s only so much time you can kill playing Halo or Guitar Hero.
“I know you were but my bet, my rules. I want proof. And it has to be done by the last day of the seminar.” He raises his eyebrows before slipping his own sunglasses on, smarmy smile in place.
“Piece of cake,” I say as I glance out the windows to where a small crowd is gathered past where Axe and his guys stand, waiting for autographs and pictures.
“I want in on the action with the little hellcat. I’m there or there’s no proof and you, my boy, finally get a goddamn pansy-ass heart on your pretty-boy skin.”
And therein lies his motive. He thinks I’ll back down, afraid to lose and finally get inked with the stupid image we all decided was our band tradition over ten years ago … when we were young and dumb.
I sigh and just shake my head. Maybe it’s the need to prove I can get the girl and avoid an idiotic, meaningless tattoo. Or maybe it’s because I really want to figure her out, understand why those golden eyes and long legs of hers are still on my mind. Why I keep wondering if she’s really as feisty in bed as she is out of it.
Regardless, the die is cast. And I’ll just have to hope I’m not revisiting the young and dumb phase with this decision.
“You’re on, Vinny boy!” I say as I push open the doors with gusto. Immediately excited screams, the soundtrack of my life this past year, fill the air around us.
Chapter 4
QUINLAN
The seminar has been over for thirty minutes. So why am I still sitting in my car, forehead pressed against the steering wheel, and mind going a million miles an hour as I try to process the riot of emotions coursing through me? I’m always even keeled. I may have a hot temper, definitely have a smart mouth, but I’m always able to process my thoughts and respond intelligently.
So why in the hell do I feel like a flustered mess who knows I definitely made an ass out of myself in that stupid lecture with Hawkin?
And why do I even care?
I groan out in frustration knowing full well the mistake I made.
How I told Hawkin I was his TA when I have no desire to see him again. My plans were to hoof it across campus back to Carla’s office and tell her no way in hell I was going back—so why am I sitting in my car instead?
And why did I give the upper hand I battled for away so easily with that stupid parting statement? I basically implied I’ll be sitting here next week with bells on waiting to assist him in any way possible.
Now I’m just being dramatic.
I groan in frustration because I damn well know that I made a mental slip with my comment, but I’m pretty damn sure parts of me secretly wanted the chance to assist him in all sorts of ways.
I’m so frustrated with myself, especially since my mind won’t stop envisioning him, smirk on his lips, challenge in his eyes, or the rough edge to his pretty-boy looks. I swore off men. Told myself I needed a break, that I needed to focus on my thesis rather than getting hurt again, so why am I sitting here thinking about him? I stare at the ceiling for a moment in an attempt to convince myself that there’s no shame in being attracted to him, in wondering about the sound of his voice and if he talks dirty in bed. None of that matters because he’s an asshole and I may be drawn to the bad boys but they are not mutually exclusive.
Acknowledging that he gets me hot and bothered doesn’t mean that I still can’t drop the class.
Time to pull on my big-girl panties and go tell Carla I can’t do this. Save yourself from yourself.
Pep talk in place I put my hand on the handle of the car door and look up before I open it to
see Hawkin and his friend whose seat I took walking about twenty feet in front of me down the row of cars. My breath hitches and I tell myself it’s just because I’m surprised at seeing him there.
And of course I sit and stare, observe without him knowing. Take in the faded jeans worn in all the right places, the black T-shirt tight on his biceps with a Rolling Stones emblem on the front, and the black combat boots. I watch him push the brown hair off his forehead and smile that lopsided smirk that makes parts within me clench that shouldn’t be clenching.
He throws his head back and laughs, obviously at ease with the guy who accompanied him to the lecture. I take a closer look at his friend, as Hawke’s physical presence is far enough removed that I can pay attention to something other than him. Then my thoughts snap into line and I recall vague tabloid images of the band to realize that it’s Vincent Jennings, Bent’s bassist.
