In Ruins (8 page)

A cacophony of hysterical laughter erupts, and Chelsea tosses some beer at him. She sneers some mumbled words and crosses her arms over her chest.

“Never have I ever had a threesome!” Lily shouts.

Some people drink, some don't. I should take a sip, but instead I just look at Carl. And then my heart stops beating as she slowly raises her bottle upwards.

I feel it. The Hulk. He's bursting within me, shredding his clothing and growling with rage. Suddenly I'm breathing so hard my chest is heaving. My nostrils flare and I don't blink as the small glass rim touches her bottom lip. And then before she tips her bottle to drink, she brings it right back down to her lap and her sweet, pink, devious little mouth curls into a smirk, emerald eyes alight with mischief.

I am practically shaking with relief and residual anger as I narrow my eyes at her.
Well-played, Princess
. But no matter how many times my head tells my body she was just fucking with me, I am still completely on edge. Fortunately people are still distracted by Dave and Chelsea's continued arguing.

But whoever's turn it is—I'm no longer paying attention—ignores them and continues the game. “Never have I ever fucked anyone at this party.”

Almost everyone drinks, and I try to stop myself, but my gaze automatically slides over to Carl, who's fucking with me again, lifting the bottle to her lips. But this time, when it reaches its destination, she tips it up and takes a drink.

Motherfucker
.

I watch in rapt horror as her delicate neck moves with her swallow.
She took a drink
.

She's not just fucking with me this time. The green monster is back, and he is fucking livid.
Who
?
Who the fuck has Carl fucked?

A small commotion unfolds in my peripheral as Chelsea storms off and Lily and Sarah jump up to go after her, Cap halfheartedly censuring Dave for whatever it is he must have said.

I'm standing before I even realize it, and I stalk over to Carl's spot on the couch. She stands to face me, a little nervous and a little confused. Vaguely I'm aware that I have no right to my reaction—that she's not mine and she can fuck who she likes. Not to mention she very well may have fucked this person before we ever even did anything. But I can't help the way I feel. It's visceral. It's crawling through my veins, tensing my muscles and boiling my blood.

I don't even think—I grab hold of Carl's elbow and march her out of the room.

“Tucker?” she asks, but she doesn't try to get away from me. “Tucker, what the hell do you think you're doing?” she hisses.

I pull her past the empty kitchen and into the laundry room. I slam the door shut behind us and she yanks her arm from my grip. I close my eyes and silently count to ten, trying to take deep breaths.

“How dare you drag me in here like a goddamn Neanderthal!” she chides.

She's right. I am a Neanderthal right now. But I can't fucking help it.

“Who?”
I demand.

She blinks her pretty jade eyes at me, thin brows furrowed like she really has no idea what I'm asking her.

“You think you're real cute, don't you? Fucking with my head like that…”

“Tucker—”

“Such a little smartass.” But that's also what I find irresistible. That she challenges me. Teases me the way I've always teased her. She knew that'd get me riled up.

“Who at this party have you fucked?” I practically snarl.

More confusion. “Seriously?”

Do I seem like I'm fucking kidding?

And then her confusion falls away, her features rearranging into their trademark defiance. She puffs out her chest in challenge, but it only draws my attention to her perfect, perky tits in that tight, low-cut tank top of hers. “You think that's your business, Tucker?” she asks, goading me.

And goad me it does. I take another deep breath. I have no right to be so angry at the fact that she's fucked someone I know, but I am. But there's nothing I can do about that now. I can't change the past, but I can make damn sure she doesn't want to fuck anyone else again. And I've never felt more determined to achieve anything in my life. The raging tension shifts lower in my body, my heated blood traveling south until my dick is harder than it's ever been, desperate to reclaim her.

I stalk toward her and she answers with a slow retreat until I have her backed against the door. I run my fingers down her soft, delicate throat, and let them trail lower over her tempting cleavage.

“You let him touch you, Princess?” My voice is low and hoarse.

Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, and she nods.

I don't let her admission anger me more. Instead, I let it fuel me.

I take another step until my body holds hers flush against the door, until I can feel her soft tits against my chest. She gasps, and I know she can feel how hard I am for her, how much she makes me ache. Slowly I lean down and hold my face barely an inch from hers until she can only breathe my exhales, until her scent is the only air I know.

Her breathing deepens and her eyes cloud with want, molten green that I fight not to lose myself in.
God
, she's just too beautiful. I mean to tease her longer, but I can't stop myself, I slam my mouth against hers—I don't even go slow. But it doesn't matter, she matches my desperation as I nibble and suck on her plump lips. Her arms fly around my neck and she burrows her fingers into my hair and tugs.
Fuck
it feels good. My hands close around her small waist, so tiny I can almost touch both thumbs and middle fingers.

I pull back from my kiss, but leave my mouth hovering over hers, my hands exploring. “Tell me, did you let him kiss you like that?” I ask her.

“Yes,” she says, and then pulls my head back to hers, pushing her tongue into my mouth.

I groan, and let myself go. I fucking consume her, drunk on the sweet taste of her, until I can't wait another second. I need to be inside her. I grab her ass and squeeze and she grinds her hips against me.
Fuck, yes.

I slide my hands down to the backs of her thighs and lift, guiding her legs around me, and she locks her ankles at the small of my back. I set her down on the washing machine, wasting no time before I'm peeling off her tank top. She's equally impatient with my shirt. Her skirt rides up, and suddenly my jeans are our worst enemy.
Fuck you, jeans
.

We both attack them together, her tearing at my belt and me at my fly until my raging erection is held captive by only my boxer briefs. I force myself to calm down to make sure she's ready for me. I remember how tight she is from our first time, and the last thing I want is to hurt her. I stroke the small triangle of thin lace between her thighs, high on male pride to discover they're soaked.
God I want to taste that.

But I can't wait for that right now. I slip my fingers beneath the fabric and trace them down her center until I push one, then two easily inside her. Carl gasps as I stretch her, her eyes glazed with lust.
Yes
. She's beyond ready. I band an arm around her hips and haul her to the edge of the machine before shoving my underwear down. My dick bursts free, reaching for her, pointing to exactly what it wants like the goddamn needle on a compass.

I take her mouth again, showing her how much I want her, how crazy she makes me. “Did he make you this wet, Princess?” I growl.

“Yes,” she moans, driving me even madder.

“I'm going to make you come so hard you forget his fucking name,” I promise her. “I'm going to make you forget
your
name,” and then I pull her panties aside and line myself up, ready to make good.

“Tucker,” she pants. “Condom.”

I freeze.
Fuck
.

I almost just took her bare.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I have never forgotten a condom in my life.

“You make me crazy,” I tell her, and I grab my wallet from the back pocket of my jeans, still riding low on my thighs, and I retrieve a condom.

I have it on a second later, and a second after that, I'm inside her.

I groan, long and strangled, but it doesn't drown out her responding moan—a brilliant symphony of answering pleasure.
Why is she so fucking tight? Why does she feel better than anything I've ever known?

God
, I want to
live
in here.

I kiss her, hard and deep, and I take her body with all the determination of a man desperate to be the only one she ever wants touching her like this again. Her legs tighten around me like a vise, like she wants to keep me inside of her, as if there's anywhere else I would ever want to be.

“Oh, God, Tuck,” she whimpers, throwing her head back, soft blond hair flying everywhere.

That's fucking right
. “Again, Princess. Say my name again,” I demand.

“
Tu-ck
.” This time it's a broken gasp, and I can feel her body tightening around me as her hips meet mine, thrust for thrust. She's close, and I feel like a goddamn king.

“Yes, baby, it's fucking
me
inside you.
Me
making you moan.
My
dick about to make you fucking explode,” I growl.

I suck on the skin of her throat, and she whimpers again. My girl likes my dirty words. But I like the way her body grips mine in response even more, and I won't be able to hold myself back much longer.

“Give it to me, Princess,” I order her. “Let me fucking
feel
you.”

I reach my hand between us to where I'm ramming myself inside her, and I stroke her with my thumb.

Carl sighs a choked-out version of my name, and I kiss her, swallowing her moans so no one will hear her as she obeys my command. She spasms around me and it's all I can take. I come like a goddamn freight train, buried as deep as she can take me, gagging myself against her throat.

Our heavy breaths fill the room as we both gasp for air. I stay there, holding her to me, holding myself inside her, and I brush soft, lazy kisses under her jaw and along the column of her neck. I feel her pulse race against my lips, and I wait for it to calm before I disentangle myself from her.

Carl sighs a sound of pure satisfaction and I want to beat my chest like the Neanderthal she accused me of being. She is my perfect fantasy, reclined on the washing machine with her skirt hiked up and panties displaced, tits still heaving as she catches her breath, golden hair loose and disheveled. I avert my gaze before I need to take her all over again.

“Tell me, Princess, anyone ever make you come like that but me?” I ask huskily.

Carl's swollen lips twist up into a small, knowing smile, her eyes a little bemused, like I'm missing something. “No, Tucker,” she breathes.

Fuck. Yes
.

I lean down to kiss her again.

We both startle when we hear Cap calling for me, probably from somewhere in the kitchen. I glance at my watch and realize he probably wants to leave and he's my ride. Shit.

“It's okay,” Carl murmurs. “Go.”

But I don't want to go. Especially after I had to run out of bed the last time in a move that's haunted me for months. And I don't want to leave the place where she admitted I'm the only one who's ever made her feel that good.

Cap calls again and I tense.

Carl runs her fingertips along my jaw, lightly scratching my stubble, and it feels so damn good. “It's okay. Go. I need to go, too.”

I let out a long-winded sigh and help her down from the washer, and we both find our shirts and fix ourselves.

“Tuck!” Cap calls again, closer this time. I grit my teeth, silently pledging to get him back for this one day.

“You go first, I'll wait a few minutes,” Carl suggests.

I ignore the dull sting at the fact that she doesn't want anyone to know she was with me. Because I want to scream it from the goddamn rooftops. But I can't. So I place one more kiss on her forehead and turn to leave.

“Tucker—” Carl stops me and I turn back. Her mouth curves into a mischievous smile and her eyes shine with mirth, twinkling in the dim moonlight streaming in from the room's only window.

Beautiful
.

“There's only one guy at this party I've ever slept with,” she murmurs in a soft confession.

I furrow my brow, confused, but Carl's eyes are laughing at me. And then my brain—the one that apparently shut down when she played me into thinking she'd had a threesome—starts functioning again.

She meant me
.

When she drank to admit she'd fucked someone at this party. She. Meant. Me.

The guy she let touch her.

Kiss her.

Who made her wet.

All me.

My chest swells and I'm on her again, kissing her, and she's kissing me back, laughing her sweet, triumphant laugh. I pull away and shake my head. I don't say anything, but my look promises payback.

The door swings open and the light flashes on, blinding me with its sudden glare. I turn, shielding Carl, before I remember we're already decent.

Cap raises his eyebrows and Carl gives me a little push to encourage me to go, and I feel a strange longing as I leave that laundry room. I fucking love that laundry room.

Present Day

I had the dream again last night. I haven't had it in a long time, and today I feel lethargic and unsettled. Because it isn't a dream at all. You get to wake up from dreams. This is a memory.

Back in my dorm, I make my way to the bathroom and splash some cool water on my face. I hate that dream. That memory. It always stays with me for days. Days where I am eight years old again, helpless, lost in the destructive riptide of my parents' selfish choices. Selfish choices that, I would learn a few years later, didn't even end that fateful morning.

Some things did end that morning, though; namely my childhood as I'd known it for all of its eight happy years.

The thing about kids is they tend to view their parents as superhuman. Infallible. Even though their naïve little minds can often pick up on evidence to the contrary, it rarely changes their overall perception. It takes something earth-shattering to do that. Of course, that's exactly what I got.

Strangely enough, for me, it wasn't even my father's arrest. It was after. It was begging my mom to drive us to the police station, to go get him, only to be told she knows what she's doing, to trust her, and that
everything will be okay
. It was being told we couldn't go pick him up after he posted bail because no one could see us with him there. He didn't even come home. He had to go to the apartment he used to keep near his office in Manhattan for two days before he could ditch the news cameras and come home. And still, my mother promised she knew what was best. Even when they would lock themselves in their master bedroom suite for days at a time, talking in hushed voices, heatedly arguing, my mother's sobs echoing through the walls, I continued to believe her. And why wouldn't I? They're my parents; why wouldn't they have known what was best?

But without a trial it was less than a year before my father was reporting for his voluntary surrender, and even at nine years old I knew that spending the next fifteen years without him wasn't what was
best
. Certainly it wasn't what was best for
me.

That was about when I stopped believing that other people—even my parents—could possibly know what's best for me better than I do. When I realized the danger in letting others call the shots.

The memories weigh me down with resentment, and I curse that damn dream once again.

After a long day of classes I just want to fall down onto my bed and take a nap. I want this feeling to go away. But I can't, because tonight we have our first group meeting about the campaign project for Zayne's class, and for the second time today, I will have to see Tucker.

His presence makes the aftereffects of my dream sharpen and linger, makes the shame and guilt wear me down even more. I almost consider e-mailing them all to tell them I'm not feeling well, but I don't, because I may be a lot of things, but I'm not a coward.

And besides, there's too much riding on this project, and I'm determined to win the competition so I can land that internship. Ever since Zayne's announcement, I've grown more and more convinced that it's my opportunity to show the world—and myself—that I can achieve whatever dream I choose, by virtue of nothing more than some talent and good old work ethic. That I possess both, and I can employ them to forge the future I want for myself—one worlds away from the one my father chose.

The sky has spent the entire day overcast in charcoals and slates in a fitting reflection of my mood, but it only begins to weep a light drizzle after I leave my dorm building to go meet the group. The rain waits to grow heavier until I've gone too far to go back for an umbrella, so I push my hood over my hair and rush through the throngs of students also hurrying to their destinations.

Tucker is the last to show up at the student center, and we're all already sitting around the table, tablets out, when he saunters in, brushing the water from his hair with his fingers. He avoids eye contact as he takes the seat opposite me.

“Hi, Tucker.” Julia smiles, tucking her hair—also damp—behind her ear.

Yeah, he has that effect.

I stare at the blank note page on my tablet as Tucker murmurs a general hello. Julia tries to engage him in small talk but he seems in no mood for it and changes the subject back to the project. Our fourth group member, Manny, leads the discussion while Julia makes suggestions. Tucker seems as distracted as I am, both of us contributing minimally and blindly agreeing to almost everything. I catch him watching me with vague disquiet, and I wonder if he can read my distress, my exhaustion.

I excuse myself to go to the bathroom and add some concealer to the circles under my eyes. I don't have blush on me, so I pinch my cheeks a little to bring some color to the surface. I avoid Tucker's gaze when I return, something I've become rather skilled at.

“So Tuck did some research on a few of the organizations on the list. He made some notes on their recent outreach campaigns and messages and stuff,” Julia fills me in.

Tuck
. My eyes skate his way before I can stop myself, but he's staring at his phone. I guess he participates just fine when I'm not around, and I wonder again why he stopped me from switching groups. His words from last week ricochet in my head, wounding as ever, tearing through my chest like shrapnel.
We're nothing. We never were
.

“That's good,” I murmur without looking up, my voice soft and unfamiliar.

“I'll e-mail it out,” Tuck mutters to no one in particular.

“Okay, cool,” Manny says. “You do that, and I'll look some things up, and we can brainstorm more next time.”

We all pack up our things, except Tucker, who only has his phone out.

“So, Tuck, I hear there's another party at the lax house tomorrow night…” Julia tosses her hair behind her shoulder.

Tucker looks up briefly from his phone and raises his eyebrows. “That's what they tell me.”

He always used to be such a flirt, even when he didn't mean anything by it. It was just his way of being friendly to girls, which is why I didn't take him seriously back when he first started hitting on me. But he's different now. It's like my lies have changed him in some palpable way, and he's erected a wall around a fundamental part of his nature, effectively caging in his playful spirit. It's as if he's lost a piece of himself—or I've robbed him of it—and it makes me impossibly sadder. God knows I don't want him flirting with Julia, or any girl really, but I never wanted him to be anything other than the Tucker Green I've adored since childhood. That was the guy I fell for, after all.

“You gonna be there?” Julia asks.

“I do live there,” Tucker says with a vague hint of sarcasm, but he tries on a conciliatory smile to soften it up. And it works; Julia blushes the color of a freaking tomato.

I mutter something about needing to study for statistics and head out of the student center.

“Carl.”

I freeze in place, not daring to turn, not sure if the low rumble of my name in his voice was even real, or if I imagined it. I close my eyes instead, trying to steady my racing heart. Tucker's huge hand comes down onto my shoulder for no more than a microsecond before he thinks better of blessing me with his touch, retracting it like I'm contaminated or something.

Toxic
.

I still don't turn, but I peek back over my shoulder. Tucker comes around to face me, glaring with army green eyes I could once read so well. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Strangely his question is harsher than his tone, which is flat and low, and as inscrutable as his glare.

Still, his words make me flinch like he's slapped me. But mostly I'm puzzled, because he knows full well what's wrong with me, but I don't know why he suddenly wants to discuss it here. “What do you m-mean?” I stammer the last word. Freaking
stammer
. I've never stammered in my life.

“Do you not give a fuck about our grade?” A slight hint of frustration sneaks into his voice.

“What?” I breathe. “Of course I do.”

I don't miss the clench of his jaw. “You think you might want to contribute something next time?” he spits.

My back straightens. If there's any way to get me on the offense, it's to make me feel attacked. “You're telling me to
contribute
? Because you performed a few Google searches? So, what? Now you're in charge of the team?”

Tucker's eyes narrow and he grits his teeth, biting back whatever scathing retort is on his tongue. “No, Carleigh,” he says carefully, like I'm obtuse.
Carleigh
. “But no one is counting on
me
or my
keen observations
to pull this project off. In case you forgot, all of our grades are on the line here.”

Keen observations
. He's making fun of Zayne's praise from one of our first classes. But I don't even blame him. I just got done psyching myself up to win that internship, and so far I'm not even pulling my weight to get a passing grade. So much for
professionalism
. But locked in a battle with Tucker, no matter how petty, it simply isn't in my nature to surrender. At the same time I'm just too exhausted to argue.

“Are you sick?” he asks suddenly, his brow furrowing in a parody of concern.

I blink at him. “What?”

“You're all out of it. You were out of it in class this morning, too.”

And what can I say? That I haven't slept? That I dreamed about my dad and now I feel like complete shit? That's the last thing I would ever bring up to him.

“Maybe I'm
out of it
because I was just out all night partying.” My shrug is so strained that instead of the indifference I was going for, I'm sure it has a decidedly different effect. But still I don't back down. “And don't worry about me
contributing
to the project. If you really doubt I'm going to win that competition and land that internship, then you were right after all. You
don't
know me. And you know what? What if I
am
sick? Why should you care either way? I'm just a
stranger
, remember?” The hurt his words have caused me drip from my tone in obvious bitterness.