Palm South University Season 1 Omnibus (25 page)

When the cab finally pulls up to the bar, I toss two twenties over the seat and bolt for the door. Jarrett sees me before I even make it to the entrance. I’m not sure if it’s because he knows me or just because he knows my body but as soon as his eyes meet mine, he drops the glass he’s cleaning. Planting one hand hard on the bar, he balances himself and jumps up and over the bar. He strides toward me purposefully and tosses the small white bar towel behind him just in time to catch me as I jump into his arms and wrap my legs around him, crashing my mouth down on his.

“Are you finally done with those little boys?” His voice is low, husky, needy.

I kiss him harder, fisting his shirt in my hands and not giving two fucks if anyone is watching us. “I’m done with everyone.”

Jarrett doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t poke and prod to get me to talk to him. He doesn’t tell anyone inside the bar that he’s leaving or that he’ll be right back. He just carries me back out the door, across the parking lot, and out to the beach. Dropping me down onto one of the cushioned beach chairs owned by the bar, he rips his board shorts down to his ankles and pushes my short, mint green dress up to my hips. He wastes no time, tearing a condom wrapper open with his teeth and rolling it down over his massive cock before burying himself inside me.

And then, everything else is lost. Jarrett’s hands and mouth completely own me. They take me down, pull me under, push me deep into the earth until there’s nothing and no one left but me and him.

Just the way I like it.

I CAN’T REMEMBER the last time I had a hangover, but my eyes aren’t even open yet and my head is hammering away in my skull. It’s safe to say I have one now. Groaning, I squeeze my eyes shut tighter and pull the fluffy, light blue covers up and over my head. When they’re jerked back, I bolt upright.

What the hell?

Slowly craning my neck to the side, I squeak and scurry from the bed, taking the covers with me and quickly wrapping them around my chest.

“Fuck, Josh, stop messing around!” Clinton sprawls out, naked as the day he was born, stretching his legs and wiggling his toes. I swallow as the tight muscles of his abdomen ebb and flow with the movement. His dark skin is a vast contrast against my cream sheets and my eyes can’t help but fall to the cut V that leads right down to another part of his body coming to attention this morning. When his eyes open and he finds me cowering in the corner and staring at him wide-eyed, he blanches. “Erin?”

“Bear.”

We just stare at each other for a moment in disbelief. Slowly, our eyes scan my room, surveying his clothes in a pile on the floor and my dress thrown over the back of my desk chair. Ashlei’s bed is still made from the day before, which means she probably didn’t come home at all.

Which also means I was alone with Bear all night.

As if I just emerged from beneath a salty wave, my eyes clear and I remember in blurry, yet surprisingly vivid details what happened after semi-formal last night.

I snuck Clinton inside. We made out. He ripped my dress off. There was some sort of talk about stopping that neither of us listened to. And we had sex.

We totally,
totally
had sex.

“Did we?”

I nod. “Uh, yep.”

Clinton’s brows furrow and he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Well, shit.”

All at once, I spring into action, gathering his clothes off the floor and shoving them toward him before pulling on a pair of shorts and sleep shirt to cover my still-naked body. “You have to get out of here. Mom Cindy is going freak out if she finds you here.” I shake my head, cracking my door open just enough to peek down the hall before turning back to Clinton. “Oh my God. I can’t believe this happened.”

“Relax,” he says groggily, pulling on his last dress shoe. He left the belt off his slacks and his white dress shirt is unbuttoned at the top. With his tie and jacket in one hand, he moves toward the door where I’m still standing. “It’s fine. We had a few drinks and then had a little fun. No harm, no foul, right?”

My heart is beating rapidly against my rib cage and I can’t seem to find enough breath even though I know I’m inhaling and exhaling over and over again. Skyler would probably kill me if she found out this happened. And the other girls would totally judge. It’s
Clinton
we’re talking about here. Plus, I’m trying to move up in the sorority – I can’t do that if word gets out that I’m sneaking boys into the house.

“Bear… we can’t…”

“I know. I won’t say anything.”

“Like,
no one
can find out.”

“Erin, it’s fine,” he assures me again. Holding up two fingers, he cocks a brow. “No one hears a peep about it. Scout’s honor. Okay?”

I nod. “Okay. I won’t tell anyone either.”

At that, Clinton smirks. “Obviously.”

Placing his free hand on the door handle, Clinton glances back at the bed and it’s as if he remembers what happened, too, because he smiles a little broader and throws me a wink before disappearing down the hall. Forcing the door shut behind him, I press my back against it and let out a mixture of a moan and a sigh, shaking my head.

That did
not
just happen.

I can feel myself hyperventilating. I don’t have control of this situation. I
clearly
didn’t have control of anything last night. I need something I can exercise power over and fast. Right now I’m spinning, losing balance, and this is not me. This is not Erin Xander.

The last time I let myself lose control of my emotions and actions was the summer before my senior year of high school. It was the summer I visited my grandparents in Kansas and in a way, I found myself in those short two months – but I also lost myself, too. I shiver, the blue eyes of a boy I haven’t thought about in a long time sneaking up on me out of nowhere. I vowed after that shit show that I would always have a plan and more than that – I would always stick to said plan.

Hooking up with Clinton was
not
in my plan.

Quickly, I cross the room and rip my laptop from its power cord before falling back onto my bed. Before I can process it, I’m feverishly typing out my essay for my Recruitment Chair application. I was hesitant about applying, since usually executive positions are reserved for seniors, but I’m too impatient to wait around for the presidency and I don’t want a small chair position. I want to lead. I want authority.

More than that, I need it.

As if my morning couldn’t get any worse, my phone rings and my mom’s picturesque face fills the screen. Though her hair is dark unlike my own, I definitely inherited my high cheek bones and chocolate eyes from her. I pray every day that I don’t inherit anything else – especially characteristically.

She’s ensuring my arrival for Thanksgiving, no doubt, especially since they’re hosting their annual dinner at the country club. Just the thought of making small talk with my parents’ friends and listening to Mom and Dad’s incessant pleas for me to find a suitable man make me want to crawl under my bed and die.
If only they knew about last night…

I laugh out loud at that and silence my phone at the same time. I can call her back later, and she will definitely
never
know about last night. I can’t even imagine the lecture I’d get if she ever did find out.

What
is
Bear’s major? Football? Beer? Mind-blowing Sex?

Shit. Did I really just think that?

Typing faster, I set my focus back to the task at hand – on something I have control over. I can’t help what my parents feel about me or take back my actions from last night, but I can take over what will happen when I get back from Thanksgiving.

I’ll be elected Recruitment Chair, ace my finals, party with my sisters and then take off for a European Christmas trip with Kelsey. I had a little too much fun last night, but now it’s back to business.

And, this time, no straying from the plan.

THANKSGIVING IS BY FAR my favorite holiday. For most families, it means turkey dinner, football, and Black Friday shopping. For mine, it means homemade pizza, craft beer, and poker.

Absolute perfection.

Having Clinton with me this year makes it even more special. I was slightly terrified on our drive up, realizing he was going to be walking into a completely different atmosphere than the one at Palm South, but then I realized it’s Clinton – he’s the last one I have to worry about judging me. If anything, it seems like Clinton came from a similar situation – if not a worse one.

I may have never had money or nice things growing up, but I always knew my family loved me.

I’m not sure Clinton can say the same.

That thought wrecks me as I watch him working in the kitchen with my mom. I can tell it’s his first time making a homemade pizza because he’s having trouble with the dough just like I did the first time I made it. I can’t help but chuckle at his determined scowl as his large fingers work against the sticky concoction, not really making any progress at all until Mom jumps in to help. He just grunts and takes a long swig of his IPA.

My parents’ house is small but homey, and I think I love it even more for that. There are family photos on every wall and not one shelf or coffee table is clear of clutter. Mail, magazines, and other odds and ends cover the dining room table and car keys and wallets sit alongside vases and knick-knacks on the mantel. The forest green and cream white colored accents in the living room don’t really match any of the furniture and the kitchen is an explosion of tonight’s dinner ingredients and dishes. The fridge is hidden by mismatched magnets and takeout menus and not one plate matches another in the cabinet. I love my home, and I love Clinton being in it even more.