The Hook Up (Game On Book 1) (28 page)

He walks out with me, which is nice since the building has gone dark, and fairly screams “ideal slasher film location.” When I tell him that, we have a laugh over the idea, even though a shiver crawls along my spine. I’m creeping myself out.

“Though, really,” Dave says lightly, “every venue we work is ideal. Just think of what could go down in the Architecture hall. All that unrelenting glass.” His blond brows wag. “There’s like no place to hide.”

I laugh again. “Stop. Or I’ll never work another night shift again.”

He only grins wider. And mocks a terrible Bella Lugosi accent. “Do not resist. Your nights are mine, Anna Jones.”

“Idiot.”

We’re almost to my scooter when I see him. And my steps slow to a crawl.

Bathed in the brightness of a parking lot light, he’s leaning against the side of a cherry red classic muscle car with thick white racing stripes running down its center. I know enough about cars to identify that it’s a Camaro and it’s in mint condition. Not that it really matters. My eyes are on Drew. And, God, he looks good. Faded jeans hang low on his lean hips. He’s got one leg crossed over the other and his hands stuffed in his pockets, pulling the jeans lower. A pale grey Henley hugs his broad chest and gorgeous arms.

He’s watching me, has been since I noticed him, and that one dimple on his cheek deepens when our eyes meet.

“Oh man, that’s pretty,” breathes Dave at my side.

I’m fairly certain he isn’t talking about the car. I roll my eyes. “Night, Dave.”

He ambles off, muttering under his breath about lucky bitches, as I walk toward Drew. A casual stroll, as if my heart isn’t going ten miles a minute, as if I don’t want to run and jump on him.

A wicked smile curls his lips as I get near. I’m smiling too. I can’t contain it. He just looks so fucking good. There’s a strange buoyancy in my chest. Happiness. I’m so happy to see him, my legs want to go faster. I force a steady pace.

When I’m five feet away, Drew pushes off the car and stands tall. He’s still grinning when I stop in front of him, and his eyes travel over me. I feel that look down to my bones. God, he’s sexy. I don’t usually think of guys in those terms. Sexy sounds false, an adjective better left for advertisers’ use. But Drew is sex on a spoon. I want to slide him into my mouth and savor him.

“He’s gay, you know,” Drew says by way of greeting.

It’s a minor miracle that I know what he’s talking about because I can smell Drew’s clean, tangy scent now. I can feel the warmth of his body, and it’s making me fairly dizzy.

“Considering I’ve met more than a few of Dave’s boyfriends, I’d say, yeah, I know. So you’re warning me, why?”

Drew huffs out a short laugh. “Petty jealousy, Jones. He’s a good guy for walking you out.”

“Mmm.” I look him over. “You win tonight, Baylor?” I’m guessing he did. Even here, far away from the stadium, the faint strains of the school band and laughter drift through the air.

His whole face lights up. “Yeah.”

I can’t help but grin. “Good on you.”

Drew shrugs as though it’s nothing, but he isn’t fooling me. Happiness bounces around him, a bubbly fizz in the dark night. “I did my part.” His gaze roams down my body. “Nice outfit, Jones.”

I’m still in my catering clothes, a white oxford shirt and black knee length skirt. And stupid ballerina flats. I probably look all of twelve.

“You have your uniform,” I say. “I have mine. Why are you smiling like that?” There’s a gleam in his eyes that’s so dirty it makes my heart skip a beat.

“I’m picturing you in my uniform.”

“Because those massive shoulder pads would look sooo sexy.” I make a face.

His tongue runs over the edge of his teeth. “Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of my jersey. God, you’d look hot in my jersey.”

“A jock’s wet dream, I suppose?” I quip, but my breath is a little too fast now. It’s as if I can feel the silky texture of Drew’s big jersey sliding over my bare skin.

“You bet, baby.”

“God.” I roll my eyes and shake my head.

He’s laughing again, a low, rolling sound that warms me inside. Suddenly we’re closer, less than a foot apart. I don’t know if he moved or if I did. I can’t think. He’s so close that heat surges between my legs, and my breasts grow heavy. I’m surrounded by Drew. Again.

“I’ve missed you.” His voice is soft, that special tone that I’ve come to think of as mine. A low intimate sound that fills the space between us. Like we’re in our own world. All I can think about is the last time he used that voice on me.
I want to kiss you, Anna.

And by the way he’s looking at me, his focus going to my lips and his brows drawing tight with intent, I’m guessing he’s thinking about that too. He hasn’t yet touched me, but his strong body leans closer to mine.

A gust of icy wind rushes over the lot, and I shiver. “I don’t know how you can stand it out here without a coat,” I babble. “Aren’t you cold?”

Drew reaches out and grasps the lapels of my secondhand pea coat that’s hanging open to the breeze. His touch is so gentle as he pulls the ends together, that I stand there, throat closed, mouth dry.

“I just played football for four hours.” He doesn’t let my coat go, but holds it, his thumbs slowly rubbing over the wool, his forearms an inch away from my breasts. “If I could get away with it, I wouldn’t be wearing a shirt at all.”

“That would…”—Be wonderful? Yes, please? With sugar on top?—“give the campus police something to talk about over donuts in the morning.”

“Mmm,” he agrees with a lazy rumble, while he tugs just the slightest bit on my coat. I drift closer and his voice drops to a murmur. “The press would have a ball. Drew Baylor shocks all by revealing his nipples.”

He shouldn’t be allowed to say words like ‘nipples’ in public. As if called, mine instantly perk up. His lashes lower, and I know he’s noticed my agitation. I hear his slow inhale.

A steady throb joins the heat between my legs. My chest is so tight now that when he dips his head to graze his lips across my ear, I can’t breathe.

“Did you miss me, Anna?” he whispers.

My hands find their way to his chest, and I press my palms against the dense muscles there. He smells clean, like the shower gel he uses and, underneath it, his natural scent. It’s so familiar to me now I can no longer describe it. I only know I want to draw it deep into my lungs. I want to close my eyes and lean into him. But I keep them open and focus on the golden skin of his throat.

I love that part of his body, the vulnerability of his sensitive skin. I love the little hollows just above his collarbones where his neck dips down to meet his shoulders, and I know that if I press my mouth to that tender spot and suckle it, he’ll give me a helpless, near whimper of sound that he always does when I kiss him there. I almost whimper myself. Did I miss him?

“Yes.”

I can feel him smile against my cheek. “Good.” The tips of his fingers graze under my jaw, just over my racing pulse.

“Is this your car?” I blurt out. Smooth. Either Drew likes to lean on strangers’ cars or I’m the idiot who’s stating the obvious.

Drew draws back a little and glances at it. “Yep.”

“It’s gorgeous.” I’m a wimp. Taking the coward’s way out of Dodge.

His tilted smile is wry. He knows I’m trying to distract him, and it clearly amuses him. But he plays along. Drew turns and lovingly runs his palm over the glossy hood of the car. “This here is Little Red.”

“Little Red,” I repeat. It makes me think of what he called me the first time we talked: Big Red. The moment I decided to hate him. And I wonder how it is that I’m here now. How has this happened? Me wanting him more than my next breath. Me needing him more than I’ve ever needed anyone.

Perhaps he feels my tension, because he eyes me carefully. “It’s a term of affection, you know,” he says in a low voice. “Anyway, I didn’t name her.”

“Her?”

“All cars are ladies, Jones.” He winks. And it ought to be cheesy, winking like that, but it’s not. It makes me want to kiss his cheek. He’s not only sexy, he’s fucking adorable. And he’s completely ignorant of my moony expression because he’s back to stroking his car. “She’s a 1971 Chevy Camaro Z28.” His expression dims a little, becoming almost bittersweet. “She was my dad’s. He got her at a junkyard and restored her from the frame out.”

His pride rings clear, and he gives the car another pat. “It drove my mom nuts when he spent his weekends tinkering with Little Red, but she knew how much he loved it so…” He shrugs.

“Did you ever work on it?”

“Mostly it’s only tune ups and belt changes now, but, yeah, I know how to fix a car, if that’s what you’re asking.” A little mischief brews in his dark eyes. “Want to go for a ride?”

“Now?”

“No. Three hours from now,” he deadpans. “I figure you can get in your pjs, maybe sleep for a while, then we’ll go out.”

“Smart ass.”

He’s already opening the passenger door. “Come on, Jones, ride with me.”

I hesitate.

“It’ll be nice and warm with the heat on,” he adds.

The Camaro’s dark interior gleams in the yellow glow of the parking lot light. Drew is waiting. He wants to kiss me. He wants everything.

I take a little breath. “Okay, but this thing had better go fast.”

“She’ll set your hair straight.” He gives one of my curls a playful tug before closing the door behind me.

Inside, the car smells of old leather and a bit of Drew’s shaving cream. It’s that subtle scent of Drew that makes me sink into my seat and inhale deeply. Then he’s getting into the car. His grin is like a kid’s when he turns the key and the car rumbles to life with a growl.

“Oh, yeah, baby,” he says to her, “purr for me.”

“Would you like a little time alone?” I ask, but I love the way he appreciates his car.

His dimple deepens. “This is a shared experience, Jones. Get with the program. Now buckle up.”

I do as ordered and happily sit back as he pulls out of the lot. He goes slow through the campus, turning on the heat and fiddling with the radio. Soon I’m warm enough to pull off my coat, and Led Zepplin’s
Kasmir
fills the silence.

“You weren’t kidding about the classic rock,” I say, taking a look around the dash. “I’m surprised there isn’t an eight-track in here.”

“I’m surprised you know what an eight-track is.”

“Likewise.”

He laughs. “Dad put in a new stereo the year before he—”

He stops talking and turns out onto the main road. The car springs forward with a throaty little rumble.

“It’s a beautiful car,” I say to fill the awkward silence. I hate that he hurts, that he misses his parents. “I’m glad you have it.”

“I am too.” He’s quiet for a moment, then smiles softly. “When I finally made straight A’s, he let me use it on dates. It became my personal quest to get laid in here.”

“Nice.” I wrinkle my nose. “And you’ve just put the kibosh on getting any from me in here.”

I flush hard the moment the words are out of my mouth, and Drew snorts. “Damn, there goes my plan.” He sends me a sidelong look. “Actually, the backseat is ridiculously small for a muscle car. Can’t do anything back there but get a leg cramp.”

Much to his amusement, I glance over my shoulder. The seat is small. Annoyed at myself and at Drew’s smug chuckle, I pull out my phone. We’re heading for a large stretch of empty road now, and I know he’ll let the car go then. “This radio work with my phone?” I ask.

Drew nods. “I like old cars, but I have my standards.” He reaches down and hands me an input wire as I download a song.

It’s my turn to smile. “I think you’ll like this one.” I hit play.

His expression is priceless, his nose wrinkled in confusion at the twangy plucking of a guitar and two guys conversing in a beatnik style. “What the hell?”

“Just listen.”

He does and his mouth twitches. The guys are making fun of The Doors now, and Drew snorts.

“It’s the Dead Milkmen,” I say.

One guy asks the other what car dude’s dad got him. My gaze catches Drew’s and we’re both grinning.

“Don’t tell me,” Drew says, just as the band launches into a hard and fast punk rock riff about a Camaro. It’s manic, all drums and guitars and screaming singers.

“
Bitchin’ Camaro
, man,” I say with a laugh.

And Drew takes off. We’re flying, my back presses against the seat, and I’m laughing so hard my sides hurt. Drew’s laughing with me. We’re mad on speed and ridiculous lyrics. And I don’t want it to end. Little Red eats up the road, gray asphalt is a blur. I ought to be afraid, but I feel alive.

We race along until the song ends and then Drew slows. “That was excellent,” he says.

“So’s the car.” I rest my head on the seat and smile at him. I’m sore from laughter, little aftershocks of giddiness quake though my belly.

Everything is quiet except the steady hum of the engine, and that’s okay. The realization steals over me. We can sit together in silence and feel comfortable. When had it happened? Before I can brood on it any longer, Drew’s stomach growls. With insistence.

“Why do I get the feeling that your stomach likes talking to me?” I ask him.

The corner of his mouth quirks. “Kind of your fault.”

“Oh, really?”

“You fed it once. Naturally it’s going to come asking for more.”

“Naturally.” I snort and then grab my bag. “I don’t know if I should be enabling this development, but I happen to have a sub—”

“Hand it over, Jones.”

“You sure? You’d let us eat in Little Red? I mean this interior is pretty pristine.”

Drew looks at me sidelong. He’s fighting a grin, but he manages to look pseudo threatening. “Hand over the food and no one gets hurt.”

I pull out an eight-inch long section of the party sub I’d taken from the catering kitchen, and he makes an exaggerated groan. “Oh, baby, it’s so big.”

“That’s my line.”

“Yes, it is.”

Snorting, I help myself to a small section of sandwich then hand him the rest.

His groan is real and appreciative as he starts to devour the sub, one hand on the wheel the other lovingly holding his food. “Italian,” he says between bites. “Bless you.”