The Risk Page 5

“Good. Because clearly he’s still obsessed with you.”

  “He was never obsessed with me,” I say in Eric’s defense.

  “Are you kidding me? Remember when you got mono junior year and couldn’t attend school for a couple of months? Eric had a total meltdown,” she reminds me. “He called you every five seconds, skipped class to go see you, freaked out when Uncle Chad told him to stop coming over. It was intense.”

  I avert my eyes. “Yeah. I guess it was a tad dramatic. What do you think of this top, by the way?” I gesture to my ribbed black crop top. It ties around the neck and the back, exposing my midriff.

  “Hot AF,” Tansy declares.

  “You know you saved no time by saying AF instead of ‘as fuck,’ right? Same amount of syllables,” I tease, all the while battling relief that she accepted my change of subject so readily.

  I don’t like dwelling on that time in my life. Truth be told, thinking about Eric is as exhausting as it was actually dealing with him back in the day. One thought of him, and I feel as if I just climbed Everest. My ex is an energy vampire.

  “I speak internet lingo,” Tansy retorts. “The one true language. Anyway, you look hot, and I look hot, so let’s go out and show everyone how hot we are. You ready?”

  I swipe my purse off her roommate’s bed. “Ready AF.”

  We end up at an Irish pub in the Back Bay area. It’s called the Fox and Fiddle, and populated primarily by college students, judging by all the younger faces. Sadly, there’s a conspicuous lack of hockey attire. I spot one or two maroon-and-gold jerseys, the colors of the Boston College Eagles. But that’s it. It makes me long for Malone’s, the bar in Hastings where all the Briar hockey fans congregate.

  Tansy checks her phone as we walk inside. We’re meeting her boyfriend here. Or maybe it’s her ex-boyfriend? Fuck buddy? I never know when it comes to her and Lamar. Their on-again/off-again relationship has the head-spinning quality of riding a Tilt-O-Whirl.

  “No text from Lamar. I guess he’s not here yet.” She links her arm through mine on our way to the bar. “Let’s order shots. We haven’t done shots since Christmas.”

  There’s a huge crowd waiting to be served. When I catch the eye of one of the bartenders, he signals that he’ll be a minute.

  “I really wish you went to BC with me,” Tansy says glumly. “We could do this all the time.”

  “I know.” I would’ve loved to attend Boston College with her, but they rejected my application. I didn’t have the grades back then; my relationship with Eric pretty much torpedoed my ability to concentrate on school. I went to community college instead, until I was able to transfer to Briar, where I don’t have to pay tuition since my father works there.

  “Sweet. They’re showing the Bruins game.” I gaze up at one of the monitors mounted from the ceiling. A blur of black and yellow whizzes by as the Bruins go on an offensive attack.

  “Hurray!” Tansy says with mock enthusiasm. She doesn’t give a crap about hockey. Her game of choice is basketball. As in, she only dates basketball players.

  I try to flag down the bartender again, but he’s busy serving a group of chicks in teeny dresses. The pub is surprisingly packed for ten thirty at night. Normally, people are still pre-drinking somewhere else at this time.

  Tansy checks her phone again, then types something. “Where the hell is he?” she mutters.

  “Text him.”

  “Just did. He’s not answering for some rea—oh wait, he’s typing.” She waits until the message appears. “Okay, he’s—oh my God, you have got to be kidding me.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Irritation flashes in her dark eyes. “One sec. I need to call him and figure out what the hell.”

  Oh boy. I pray there isn’t trouble in paradise, because I know Tansy can sometimes get fixated on her boyfriend slash ex-boyfriend slash fuck buddy. I’m still not sure.

  What I do know is that I was looking forward to a fun weekend with my favorite cousin, especially after my dreadful interview this morning. Holy shit did that suck.

  I watch the Bruins game as I wait for Tansy. Neither of the two bartenders comes to take my order, which is probably a good thing because my cousin stomps back in a huff.

  “You won’t believe this,” she announces. “The stupid idiot got the bars mixed up. He’s at the Frog and Fox near Fenway. We’re at the Fox and Fiddle.”

  “Why does every bar in this city have the word fox in it?”

  “I know, right? And I can’t even be too mad at him, because it’s an honest mistake.” She blows out an aggravated breath. “Anyway, he’s there with a bunch of friends and he doesn’t want to move his whole group over here when you and I can just hop in a cab and be there in ten minutes.”

  “He has a point.”

  “You don’t mind leaving?”

  “Nope.” I ease away from the bar. “Let me hit the ladies’ before we go.”

  “Cool. I’ll order the car. Meet you outside?”

  “Sounds good.”

  Tansy exits the pub, while I amble toward the restrooms. Despite the Friday-night crowd, there’s no line for the ladies’ room. I walk in to find two girls in front of the mirror, chatting loudly as they fix their makeup. I nod in greeting and duck into a stall.

  “If you want to go to the Dime, then let’s go to the Dime,” one of the girls is saying.

  “I told you, I don’t want to.”

  “Are you sure? Because you keep blabbering on about Jake Connelly and his amazing tongue.”

  I freeze. I swear my pee stops midstream like some sort of magic trick.

  “We’ve got nowhere else to be tonight,” the first chick says. “Let’s just hit the Dime so you can see him. Maybe you guys will hook up again…”

  “Unlikely. Connelly doesn’t do repeats.” The second chick sounds dejected. “Going there is pointless.”

  “You never know. You said he had a good time, right?”

  “He was getting a BJ. Of course he had a good time.”

  I press my lips together to fight a smile. Aw, listen to that. Jakey got some the other night. Good for him.

  Except then I remember the stunt he pulled with McCarthy, and I’m no longer smiling. I quickly resume peeing, eager to leave the bathroom so I don’t have to listen to this shit anymore.

  A wistful sigh echoes from beyond the stall. “You have no idea how hot it was.”

  “Actually, I do. Because you can’t shut up about it.”

  “He’s such a good kisser. And when he went down on me, he did this thing with his tongue, like…I can’t even describe it. It was sort of like…a kiss and a swirl.”

  Discomfort forms in my gut. I’ve had my share of dirty conversations with my girlfriends, but these chicks are going into a lot of detail. And they know they’re not alone in the bathroom. They saw me come in.

  “I’m surprised he returned the favor. Guys that good-looking don’t usually give a shit if the girl gets off. A lot of them would take the blowjob and bail.”

  I flush the toilet and noisily exit the stall. “’Scuse me, need to get in here,” I say airily, gesturing to the sinks.

  They step aside but keep talking. “Well, he wasn’t like that at all,” Jake’s chick assures her friend. “He wanted to get me off.”

  This time, I pay closer attention to their appearance. The friend is a tall brunette. The one Jake hooked up with is short, with auburn curls, huge boobs, and enormous brown eyes, resembling a very sexy deer.

  Is that Connelly’s type? Hot Bambi?

  “Then let’s go to the Dime,” the brunette insists.

  Hot Bambi bites her lower lip. “I don’t know. I’d feel weird showing up at his favorite bar. I mean, we hooked up four days ago. He probably doesn’t even remember me.”

  I run my soapy hands under the hot water. Four days and she’s concerned he’s already forgotten about her? Is that how little she thinks of herself? Maybe I ought to chime in and advise her not to bother tracking him down. Jake would
eat someone like her alive.

  “Fine, I guess we’re staying here,” the friend says on their way out. “We should find a…”

  Their voices trail off as the door swings shut. I dry my hands with a paper towel and ponder what I just heard. So. Four days ago, Jake and his amazing tongue got some Hot Bambi action. Talk about hypocrisy.

  Where does he get the nerve, telling me who I can hook up with and ordering McCarthy to dump me? Here he is, oral-sexing hot deer women and spending his Friday night at some bar, likely trying to pick up. Meanwhile, poor McCarthy is sitting at home, unable to jerk his own dick without asking Connelly’s permission.

  Screw that.

  Fortitude straightens my shoulders as I go outside to find my cousin. She’s by a parking meter on the sidewalk, standing at the back door of a sporty black sedan. “Ready?” she calls when she spots me.

  I join her at the car. “Yes. But change of plans. We’re making a quick stop first.”

  6

  Jake

  The Dime is my favorite place in the city. It’s the epitome of a dive bar. Cramped. Dark. The pool table’s missing three balls, including the eight ball. The dartboard is cracked in half. The beer tastes watered down half the time, and the food is covered with a layer of grease that congeals like a rock in the pit of your stomach.

  But despite its failings, I love it. The place is small, which means larger groups usually venture elsewhere. And the clientele is mostly male, so it’s the perfect spot to visit when you’re not looking to hook up.

  That doesn’t stop Brooks, of course. My roommate can find a chick anywhere. Take him to a convent and he’d seduce a nun. Take him to a funeral and he’d be banging the grieving widow in the bathroom. Or hell, on the casket. Dude’s a slut.

  Right now, he’s at a corner table making out with our waitress. Only two servers are working tonight, and Brooks has his tongue in one of their mouths.

  The other one, an older dude with a beard and glasses, keeps clearing his throat pointedly. She keeps ignoring him. When he calls, “Rachel, your table’s waiting,” she breathlessly unlatches her lips from my teammate’s and waves her coworker off. “Can you handle it? Tips are yours.”

  I’m assuming she doesn’t want the job anymore and this is her way of quitting, because there’s no way she’s escaping without punishment. The other waiter and the bartender keep exchanging sullen looks, and I’m pretty sure one of them already phoned the manager.

  While Brooks is in the corner feeling up the waitress, the rest of us are enjoying the Bruins game and listening to Coby Chilton complain about the two-beer limit I’ve enforced. He can bitch about it all night, for all I care. We’re playing Princeton tomorrow afternoon and nobody is allowed to show up to a game hungover. Hell, I forbade Potts and Bray from going out tonight altogether. I don’t trust the beer pong duo.

  “If you could bang any hockey player, dead or alive, who’d it be?” Coby asks Dmitry. Since a second ago he’d been talking about beer, the change of subject is jarring.

  “What?” Dmitry sounds extremely confused. “You mean like a female hockey player?”

  “And when you say ‘dead,’ do you mean I’m fucking her corpse or am I doing her when she was alive?” Heath pipes up.

  “Nah, I’m talking NHL. And none of that necrophilia shit.” Coby’s expression conveys horror.

  “Wait, you’re asking us which dude we’d fuck?” a senior D-man demands.

  I swallow a laugh.

  “Yeah. I’d pick Bobby Hull. I like blondes. How ’bout you guys?”

  “Hold up. Chilton,” squawks Adam Middleton, our most promising freshman. “Are you gay?” The eighteen-year-old glances around the table. “Has he always been gay and I’m just finding out? Did y’all know?”

  “You wish I was gay,” Coby shoots back.

  The freshman’s eyebrows crash together. “Why would I wish that?”

  “Because I’m a great lay. You’re missing out.”

  “What is happening right now?” Adam asks me.

  I press my trembling lips together. “No clue, man.”

  “I heard a bunch of chicks debating this shit in Harvard Square the other day,” Coby explains, polishing off his second (and last) bottle of Sam Adams. He rolls his eyes dramatically. “They were choosing the lamest dudes. Tyler Seguin! Sidney Crosby!”

  “I’d do Crosby,” Dmitry pipes up. “I wouldn’t even need to picture some girl to get hard. I’d just think about his stats line.”

  As laughter breaks out at the table, I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket, and pull it out.

  HAZEL: Whatcha up to tonight? I’m home and bored.

  I shoot a quick text back, telling her I’m out with the boys.

  HAZEL: Use condoms!

  I laugh out loud, drawing the attention of Coby. “What are you giggling about over there?” He scowls. “You better not be chatting up a girl. You banned hookups, remember?”

  “I banned distractions,” I correct.

  And so far it’s been working. McCarthy was in top form at morning skate, proving that his flirtation with Brenna Jensen was the cause of his recent bout of sucking. He didn’t come out with us tonight because he wanted to stay home and watch all the available game tape from Princeton’s season to prepare for tomorrow. See what happens when you eliminate pesky distractions?

  “Also, I’m not chatting up a girl,” I add. “I’m texting Hazel.”

  “Oh nice, tell her I say hi,” Coby orders.

  Hazel was my “date” for a team event last year, so most of my teammates know her. Coby, in particular, took an immediate liking to her. Granted, Coby takes a liking to anyone with tits. And to blondes, apparently, regardless of gender.

  “Are you ever gonna give me her number?” he gripes.

  “Nope. You’re not allowed to mess around with my friends.” I don’t want Chilton anywhere near Hazel. He’s a major player, and he’d break her heart. She’s too inexperienced to handle someone like him.

  To be honest, I don’t think she’s ever had an actual boyfriend. I assume she hooks up, because she’s an attractive, twenty-one-year-old woman, but I’ve never seen her with a man. In the past I wondered if maybe she was a lesbian, but I haven’t seen her with any women, either, and I’ve definitely caught her checking out dudes before. I think she just doesn’t have much game. And Coby has too much of it.

  A loud wolf whistle cuts through the rock music blasting in the bar. It comes from the direction of the pool table. The two men standing there have abandoned their game to gape at the entryway.

  I follow their stares and…da-yum.

  Brenna Jensen is marching across the room. And she looks good enough to eat.

  She’s wearing high-heeled leather boots, a short skirt, black leather jacket. Her chocolate-brown hair is loose around her shoulders, and her full lips are blood red.

  Another dark-haired girl trails after her. Also pretty, but Brenna holds all my attention. Her dark eyes are on fire, and every molecule of heat is aimed directly at me.

  “Connelly.” She reaches our table, baring her teeth in a mocking smile. “Boys. Fancy meeting you here. Mind if I join you?”

  I pretend to be completely unfazed by her arrival. Inside, suspicion coils like a rattlesnake in my gut. “Sure thing.” I gesture to the sole empty chair. “Afraid there’s only one seat, though.”

  “It’s okay, we won’t be staying long.” She addresses her friend. “Want to sit?”

  “Nah.” The girl is clearly amused by all of this. Whatever this is. “I’m gonna call Lamar. Come grab me when you’re done.” She moseys over to the bar, phone already glued to her ear.

  “It’s so hot in here,” Brenna remarks. “All the bodies crammed in this shoebox are generating some serious heat.” She unzips her jacket.

  What she’s wearing underneath makes everyone’s eyeballs pop out of their sockets.

  “Aw fuck,” I hear Coby mumble.

  The crop top bares her flat, smooth
belly, and it’s cut low enough to showcase some impressive cleavage. She’s also not wearing a bra, so I can see the outline of her nipples, two hard beads straining against the ribbed material. My cock stirs behind my zipper.

  She appraises my teammates before focusing on me. “We need to have a chat, Connelly.”

  “Do we?”

  Her gaze sweeps over the table again. Each guy, even the lowly freshman Adam, receives a thorough examination. To my displeasure, the longest scrutiny is awarded to Coby, whose tongue has fallen to the Dime’s sticky floor.

  “Have a seat already,” I say darkly.

  “Don’t mind if I do.” Flicking up an eyebrow, she saunters to Coby and settles directly on his lap.

  He makes a choked noise. Part surprise, part joy.

  I narrow my eyes at her.

  She smiles. “What’s wrong, Jakey? You told me to have a seat.”

  “I think a chair would be more comfortable.” There’s an edge to my tone.

  “Oh, but I’m super comfy right here.” She wraps a slender arm around Coby’s neck and rests her hand on his broad shoulder. He’s six-four and two hundred and forty pounds, making Brenna appear tiny in comparison.

  I don’t miss the way his hand curls around her hip to keep her in place.

  “Jensen,” I warn.

  “Jensen! Hey!” Brooks, coming up for air, finally notices Brenna’s arrival. “When did you get here? Is Di Laurentis with ya?”

  “No, Summer’s back in Hastings.”

  “Oh. That sucks.” Shrugging, he resumes the game of tonsil-hockey he’s playing with our soon-to-be-unemployed waitress.

  “So here’s the thing,” Brenna says. She might be in Coby’s lap, but she only has eyes for me. “You ordered Josh to break up with me.”

  I raise my beer bottle and take a slow sip, contemplating what she said. “Break up, eh? I thought you weren’t dating.”

  “We weren’t. But we had a good arrangement going. I liked him.”

  It’s strangely frank of her. Most women probably wouldn’t enjoy admitting how much they liked the person who just dumped them. I experience a weird tug in my stomach at the notion that she might’ve actually been into McCarthy.