After We Fell (74 page)

“It only opened a few days ago. Of course it's been packed.”

“Even so, it's a nice place.” She uncrosses her legs and crosses them again.

Could she be any more desperate? At this point I can't even tell if she's actually trying to come on to me or if she's just so accustomed to being a whore that it's all automatic.

She leans across the table between us. “Do you want to dance? There's room in here.” Her long fingernails brush against my sleeve, and I jerk away.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” I move to the other end of the couch. This time last year I would have taken her desperate ass into the bathroom and fucked her brains out. Now the thought makes me want to vomit on her white dress.

“What? I only asked to dance.”

“Maybe dance with your married boyfriend,” I snap and reach to push the curtain back, hoping to see Tessa.

“Don't be so quick to judge me. You don't even know me.”

“I know enough.”

“Yeah, well, I know some stuff about you, too, so if I were you, I'd watch it.”

“Do you, now?” I laugh.

She narrows her eyes at me, trying to intimidate me, I'm sure. “Yes, I do.”

“If you knew shit about me, you would know better than to be threatening me right now,” I warn her.

She lifts a champagne flute and gives me a little salute. “You're exactly like they say . . .”

Which is my cue to leave. I push through the curtains to go find Tessa so we can get the hell out of here.

Exactly like
who
says? Who does she think she is? Christian
is lucky that I promised Tessa a nice night. Otherwise, Max would have to answer for his whore's mouth.

I circle the club in search of Tessa's sparkling dress and Kimberly's bright blond hair. I'm thankful that this is not the type of place where everyone is swaying around on a dance floor; most of the patrons are seated at tables, making my search that much easier. Finally, I find them standing at the main bar, talking to Christian, Max, and some other guy. Tessa's back is toward me, but I can tell by her posture that she's nervous. Seconds later, another guy joins them, and as I get closer, the first man starts to look more and more familiar to me.

“Hardin! There you are.” Kimberly reaches out her arm to touch my shoulder, but I dodge her and move to Tessa. When she turns to me, her blue-gray eyes are wary as they lead my gaze to the guest.

“Hardin, this is my teacher from World Religion, Professor Soto,” she says, smiling politely.

Are you fucking kidding me? Does everyone end up making their way to Seattle?

“Jonah,” he corrects her. He pushes his hand into the space between us for a handshake that I'm too thrown off to deny.

T
essa's professor smiles, checking her out fairly subtly as he does so. But I see it clearly.

“Nice to see you again,” he says, but I can't tell if he's talking to me or Tessa, really, the way he moves about to the music.

“Professor Soto lives in Seattle now,” Tessa informs me.

“Convenient,” I say under my breath. Tessa hears me and gently nudges me with her elbow, and I wrap my arm around her waist.

Jonah's eyes briefly note where I've placed my arm, then move back up to her face.
She's taken, dick.

“Yeah, I transferred to the Seattle campus a couple weeks ago. I applied for a job a few months back and finally got it. My band was ready for a move anyway,” he tells us with an attitude that indicates he thinks we should care about any of this.

“The Reckless Few will be playing here tonight, and every other night, if we can talk them into it,” Christian boasts. Jonah smiles and looks down at his boots.

“I think that might be possible,” he says, looking back up with a smile. Finishing his drink in one motion, he says, “Well, we better get ready to play.”

“Yeah. Don't let us keep you.” Christian pats Soto on the back, and the professor turns to give Tessa one last smile before pushing through the small crowd toward the stage.

“The band is incredible; wait until you hear them!” Vance claps his hands together once before he wraps his arms around Kimberly and leads her to a table in front of the stage.

I've already heard them; they are
not
incredible.

Tessa turns to me with nervous eyes. “He's nice. Remember, he gave you a character witness when you were about to be expelled?”

“No, I don't recall anything about him, actually. Except for the fact that he seems to like you and is mysteriously living in Seattle now, teaching at your fucking campus.”

“You heard him say that he applied there months ago . . . and he does not like me.”

“He does.”

“You think everyone likes me,” she fires back. She can't possibly be naive enough to assume that this guy has good intentions.

“Shall we make a list, then? There's Zed, fucking Trevor, that dickhead of a waiter . . . who am I missing? Oh, and now we can add your creepy professor, who was just eyeing you like you were dessert.” I look to where that dick is on the little bandstand, walking about with an attitude that's both self-important and fake-casual.

“Zed is the only person on that list that counts. Trevor is very sweet, and he never meant any harm. I'll probably never see Robert again, and Soto is not a stalker.”

One word in that spiel doesn't sit well with me. “ ‘Probably'?”

“I
obviously
won't see him again. You're the one I'm with, okay?” She pushes one of her hands into mine, and I relax. I need to make sure I burned or flushed that damned waiter's phone number, just in case.

“I still think this asshole is a stalker.” I nod toward the stage at the douche bag in his leather jacket. I may need to talk to my father just to make sure he isn't as shady as I think he is. Tessa
would approach a lion with fucking kid gloves—she's no good at judging character.

She proves my point when she beams up at me, smiling like an idiot because of the champagne running through her veins. She's actually here with me after all the shit I've put her through . . .

“I thought this was a jazz club, but his band is more—” Tessa begins to try and take my mind off the seemingly endless list of men who want her affection.

“Shitty?” I interrupt her.

She swats my arm. “No, just not jazz music. They are more . . . like the Fray, sort of.”

“The Fray? Don't go insulting your favorite band, now.” The only thing I remember about the professor's band is that they fucking suck.

She bumps her shoulder against my arm. “And yours.”

“Not quite.”

“Don't act like you don't like them; I know you do.” She squeezes my hand, and I shake my head, not denying it, really, but I'm not going to admit it either.

I stare back and forth between the wall and Tessa's tits while waiting for the godforsaken band to set up.

“Can we just go now?” I ask.

“One song.” Tessa's cheeks are flushed, and her eyes are wide and glossy. She takes another drink. Her hands run over her dress, tugging it down and up at once.

“Can I at least sit down?” I nod toward line of empty stools at the bar.

I take Tessa's hand in my own and pull her to the bar. I sit on the last stool, closest to the wall and farthest from the crowd.

“What are you having?” a young man with a goatee and a fake-ass Italian accent asks us.

“A glass of champagne and a water,” I say as Tessa moves to stand between my legs. I rest one hand on the small of her back, the beads of her dress rough against my palm.

“We only sell champagne by the bottle, sir.” The bartender gives me an apologetic smile as if he's sure I couldn't afford a bottle of his fucking champagne.

“A bottle will be fine.” Vance's voice sounds next to me, and the bartender nods, looking back and forth between the two of us.

“She'll have it chilled,” I cockily remark.

The kid nods again and scurries away to fetch the bottle.
Dick.

“Stop babysitting us,” I tell Vance. Tessa scowls at me, but I ignore her.

He rolls his eyes like the sarcastic twit he is. “I'm clearly not babysitting you. She's underage.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I say. Someone calls his name, and he pats my shoulder before walking off.

A few moments later, the bartender pops a bottle of champagne open and pours the bubbling liquid into a glass for Tessa. She politely thanks him, and he responds with a smile even more artificial than his accent. His little pantomime of cool is killing me.

She brings the glass to her lips and rests her back against my chest. “It's so good.”

Just then, two men walk by and give her a quick glance. She notices; I know she does, because she leans further into me and lays her head against my shoulder.

“There's Sasha,” she says over the sound of Professor Stalker's guitar being tested on the sound equipment. The tall blonde is searching the room, either for her boyfriend or a random dude to nail.

“Who cares?” I gently grip her elbow and turn her to face me.

“I don't like her,” she quietly states.

“No one does.”

“You don't?” she asks.

Is she insane?
“Why would I?”

“I don't know.” Her eyes move to my mouth. “Because she's pretty.”

“So?”

“I don't know . . . I'm just being weird.” She shakes her head in an attempt to get rid of the resentment that is clear on her face.

“Are you jealous, ‘Theresa'?”

“No.” She pouts.

“You shouldn't be.” I open my legs further and pull her against me again.
“That's
not what I want.” I move my eyes to her nearly exposed chest. “You are.” I trace the line of her cleavage with my index finger as if we aren't in a crowded club.

“Only for my boobs.” She whispers the last word.

“Obviously.” I chuckle, teasing her.

“I knew it.” Tessa pretends to be offended but smiles over the rim of her glass.

“Yeah, well, now that the truth is out, you can let me fuck them,” I say, much too loud.

Champagne spurts out of her mouth and onto my shirt and lap.

“Sorry!” she squeals, reaching for the napkin bin on the bar. She dabs the napkin across this fucking horrendous monstrosity of a shirt and then moves to wipe at my crotch.

I grab her wrist and take the napkin from her. “I wouldn't do that.”

“Oh.” Her flush spreads down her neckline.

One of the band members makes their introduction into the microphone, and I try my best not to heave when the eardrum assault begins. Tessa watches intently as they roll from one song to another, and I continue to keep her glass full.

I'm thankful for the way we're sitting. Well, the way I'm sitting.
She's standing between my legs, her back toward me, but I can see her face when I slightly lean back against the bar behind me. The low red lighting in the place, the champagne, and her being . . . her, makes her glow. It's impossible not to watch her smile and stare at the stage. I can't even be jealous, because she's just that . . . beautiful.

As if she can read my mind, she turns around and gives me an eager smile. I love seeing her this way, so carefree . . . so young. I need to make her feel this way more often.

“They are good, right?” She nods along to the slow yet edgy sound.

I shrug. “No.” They aren't terrible, but they sure as hell aren't good.

“Shurrrr.” She exaggerates the word and turns back around. Moments later, her hips begin to sway along to the whining voice of the lead singer.
Fuck.

I move my hand down to the curve of her hip, and she backs into me, still moving. The tempo of the song speeds up, and Tessa does the same.
Holy fuck.

We've done a lot of shit . . . I've done a lot of shit, but I've never had anyone dance on me this way. I've had girls and even a few strippers give me a lap dance, but not like this. This is slow, intoxicating . . . and achingly fucking hot. My other hand moves to her other hip, and she turns slightly to place her glass on the bar top. With her hands empty, she gives me a salacious smile and looks back to the stage. She lifts up one hand and runs her small fingers through my hair and places the other hand on top of mine.

“Keep going,” I beg.

“You sure?” She tugs at the roots of my hair.

It's hard to believe that this seductive girl, wearing a short, black dress, swaying her hips, and tugging my hair, is the same girl who spits her champagne when I talk about fucking her chest. She's such a turn-on.

“Yes, fuck,” I breathe and lift a hand up to the nape of her neck, bringing her ear to my mouth. “Move against me . . .” I squeeze her hip. “Closer.”

She does just that. I'm thankful for my height as I sit on the bar stool, the perfect height for her ass to move against me, hitting the exact spot that aches for her.

I pull my attention from her, only for a second, to scan our surroundings. I don't want anyone else watching her dance.

“You're so sexy right now,” I say against the shell of her ear. “Dancing this way, in public . . . for me and only me.” I swear I hear her moan through the music, and that's all I can take. I turn her around and push my hand under her skirt.

“Hardin.” She groans when I slide her panties to the side.

“No one is paying any attention. Even if they were, they can't see,” I assure her. I wouldn't be doing this if I thought anyone could possibly witness it.

“You liked putting on that show, didn't you?” I say. She can't deny it, she's soaking.

She doesn't respond; she only rests her head on my shoulder and pulls at the bottom of my shirt, fisting it in her hand like she normally would do our sheets. I pump in and out of her, trying to match the haunting melody of the song. Almost instantly, her legs are stiffening, and she's coming on my fingers. She hums, letting me know just how much pleasure I'm bringing her. She leans in further, her mouth sucking at the base of my neck. Her hips rock into me, keeping a steady beat with my fingers pumping in and out of her wet pussy. Her moans are drowned out by the music and the voices around us, and her nails could possibly be breaking the skin on my stomach.