All Played Out (Rusk University #3) (7 page)

“What I meant to say is . . . I like her. If this were just about getting into her pants, I’d turn around and leave with my tail tucked between my legs. Honest. But I think she’s . . . interesting. I don’t know how to talk to her, though. Every time I think I’m gaining ground, she locks up tight or runs away. I just need to know what I’m doing wrong.”

Dylan sighs and stares at me.

“You promise me that you’re serious about this?”

“I am. I just want to get to know her better. And I promise I won’t let things go too far until I’m certain I’m in it.”

Dylan rubs at her eyes and groans. “Tell me something. The only time I’ve ever seen you pursue a girl longer than one night is when she’s not interested. Is this some kind of subconscious thing you do because you don’t really want to be in a relationship?”

“Maybe I just don’t see the point in going after someone I’m not willing to fight for.”

She purses her lips and begrudgingly replies, “Good answer.” She examines me a moment longer and sighs. “I’m so going to regret this.”

“Ah. Captain Planet. You’re the best.”

“Just tell me what you want to know.”

“What kind of guys does she like?”

Dylan blinks at me. “You know . . . I don’t have the slightest clue. She’s never seemed all that interested in guys.”

“Are you saying she’s—”

“No. I don’t know. Nell’s life doesn’t revolve around social things like parties or dating. She’s all about school. She’s focused and driven, and she puts her everything into her classes. I think it’s because she was the first person in her family to go to college. She feels like she has to prove herself, so she’s never really made any time for anything else.”

Well, damn. I certainly know what that’s like . . . feeling like you have to prove that you’re worth people’s attention.

“Then why is she all of a sudden coming to parties?”

She bites her lip, worrying it before she answers. “That would be my doing. I told her that she wasn’t getting the full experience out of college by just focusing on classes. Now I think she’s trying to broaden her horizons a bit.”

I smile, and Dylan immediately pokes a finger into my sternum. “Whatever you’re thinking, not
that
broad.”

“Chill out. I was just thinking that explains why it seemed like she’d never tasted alcohol before. She’s trying new things. That’s cool.”

“And that’s exactly why she needs to take baby steps. And you like to jump in the deep end.”

“Sometimes that’s the best way to learn how to swim.”

“Mateo Torres. I
will
kill you if you hurt her.”

I tuck an arm around her and pull her close in a half hug.

“Jeez, I thought you were a pacifist.” When she bristles, I continue: “Relax. There will be no harm or deaths of any kind.”

Silas shows up then with new drinks for both him and Dylan and says, “Dude. Hands off.”

I back away, my hands raised, still grinning.

“You snooze, you lose, man. I’m going to steal her from you one of these days.”

Dylan shoots me a warning glance, but I’m pretty positive that it’s not a reaction to that comment. I take a few steps back and she says, “I mean it, Torres.”

“Gosh, Captain Planet. Careful or Moore here might find out about the sweet nothings you’ve been whispering in my ear.”

I leave before Dylan can frown at me again or before Silas can glare.

Couples, man.

Then I forget about them and set off in search of Nell.

Chapter 7

Nell’s To-Do List

I
t takes me a long while to find any semblance of calm at this raging party. For a moment I’d thought of leaving, but then I fished my phone out of my bag to discover it was only half an hour since I’d arrived. I decided it probably wouldn’t be honoring the spirit of my bucket list if I were to let myself leave after thirty-one minutes.

Finally, I settle myself down beside a mesquite tree on the side of the house and pull my bag into my lap. The only reason Dylan let me get away with bringing it was that I insisted it added to my schoolgirl persona. If she knew I’d also brought along a few spirals and the latest issue of
Scientific American,
she likely wouldn’t have been so accepting.

But it’s not the magazine I reach for when I open my bag but the familiar spiral, the contents of which have been plaguing my thoughts nonstop for days.

I’m a list kind of girl. I make a lot of them. I make them in the morning, in spare moments throughout the day, during classes when the professors move slower than my thoughts. I make them in notebooks, on my phone, on sticky notes, and just in my head. But now I flip forward to
that
list and start scanning through it. With a smile, I retrieve a pen and draw a line through

6. Drink Alcohol (and not at church).

The rush of satisfaction that tears through me at the simple action is astonishing. It’s not as if I’d accomplished any great feat or had a brilliant intellectual breakthrough. I’d had a rather yummy cup of Torres’s signature concoction, and most of the people here had probably been doing something similar for years now.

The thought of Mateo—no,
Torres
—pinches something in my belly, and I glance back at the very first item on my list. I run my finger over the words, and it is terrifyingly easy to imagine completing that task with the handsome athlete. Then my eyes dip down to item number five on the list.

5. Lose my virginity.

The pinch in my belly progresses to a twist, and I cannot decide if it’s a good feeling or a bad one. And for a moment . . . I seriously consider the idea.

What if I lost my virginity to Mateo Torres?

It would knock off two items on my list in one go, and I’m nothing if not efficient. But I’m not silly enough to think I should let some list cobbled together from my own imaginings and the offerings of the Internet decide my first sexual experience.

But I have to admit . . . the idea has appeal. He’s attractive, that’s for certain. Perhaps not as conventionally handsome as Dylan’s boyfriend, whose looks just scream a career in film or modeling if football doesn’t work out. No, Torres isn’t quite that pretty. His forehead is large, and his nose rather blunt. But when he smiles, which he does nearly all the time, it softens his edges and makes him plenty appealing. My own features aren’t exactly perfectly formed either. My nose has always been just a tad too large for my face. Well, in my younger years there was no
tad
about it. And while my hair is long, it’s never been all that soft or shiny. It’s a tangled mess most days, which is why it’s most often piled and knotted atop my head.

Beyond that, though, I’m fairly confident that he’s attracted to me, which should make the experience enjoyable for both of us. And if his blatant sexuality is any clue, he would be no novice.

I’m partly scared by that. Would he be disappointed that I don’t know what I’m doing? Would it make it less . . . well, just
less
for him? What if after all this buildup between us, I bore him?

It wouldn’t be the first (or last time) someone found me boring. It’s something I’ve come to terms with in the rest of my life, and I’m happy enough with how I am not to care. But doing something like this . . . for the first time, well, I’m not sure my self-assurance could withstand that kind of blow.

The part of me that isn’t scared is intrigued by his confidence and probable experience. Why start completely from scratch when I can use a trusted source of knowledge to further my education at a much faster rate? Maybe he’ll understand, and he’ll guide me through it with as little turmoil as possible.

Or maybe he won’t. Maybe he won’t like that I’m a virgin, and he’ll find the whole thing bland and a waste of his time.

UGH.

I groan, and flip the page in my spiral so I won’t have to look at the words anymore. Starting small with the alcohol had been a wise decision. Perhaps I should do the same with other big items on my list. But how did one get smaller than sex and hooking up? I couldn’t just put “kiss.” I’d done that before, and a few more kisses weren’t going to make any difference in my confidence when it came to sex.

Really, it’s the unknown that bothers me. Not just on this list, but in everything. So maybe that’s what I need to get used to.

I skip to the bottom of my list and add . . .

17. Kiss a stranger

I tap my pen against the page, surveying the words, and decide that kissing a stranger is a good stepping-stone. Then a voice comes from over my shoulder, making me jump up and drop my spiral in shock.

“Do I count as a stranger?”

I press my hand over my thundering heart and turn to face the subject of my rumination.

“You scared me.”

“My bad.” Contrary to his words, Torres doesn’t look the least bit sorry.

He bends to pick up the spiral, and I lunge forward to stop him. “Wait! Stop!”

It’s too late. He already has ahold of it, and lifts it up above his head, completely out of my reach. He’s got nearly a foot on me in height, and when I try to jump, I barely get my unathletic self a few inches off the ground.

“Give that back.”

“Hold up, sweetheart. I just want to take a little peek.”

“Don’t you dare! It’s private.”

Frantically, I try to recall what was written on that page as he holds it above his head in an attempt to read.

“ ‘Go skinny-dipping’?” he says, his eyes dancing suggestively. “Whatever this is . . . I like it.”

I step toward him, and he angles his body to the side so that the spiral is farther away, but we’re still close.

“ ‘Pull an all-nighter.’ ‘Sing karaoke.’ ‘Flash someone.’ Oh, sweetheart, tell me this is a list of things you want to do. Please, God.”

“It’s none of your business. That’s what it is.”

“Unlucky for you, I’m a nosy person.”

He starts to turn the page back, and my heart tumbles in fear. He
cannot
see the first page. Not ever. I hurl myself at him, practically climbing up his body in an attempt to retrieve my list. And all he does is laugh, and stand there as if there isn’t a whole person hanging on to him.

“Asshole!” I say, pushing at his chest.

“Come on, you can do better than that.”

“Nosy bastard.”

He rolls his eyes. “Well, if that’s all you’ve got . . .” He starts to turn the page again, and there’s thunder in my ears, and my lungs feel all twisted up inside my chest.

“Fuck you,” I say once, quietly. Then I repeat it, louder, my voice raspy from fear and exertion. “Fuck you, Mateo Torres.”

And I resign myself to the fact that I’m not going to get my spiral back until he’s had his fill of humiliating me. But to my shock, he bends and picks up my pen from where I’d dropped it when he surprised me. Then he draws a line through something on the paper.

“Congratulations. You’ve officially completed number sixteen. ‘Cuss someone out and mean it.’ ”

He hands me the spiral, then the pen, before folding his arms over his chest and meeting my eyes with a carefully blank expression. I glance down at the item on the list that he’s crossed out, and I don’t know whether I want to laugh or stab him with my pen. Maybe both.

“You . . .” I begin, and then trail off. I take a deep breath and speak the truth: “You are the strangest person I’ve ever known.”

The things that are the most off-putting about him are also what make him undeniably interesting. He has no respect for personal space. He says whatever pops into his head with no attempt at polite censorship. But he does it all with such ease and confidence that there isn’t a drop of malice in it.

He laughs at my calling him strange, and the sound is raucous and light and completely uninhibited. I don’t think I’ve
ever
laughed like that. He reaches out and tugs on one of my pigtails, then says, “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

It might actually have been one. In the aftermath of our little scene, I’m feeling oddly . . . exhilarated.

“Come on,” he says, picking up my bag and slinging it over his shoulder. “Walk with me.”

I should ask him where, ask questions of any kind really, but I don’t. Instead, when he holds a hand out to me, I take it. I do it without thinking or evaluating or planning a single thing. And having his large hand curl around mine . . . I don’t have any words for it. I search for them, for a description of the way it makes me feel, but it’s a muddle of emotions, and those have never been one of my strong points. I cannot separate all the things his touch makes me feel, let alone identify them. But whatever it is . . . it’s not bad. So I don’t resist when he pulls me toward the back of the house.

There are a few people hanging out smoking, and I tense thinking maybe he means for us to join them, but he pulls me farther along toward the back of the yard. They’ve got an old, dilapidated privacy fence, and there’s a whole section of it that looks as if it had been knocked down in a storm. Or perhaps a more man-made disaster, knowing the residents of this house. When he steps onto the broken pieces of the fence, I hesitate.

“Trust me, girl genius. This will be worth it.”

I swallow, and step up onto the board and follow him out of the yard into a wooded no-man’s-land between the houses. We turn right and walk past a neighbor’s house, and then another before stopping. There’s a metal fence, with a gate on one side, and he lifts the latch and walks through.

“What are you doing?” I hiss, pulling my hand away.

“What?” He smirks. “Trespassing isn’t on your list?”

I shake my head sternly, and he reaches for my hand again, and this time his hold is too firm for me to pull away. “It should be. Add it.”

When I still resist, he steps back through the gate to stand directly in front of me, mere inches away. With the hand not holding mine, he reaches up and pushes a lock of hair off my forehead.