Fading Out (10 page)

Before I left, Vee asked me if being around Becca made me miss my mother. Which was a strange question; I’d never once mentioned her to Vee. But I guess it was her way of broaching the subject without having to actually ask the difficult question of what happened to her right out, and why I never spoke of her.

The truth is, I don’t know my mother, so there’s nothing to miss. She’s still alive, somewhere, I assume. My father once said that she couldn’t handle the pressures of this life. That she was weak and selfish. That’s all. Nothing more. I was five, my first day of Kindergarten, watching all the kids hug their moms goodbye. Mothers wiping smeared, teary makeup from their eyes.

It was the first time I can actually remember wondering about my mom. I’m sure I had before then, I had to have, but that was such a profound moment that it’s the one that sticks out above the rest.

After my father summed up my mother in a sentence, like he would a business transaction gone wrong, I never asked him again. I knew I’d never get a real answer as to her whereabouts. And he probably didn’t know or care, anyway. He’s not the type to dwell. I imagine my mother offended him in some way, probably by leaving him, and that was it. No contact—from him or me. He wrote her off.

She’s a blacklisted Wyndemere.

And she became the instrument by which I measured my life. Making sure I stayed well within the lines, never straying, as to not bring down that banishment upon myself.

I don’t know why I’m even continuing to think on the matter now. I told Vee a form of the truth, the short—that I didn’t know her. And I should be thinking of anything else. Her question has just caused some deep, cavernous void to expand in my chest. Along with my parents’ continued belittling of me after my expulsion, I’m feeling more than vulnerable.

Empty.

I pick at the lacy tablecloth, pulling at a loose string, hoping the event wraps up early.

“Something witty.”

My fingers release the string, and I turn in my chair to face Ryder. His hair is slicked back away from his eyes, the color darker than usual, not falling in its typical, haphazard style. He’s fidgeting with cufflinks that are attached to a black tux, a black tie rests under his smoothly shaven neck, and his eyes are squinted, the creases extending toward his temples as he smiles.

I take all this in within a matter of a second before my brain catches up, questioning why he’s here. Did he follow me? “What did you say?”

Pulling out the chair beside me, he sits quickly. “I said, something witty.” He leans forward, elbows to thighs, his broad shoulders even more pronounced in the tux. “I’ve been staring at you for about five minutes, trying to come up with some clever thing to say. But I couldn’t wait to talk to you any longer. So, here I am. Without a witty line. Just my presence.”

I twist my crossed knees toward him, pulling the long skirt of my dress with so I can hide my discarded shoes. “And why is your presence here, exactly?”

He waggles his eyebrows, making my mouth inch into a smile. “I’d accuse you of stalking me,” he says. “But then you could accuse me of the same right back. I mean, what are the chances that we were both required to attend the same event, and yet, didn’t manage to discover this particular detail until now?”

My smile grows. “This is where you were going to take me?”

He nods, long and slow. “In fact, it was. And I have to say—” his gaze plunges to my champagne colored dress; the little bit of cleavage it reveals and the tapered waist “—you did an excellent job of finding something to wear on such short notice.”

I wave a hand through the air dismissively. “Yeah, well, thank you. But this was not my doing.”

“Ah,” he says, and his eyes leave me—I note not without difficulty—to roam the room until he locates my parents. “So you really weren’t standing me up.”

I shrug. “I have no reason to lie to you…yet.”

“Other than the possibility you may get tossed into the ocean or your car egged. Or milked.” He makes a face, scrunching his forehead. “Yeah, milked doesn’t really work. We need a proper name for that.”

Glancing down at the table, I try to stifle my laugh. “Well, there is that. I could always spend the rest of the semester in fear…but—” I look up at him quickly, and damn. I do not want to get pulled into his thrall. I’m fighting it hard—but the little bit of champagne I had earlier is making me too easy a target for his charms. “But I feel I’ve leveled the playing field some.”

His mouth tips up into a bright, adorably sexy smile. “You have.”

I shake my head, trying to gain traction with my wandering thoughts. “So, why
are
you here?”

He looks away and points to a man talking to two of Ryder’s team members. “Coach insists we do some charities a few times a year. Not that we—or I—don’t want to anyway. He just feels it readies some of us for the big leagues.”

I notice it’s only a select number of players; the ones who get the most attention at school. The ones who, obviously, the coach feels are going to go pro after college. Turning my attention back to Ryder, it hits me for the first time that this man will soon be in a whole different league.

“He’s priming you for the big time,” I say, reaching for my sparkling water, needing the moisture for my suddenly dry throat and also to give my hands something to do.

Ryder laughs, a deep sound that resonates in my chest. “I don’t know about that. But I like going to these. They give me an excuse to invite hot chicks out and show off.” He bows out his chest, showing off his tux, and I cannot help but notice that—yes—he looks damn fine in it.

I don’t argue that fact. Instead, I avert my gaze toward the dance floor. Where I watch my father lead Becca across the room toward the refreshment table.

“Dance with me,” Ryder says.

My stomach clenches. The way he says it…it sounds intimate. “I’m only here for the ambiance,” I say, shaking my head.

Rejection just doesn’t compute with this guy. As if my refusal is only a dare to further his advances. He rises from his chair, smoothing out the lapels against his chest, and offers me his hand. “We had a date planned for tonight. I suspect it would’ve included dancing.”

Licking my lips, I search the crowd, to where my father and Becca are enraptured in some conversation with one of my father’s colleagues. He probably won’t even notice…maybe.

Knowing that Ryder won’t stop until he’s effectively made a scene, one in which he’s determined to get his way, I reluctantly accept his hand.

“Over there,” I instruct, nodding to a secluded corner.

“Damn, carrot cake. Leave a guy a little room to be the horn dog.”

My face flames. “Oh, my God. Will you ever stop being so crass?” His hand gently touches the small of my back, and an electric wave of heat ripples over my body.

“I can be any number of things you’d like,” he whispers near my ear. Then he’s pulling me into his strong embrace, leading me effortlessly in a slow dance. My gaze is stuck on his chest, my muscles bunched tightly, as I will my limbs to relax.

I can’t help but to compare him with Lucas. The way Ryder holds me possessively, like he’s daring anyone to take me from his arms. How Lucas domineered the dance, making sure I followed his lead. Ryder leads, but with a give that allows me to change the pace if I deem.

Ryder pulls me closer, which should be the most awkward thing; he’s so much taller than me, just so much more…everything. But my body molds seamlessly against his. My skin tingling with anticipation of his touch.

With a sigh of doomed acceptance, my will being completely obliterated, I look up to find his eyes. Those glacier blues that are staring right into me. “You know this is a bad idea,” I say, surprising myself with my honesty. But I mean it. Nothing good can come of us being together in any form.

Ryder only smiles. “I know any bad idea with you can only be interesting.”

Damn, but he’s going to be trouble.

I
’ve danced
with girls before. At formals, and prom. I was duty-bound. Dancing just…I don’t ever consider it, really. I don’t mind it, but I don’t go out of my way to make it happen. Not even at clubs.

If a chick snaps me up to dance at a bar, hell, I’ll go for it. Whatever usually works to make her happy and leads to me getting with her later. That’s how it works.

But right now, this minute, I’m invested. This isn’t a simple dance with a girl at an event. This is the defensive line being tested. The prelude to the after. And what’s strange, I feel no desire to rush it—to skip over quickly to get to the next part.

My hand rests against Ari’s back, hovering between firm and relaxed. I’m conscious of applying just the right amount of pressure. With Ari, if you push too hard, she bolts. If you don’t push at all, she withdraws into herself. For the short time I’ve known her, been paying attention to her, I’ve figured that much out.

Her silky dress feels fragile against my big hand. I’m trying hard to keep my eyes on her face as she looks up at me, but my gaze keeps drifting to her bare shoulders, the creamy skin on display that looks as soft as I imagine it feels. Her dark hair has been swept up into some up-do that leaves a few ringlets tumbling over those sexy shoulders.

I’m a starving, condemned man, just needing a taste. I release her hand to brush a loose strand from her shoulder. My fingers gently glide across her skin, taking in the satiny warmth, and I feel her shiver against me. It stirs a deep sigh from my chest.

Her freed hand snakes up along my chest as she wraps her arms around my shoulders. Her hands lock together behind my neck, and I’m aware that this is difficult, because of the height difference. But I’m not complaining one fucking bit. It forces her body all the closer because of it. Her breasts press up against my chest, her stomach aligns with my waist, her thighs flush to mine.

We’re barely moving now. Swaying just slightly. I’m tempted to pull her farther into that dark corner.

Ari tilts back her head farther. Her eyes—lit liquid amber by the light—flick over my face as she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. A groan lodges in my throat, my whole body aching to be alone with her.

“Arian,” a deep male voice says, interrupting the entrancing moment.

Both our heads whip around, our bodies putting more than an inch of space between us.

“You should introduce us to your friend,” he continues. He’s tall and wiry, but not weak. Built how a solid businessman should be. His dark hair is short and sculpted neatly to the side, his facial features all hard angles. Important.

I don’t need the proper introduction to know who this man is, but Ari proceeds at his request. “Father, this is Ryder Nash. The quarterback for the Braxton Bobcats.”

Releasing Ari from my hold completely, I step toward him and punctuate the air with an outstretched hand. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

His slight hesitation is witnessed briefly, but I keep my hand steady, until he accepts it with a hard shake. “Pleased to meet you, Ryder.” He gives my hand a firm squeeze before releasing it and wrapping an arm around the woman next to him. “This is my wife, Becca Wyndemere.” She nods, and I acknowledge her back. Then, “So, college football. That’s great. What year are you?”

My back stiffens with tension. I feel the inquisition coming on. But that’s okay. I take a quick peek over at Ari, note her rigid posture, and release a rickety breath for the both of us. I admit, I don’t get the parent third degree often,
ever
. But that’s because I never found a girl worth the trouble.

“I’m a senior, sir.”

He nods slowly. “I see. You plan to go pro next year?”

“Dad…” Ari inserts into the conversation.

But it’s really okay. “I do, sir. At least, that’s the plan at the moment. But I also plan for more schooling. Possibly graduate school. A couple years down the road.”

“That’s wonderful,” Becca says. I glimpse Ari’s unease toward her mother, but I don’t let on. “You have to always have a plan B. What’s your major?”

I smile. “Creative writing.”

A thick wall of silence stacks up like bricks between both parties. The music from the orchestra fills the vacuum of air. I pull the lapels of my tux straight.

“Well, that’s certainly an interesting plan B,” Mr. Wyndemere states. He looks about the room before he says, “Did your parents attend?”

Now this…might get uncomfortable. I don’t talk about my parents to anyone. And I’m not willing to make an exception now. “No, sir.”

When I don’t elaborate, he presses on, undeterred. “Are they local? Would I know them?”

He knows my last name, so he most likely knows the answer to those questions already. I’m starting to understand why Ari seems so anxious all of the time. “Yes, sir. Well, a couple towns over, actually. I’ve lived here my whole life. So I think it’s safe to assume we’ve not been acquainted until now.”

His eyes widen, maybe from disbelief that a jock could outwit him. I’m not going to play the “measure you by your parents’ worth” game with him. I’ll be as polite as possible, for Ari’s sake, because I really do understand her situation—but I won’t allow anyone to use my family to make me feel
less than
. I suppress the urge to turn the topic of conversation around, and wait for his response.

“I see, well. That’s wonderful.” He looks at Ari and smiles brightly before turning a hard gaze on me. “I’ve always thought there was something to be said about sticking to your roots.” He nods curtly. But he leaves what’s to be said, unsaid. Although his insinuation is perfectly clear to all.

“Jonathan, I’m practically parched,” his wife says, linking her arm through his.

“Right, dear.” He acknowledges her almost as an afterthought. Then quickly says, “Again, it was a pleasure to meet you, Ryder. Arian”—he lifts his chin in her direction—“we’ll be leaving soon. The event is winding down.”

He leaves before Ari can reply.

An awkward quiet builds between us. I’m not sure just how much her father’s opinion of me weighs on her…and I’m not positive how to broach that subject. Or if I should simply ignore the obvious.

She says, “Well, now that the torture part of the evening is over…” And turns toward me.

Relieved, I smile. I’m only concerned about what her family thinks of me if she is. I take her hand and begin to guide her toward a table. “That wasn’t so bad,” I say.

She pulls her hand free, and my chest tightens. “I’m sorry.” She moves in closer to me as she says this, her head turned to the side. So that she’s not looking directly at me. That pains me more than anything her father could’ve slung at me. “That was uncalled for. He’s just…I don’t know.”

“A father?” I offer, but we both know that’s a simplified excuse for what just went down.

Even so, she accepts the pretext gratefully with a small smile and a glance into my eyes. “Thanks. But I think I should just leave. It will only get uglier from here if—”

“If you’re seen with me longer than what’s considered appropriate?” My brows inch together. I am trying to keep my cool, because I get where she’s coming from, but it’s still a blow to my ego. “Do you have a dance card I should fill out, too?”

“Ryder. Don’t.” The warning startles the sarcasm right out of me. “I’m not my parents.”

“Glad to hear,” I say, and immediately regret it. Dammit, but I’m hot tempered sometimes.

Rolling her eyes, she releases a little, clipped laugh. “Right. So this was fun. I think we were safer when we were at war.”

A heavy breath releases from my nose. My lips press firmly together. I could get ahold of this situation right now and stop where this is going. It’s all up to me. I’m just unsure if I want to. My gaze drifts over her dress, her small frame, so tiny and fragile looking. Underneath, I know what hides. That fire she turned up at the beach, that blaze she fueled at the game.

It’s enough to put me on frustrate right here. But I decide against demeaning myself. Groveling, even. Especially in front of her…or
for
her. I’ve done enough of that for one lifetime.

I take her hand and bring it between us, then place a kiss to the back of it. I catch the tremble in her arm, and my gaze snaps to her face. Slowly, I pull myself up to my full height, and say, “Thank you for the dance, Arian.” Then I turn and head toward Coach and the guys.

As I walk away, the urge to glance back and measure her reaction roils in my gut.