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So I don't see him change his mind and turn back, reaching me again in barely a couple long strides. My face is held and tilted to an expedient angle, impatient fingers thrusting firmly into my hair as Sam's lips crash against mine.

My senses are on overload, all of them assaulted with their favorite damned thing all at the same time—Sam. His beauty, his scent, his incredible taste, the feel of his lips, of his light stubble rubbing softly against my skin, the sound of his encouraging soft huffs—they light me on fire at once. My fingers dig into the skin of his bicep, anchoring myself to him—anchoring myself to my anchor.

He steps forward again even though we're already against the wall, and presses further against me. His arm comes around my waist, pillowing my back from the cinder block wall, and holding us flush together. His tongue reclaims my mouth in a possessive kiss and I revel in the feeling.

It has been so long since I got to be close to him like this, since I got to feel this. Weeks that have felt like an eternity. And I'd feared I'd never get to experience it again. My hands slide up into his hair until I grip the thick locks at his nape, clutching him desperately to me.

I am lost to him.

I never want to be found.

I whimper in both pleasure and desperation for more. And for a second it feels as if maybe he will give me more, even here and now.

And then his mouth rips from mine. He presses his forehead to mine for a split second, gasps a deep breath, and then he disappears. Gone. Just like that.

I am still lost, and by the time I've managed to open my eyes, he's already turning to walk away. I watch, dazed, as he saunters off, full of some new determination, and I wonder about it.

I sigh. The bell to end the last period of the day will ring any second now and the hallway will be swarming with students making their way out of the building. I need to pull myself the hell together.

But before I can pry myself from the wall, I look to my right and see Chelsea watching me, obviously captivated. I know immediately that she saw what just went down between Sam and me, and a wave of anxiety rolls through me. But then she smiles, and though it's an obviously forced, insincere smile, I know how hard it must be for her to even fake it. We both know she didn't get over her "crush" in the past couple of weeks. I guess I should appreciate the effort, and I smile hesitantly and faintly, back at her.

Chapter Fourteen

I
toss the key to the valet at the twenty-four hour garage. I won't make the same mistake I made that time I parked in the one that closed at midnight and had to take a train back to the city at dawn to retrieve my car. Marshall is right behind me, Tina and Chelsea each a couple cars back, all of us with full cars. 

We trek the three blocks to Philippe, one of my favorite restaurants, and the maître d' leads our group past the bar, down the back stairs, and through the kitchen into the wine cellar. There are only a few tables down here and most people don't even know they exist. Another benefit of having an uncle who knows everyone in hospitality.

The manager is there a second later, shaking my hand and telling me to send his regards to Uncle Kelly. If there was some girl here I was trying to impress, I suspect this treatment would be very effective. But the only girl I give a damn about is far from
some
girl, and she's barely even aware of the special treatment as she makes herself comfortable in the leather upholstered bench and orders a ginger ale from our overly attentive server.

In the end, I resent the manager's greeting since it hordes my attention while our group takes their seats, and I find myself unable to position myself next to Rory. As it is I'm barely even sitting across from her, two seats down.

Half of the group talks about Prom, which I still have no date for, still hoping there's a chance I can take Rory, which is ridiculous since it's two weeks away and everyone's had arrangements made for months. But there's room in our limo, so if by God's good grace Monday rolls around and she still wants to give us another chance, maybe I can convince her to come with me.

The event itself will be cheesy, but we're all heading to Thea's family's rental in the Hamptons afterwards and at least that should be fun. But I know the chances are slim, and though I try not to get my hopes up—not sure I can handle the disappointment of her confirmation that yesterday's conversation was, as I suspected, a result of my terrible behavior and her consequential jealousy—I can't help but hope. And it's a dangerous thing—hope. The kind of thing that lets me set myself up for the worst kind of hurt, one I never knew existed a few months ago, but that now I'm painfully familiar with.

It took everything I had not to let myself get sucked into her words. Not to jump on the chance to get her back. But I needed her to be sure.
Need
her to be sure.

Even if I couldn't stop myself from taking one taste of her.

I almost didn't. Almost made myself walk away. But then I realized that it's likely that Monday will come and she'll reiterate that she can't handle a relationship, that we're still just friends, and that it could be my last chance to
ever
get a taste of her.

It was the best and worst decision of my life.
God
, kissing her is like nothing else. It's like consuming her, and begging her to consume me in return. And she fucking did.

I sigh, shaking my head free of these obsessive thoughts. For tonight at least, we're still just friends, and I'm determined for us to have a good night, considering the disaster of the last night we were out together just forty-eight hours ago.

Those who aren't chatting about Prom are talking about Live, the club we're off to later, or texting on their phones. Chelsea texts excitedly, presumably to some guy, maybe the one she's bringing to prom, or her college roommate that's also planning on meeting us at Live, apparently in town for the weekend. Fortunately, Chelsea relinquished the idea of being my date to prom, deciding to take some guy from some other school she knew from summer camp, so I'm off the hook there. Not that I ever really considered taking her.

I never thought I'd be going stag, but that's what the odds are leaning toward. But the truth is, if Rory doesn't go, I'd rather just focus on chilling with my boys than entertaining some girl who will only get the wrong idea.

I feel ridiculous even thinking about it when there are so many more concerning things to think about before then. Real things. Like the motion hearing on Rory's case next week. I have to be there. At least as a witness I have every reasonable excuse and right to be there, but I don't want to just be there as a witness. I want to be there for
her
. I want to be there
with
her. It's strange waiting for Monday to learn my fate. Everything will either change or stay the same, and I have no say in any of it.

Tucker sucks on Carl's neck right there at the table and I roll my eyes.

"Do you guys want the room to yourselves? Should we find a table upstairs?" I ask them.

"Would you mind?" Tucker deadpans, his mouth barely letting go of the skin of Carl's throat to respond.

Carl shrugs him off, flushing with mild embarrassment as I fling an ice cube at him, landing it right in the collar of his shirt in true quarterback form.

"Fucker," he grumbles.

"Cut it out, Tuck," Carl murmurs halfheartedly, scooting away from him so she's not practically on his fucking lap.

"Come on, Princess, don't listen to Cap. He's just a bitter bastard these days."

I land another ice cube down Tucker's collar.

"Fucking stop that!" he growls in exasperation, but he's the one who needs to fucking stop it.

I glare at him and he exhales his capitulation. He doesn't mean to be a dick, and he certainly didn't mean to call me out on being in a shit mood over Rory, but he did, and he looks like he just realized it. His expression is his apology, and I accept it wordlessly.

Fortunately, Carl changes the subject. "So, Rory, did you ever talk to that girl? The one you met on Facebook?"

This is news to me. I didn't know Rory had met a classmate and it makes me smile.

Rory nods. "She's nice. I think I might meet her for coffee next weekend…"

But she trails off, and her eyes get this lost look that I've come to recognize. I know immediately what she's thinking about. It's hard for her to look all the way to next weekend when first she has to deal with
that motherfucking bastard's
hearing.

This is when things are the hardest. When I want more than anything to take her hand, to whisper some words of comfort, but I can't do a damn thing but sit here in silence and try to telepathically communicate my support.

And then, as if she just can't help herself, Chelsea takes care to shift the conversation back to herself, making sure the entire group knows just how excited she is to finally meet her roommate for the first time in a couple hours, how
awesome
this girl supposedly is, and how much they have in common. Though if the last is true, I can't really see how "awesome" she could possibly be.

I feel guilty for the thought. It's a nasty thing to think about a friend, but it's what came to mind nonetheless.

I order family style for everyone and no one asks for ID when most of my friends order drinks. No one says anything when Dave lights a cigarette either. Most of us have eaten here several times, but it's obviously Rory's first time, and her enthusiasm for the food lifts my mood immensely. She's so into the lobster satay that I quietly order her an extra plate of it and she gives me that sweet smile in gratitude when the server places it in front of her minutes later. I love watching her eat. Is it crazy that I love watching her eat?

"Cap, tell me about the apartment? Is it all ready?" Chelsea asks. It's the third time she's said something to get my personal attention when I'd been focusing it on Rory, and I realize I'm being way too obvious.

"Yeah. Thea did a sick job," I reply.

"I can't wait to see it!" she says excitedly.

I force a smile. I don't remember inviting her to see it. I may have forgiven her, but I'm realizing that once we graduate our family connection will likely be all that's left of our friendship. And that's just fine with me.

Rory downs her crème brulee dessert and I try not to find it erotic as hell as she moans in pleasure as she licks the creamy custard off the spoon. The girl is completely unaware of what she's doing to me. Fucking
torture
.

In lieu of having to find non-existent parking in the meatpacking district, and pay for parking twice, we all pile into cabs to head downtown with plans to do the same to get back to our cars later.

Thanks once again to Uncle Kelly, we skip the line and are walked right into the club, straight to the two tables reserved on our behalf—again without having to show ID.

Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves, dancing, or talking—well, screaming really—over the music. I keep an eye on Rory, but try not to hover. But I do catch her eyes on me quite a bit, and boy is it gratifying. True to her word, she doesn't drink, even though she isn't driving. I sit at our table and sip my soda, watching everyone have a good time. In truth, I'm having a good time myself.

Chelsea sits by me, texting mostly, until she squeals excitedly and jumps from her seat. I eye her inquisitively and watch her fix her face back into composure.

"My roommate's outside," she explains. "Can you come with me to get her in?"

"Just tell her to give my name, they'll walk her right in," I remind Chelsea, who pouts annoyingly.

"Come on, Cap. She's nervous. She's not from New York, she's from some little middle-of-nowhere town. And I don't want to go outside by myself." She exaggerates her pout. "Please? Anyway I want you to meet her and it's loud as hell in here."

I roll my eyes and acquiesce. It's just easier, and it's not like I'm doing anything here anyway other than watching Rory dance with the girls. I wait to make eye contact with Dave, and he gives me a subtle nod. He'll look out for her while I'm gone. It's our deal. After Miami, Dave was pretty shaken by Rory's assault too. We had a little talk, and he promised to help me keep an eye on her, especially since they go smoke outside at parties. He swore to me that he'd never let her go by herself, and as far as I know, he hasn't.

Chelsea grabs my hand, her fake nails scratching the back of mine as she pulls me toward the exit. We make our way through the dense crowd, around sweaty dancing bodies, and I'm actually grateful for the fresh air once we get outside.

The bouncer opens the rope for us and I tell him we're just meeting a friend and we're coming right back in. Chelsea checks her phone.

"She's pulling up any second," she tells me.

"I thought you said she was here…"

"She's around the freaking block, Cap. Relax. She's only been to New York like once before. She's really excited, but nervous. I wanted you to meet her anyway, she's really pretty."

"I thought this was your first time meeting her?" I ask.

"Well, yeah, but I've seen her photos on Instagram and Facebook. Anyway we've talked so much in the past month I feel like I've known her forever. We have a lot in common."

I nod, barely even bothering to feign interest.

"You probably do too, actually."

"Hm." I'm getting the unwelcome sense that Chelsea's trying to set me up with this girl she's never actually met, and I'm confused by it considering it was just a couple of months ago that she was attacking Rory because of her own crush. Nothing Chelsea does seems to make any damn sense anymore.

"You actually have a friend in common."

"Hm." Where the fuck is this girl? I just want to go back inside and get back to the friends whose company I actually enjoy.

"There she is!" Chelsea shrieks excitedly, and titters on her five inch heels around me to where a short, blond girl has just climbed out of a cab.

They embrace and I'm instantly on edge. "Hey girl!" Chelsea exclaims. "This is Cap, the guy I was telling you about." But her tone is pointed, not casual, and I'm suddenly aware this is not the setup I thought it was.

It's far worse.

Because even before Chelsea introduces her to me, I know her name. Know exactly who she is. I don't have to have ever seen her before to recognize the familial resemblance to features that have haunted my fucking nightmares.

I automatically step back from them, half in shock.

"This is my roommate, Lacey," Chelsea says excitedly as if everything is normal. As if she didn't seek out Rory's fucking enemy—
her fucking rapist's sister
and personal harasser
—to be her fucking college roommate.