School Ties (11 page)

He looks at me for a long second before he turns and walks out the door. I sink to my knees when the latch trips and cry anew, my fingertips grazing my lips where he kissed me. These tears aren't for Will. They're for the lost possibility of what might have been but can never be with Zach Shepherd.

Chapter Nine

Shep

“Damn it, Kaiser.”

It's the second week of school and I'm already buried under mounds of homework. That's what you get for taking an extra class, I guess. I don't have time for this shit. But Kaiser's dragging me out of my chair in a headlock and Paul's throwing stuff out of the particleboard piece-of-shit that passes for a closet in the crappiest undergrad housing the university has.

“Get dressed, Shep. You're going out tonight.”

“I would, guys, but I've got—”

“Shut the fuck up and make things easy on yourself. You're coming whether you like it or not. It's Tudor's birthday and we're doing a, uh, team-building exercise.”

I roll my eyes from where my head's still wedged under Kaiser's arm. I could have him on his back in a second but I can take some hazing. I push at his flexed forearm halfheartedly to give him the satisfaction. “Is ‘team-building exercise' code for ‘strip club'?”

Paul snaps a dress shirt against my ass and I growl, pushing harder against the arm at my throat that feels more threatening though the pressure's the same.

“For being such a geek, you're not a total square. Now suit up, my friend. This night is going to be the stuff of legend.”

“Then fucking let up, Kaiser. I can't change my shirt with you choking me.”

He releases his grip and I drag a few breaths into my lungs. He hadn't been holding me tight, but I hate that trapped feeling. I shake it off and grab the button-down from Paul before I strip off the long-sleeve Hawthorn Hill hockey tee I've got on. The guys are still jabbering and I'm half looking forward to the porny bow-chicka-wow-wow beat of the club so I don't have to listen to them anymore.

•   •   •

Ten minutes later, I'm cramming into Hurley's Acura. I know enough to know it's a nice car, but I also know enough about how to fit in with rich kids to not comment. We buzz through the streets of Evanston and down Sheridan into the city, ending up in a neighborhood I don't know yet. The club is sketchy, but not the nastiest I've seen, called something like All Starz, if I read the gaudy sign correctly. The lot of us—spilling out of expensive cars, half drunk and all blowing off steam from a long week—fill up the parking lot and bottleneck into the club.

Someone's paid our way so we get in no problem and without a second look from the bouncers, jacked dudes who could snap most of us over their knees like twigs. I'll keep an eye on the guys who don't know when to shut the hell up to make sure that doesn't happen.

The place is dark and a bunch of tables have “Reserved” signs on them, where we spread out. Soon after, waitresses wearing not much more than the girls on stage saunter over and take our drink orders. When I ask for water, our server leans over farther, showing off her gaudy, sparkly canyon of cleavage, and a cloying fake vanilla smell pours off her.

“You driving, honey?”

“Yeah.” It was a lie on the way here, but I'm guessing it won't be on the way back. Hurley had nudged me on the way in. “You're all straight-edge and shit, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You mind driving back if I want a drink?”

“Sure.”

I don't bother explaining that if I thought I could actually trust anyone here, I'd be happy to get fucked up. Relieved. Let me forget for a few hours about Erin Brewster. She's been making unwanted appearances in my dreams since I met her, but after graduation, it's been worse. It's worse because I know what it feels like to have her lips against mine, have her kiss me back.

For the most part over the summer I'd been too busy working, watching Caleb or sleeping. Showers were a three-minute exercise in waking myself up and scrubbing shampoo in my hair and passing whatever sliver of soap was left in the shower over myself.

But now, I'm busy but I'm not that busy, and I'm tired but not sacked out. My dick has woken up from its summer hibernation. And the girls. Holy fuck, the girls. They're All. Over. I'm not used to their high voices echoing through the halls of everywhere, or their girl smells or the short shorts. Real girls actually dress like that?

I'd thought the flirting was bad at school dances when we'd meet up with the girls' school in the next town over, but add alcohol and kids away from home for the first time and you get explosions of sexual aggression. I'm flattered by the attention but it feels wrong to me. They don't know anything about me. How do they know I'm not an asshole who'd treat them badly? Do they care? They should care.

Stupid as it may be, I can't get rid of the nugget of hope that someday, somehow, I might be able to be with Erin. That miniscule possibility is enough to keep her as the yardstick in my head against which I measure all others.

All I can think when the round little redhead who lives down the hall leans in my doorway to ask me to kill a spider is that she's too insistent, not mild like Erin. The Asian girl who times her gym workouts to flirt with us when we're coming and going from practice? Smells too spicy and wears too much makeup, not subtle like Erin. Even the knockout blonde in my multivariable calculus class? Not as smart as Erin.

Now sugar tits.
Yeah, lady, I'm the designated driver.
She taps my nose with an acrylic nail. “Coming right up, honey.”

I should've found some empty carrel in the library to hole up in. A number starts on the main stage and war whoops go up around me. I do my best to ignore the cowgirl strip routine going on, when there's a hand on my shoulder.

“Shep. Come on, man.”

It's Paul. He's cocking his head toward a low-lit door in a corner of the club with its own bouncer. “What? We going to the champagne room?”

“There's a reason I picked this shithole. Tudor's coming, too. Come on.”

I drain my water, setting down the empty glass with a few bucks under it, and slip out of my seat, ignoring the boos of the guys whose views I block. I shove my hands in my pockets as we head over. Paul's looking over his shoulder to make sure we aren't being followed, but all eyes are glued to the girl who's down to a G-string, chaps and a Stetson.

Paul thrusts his pointy chin at the bouncer, who nods us in, and when the door opens . . . Holy shit.

•   •   •

I've seen this in the occasional porno but never in real life. Holy. Fucking. Shit.

“Close your mouth, dude. Be cool.”

Paul nudges me with an elbow. I do my best to plaster a look of cool disinterest on my face, but this might be my biggest challenge ever.

There's a girl strapped over some kind of bench and a guy is whaling on her ass with a . . . I don't even know what to call that thing. It's maybe leather? Got a handle and a bunch of separate strands that are spreading over her reddened ass cheeks with every blow. Whatever it is, it's making the girl scream, but not in pain.

“Nice, right?”

“What the—”

“Sit down, shut the fuck up and enjoy. You want some more water, you pussy?”

“Yeah.”

We dump ourselves into seats at an empty table at the front to watch the show. Though I was watching a mostly naked chick with a bunch of guys a few minutes ago and I didn't blink, this makes me squirm. The faux leather is tacky and the place grimy, but there's something about this . . .

My uncomfortable musings are interrupted by the woman's voice. She's stopped screaming and instead she's begging, her voice tight and desperate. “Please, sir, please, sir.”

“Please what, you slut?” the guy asks, punctuating his question with a hard slap of the tool to the backs of her thighs.

“Please, sir, may I come, sir? Oh, please.”

The tightening in my gut had loosened when he'd called her a slut, but it springs back tighter than ever.

“Go on, you horny little bitch in heat. I want to see you come.”

And she does. She fucking does. It's the hottest thing I've ever seen. I'm no expert and I've seen
When Harry Met Sally
, but I'm almost certain she's not faking it. I can't help but imagine how Erin would look; bound like that, begging like that,
coming
like that, but for me, not this guy. I wonder if the girl likes the name-calling or if it's something that gets just him off. Her cries of pleasure are ebbing and the guy's stopped hitting her. He's stroking her cherry-red ass and she's mewling these gaspy sighs of satisfaction. It's then I realize I'm hard as a fucking rock, and unlike during the talent show going on in the main club, I haven't dragged my eyes away from this scene since we came in. My water sits in front of me untouched.

“Nice, right?” Paul's weasel face is hanging over my shoulder and I shrug. He smacks me upside the head. “Come on, dude—”

His accusations are muffled by a commotion on the platform. The guy who'd been hitting her has moved around to where her hands are attached to the bench to undo her bonds. Some douche in a backward baseball cap and a White Sox jersey has jumped up and has his hands all over her, squeezing her ass and making pumping motions with his hips, grinding into her from behind.

Her partner comes around and yells at the guy to get back, but fan boy's got a good four inches and fifty pounds on him and despite being shit-faced, lands a solid punch. I'm out of my chair, telling Paul to get a bouncer or, failing that, the rest of the team. Fan boy's friends are pulling him back, but he's bigger than them, too. I bust in between his drunk ass and the girl right before he grabs her again.

“Hey, buddy, hands off. Girl's just trying to do her job.”

I am so going to get clocked. I sneak a glance at the girl's partner, out cold on the floor. Shit. I can't afford to get in a fight. Luck's with me, though. My interruption has given fan boy's friends enough time to get a good grip on him and he doesn't have enough leverage to get his fist close to my face. They drag him off and I turn around. She's crying and calling out, wrenching her wrists in the leather cuffs like she could rip free if she pulled hard enough. “Denny? Denny, are you okay? Oh, god.”

I crouch down in front of her, brush a curtain of corn-silk-soft blond hair behind her ear so I can see her face, and reach for the wrist Denny'd started to unfasten.

“Hey, he's going be okay. It's just a punch. Look, he's coming to already.”

Twitches of his fingers and a roll of his head say he'll be conscious in a few seconds. In the meantime, “Hey, sweetheart, settle down. I can't get you out of here when you're struggling. I'll get you out and then you can go to him.”

She bites her lip and stops flailing, cooperative, tears leaking from her eyes. My fingers are steady as I unbuckle the cuffs and she rubs her wrists, red from her struggles. I put my hand on her arm and drag it up to her shoulder, down her back, over the side of her hip and down her leg. Not trying to cop a feel, but letting her know where I am so she doesn't freak when she feels me behind her.

I get her ankle cuffs unfastened and help her stand. I expect her to drop to her knees at Denny's side. He's sitting up with the help of a bouncer who's showed up.
Awesome timing, dude.
But she stands on tiptoe, throws her arms around my neck, and squeezes the breath out of me.

“Thank you,” she murmurs into my neck. This really fucking hot chick, smelling like lilacs and sweat and sex, naked as the day she was born, is pressing her whole body the length of mine. If I were Paul or Jamie, I'd have a raging hard-on. But I'm not. I put my arms around her and hold her hard and close until some of the desperation leaves her grasp.

“Sure.” Who wouldn't have done that? But the answer is none of the twenty other guys in the room had. “I'm glad you're okay.”

She nods into my shoulder and sniffs. The slightest tug back makes me release her, and she presses a quick kiss to my cheek before turning away.

“Hold up.” I strip off my button-down, leaving me in my undershirt. I hold it out to her and she tugs it over her head, mouthing another thank-you before tackle-hugging Denny, who's sitting up against a pillar. After a few words, she's sitting in his lap and he's comforting her while a bartender comes over with a towel full of ice. A few seconds later, the girl is pointing at me. Denny's eyes meet mine before he offers a halfhearted salute. I do the same and turn to leave. Hopefully Hurley and some other guys are ready to ditch this place. I won't leave anyone stranded, but goddamn, do I want to get the fuck out of here.

I'm stopped by someone grabbing my shoulder. I twist out of the grip, expecting fan boy wanting to get in a late hit. Instead it's a guy in his early forties, kinda Lenny Kravitz–looking. He holds up his hands and looks me up and down.

“Easy, man. Just wanted to talk to you. Got a few minutes?”

The wariness from expecting to get punched hasn't entirely eased up. “For what?”

Instead of answering me, he sticks out a hand. “Name's Mordecai. Nice to meet you.”

I'm still suspicious but all those damn manners they shoved down our throats on the Hill make me reciprocate. “Shepherd.”

Everyone at school calls me Shepherd or Shep, even my professors. I don't think twice about it, but the guy cocks his head and gets this funny smirk on his face. “You serious?”

Guy's named fucking
Mordecai
and he's giving me shit about Shepherd? What the fuck? I swallow my smart-ass response and turn to go. “Hey, man, Shepherd. Sorry. It's a little . . . on the nose. Come on, let me buy you a drink. I'll stop being a dick.”

“I'm not drinking.”

There's that fucking smirk again. “Tonic and lime?”

“Yeah, okay.” The adrenaline rush is draining from my system. I'm feeling jittery and wound too tight. A glass in my hand would at least give me something to hold on to.

Mordecai flags down a waitress and holds up two fingers as we take a seat at the back. The action's stopped, maybe over for the night in the wake of fan boy. It's nice to have a break to gather my thoughts. My fingers drum on the edge of the table as my eyes are drawn to the front of the room, where Paul's reenacting the earlier drama for some of our teammates. At least they're leaving me alone. I can't take their crap right now.