Strum Your Heart Out (9 page)

Drew's gaze fixes on the table. It's almost like he's nervous. He mutters under his breath, pours a shot, and slams it. "You're so fucking immature."

Gee, great. I'm that appealing.

Attention is divided. Half on me. Half on Drew. I maintain my happy face. No way I'm going to allow all the pity in the room to land on me.

Drew presses his palm against the table. "Tom. Truth or dare."

"Truth."

"Why are you such a miserable piece of shit?" Drew asks.

"I was born that way." Tom turns to me. "Kara. Your turn."

No sense fanning the flames here. If I act like this is cool, everyone will calm down. This will all be okay. "Truth."

Tom lowers his voice. "Were you hoping Drew would pick dare?"

My lips feel heavy. No way to pry them apart. I push myself out of my chair. "Drew should do whatever makes him happy."

Drew is staring at me, this strange mix of anger and concern.

"You know, I just remembered. I have a paper due Monday and I haven't even started. I should get to that." I take another step toward the stairs. "It was great to see you guys. Have fun."

Drew's eyes find mine. Something passes between us, but I haven't got a fucking clue what it is, why we're both dodging these questions.

I turn and rush up the stairs with as much calm as I can muster.

The tension in my neck relaxes once I'm alone in my bedroom. Hurt bubbles up in my chest, the same hurt I felt when I was listening to Drew play. I push it away, lock myself in the bathroom, and run the shower.

***

I turn the water as hot and heavy as it will go. It pounds the porcelain with a loud
tap tap tap
. The tiny white room fills with steam. It turns everything into this bright blurry haze.

The band is still downstairs. No signs anyone is on their way out. I throw my head back and rinse my hair in the water. I didn't exactly play that cool, but I didn't throw a fit.

I shampoo, condition, and soap. My fingers trail over the scars on my inner thighs. They're still raised well above my skin, thick and red and ugly. But no one can see them.

No one will ever see them again.

"Kara."

It's Drew. Outside my bedroom door. He must be yelling pretty loud to make it all the way to me.

I pretend like I can't hear.

"Kara." The bedroom door opens. He's inside my bedroom now. His footsteps move toward the shower. He knocks lightly. "How is the paper going in there?"

"Great," I yell over the shower.

"You want to come downstairs? I made Tom promise to shut the fuck up."

"No thank you." I turn the water off. "I really do have to finish my homework."

"Do it after everyone leaves." He taps the door lightly. "Things are falling apart without you. Pete is sulking on the couch. Meg and Miles are necking on the table."

I pull my towel—one of my few belongings—from the rack and pat myself dry. I'm naked and Drew is on the other side of the door.

"Give me a minute," I say.

He taps the door with his fingers. Okay. He's not leaving. I pull the towel around my chest and check my reflection to make sure I'm covered. It's acceptable.

Drew's eyes pass over me as I move to the closet, from my eyes all the way down to my toes and back up again. His gaze lingers at my chest. For a split second, his pupils dilate. His lips part.

He wants me. Some part of him, at least. Even if it's subconscious, it's something.

“Why does it make you so angry?” I ask.

“What?”

“When Tom teases that we’re together. Dares you to kiss me. Whatever.”

“I asked Tom a million times to leave it alone.” He runs his hand through his hair. “He knows I swore off relationships after Vivian.”

“Oh.”

He shifts. “Are you okay?”

"Great."

His eyes fix on mine. "Were you?"

I pull the towel a little tighter. "What?"

"Hoping I'd pick dare?"

My heart races. So not going there. So, so not going there. "I'm not a teenager. If I want a guy to kiss me, I make it happen."

He stares at me, studying my expression. His fingers brush my shoulders. His lips part, but he doesn't say anything. He just stares.

I press my knees together. "Why didn't you?"

He shakes his head. "I'm not a teenager. If I want to kiss a girl, I'm not going to do it because of a dare."

He sits on the bed, his back to me. He can't think I'm changing with him here.

I grab a dress and underwear and change in the bathroom. My makeup is smudged from the shower. I wipe it clean with a sheet of toilet paper.

In my room, Drew is lying on my bed, arms stretched over his head. A thin sliver of his stomach is exposed.

It's enough to make me pant. God, he's cut. He looks damn yummy.

I dare you to kiss Kara
.

My head is swimming. The suggestion made him angry. And every time anyone hints there's something between us...

But he flirts with me and he runs his fingertips over my shoulders and he looks at me like he wants me.

Drew turns toward me. This time, he's obvious about his double take. Of course, I'm wearing a tight dress and no bra. Not that I wore it so his gaze would be drawn to my chest or anything.

He pushes himself off the bed and leads me to the hallway.

Downstairs, someone is clapping. Tom, of course.

He yells in our general direction. "That was fast, Drew. Kind of embarrassing."

Drew glances at me for a second. No telling what's going on in that head of his. He brushes a wet strand of hair behind my ears and leans in close.

Then he pulls back and he makes his way down the stairs like nothing has changed.

CHAPTER TEN

My dance workout relieves the tension wrecking my body. So Drew dodged a dare to kiss me, then stared at me like he wanted to consume me, so what?

I focus on hitting every step in my routine. It's been a long time since I've done any real performances, but the steps are drilled into my brain.

By the time I'm finished practicing, I'm dripping with sweat. My heart pounds against my chest. No lust, just good old-fashioned exercise.

I pull off my tank top and use it to pat dry. No sense in wearing more than a sports bra and leggings. Not for modern dance.

One more time. The track is on repeat. I get into position and wait for the song to finish. The instrumental intro kicks in. Five, six, seven, eight. I launch into my routine, throwing myself into every movement.

I hit the ending pose, catching my breath as the music fades into the outro.

Something is different.

I turn around. Drew is standing at the front door in a t-shirt, running shorts, and sneakers. I must not have heard him come in.

"You're amazing," he says.

"Thank you." I go to put my music on pause.

I can still feel his gaze on me. My sports bra and leggings are tight as hell. That must be it. He's just checking me out. Whatever that means.

I nod to the exercise mat sitting in the corner of the room. "I was going to do some floor work."

"I'm afraid I can't allow that, Kendrick."

"That right?"

"I have push-ups and crunches to do."

Well then. The mat is just big enough to fit the two of us, side by side, even if half of my exercises involve opening my legs as wide as they'll go.

I bite my lip. I can handle this. Maybe. "You can do push-ups on the floor."

He shakes his head. "How do I tolerate such a selfish best friend?"

I roll out the exercise mat and lie on my back. I pretend like I don't care Drew is watching me and do my first set of leg lifts.

He drops on the floor next to me and puts himself in push-up position. He lowers and raises his body with a grunt. There's sweat dripping off his chest and shoulders. He's practically glistening.

Not going to stare at Drew. Just doing leg lifts here. Not lusting after my friend. Not at all.

He moves to the table for inverse rows. I use the time to do bridges, but he's back by my last set, watching as I lift my ass and torso toward the ceiling.

Okay. Enough of that. I switch to forearm planks. I'm already spent. My arms and legs are shaking. I shift, lifting my ass higher than I should.

Without a word, Drew grabs my hips and adjusts my form.

My body buzzes. That flutter between my legs goes into overdrive.

Fuck it. I drop to the floor. Drew lies on his back. He lifts his leg in the air.

"Stretch my hamstrings," he says.

"Ever hear of the word please?"

"Never."

I stare at him, waiting.

He shakes his head like he finds me ridiculous. "Please, stretch my hamstrings. I'll do you after."

"Tell me when." I wrap one hand around his thigh—his hard, muscular thigh—and the other around his calf, and I push his leg toward his chest until he groans.

"Ugh. When! When!" He makes eye contact.

I silently count to twenty. We switch and I stretch his other leg. He lets out the same delicious groan.

So. Not. Going. There.

I go to push myself up. Drew grabs my upper arms and wrestles me onto my back. Once I'm flat, he kneels next to me, slides his hands around my upper thigh, and pushes my leg to my chest.

He moves slowly, waiting for my when. "Jesus, Kara. Can you get this thing behind your head?"

"Sometimes."

His voice gets lower. "That must come in handy."

I swallow hard. He shifts so he's putting his weight into the stretch, so he's right on top of me. His crotch hovers a few inches from mine.

The stretch gets deeper. It's about as much as I can take, but I can't bear to say anything that will move Drew's body away from mine.

My eyes flutter closed. I focus on the pull of my muscle. Slow inhale. Slow exhale. So my every bit of breath goes to my hamstring.

He shifts off me slowly and brings my leg back to the ground. His fingertips trail down my thighs. He's going in the opposite direction, but he's still too close to the scars.

He moves to my other leg. Grabs it right at the upper thigh and lifts it. "Truth or truth?"

"Wow, those are a lot of options." My muscle strains. I bite my lip to keep from groaning. "Truth."

He leans his weight into my leg, his hands still firmly around my thigh. "How close are guys' hands allowed to get to your cunt?"

"I thought we agreed to drop this."

"I'm curious."

"Bring me a shot, because I'm not answering."

"Say we were about to have sex." He slides his fingertips an inch up my thigh. "Would this be okay?"

He's about three inches from the scars. "Drop it."

I motion for him to release the stretch. He does. Slowly.

He stares into my eyes. His voice gets soft. "You don't have to tell me why."

I rise to my feet. "I wasn't going to."

He jumps to his feet and grabs my wrist. The left one. I pull it to my chest. No watch today. No arm bands. Nothing to cover that particular set of scars.

"Why do you do that?" he asks.

"No reason."

"Bullshit."

"Bring me the shot, because I'm not telling you that either."

***

After breakfast, I bury myself in homework. Senior year is no joke. I have an essay and two tests every week. The one thing I don't have is mental energy.

Two hours of finance and I'm ready to drop. It's not so much that I don't understand business classes. They're just so dull and closed to interpretation. I love my literature classes, even when I have to read long, meandering Russian novels that are so bleak they make me cry.

I flop on my bed and reach for my phone. Time to see if I missed anything important. There's a text from Nadeen.

Nadeen: Hey. This letter came for you. It's like really big. From UCLA. Do you need it?

My throat goes dry. A letter. It must be my acceptance or rejection from the UCLA teaching program. It's really big. Big is good. Big is acceptance packet with financial aid information.

I grab my phone and reply.

Kara: Are you home? I'll come by and get it.

Nadeen: Yeah. Until seven. I can open it now and tell you what it says? It looks like a grad school thing.

Kara: I'll come get it now.

Nadeen: Aren't you going to work at your mom's company?

Kara: Please don't touch it. I'll see you soon.

Nadeen: Okay. You don't have to get snippy about it.

I toss my phone into my purse and slide it onto my shoulder. I need that letter now. I need to know what it says.

I rush down the stairs. Keys. My keys are on the table somewhere.

Drew is sitting on the couch. He's been there for hours, bingeing on some comic book TV show.

There. I grab my keys and make for the door.

Drew turns to me. "Where are you rushing off to?"

"I have to pick something up at Nadeen's."

"You hungry?"

"Starving actually."

He turns the TV off and jumps to his feet. "I'll come with you."

"Why?"

"Because you want me to
come
with you." He takes three steps toward me. "And we can get groceries after."

I can't think about a little thing like groceries at a time like this. But, yes, that makes sense. We do need to eat eventually and there isn't a lick of food in this house.

"I'm driving," I say.

"I like a woman in charge." He practically races to the door. "What's at Nadeen's?"

"You'll see."

And he's already out the door.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I race up the steps to my old apartment and pound on the door. There's some sound inside—Nadeen's voice and a man's voice too. I smooth my skirt and blouse and fix my hair. No way I'm letting her know I care about this.

There are footsteps and the door opens. It's Alex, Nadeen's boyfriend. We've met once or twice before. He was nice enough then, but the guy did kick me out of my apartment without a second thought.

He shows no signs of embarrassment or regret. "Oh, you're the old roommate right?"

"Right."