Page 13 of The Dare

The last pound on the door jolts me upright. I squint and shield my eyes from the beams of light streaking across the room. What the hell?

It’s daylight. Morning. My mouth is dry, a bitter taste thick on my tongue. I don’t remember falling asleep. On a yawn I stretch my limbs, feel the muscles releasing. Then another sound stops my heart.

Snoring. Beside me.

Fucking fuckturtles.

Sprawled out on his stomach, Conor lies shirtless and in only his boxers.

“Hey! Open the door! This is my room!”

More knocking. Pounding.

Shit. Rachel’s home.

“Get up.” I shake Conor. He doesn’t stir. “Dude, get up. You need to leave.”

I don’t understand how he’s still here or when I fell asleep last night. A quick glance shows I’m still dressed with my shoes on, so why the hell is Conor practically naked?

“Get the hell out, assholes!” Any minute now Rachel’s going to start trying to kick the door down.

“Come on, get up.” I give Conor a stiff smack to the small of his back, which makes him jump in a bleary confusion.

“Mrrrmmm?” he mumbles incoherently.

“We fell asleep. My sister’s home and she wants her room back,” I whisper urgently. “You need to get dressed.”

Conor falls out of bed. He stands a bit unevenly, still muttering nonsense under his breath. Cringing, I unlock and open the door, where an irate Rachel stands fuming in the hall. Behind her, the entire house is awake, loitering in their pajamas and bed hair with mugs of coffee and cold Pop-Tarts. Sasha is nowhere to be seen, so I assume she wound up finding a concert in Boston and crashing with her friends in the city.

“What the hell, Taylor? Why was my door locked?”

I spot Abigail’s cruel smirk among the faces crowding the hall. “I’m sorry, I—”

Without letting me finish, Rachel shoves open the door and bursts inside, allowing everyone a good look at Conor shirtless, buttoning his jeans.

“Oh,” she squeaks. Her ire is quelled almost instantly by the sight of Conor’s immaculate body.

I don’t blame her for gawking. He’s exquisite. Broad shoulders and defined muscles. The perfectly smooth, inviting planes of his chest. I can’t believe I slept next to that and don’t remember any of it.

“G’morning,” Conor says with a smirk. He nods to the other sisters outside the room. “Ladies.”

“I didn’t know you had company,” Rachel talks to me but stares at him.

“My fault,” he says easily, then pulls his shirt over his sculpted chest. He steps into his shoes. “Sorry about that.” To me, he winks on his way to the door. “Call me.”

And just as suddenly as we became two unlikely allies, he departs. Every single gaze remains glued to the taut ass hugged by his jeans, until finally he’s out of sight, heavy footsteps thudding down the stairs.

I gulp a few times before speaking. “Rachel, I—”

“I didn’t think you had it in you, Marsh.” She looks surprised, of course. But also impressed. “Next time you slay a dragon in my room, be out before breakfast. ’Kay?”

“Sure. Sorry,” I say with relief. The worst is averted, I suppose. I live to fight better battles. And whether I courted it or not, whether this pries another thin sliver of my dignity from me in favor of my social standing, at least for today all these girls will live vicariously through my supposed exploits.

Then there’s Abigail.

While the others return to their morning cartoons and Cinnamon Toast Crunch, she lingers at the top of the stairs waiting for me. I want to push past her, ignore her, maybe trip her a little down the steps. Instead, like a dumbass, I stand there and meet her eyes.

“You must be pretty satisfied with yourself,” she says, arching one perfectly tweezed brow.

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