Page 84 of Candygrams

I’m not trying to make myself into a saint because, God knows, I’m not. Going home with a different person every night was never my thing even during my wildest days. But if I was going home with Tandy…

“Let’s get you home, baby.”

“’K. Let’s go home.”

She’s asleep before I finish backing out of the driveway. When I stop at a red light, I look over at her face in the weak light of a street lamp. She’s beautiful with her hair falling down from her ponytail and my jersey still on. I need to take her back to her apartment and go back to my own house. I need to pull my head out of my ass and remember the rules we made for one another.

No falling for my sexy tutor. Keep my head in the game. Think about what I have to do to make a future for myself. Nowhere in that whole list is take my hot as fuck tutor who might have had one too many rum and cokes back to my house. Doing that is just asking for trouble.

And yet, I pass the house where she has a room with about ten other girls. Knowing I am doing something I shouldn’t be doing isn’t enough to make me turn around and take her back. Pulling her from the passenger seat of my car isn’t enough to stop me or shake the conviction I have to bring her home…to my house.

Maybe it’s because I let her get this way. Too drunk to really protect herself if she needed to. Maybe it’s because she trusted me enough to tell me about her past -even if it took a little bit of liquid courage to make it happen. She still trusted me. Or maybe it’s because seeing her sitting beside me in my jersey, looking vulnerable and sexy has my brain overheating and not working right. No matter the reason why, she’s mine tonight.

Chapter Nine

Tandy

I wake up to the sun streaming in through a window and a sadistic bird that just will not shut up. I crack my eyes open and try to focus. Nothing looks like it is supposed to. Nothing is familiar. Stories the players told me last night flit through my head causing my heart to start beating faster and my stomach to turn.

Oh God! What happened?

Did someone slip something in my drink? Did I place my trust in one of the wrong people? And where the hell is Rip? Did he just leave me?

The door pops open causing me to let out a little yelp before my eyes focus on Rip. Flashes of…memory hit me. Memories from last night? Arms carrying me into a big house, waking for just a moment as the person takes the stairs two at a time, my leggings being pulled down my legs. God, I hope the last one isn’t a real memory but something I dreamed since it was Rip taking them off me.

“You’re up! Great! I was hoping I wouldn’t have to wake you if you needed more sleep.”

“Where…am I?”

“My guest room.” He sits a tray down on the bedside table.

Oh God! It looks like the flashes really are memories.

“How…,” I stumble over my question wondering if I really want the answer. “How did I get here?”

“I brought you here last night. I didn’t want you going home and not being able to lock your door or know what was going on around you, so I brought you here.” He presses a glass into my hands with some pills that I quickly identify as simple pain relievers.

“You took my pants off? Why did you do that?”

“Well, the first time we met you didn’t have any on, and when we got to the room you kept trying to take them off, so I just helped you do it. But I didn’t take advantage. It was yank them down and throw a blanket over you. I couldn’t even tell you what color your panties were because I didn’t see them.”

“I thought I told you I wasn’t ever going to go to your home. I thought we said we would never invade one another’s privacy. You took my pants off!”

My voice just keeps rising as does my anger.

“No, you said you didn’t ever want to study at my place because you didn’t trust me but I figured after last night you might feel differently.”

His words have my stomach flipping and my mind struggling to check in with my body.

“Oh God, what happened last night to make you think I would change my mind.” I don’t feel like I’m any different, not sore or uncomfortable anywhere, especially between my legs, but that doesn’t mean anything necessarily, does it?

“Seriously? You don’t remember.”

Oh God!

“You told me about why you didn’t like football players. You told me about that fuck from high school.”

“Roger? I told you about Roger?”

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