Page 8 of Revolve
“So you could apologize.” She tucks her hair behind her ear. “But clearly your ego’s too big for that.”
When she turns to leave, I can’t help myself. “I’m sorry.”
She nails me with a skeptical gaze, running from head to toe, lingering on my paint-covered abs and the waistband of my boxers that peeks out of my jeans. For some reason, the space between us feels impossible to resist, so I step closer until my shoes are touching the tips of hers. She smells sweet, like cherries.
“How can I make it up to her?” I ask.
She tilts her head. “You wanna make it up to her?”
“Dying to.”
She runs her tongue along the inside of her cheek. “I think she’d rather hold on to this.”
I furrow my brows. “Hold on to what?”
“You owe her now,” she says. “Can’t hurt to have an IOU from a jock. I think it’ll come in handy for me.”
“You?”
“Her,” she corrects.
“Right.” My smirk grows to immeasurable levels. I don’t evenmind that she called me a jock. “Let me know whenshewants to cash that in.”
“I will.” She stands firmly with her arms crossed.
“Shouldn’t I know your name? You’re in possession of a very powerful IOU after all,” I call after her when she’s already halfway across the lawn to the porch.
She doesn’t turn around, but she says, “If you’re lucky.”
“Don’t you want to know mine?”
She looks over her shoulder this time. “I thinkassholefits.”
She disappears past the sliding glass doors. There’s a smile on my face when I finally get past the unlocked gate, but it drops the moment I spot my car boxed in the driveway.
Rookie mistake.
FOUR
SIERRA
ONE THING’S FORsure, I did not miss Dalton parties.
If I wanted drunk and horny college students bumping into me, I’d go to a frat party. Aren’t sororities supposed to be primmer and more proper? Beta Phi hasn’t received that memo, because marijuana smoke sponges the air, and the floors are sticky with alcohol. From the number of sweaty bodies in here, I’d say the entire Dalton population is present.
On top of that, I can’t find my best friend. Scarlett insisted that this party would be a good idea after I’d flopped at the rink with Lidia and felt the shame burning through me. I was moping and knitting on our dorm couch while listening to the voice of The Weather Channel host, Dale Thunderman, until Scarlett threw her white skirt at me and told me to get ready.
For some deluded reason, I tried to fit in. Tiny skirt, equally small top, a red lip. It felt like a chance to rediscover myself after the sport I’ve loved my whole life chewed me up and spit me out. Sometimes I think I’m still lying unconscious and bloodied on that ice rink.
What I didn’t expect tonight was forthatside of me to come out.The confrontational, opinionated,bitchyside that I buried long ago. But the hockey player pulled it out of me like a loose thread.
It wasn’t just the sight of his jeans slung low, white Calvin Klein waistband bold against his golden skin, or how the dim moonlight caught the sheen of sweat on his chest. It was the handprints—colorful, smudged, pressed like memories on his skin, as if everyone wanted to leave their mark on him. As if they already had.
But all those thoughts puffed away the second he opened his mouth. Or when he smirked and the tiniest dimple appeared. I’ve seen his type—the tall, popular kind of guy who’s too good-looking not to know it and juggles hookups like an extracurricular. Scarlett’s dad had warned us away from enough of them. But even as I’m consciously aware that that’s the last guy I’d end up with, I couldn’t help but feel my heart racing when his amber brown gaze slithered down my body.
“Si!” I turn to find Scarlett at the kitchen sink wearing a new top.
“Where’d you get laundry detergent and a new shirt?” It’s a cropped tank top, revealing the intricate tattoos that cover her arms and lower back.
