Boyfriend Bargain Page 5

  He scowls deeply, looking affronted. “A good hockey season? What the hell?”

  He can’t believe I’m cutting him loose.

  I pivot and bolt for the door.

  “Wait a minute,” he calls from behind me, his tone urgent as he flounders around for his jacket on the floor. “I don’t even know your last name.”

  I exit the bathroom and fight my way through the crowd, jostling past people, some of them the same girls who gave me hateful looks. I do a double take when I see one of the wingers—his brother, I think—because they look incredibly similar. He gives me a surprised look then glances past me, and I assume he sees Zack following me. Go faster, Sugar. I practically mow people down as I dash down the stairs and plow through the dance floor. Finally, I push through the exit, the biting cold air on my still tingling skin, fresh from his hands on my body.

  I run through the parking lot like a madwoman, feeling one part crazy for leaving him and another part terrified he’ll come after me and change my mind.

  He has a girl of the month, for God’s sake!

  The metal clang of the door opening and closing reaches my ears as I slide into my beat-up Toyota Tundra.

  I tear out of the parking lot and head for campus. One glance in my rearview mirror shows him standing in the parking lot, a Viking in the snow.

  Taller than a Georgia pine, I hear my mama say, and even though I’m freaking out because shit, I just had sex with Zack Morgan in a bathroom at a frat house, an anxious giggle slips through my lips.

  7

  Zack

  It’s the same dream. Even as it unfolds in my head, I want to comfort myself, to let my racing heart know it isn’t real.

  I’m lying in the snow staring up at the sky. The blackness above me is vast and bottomless, and for a moment, I’m afraid it will swallow me whole. Reece is next to me and tells me I can’t change anything.

  Off in the distance Willow calls my name, and Reece gets up and leaves to go get her. There’s sadness in his eyes.

  The scene switches and Willow is in a white dress at a party. She’s holding herself, arms wrapped around her shoulders. I want to be with her, but I need time, just a little distance to fix the mess in my heart. She leaves the party and drives her convertible on a wet road. Her fists beat on the steering wheel, and I know who she’s cursing.

  Me. God, it’s me.

  “No, no, no, no…” I whisper. “Start all over. Go back.”

  But she doesn’t.

  She plummets off the side of the road, breaking through the guardrail and plunging into darkness. Her screams echo—

  “Fuck!” I sit up straight in the bed, my heart jumping. Deep breaths rack my body, and I swing my legs around and plant my feet on the floor. “Goddammit,” I mutter, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth.

  My chest aches and I rub it, fighting to get my heart back on track. My hands tremble as I rake them through my hair.

  I hate waking up like this.

  You deserve it, a voice says.

  “Stop!” I yell as I jump up and scrub at my face. Shit. I hate these dreams. They don’t happen often, but when they do, it fucks with my whole day, which means hockey practice is going to suffer.

  One glance at my phone and I see it’s five in the morning, almost time to get up anyway. Walking into the bathroom right off my bedroom, I turn on the cold water and let it run until it’s icy then fill up my hands and splash it on my face. Once. Twice.

  I shove at the hair that’s in my face and glare at myself in the mirror. It might be the anniversary month of when she died, but there’s only one reason that dream chose to visit me tonight.

  And, yeah, I want to deny the reality, want to tell myself I wasn’t affected, but I’d be lying.

  Sugar.

  Fuck.

  My hands cling to the sink.

  I think back to when I first noticed her at the Tipsy Moose last week, staring at me so hard the hairs on my neck rose. It became a game where I would pretend to be getting a drink from the waitress or playing darts but was actually watching her. She sat in a back booth wearing that black coat and a knit hat with her ponytail coming out of the top. Her expression was part earnest, part calculating, and while the earnestness isn’t something I usually see in a girl who eyeballs me, the calculation aspect is. That night, with her hair up and those big glasses on, I didn’t see the resemblance. Maybe something tugged at me, but I couldn’t put my finger on what it was about her.

  Then when I walked into the Kappa house and felt a prickling sensation as my eyes found hers behind that column, her long blonde hair pulled back in a headband, draped over her slender shoulders…something hummed.

  She looks like Willow.

  It’s just the hair, same color, same style, I tell myself, but I’m lying. It’s the face too, the patrician features, from the hollows of her high cheekbones to the way her brows arch over her eyes.

  I scrub at my hair, racking my brain for differences.

  First off, she doesn’t sound like Willow. Willow’s voice was soft with dulcet tones, pleasing to everyone, and she used it to her advantage, while Sugar’s is husky with a drawl, not exactly a Southern accent yet distinctly different from the Midwest. Also, Willow was a wisp of a girl I teased would fit in my pocket while Sugar is tall with lush curves and an ass—

  Stop.

  The thought of her running away from me, the idea that she thought this was over—not one single girl has ever done that before.

  I know—I know I’m not done with her yet.

  Stalking back to my bedroom, I grab my necklace and slip it over my neck. I pull out the legal pad of yellow paper from my nightstand. Grabbing a pen, I lean back on the pillows and prepare to write one of my letters. I wrote them almost every week the first year after Willow’s death, but I’ve slacked off. My head has been elsewhere, focused on school and getting that national championship. I’ve picked it back up since my episode because…well, it’s a way to deal.

  Willow,

  Another nightmare. These dreams of you…I hate them. They tear me up inside. I think it’s you from the grave, reminding me to not forget you. I don’t know, fuck, I don’t know. I’m not a man with a silver tongue and writing is not my forte, and just writing these words to you doesn’t convey the many, many times I think about you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I screwed up and ruined everything. I don’t even deserve the things I do have…hockey, my dad, my brother…and you have nothing. I want you to know I won’t forget you. I swear to make this life worth what you lost.

  I met someone…

  I mark through that, scratching it out until the words are blacked out completely.

  I chew on the top of the pen, my mind turning to Sugar.

  Who is she? What makes her tick? How can I see her again?

  At that thought, my pulse jumps up and I heave out an exhalation, recounting last night, the fast, raw sex. She was all I could see and smell and taste, and as soon as she walked away from me, I knew I had to have her again.

  I shake myself and look back down at the letter.

  My heart is yours and always will be. I love you. Forever, Z

  I fold the paper into a square and set it inside the rectangular gold-painted wooden container I’ve had since I was a kid. Just a trinket from my childhood, it’s the size of a shoebox and battered from use. A picture of us is at the bottom of the pile and I pull it up, running my hands over it. Willow’s beautiful in a sundress standing between Reece and myself, her mouth curved up in a secret smile, her blonde hair flowing over her shoulders. Veronica’s in a tiny yellow bikini with her bright red hair shining in the background as she lounges by the pool; she probably got pissed later when she realized she missed out on a photo opportunity. Flowers bloom around us, reminding me of the pool party hosted by my parents. I had just gotten my driver’s license and spent the day rubbing it in because they all had a year to go before they turned sixteen. This was a singular moment that summer, when e
verything was green—when everything was golden.

  Life was perfect.

  Until it wasn’t.

  I study Reece’s face, taking in the minute distance between his hand and Willow’s, and I can see how he yearned to reach out and take hers.

  I shove it all back inside the nightstand drawer and slam it shut.

  I’ve done all the reminiscing I can handle right now.

  Pulling open my chest of drawers, I dig around and pull out what I need to go running: black compression tights and an Under Armour long-sleeved shirt. I grab my Hawthorne black and gold windproof jacket and zip it up. Once my running gloves and shoes are on, I bolt out of the room.

  The den and kitchen are dead silent, Eric and Reece still asleep. Good.

  I grab a Gatorade from the fridge and suck it down. Long John Silver pops an eye open and spies me from her perch on the back of the couch.

  “You catch any mice?”

  She stretches.

  “Lazy cat.”

  She gives me a glare and trots to the kitchen, looking over her shoulder and yelling at me.

  “Give me a minute.”

  I grab her cat food from the pantry, fill up her bowl, and get her fresh water.

  Solid white except for a black patch over her right eye—which is shut and scarred from a fight—she showed up at our back door about a year ago, skinny, full of fleas, and limping. One ear was torn off and the eye was swollen shut. Hell, she could barely move except to lie on our back deck and give me a half-assed hiss when I brought her a can of tuna. I didn’t know anything about cats—my family has spaniels—but one look at her and I knew I had to take her to the vet.

  Two hundred and fifty dollars later, he gave me the address of the local animal shelter, but when I took her inside, got one look at the rows and rows of cats and kittens in cages that lined the walls, I walked right back out.

  Reece and I own the three-bedroom house we live in, a gift from my dad my freshman year, and figured the place was plenty big enough for the four of us.

  “Going for a long run. Hold down the fort while I’m out.”

  She gives me side-eye from the food bowl.

  “Ah, I know you love me, baby girl.”

  Grabbing the duffle bag I put together last night, I walk out the door and stand on the stoop, breathing in the cold early morning air of Sparrow Lake, a suburb outside the Twin Cities where I grew up. The sun hasn’t peeked over the horizon yet, and since it’s still dark, I slip on a reflective vest.

  Running—it clears my head, keeps me sane, and gives me fucking clarity, especially since nothing else seems to settle the demons in my mind.

  I used to run a few times a week, but since the panic attack, I make it happen every single morning, sometimes just for twenty minutes and sometimes longer, depending on how much shit I need to work out in my head.

  I inhale several deep breaths and punch into the air, centering myself and focusing on my body. The rhythm of my feet, the movement of my arms wipes out everything, much like being on the ice does, except with running, I don’t have to think about game strategy or how I’m going to get the puck in the net.

  Most of all, I don’t have to worry about fucking up and revealing my secrets to the whole world.

  I breathe in a lungful of cold air and take off for the street.

  8

  Sugar

  Happy Monday, I mutter as my alarm goes off at five o’clock. Time to get the donuts—literally. It’s my job on Mondays to bring in breakfast for the crew who’s cleaning the club from top to bottom from the weekend, plus run a few errands for Mara. Blowing out a breath, I get up and grab a towel for the shower. My movements are a bit sluggish since I tossed and turned all night with weird dreams. There was one in particular where I sat in my poetry classroom with a very naked and very sexy Zack Morgan as my professor.

  I come out of the bathroom, not bothering to be quiet since Julia never came home. I imagine she’s tucked up tight in a football player’s dorm room right now.

  I look around for my clothes from last night. Everything is littered on the floor where I tossed it as I came in and crashed. My eyes flare. There’s only one thing missing: my coat. I let out a cry of frustration and tears well when I picture it on the floor at the Kappa house getting trampled by stilettos and sneakers, or even worse, picked up and put on by someone. That coat cost me over a hundred dollars on sale. I blow out a breath and plop on my bed, staring up at the yellow-stained ceiling and the chipped paint on the walls. Not only did I lose my coat, I’m living in dormitory hell while Bennett is basking in an apartment with a fresh coat of paint—that I helped with—and a nice, toasty heating system. There’s probably a groupie curled up next to him right now.

  I’m still muttering to myself when I put my hair up in a high ponytail a few minutes later. I pull on a bright pink knitted cap with a hole at the top that lets my hair hang out. After my tortoiseshell glasses are on, I throw on leggings and a Dunder Mifflin sweatshirt. On my way out the door, I walk past my desk, see the waitlist letter from Vanderbilt Law, and grimace.

  I replay an old childhood fantasy where I’m driving down to Davenport, Alabama, in my super expensive white Mercedes, dressed in a slick business lady pantsuit with a huge I told you so smile on my face. I pull up the mossy tree-lined drive, get out of my beautiful car, and approach the big plantation-style house.

  I knock, and someone comes to the door.

  Maybe it’s one of my half-siblings. Maybe it’s his wife. Maybe it’s him, my father.

  Regardless, the person is blown away by my stylish self and invites me in.

  But I don’t take one step into that big shiny house with the Southern Living front porch.

  No sir.

  I just smile and tell them how great my life is. I show them my fancy law degree and tell them how wonderful I turned out despite the gutter I dragged myself out of.

  My hands clench.

  “You are enough just the way you are,” I mutter, repeating my mama’s words, but today it rings untrue and I exhale.

  Torturing myself, I pick up the letter to put it away, but before I tuck it between my textbooks on the bookshelf, I unfold the paper and skim over it.

  After careful consideration, the selection committee is unable to offer you admission at this time, but we would like to offer you a spot on our waitlist. We realize this is a disappointment, but there were many students with promise who we were unable to admit. It is important you know we do not rank students on our waitlist, and we strongly encourage you to apply to other institutions…

  Warmest Regards, William R. Fitzgerald, Dean of Admissions

  “Blah, blah, blah,” I say bitterly to no one, and instead of putting the letter away, I wad it up in a tight ball and throw it in the trash. I have a copy of it in an email anyway. Ugh.

  I take another look in the mirror and blanch at my paleness. I need more sleep. With a groan, I pilfer through my makeup bag and swipe on my favorite lipstick, Cabernet Crisis. Seems fitting.

  I did have crazy sex with a hockey player last night…

  “That was a complete lapse in judgment, and I’m going to pretend it never happened,” I say to my reflection. I blot my lips. “And you really need to stop talking to yourself. People are going to think you’re crazy.”

  There’s a small bruise on the right side of my neck, and my heart pounds, going back to last night and how…spectacular it was.

  “Forget him. Trouble all day long, Sugar. His nickname is the Heartbreaker—don’t forget that.” I dab concealer on the hickey and brush powder on top.

  Slinging my crossbody on, I open the dorm room door, and a Hawthorne duffle bag that was hanging on the outside of the doorknob falls to the floor.

  My first thought is Julia somehow left some clothes out and forgot to bring them in, but then I remember it wasn’t here last night and she isn’t home yet.

  Squatting down, I unzip the bag and gasp when I see my black North Face. I hold it up
like a dance partner and do a twirl. “Coat, who brought you home?”

  Digging a little more, I find a folded note.

  It’s too cold in this town for you to go without this. If you want to say thank you, come see me. I’m sure you can figure out where I live.

  Z

  PS Here’s my phone number in case you don’t have it yet: 555-284-6433

  I smirk at his cheekiness. He must have found my coat and seen the address I scrawled on the tag just a couple of weeks ago in case I left it somewhere.

  I look down the hallway but the place is empty.

  When did he bring it? And how did he get inside a locked-down dorm that doesn’t even open its doors until eight in the morning?

  I didn’t hear anyone outside the door last night and I was up for another half-hour when I got home, so it must have been this morning, which means he was up early.

  With a sigh, I slip it on over my sweatshirt and head for the exit.

  A bit later, most of my surly mood has vanished, and I feel like a kid in a candy store with my nose literally pressed against the glass case. I’m in the donut shop. “I’ll take two dozen chocolate, two dozen plain, and two of those churros. Mara loves those,” I tell Joaquin Rios, the owner, as I straighten up.

  He grins, eyes dancing. “That’s it?”

  I groan. “Don’t you think that’s enough?”

  “Ah.” He shakes his finger at me. “But I have something special. Made it last night—for you.” A small, wiry man with beautiful light brown skin and a lilting Mexican accent, he’s a friend of Mara’s, and I worked here in high school to earn extra cash, which I socked away for college. He bustles off to the back then comes out of the kitchen holding a tray of chocolate donuts with dark sprinkles on top. He’s written Sugar in white icing on one of them. “I made these to celebrate you going to law school and to show our appreciation for your help with the paperwork for the zoning regulations for our food truck.”