Beguiling (Tempting #2) (3 page)

O
bviously my mere
presence was enough to piss the living hell out of Scarlet. Why was I even surprised? I mean, it didn’t burr under my skin that we’d found something in common. Common, but opposite, I guess. But it was enough for me. It was the first time I’d ever felt like she wasn’t that prissy preacher’s daughter who loathed me for existing.

But apparently, that was not the case for her. The car ride home on that first day? Silence. I figured hey, maybe she’d had a shitty day at class cutting up puppies. But then day two of our little arrangement came and went with barely a hello. So when I walked across the street on day three? Oh, I was suited up for war. I slammed my door shut a little harder than necessary after I sat down. I immediately pulled up Facebook on my phone and scrolled through some pictures from the last Delta Zeta party, spending longer than necessary looking at the girls.

When I pinched my fingers on the screen to zoom in on one that included four sets of cleavage so spectacular that they all defied the laws of gravity, she finally showed a tiny crack in her armor.

Scarlet huffed out a breath, the small sound chock full of derision. I clicked out of Facebook and looked over at her, at the tight line of her lips, the way her eyes lasered in on the windshield in front of her, and since we’d barely made it out of our neighborhood yet, we were still waiting at the first light.    

If that wasn’t the face of a woman who needed to have multiple orgasms, then I didn’t know what was.

My face split into a smile. I couldn’t help it. The thought of saying that to her, given that we hadn’t spoken in the last two days, was too much to hold the silence. Scarlet Jennings needed to get laid so fucking bad. I chuckled under my breath and saw her face snap over to me, which made me laugh a little bit harder.

“What?” she snapped, not taking her eyes off the road.

“Nothing.” Even though I said it lightly, I could see her small, pale hands grip the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles went white. “You’re just in such a pleasant mood this morning. Did someone take a shit in your Wheaties?”

Her cheeks flushed bright red and I could see a muscle tick in her cheek. I wasn’t normally an asshole, but I felt very much out of my element. Hence me being a dick and not apologizing. If anything, it just stoked that tiny kindling burning in my gut into a roaring fire.  

The thing with Scarlet was foreign to me. She
hated
me. And that did something strange to me, like I wanted to pick her apart to figure out exactly why, figure out exactly how to fix it.

What didn’t help was that little scene that had played out in my head on the first day, the dirty things that her hair made me want to do to her. Fuck her hard, be so good that she’d have no choice to end up sweaty and breathless and finally fucking relaxed.

I needed out of the car. Stat. Because this shit was making me twitchy. Breathing the same air as her, that smelled like her, was making my brain melt into this weird alien person who wanted to bang Scarlet Jennings.

She didn’t say anything else, so I sure as hell wasn’t going to break the silence. Because what would I say? Oh, I was laughing because you need to get off, and I will gladly offer use of both of my hands, most likely my mouth and definitely my dick to get the job done. No, no, no.

Shifting in my seat, I pinched the bridge of my nose, like it would stop those thoughts from circulating through my brain and down into the aforementioned appendages. Her silence was different from mine though. Hers was pretty much throbbing with violence, like she’d enjoy shoving me out of the car while she merged onto the highway. Mine was … I don’t even know. A little desperate. Because while I’d thought it might be fun to mess with Scarlet at her party, flirt with her and throw her off a little just to see what she’d do, I didn’t think it would really
do
anything.

And the worst part was that it was only doing something to
me
. I couldn’t even risk a glance over at her, because I’d have a full blown erection in about four seconds, and my gym shorts wouldn’t hide that for shit. That’s what was so stupid, because what she was wearing? Despite my slamming of the car door when I first got in, I had a mental snapshot of her already. Fuck my life.

Her hair was in a high ponytail, so her face was on display in a way that showed the complete lack of makeup that she wore. Her perfect tits were covered in a light yellow t-shirt that should have looked simple, but it didn’t. Son of a bitch, it
didn’t
. With the red hair and the pale skin and dark jeans that she had on, she looked … summery, or something.

“Fuck,” I said under my breath, turning to look out of the window.

“You know what, Leo?” Scarlet snapped, obviously having heard me, so I pinched my eyes shut and clamped my teeth down to keep from responding. “I don’t have to drive you anywhere, and if you can’t figure out how to act like a normal, well-balanced person without cursing at me, then feel free to find a new ride.”

“It wasn’t aimed at you,” I said grudgingly.

She snorted. “Oh, I’ll bet. You must be a dumbass if you think I believe that.”

Yup. Fuck my life was right. I
was
a dumbass if I was thinking things like
summery
and
perfect
about this little harpy. Fire bubbled under my skin, defensiveness prickled along my scalp and the overwhelming need to make her see something else almost exploded out of me.

Never. I’d never had this feeling before. It wasn’t even about impressing her, not really. Shutting her up? Possibly. And yes, impressing her a little bit. I opened my mouth to say something snarky, but closed it again, feeling too exposed to be anything but honest. God, what was
up
with her fucking car? It was like being locked in confessional booth for thirty minutes. But you can bet your ass I clamped that mofo down tight.

“Yeah, it’s so easy to get drafted into the NFL. They only let us degenerates in.”

It wasn’t surprising that she didn’t immediately respond, but the fact that she didn’t apologize either just kinda pissed me off even more. I wanted to tell her how many hours of film I studied on a weekly basis during the season, how often I found myself up late looking at offensive schemes, the sheer insanity of what I put my body through to keep myself fast and strong and agile on the field.  

“The NFL, huh?” Her tone was flat, not curious or consoling. Definitely not apologetic.

“I mean, I won’t be saving little Fluffy’s life or anything. No clipping a cat’s toenails or shoving my arm up a cow’s ass.”

“No. No, you won’t,” Scarlet clipped out as she turned the car into the parking lot next to the field. “You’ll be chucking a ball down the field. That’s so terribly impressive, Leo.”

Anger licked across my skin, so hot and fast that I felt it to the tips of my fingers and toes. Every muscle locked in place, and even though she’d stopped the car, I didn’t move, staring at the side of her face where she refused to look at me. With rough movements that made her shift away from me, I grabbed my backpack from the seat behind me and leaned toward her, pulling in a slow, deep breath.

She smelled like wildflowers. And right then, I kinda fucking hated wildflowers.

“You know what, church girl?” She flicked her brown eyes over to me, color still high in her face and mouth pinched shut. “I’d tell you to suck my dick right now, but I don’t think you’d know what to do with it.”

Then I pushed out of the car, slammed the door and didn’t look back.

M
y mood
—the black cloud shrouding me—served as a pretty effective wall once I was out on the field. Instead of moving to do some passing drills like I normally would have, I stalked over to the edge of the field where Coach had the large tractor tires. Mostly our defensive backs and linemen would flip these across the field, working their arms, chest and legs with the five hundred pound rings of heavy rubber.

So I took a deep breath, hooked my hands underneath one and pushed up, using my right knee to brace under the tire when I’d lifted it enough. With a harsh breath, I surged up, muscles screaming in my biceps and shoulders. Again and again and again, I flipped the tire, sweat building up on my forehead and neck, the shaking of my muscles the only thing making me feel better.

I’d told Scarlet Jennings to suck my dick. I would have laughed if I wasn’t still so fucking pissed off. When the tire smacked against the grass of the field, I stopped, bracing my hands on my hips and breathing hard. About forty yards away, I could hear the chatter of my teammates, but I didn’t look over.

“Madsen,” Coach Cook called from behind me, the sharp bark of his voice making me close my eyes. I’d known him long enough now that I could tell he was pissed, just by how he said my name.

“Yeah, Coach?” I turned and wiped the sweat from my forehead with my forearm.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” His sharp, beak-like nose, dark eyes, and white shock of hair always made me think of him as a bald eagle. Majestic when they wanted to be, but completely capable of fucking you up if they wanted. “Did you even warm up?”

Clenching my jaw, I shook my head. He sighed, tucking his clipboard under his arm. When he shoved the bill of his hat up to rub at his hairline, I relaxed a little. That was his
I’m disappointed in you, not rip you a new asshole angry
tell.

“I need you to be smarter than that, Madsen.”

Shame made me look away from him, because he was right. I was the starting quarterback, and if I fucked up my arm from doing a stupid exercise that I hadn’t warmed up for, then the impact on my college career and our team’s season wouldn’t be good. “I know, Coach. Sorry.”

“If you
know
, then why did you do it?”

“Just … just had a shit morning. It won’t happen again.”

The assessing look he gave me was enough to make me stand up straighter. He was that kind of guy. He didn’t scream at us, didn’t berate us, but if he was disappointed in us, we’d all break our backs trying to make it up to him.

“Good,” he said after a few more seconds. “You’re allowed to have stuff in life that makes you want to work harder, train harder. Sometimes that’s the shit that will win you games, too. But you’re the guy that needs to try to keep your head on straight. Because if you let that stuff fuck with your head, then you start making stupid mistakes. And I expect more than that from you.”

I held his eye contact, because he’d been the guy for three years that fed the part of me that didn’t get that kind of respect anywhere else. And one of the things he’d taught me was that you look people in the eye when they’re talking to you; it’s what men do.

“I know you do, Coach.” As soon as I watched him nod and walk off, I knew he would have kicked my ass if he’d heard what I’d said to Scarlet in the car. Some coaches in college or the NFL didn’t care what kind of men their players were off the field as long as they did their job on the field, but Coach Cook was not one of them. Every guy that played for him knew to treat their elders, their teammates, and women with respect. If we slacked on our studies or broke an NCAA rule for conduct, or for drug or alcohol use, he’d bench us so fast our head would spin.

He was the one who told me I had a shot at the NFL—that if I kept my head on straight, kept my ass in line, I could probably go in the second or third round of the draft. I'd probably play backup somewhere my first few years and hopefully get a shot after learning the ropes. When he’d told me that, it was the first time in my life that the weight of someone else’s expectations felt good and heavy, a welcome burden to bear.

My shoulders slumped. I blew out a long breath through puffed cheeks. I’d probably be riding the bus home after my little outburst in the car. And I couldn’t even say that I didn’t deserve it. She had no idea what it had been like for me my entire life, and even though I loved my parents and my brother, the fact they didn’t expect a whole lot from me had dug under my skin much deeper than anyone could realize.

I’d do better. No more snapping at Scarlet for not knowing what was going on in my head. No more calling her names. At least not out loud.

Yes, I’d do better. Or I’d try to at least, if she ever spoke to me again.