Crushed (2 page)

Kristin Bellamy is nothing but a reminder of what it felt like to want someone.

“Should we get started?” I ask.

“Absolutely,” she says, flicking the ponytail back over her shoulder. “I’ll need all the practice I can get since I’m team captain next year.”

“You’ll be a senior, right?” I ask, even though I don’t really give a shit.

“Yup,” she says.

A snort comes from behind me, and I’m surprised to realize we’re no longer alone.

“Fifth-year senior,” the newcomer says, settling herself on the bench as though she belongs there.

“Sorry?” I ask, still trying to figure out where the hell this girl came from.

The girl nods in the direction of Kristin. “She’s already done her senior year. Next year she’ll be doing it again.”

I glance toward Kristin and see her giving the other girl a death glare.

They clearly know each other.

I give the new girl a second look. She’s about Kristin’s age, but looks nothing like her. There’s a book on the bench next to her hip, but right now both of her hands are occupied with an M&M’s bag. She fishes out a candy and pops it into her mouth as her eyes move between Kristin and me like we’re the world’s most fascinating spectator sport.

“Cute,” the girl says, gesturing between Kristin and me. “If you two copulate, I’m calling Pampers to tell them I know where their next baby model is coming from.”

“Friend of yours?” I ask Kristin.

Kristin sighs. “Sister.”

Sister?

Disbelieving, I look more closely at the chocolate-munching creature.

Instead of Kristin’s smooth dark ponytail, this one’s hair is a mass of wild curls, sort of gold and brown, and maybe some red.

She’s got the same big eyes as her sister, except somehow they’re too large on her, and blue instead of brown. She also has her sister’s full mouth, but it’s too obvious, somehow. And whereas Kristin is slim bordering on skinny, this one is, well . . . lush.

“I know, I know,” the other girl says in a weary voice, tilting the M&M’s bag to her mouth and munching the last of the candies. “I’m the pretty one. Don’t tell Kristin; she’s sick of hearing it.”

I hear another tiny sigh from Kristin. “Michael St. Claire, this is Chloe Bellamy. My mom insisted she come along and watch in hopes that this will be the summer that she’ll actually want to take part in some of the more
active
elements happening at the club.”

“Um, did you not see the way I kicked the ass of that vending machine?” Chloe asks, giving her sister an incredulous look. “And if Mom had ever seen me pursuing a midnight snack, she’d know just how active I can be.”

I stifle the unfamiliar urge to smile even though I can see right through her.

Her curvy figure isn’t fashionable . . . not in places like this, where celery sticks qualify as dinner. But she’s smart about it; she’s joking about her weight before the rest of them can.

Annoyance flashes across Kristin’s face, but before she can open her mouth, I clear my throat, hoping to break up a sibling fight. “Ready?” I ask Kristin.

With a last warning glance at her sister, Kristin gives me a bright smile. “Totally. But go easy on me. . . . I haven’t played since our lesson last week.”

“You’ve gone a whole week since trying to swat a fuzzy green ball?” Chloe makes a dramatic, despairing noise behind us. “Why, God, why?
Why
is life so hard?”

Kristin inhales long and slow. The sound is practiced, as though she’s done it before to cope with her annoying younger sister.

I don’t have siblings, but growing up with Ethan and Olivia in my back pocket, I know that sometimes pretending the other person’s not there is the best way to stave off a fight.

Kristin brushes at the hair near her temple, and I notice it’s curling a little in the afternoon heat. It’s cute. Unlike her sister’s curls, which are . . . crazy.

Kristin moves to one side of the net and I move to the other, ignoring the wolf whistle from Chloe as I walk by her.

I pull a ball from my pocket, lobbing it easily over the net. Kristin moves into place, sending it back in my direction with near-perfect form.

This goes on for several minutes until I hear a noisy, fake snoring noise from the spectator on the sidelines.

Kristin pauses long enough to glare at her sister again. The ball goes sailing past her, and I see her frown.

Not exactly the flirtatious foreplay I’d been hoping for today.

But since I can’t make the annoying sister go away, I figure the least I can do is to engage her in conversation so she quits bugging Kristin.

“You play tennis, Chloe?” I call out as I pull out another ball and serve it to Kristin, harder this time.

“Do I look like I’m all about cardio?” she calls back in a cheerful voice.

“What about when you were younger? You didn’t take lessons?”

“Um, that’s a negative,” Chloe says around a mouthful of chocolate. She has a candy bar now. “Some of us were reading Harry Potter like normal kids.”

“Ignore her,” Kristin says sharply, delivering a strong forehand in the direction of her sister.

It misses by several feet, but the aim was not accidental, I’m guessing.

Chloe apparently takes the hint, because for the next several minutes, she seems to settle down with her book. I start to forget she’s there, except for when she occasionally shouts out a request for me to flex, or to “circle real slow-like so I can see the goods.”

I do my best to ignore her.

It’s not easy.

Kristin’s serve is sloppy today, which I’m guessing has something to do with her sister’s distracting presence, but I’m not really complaining. It’ll give me a chance to touch her as I correct her form.

“You’re using too much wrist,” I say, nabbing the ball she’d just sent over. “Let’s work on it.”

I start to head over to the other side of the net, and our eyes lock as I make my way toward her, but then her eyes move over my shoulder and widen in surprise and something else before a huge smile breaks across her face.

“Devon!”

I freeze for a split second, the name splintering through my consciousness. It’s possible there are other
Devon
s, of course, but not likely.

And the Devon I know is dating Kristin Bellamy.

It’s the reason I’m after her. Well. That and the body.

I turn slowly, waiting to get my first glance at one of the very reasons I’m in Cedar Grove, Texas, in the first place. But even though I think I’m prepared for it, his features are still a shock.

This kid is a dead ringer for Tim Patterson.

I realize that I’m not dead inside like I’ve been thinking these past few months.

I watch as Kristin’s arms go around Devon’s neck, and my fingers tighten on the handle of my tennis racket.

I wait for a stab of jealousy.

I feel nothing.

This had been the plan all along: Use Kristin to get to Devon.

Then use
Devon
to get to Tim.

I let them have their moment. The game I’m playing is a long one. No need to rush things.

As I go to grab a bottle of water, my eyes inadvertently fall on mouthy, messy Chloe Bellamy.

I pause.

Gone is the snarky,
don’t-give-a-shit
Chloe who’d been hollering smart-ass remarks just a couple minutes before.

Her eyes are locked on her sister’s boyfriend, and the look on her face is painfully familiar.

I know that look.

I know that look better than I’ll ever admit to anyone.

Chloe Bellamy is in love with her sister’s boyfriend. I’ve got a pretty damn good idea how shittily that’s going to work out for her.

Chloe rips her eyes away and stares unseeingly down at her book. Her eyes squeeze shut.

I shift my gaze back to the couple, who are now kissing in earnest, and the anger starts creeping in, mingling with the jealousy and causing a hot stab of resentment to lodge in my chest.

Objectively, I know that I’m watching Kristin and Devon, not Ethan and Olivia.

But it’s the same, isn’t it?

The perfect fucking couple, completely blind to the people around them.

Only this time, it’s not the guy who’s
like
my brother who has the girl.

It
is
my brother.

My eyes flick back to Chloe.

Maybe Kristin’s not the only path to Devon after all.

Chapter 2

Chloe

I’ve been in love with Devon Patterson since I was eight.

And I know what you’re thinking . . .

That I didn’t have hormones when I was eight, so it wasn’t real love, or even real attraction.

You’re wrong.

I love him.

And I know he could love me back, if only he’d
look
at me.

But ya know? I can’t even blame Devon for not seeing me.

It’s probably hard for him to be aware of his surroundings when my Disney Princess sister has her tongue in his mouth.

I mean, why would you want the funny sidekick when you can have the heroine?

And that’s the type of person Kristin is. Or at least thinks she is. She’s the heroine in
every
story.

Even other people’s.

As if he reads my mind, Devon slowly pulls back from his reunion kiss to join the land of the living where the actual people do not have eyelashes the size of small bats and a waist the size of a toddler’s.

But, actually, it’s not fair to pick
only
on Kristin for her blinding good looks.

Of the four of us here on this godforsaken tennis court, I’m the only one that’s not outright beautiful.

Take Devon, for example. Blond. Blue-eyed. Chiseled jaw. Tall, but not too tall, muscular but not bulging. Yummy.

As for the new tennis instructor . . . I don’t even know what to make of him.

My first thought?
Beefcake
. It’s obvious why he was hired, and it’s not because he can make contact with a tennis ball ten times out of ten.

Nope, it’s
definitely
the way his biceps strain the requisite Cambridge Country Club polo, and the way his tanned skin contrasts perfectly with the crisp white fabric.

That and the sulky, bad-boy gaze that I’m pretty sure he’s aware of. Maybe even practiced.

New guy is definitely gorgeous. And Kristin’s definitely noticed.

I shift my gaze to where Devon is tucking a lock of Kristin’s ever-silky hair behind her ear. We both have curly hair, but Kristin’s is the kind that can be blown out into all kinds of satiny shine. Unlike my corkscrews, where each curl is like its own rebellious teenager.

It’s clear which version Devon prefers.

And Beefcake, too, given the way he was practically undressing Kristin with his eyes when he thought she wasn’t looking.

I liked that about him. The way he didn’t let her know he was looking. He was playing games, but by his own rules.

But, anyway, who cares about tennis boy.

Tall, dark, and brooding isn’t my type.

I like them blond, smiley, and kind.

I like them like Devon Patterson.

Did I mention I love him?

Devon’s torn himself away from Kristin’s pink lip-glossed mouth long enough to shake hands with Michael. Any other dude would be sizing up the competition—I mean, not three minutes ago, Kristin was
totally
giving the tennis instructor all kinds of come-hither. But Devon has a friendly smile for the guy who was staring at his girlfriend’s ass.

I wonder if it even
occurs
to Devon that his girlfriend isn’t immune to Michael St. Claire’s dark,
I pop cherries for a living
kind of appeal.

Nah
. Devon knows how perfect he is. He’s not going to be worried about some bad-boy tennis pro with too-big biceps.

I pretend to read my book while Devon informs Michael that despite Kristin’s modesty she actually plays tennis for her college team, and Kristin blushes prettily and pretends that it’s no big deal, like she hadn’t already told Michael about her illustrious tennis skills in excruciating detail.

Kristin likes to pretend that her tennis “career” is the reason she didn’t graduate in four years, and the good ol’ parents never seem to wonder if it has something to do with the fact that she changed her major seven—yes, seven—times before settling on French.

The only French Kristin is good at is kissing, but she’s so freaking pretty that nobody seems to notice. Or care.

Meanwhile, I’m on schedule to graduate
early
with a double major in biology and econ. Not an obvious combo, but, hey . . . a girl’s got to have options, especially when an MRS degree isn’t exactly right around the corner.

My dad is proud of me.

My mom . . . well, she’s proud, too. I think she just wishes I were a
skinny
double major.

You and me both, Mom.

Anyway, none of this really matters.

What matters is that I’d been counting on having my upcoming senior year to myself. Davis University is a small college, and having the beautiful, charming Kristin a year ahead of you in school and light-years ahead of you in popularity has gotten, well, old.

But then sister dearest dropped the bomb that she was two dozen or so credits short of graduating.

My parents hadn’t even blinked.

Me? I’d consumed an entire pint of Häagen-Dazs, and I’m more of a Ben & Jerry’s kind of girl.

That’s how bad it was.

“Chlo?”

I snap my head up from the book I hadn’t actually been reading to see Devon moving toward me.

My heart flips.

I know.

It’s bad.

I’m ashamed.

No, I’m not.

Devon pulls me off the bench into a bear hug, and I sniff his neck. Just a little, while glancing at Kristin to make sure she doesn’t notice. But she’s just smiling her usual pretty smile, completely confident that chubby Chloe could never be a threat.

She’s right.

My eyes skip over to Beefcake, and, interestingly,
he
seems to have noticed that the smell of Devon’s cologne is making me flush and that I cling to Dev just a little more tightly than is appropriate.

This Michael St. Claire guy lifts a knowing eyebrow, and I jerk my gaze away before pushing back from Devon’s big-brother hug.