Easy (28 page)

I sighed and our
breath mingled. Pushing the covers to my waist, he urged me onto my back before
propping his face on his hand and continuing his perusal. My exposed skin
should have been cold, but I warmed under his examination. “I want to sketch
you like this.” His voice was as gentle as his touch—now skirting across my
collarbone, back and forth, before moving lower.

“Can I assume it
won’t end up on the wall?”

He smirked down at
me. “Er, no, this one wouldn’t go on the wall, as tempting a thought as that is.
I’ve done several sketches of you that aren’t on the wall.”

“You have?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Can I see them?”

He gnawed his
lower lip, fingers tracing along the curves of my breast and then following the
bumps of each rib. “Now?” His warm hand curved around my waist and he pulled me
closer.

I looked into his
eyes as he lay over me. “Maybe, in a little while...”

He scooted lower. “Good. ’Cause I’ve got a couple things I’d like to do first.”

***

He pulled on his dark boxer briefs
before padding out to the kitchen. I heard the front door open and close a
moment later, his voice a low murmur mixed with Francis’s insistent meows. He
came back with a tall glass of milk and a plate of brownie squares.

Handing me the
plate, he took a sip of the milk before setting it on the bedside table. I sat
with the sheet held over my breasts and watched him move across the darkening
room. He flicked on the desk light and picked up the sketchbook. Stacked in a
corner of the desk, there were several just like the one he held.

In the center of
his upper back was a gothic-looking cross, not quite high enough to peek out of
a t-shirt neckline. The remaining tats were tiny scripted lines surrounding the
cross, not meant to be read from a distance, just like the poem on his left
side. His skin was clear from his shoulder blades down. Turning, he caught me studying
him—I couldn’t look away, so there was no hiding my appraisal.

He crawled onto
the bed, propping the pillows and sitting behind me, his legs on either side of
my hips under the covers. While I lay back against his chest and nibbled a
brownie, he opened the sketchbook and flipped through pages, some containing little
more than shapes, lines and vague forms, others detailed portrayals of people,
objects or scenes. A few were finished and dated, but most were partially
complete.

Finally, he opened
to his first sketch of me—which he must have done during class, when I sat next
to Kennedy. My chin was propped in my hand, elbow on the desktop. I took the
book from him and browsed page by page from there, slowly, amazed at his skill.
He’d sketched two of the oldest buildings on university grounds, a guy
skateboarding down the drag, and a panhandler on the outskirts of campus
talking to a couple of students. Interspersed with these were meticulous illustrations
of mechanical things.

I turned the page
to another sketch of me, this one very close-up—facial features and the
suggestion of hair, but little else. Scrawled in the bottom corner was a date,
two or three weeks before Kennedy dumped me.

“Does it bother
you—that I was watching you before you knew me at all?” His tone was guarded.

I found it
impossible to be bothered by anything at the moment, wrapped up in him as I
was. I shook my head. “You’re just observant, and for some reason you found me
an interesting subject. Besides, you’ve sketched a lot of people who didn’t
know you were scrutinizing them so closely, I assume.”

He chuckled and
sighed. “I don’t know if that makes me feel better or worse.”

Leaning to the
side, propping my head against his inked bicep, I looked up at him. Still
clutching the sheet to my chest in a belated show of modesty, or insecurity, I
watched his heated gaze flick there before rising to my face. “I’m not mad
anymore that you didn’t tell me you were Landon. The only reason I was angry
was because I thought you were playing me, but it was the opposite of that.” I
let the sheet drop, and his searing gaze dropped with it. Lifting my fingers, I
brushed them over the smooth skin along his jaw. He must have shaved just
before I came over. “I could never be afraid of you.”

Without a word, he
took the plate from my lap and the sketchbook from my hand before lifting and
turning me onto his lap. Arms surrounding me, his mouth moved over my breasts as
my hands tangled in his hair. I ignored the reproach in my mind—the one
insisting that I was the one withholding information now, and while I might not
fear Lucas directly, I feared his desertion if I told him what I knew, and how
I knew it.

Inhaling the
now-familiar smell of him, I dragged my fingers across the words and designs on
his skin as he kissed me, banishing my shrill pang of conscience to a distant
drone.

Chapter 23

“So where’s…” Benji’s voice trailed
off when I glanced at him, and he finished his sentence with a quick head angle
toward Lucas’s unoccupied seat and a characteristic eyebrow waggle.

“It’s final review
day, so he doesn’t have to be here.”

“Ah.” He smiled,
leaning over the arm of his desk and lowering his voice. “So… since you know
that bit of inside info, and you two left class together the last couple of
days… can I assume that somebody’s getting a little private tutoring now?” When
I pinned my lips together, he snorted a laugh, held up a fist and sing-songed,
“Nailed it!”

Rolling my eyes, I
bumped his knuckles with mine, knowing he’d hold his fist aloft between us
until I did. “God, Benji. You’re such a bro-it-all.”

He grinned, eyes
wide. “Woman, if I was straight, I would steal you from him
so hard
.”

We laughed and
prepared to take macroeconomics notes for the last time.

“Hey, Jacqueline.”
Kennedy slid into the empty seat next to me and Benji gave him a narrow-eyed
stare that he didn’t deign to notice. “I wanted to give you a heads up.” He sat
sideways in the desk, facing me, keeping his voice low. “The disciplinary
committee decided to let him stay on campus for the next week, as long as he
abides by the restrictions of the restraining orders—because he’s pled innocent,
and because there’s only a week left in the semester. He has to vacate the
premises as soon as finals are over, though.”

I already knew
Buck was out on bail, and that he’d been served the temporary restraining order
on Thursday afternoon—Chaz had called Erin to tell her, and she’d passed the
information to me, as well as to Mindi and her parents.

“Awesome. So he’s
staying in the house?” We’d all hoped he would be kicked off campus, but
administration was embracing an innocent-until-proven-guilty stance.

“Yeah, for the
next week, but then he’s gone. The frat doesn’t have to be as impartial as
university officials do.” He smiled. “Apparently D.J. saw the light after Katie
told him off. Dean finally agreed. Letting Buck stay for finals week was the
only compromise they made—and he’s only allowed to go to his scheduled finals
and back.” Laying his warm hand over mine, he stared into my eyes. “Is there…
is there anything I can do?”

I knew my ex well
enough to know what he was actually asking, but there was no second chance for
him in my heart. That place was filled, but even if it hadn’t been, I was sure that
I’d rather be alone than be with someone who could desert me as he’d done.
Twice. I withdrew my hand into my lap. “No, Kennedy. There isn’t. I’m fine.”

He sighed and
shifted his gaze from my face to his knees. Nodding, he looked at me one last
time, and I was both gratified and saddened to see the full realization of what
we’d lost in his familiar green eyes. Standing to go to his seat, he excused
himself to edge past my late-arriving neighbor who, for once, had nothing to
say about her weekend plans.

***

Freshman year weeded out musicians
who’d ruled their high school orchestra, band, or choir without a lot of
practice—the ones who came to college believing themselves to be above mundane
technical proficiencies like scales and internals, let alone music theory. Most
music majors were devoted to perfecting our skills, so we spent hours a week
practicing—often hours a day. Nothing was ever perfect enough to risk slacking
off.

I’d come to campus
a little spoiled. At home, I’d practiced whenever I wanted to; mom and dad had never
limited me, though admittedly, I was reasonable in my practice times. Unable to
keep my furniture-sized bass in my dorm room, I had to procure a locker for it
in the music building and schedule booth times to play. I quickly learned that
evening spots went fast; though the building was open nearly 24/7, I didn’t
want to trudge across campus at 2 a.m. to practice.

Scheduling jazz ensemble
rehearsals was even more of a pain. Beginning freshman year, we met two or
three times a week. Recently, it had become obvious why Sunday morning studio
reservations were easy to get: Sunday was hangover day for much of the student
body, and fine arts majors weren’t immune. By halfway through the fall semester,
most of us had skipped Sunday morning rehearsal once or twice. What worked
freshman year wouldn’t work at all by the time we were juniors.

Just before the
peer recital began on Friday night, I reiterated to one of our horn players why
I couldn’t make the hastily assembled last-minute rehearsal on Saturday
morning, even though our performance was that evening. “I have a class
tomorrow—”

“Yeah, yeah, I
know. Your
self-defense
class. Fine. If we suck tomorrow night, it’s on
you.” Henry was undeniably gifted, as if he’d been born with a saxophone in his
long-fingered hands. His pompous attitude backed by genuine skill, he usually
intimidated the hell out of all of us. In that moment, though, I was tired of
him being an ass.

“That’s bullshit,
Henry.” I glowered at him as he slouched smugly on the other side of Kelly, our
pianist, who’d opted to stay out of the argument. “I only missed
one
rehearsal
the entire semester.”

He shrugged. “But
it’s about to be two, isn’t it?”

Before I could
reply, the recital began. I sat back in my seat, gritting my teeth. I was as much
of a serious musician as anyone else in our group, but Saturday was the last self-defense
class, the culmination of everything we’d learned. It was important.

Erin was stoked
about the one-on-one matches Ralph had planned between each of the class
members and either Don or Lucas. “I’ll try to get Don,” she’d promised while
she got dressed for work and I got ready for the last mandatory peer recital of
the semester. Squinting one eye into the mirror while applying a layer of
mascara to the other, she’d teased, “I don’t wanna wreck your boy-toy’s vital
parts before you’re done playing with him!”

I hadn’t heard
from Lucas all day, though we were both so busy that I almost didn’t have time
to dwell on the absence of communication and what it meant. Almost.

A year ago, I
hadn’t thought I would ever sleep with anyone but Kennedy. He’d been with other
girls before me—if nothing else, his experience during my first time made that
clear. That fact hadn’t bothered me, much, though we’d never actually spoken
about it. Lucas, too, was obviously experienced, though he told me none of those
previous girls had been significant. If Kennedy had ever confessed something
like that, I’d have been relieved, if not thrilled. Lucas’s encumbered history made
his revelation heartbreaking, instead, and I was uncertain what it meant for him,
for me, and for us.

***

At the beginning of class, we
reviewed every move we’d learned while Ralph circulated the room, giving tips
and encouragement. Don and Lucas were absent for the first portion. Ralph
wanted us to remain emotionally separated from them, so we wouldn’t feel
awkward inflicting violence on them in the last hour. I wondered, though, how
many of us wasted precious seconds worrying that we were overreacting—tiny, valuable
ticks of time spent not defending ourselves, thinking,
but
I know
this guy.

My heart in my
throat, I watched as each of my classmates used their newfound defense
techniques on a fully-padded Lucas or Don. As we took our turns on the mats,
each of us benefitted from a bloodthirsty eleven-person cheering section, while
the guys took turns so they could rest up from being pummeled, kicked, and
verbally reviled. Since the padding cushioned our blows, they had to do a bit
of acting—adjusting their reactions as though each landed punch or kick had
done its job. So when Erin saw an opening and swung a perfect sweep kick to the
groin, Don crumpled to the ground as if incapacitated.

Eleven voices
screamed, “
Run! Run!
” But Don’s big, padded body blocked a straight
escape to the designated “safe zone” by the door, and Erin hesitated for a
split second. He rolled toward her and we screamed even louder. Roused, she leapt
onto his chest like it was a springboard and launched herself, turning when she
landed and kicking him two more times before running away.

When she reached
the far door, she pumped both fists in the air and bounced up and down while
everyone cheered. Ralph clapped her on the shoulder as she rejoined us, and I
glanced at Lucas. Wearing his ghost smile, he watched her. One more woman,
empowered. One more given the ability to defend herself against attack. One
more who might not meet his mother’s fate. His eyes found mine, and I wondered
if these single, hopeful moments would ever be enough to alleviate the ache
that haunted him. The ache about which I was presumably unaware.

Pulling his gaze from
me, he went to wait for the next potential victim to walk onto the mats. There
were two of us remaining—a very soft-spoken secretary named Gail from the
student health center, and me.