I won't lie. Having an angry, squirming Summer wriggling in my arms is
just the teeniest bit of a turn-on.
Okay fine. I'm rock hard.
In my defense, I didn't start this argument off with a boner. I was genuinely
pissed at her. I still am. Only now I'm also aroused.
So sue me.
"Put. Me. Down." Summer snarls out the words, and each sharp sound sends
another bolt of heat to my cock.
Something is really wrong with me. I just spent the past three hours with a
girl who dolled herself up for me, who batted her lashes and touched my hand
and all but held up a cardboard sign that said FUCK ME, COLIN!
I didn't experience so much as a dick twitch.
And now here I am with Summer, who's wearing baggy plaid pants and a
long-sleeve shirt, who's shouting obscenities at me, and my dick is raring to go.
"You thought I was a bitch before?" she says threateningly. "Well, how
about now!"
She resorts to her go-to move: pinching my butt.
But the sting of pain only turns me on. I kick her bedroom door open. "Did
anyone ever tell you you're a brat?"
The moment I set her down, she takes a swing at me.
Startled laughter lodges in my throat. I easily block her fist before it can
connect with my solar plexus. "Stop that," I order.
"Why? Because it makes me a brat? Oh, and a bitch too, right? And a drama
queen…and a sorority girl…what else…" Her cheeks redden with what appears
to be embarrassment. "Oh, yes. I'm surface level. That's what you think, right?
That I'm fluff?"
My stomach sinks like a stone.
Dick's not doing great, either—one look at Summer's stricken face and my
hard-on says "peace out."
Her fingers, which were clenched so tightly before, slowly uncurl and go
limp. Noting my expression, she gives a bitter laugh. "I heard everything you
said to Garrett at the bar that night."
Aw hell. Guilt ripples through my entire body before settling in my gut, an
eddy of shame. "Summer," I start. Then stop.
"Every word," she says quietly. "I heard every word you said, and not a
single one was very nice, Colin."
I feel like such an asshole.
Most of my life I've made it a point not to be cruel to others. Not to talk
trash about anyone—to their face or behind their back. Growing up, all I saw
from my parents was negativity. Nasty jabs directed at each other. Your father is
a piece of shit, Colin. Your mom is a lying bitch, son. Over the years they'd
calmed down, but it didn't happen fast enough. The toxic environment they'd
created had already done its job, teaching me the hard way how damaging words
can be. That there's no taking back the poison once you've spewed it.
"Summer," I try again, and stop again.
I don't know how to explain my actions without revealing just how badly I'd
craved her that night. I'd been looking for negative traits because I was having a
good time with her. Because she was making me laugh. Turning me on. I wanted
her, and it was messing with my head, so I started picking apart everything I
perceived to be a flaw.
"I'm sorry you heard all that," is what I finally choke out.
And I know immediately that it was the wrong thing to say. Sitting on the
edge of my bed, she peers up at me with sad green eyes.
Jesus. Her expression. It's like an arrow to the heart.
"I'm not fluff." Her words are barely a whisper. She clears her throat, and
when she speaks again, it's in a strong, even tone. "Yes, I have a stupid amount
of energy. Yes, I enjoy shopping, and I'm obsessed with clothes. Yes, I was in a
sorority, and yes, I like to dance and have fun with my friends." She exhales in a
fast rush. "That doesn't make me superficial, Fitz. And it doesn't mean there
isn't more to me beneath the surface. Because there is."
"Of course there is." Taking a ragged breath, I sink down beside her. "I'm so
sorry, Summer. I didn't mean to hurt you."
"You know what really hurts? That you just assumed there was nothing more
to me than parties and shopping. I'm a loyal friend. I'm a good daughter, a good
sister. You'd spent, what? Ninety minutes in my presence? And you think you
know the whole story?"
The guilt travels upward to coat my throat. I try to gulp it down, but it only
thickens, like a layer of tar coating the pavement. She's absolutely right. Even
though I was using those perceived flaws of hers as deterrents, it doesn't change
the fact that they occurred to me in the first place.
I did make the assumption that she's just a party girl and there's nothing
more to her, and I'm ashamed of myself for it.
"I'm sorry," I say roughly. "None of what I said was right. Or deserved. And
I'm also sorry about calling you a bitch downstairs. Your behavior has been
bitchy, but now I understand where it was coming from. I'm so sorry."
Summer goes silent for a long beat. A foot of space separates us, but she
might as well be sitting in my lap, that's how aware of her I am. The heat of her
body, the rise of her tits beneath her shirt as she inhales, the heady scent that's so
uniquely Summer. Her thick, gold-spun hair is cascading over one shoulder,
making my fingers itch to touch it.
"I was having a good time with you that night." Her tone is flat,
disappointed. "It was fun talking to you. Teasing you about being a
curmudgeon." She pauses. "Curmudgeon doesn't quite fit anymore, though. I
think 'dick' works better now."
My heart squeezes because it's true. "I'm sorry." Apparently that's all I'm
capable of saying.
"Whatever." She waves a dismissive hand. "That's what I get for developing
a crush on someone who isn't my usual type. I guess… Well, I guess that's why
we have types, right? You're drawn to certain people, and they're drawn to you.
But you didn't have to be mean, Fitz. If you weren't interested, you could have
told me instead of trashing me to Garrett." Her hands become fists again, pressed
tight to her thighs.
"I don't usually do that." I hear the torment in my voice. I'm sure she does
too. "But, that night—"
"I get it," she interrupts. "You didn't want to be with me."
Shame once again seals my throat until I can scarcely draw a breath.
"But for the record, there's more to me than you think." Her voice cracks. "I
have substance."
Oh my fucking God, this girl is ripping my heart out. I've never felt so bad
about anything in my entire life.
"I know people who sit around and ponder the meaning of life, their purpose,
the universe, why the sky is blue, anything they can question. But that's never
been me. I'm good at other things, like listening when someone needs me.
I'm…"
Sunshine, I finish silently.
Just like her name, Summer is sunshine.
Rather than fill in the blank, she switches gears. "And despite what you may
think, I can hold a conversation that doesn't involve shoes or designer clothing. I
might not be able to write you a five-thousand-word dissertation about Van
Gogh and every tiny little brushstroke he did, but I can explain the joy that art
and beauty bring to the world." She rises to her feet, somewhat stiffly. "Anyway.
I'm sorry I was rude about your new girlfriend."
"She's not my girlfriend," I mutter. "We went on one date."
"Whatever. I'm sorry I mocked your date. For what it's worth, she's in my
history class, and she didn't particularly make a good first impression on me."
I bite hard on the inside of my cheek. "I really am sorry about New Year's.
Truly. I didn't mean any of that shit."
She gives a resigned smile that once again cuts me to the core. Then she
shrugs and says, "Yes, you did."
TYPICALLY, CLEARING THE AIR IS SUPPOSED TO EASE RELATIONS BETWEEN TWO
people.
For Summer and me, it produces the opposite effect.
In the days following our confrontation, we keep our distance, tiptoeing
around one another and speaking only out of necessity. There isn't any malice
behind it, just extreme awkwardness on both our parts. I suspect she still thinks
I'm an ass for saying what I said, and I still feel like one.
To make matters worse, she and Hunter have been hanging out a lot. A few
times, I've caught them sitting real close to each other on the couch. No PDA or
overtly sexual vibes, but it's clear they enjoy each other's company. Hunter flirts
with her every chance he gets, and Summer doesn't seem to mind.
I mind.
I mind a little too much, and that's why I'm holed up in my bedroom on
Sunday night after our win against Dartmouth instead of partying downstairs
with my teammates. And we beat Suffolk yesterday too, so technically it's a
double celebration.
But I'm not in the mood to watch Hunter hit on Summer. Plus, my entire
body feels like one giant bruise.
The Dartmouth game was a rough one. Lots of hits (not all of them clean),
lots of penalties (not all of them called), and one groin injury to a Dartmouth
defenseman that made my balls shrivel and retreat like a frightened turtle.
Needless to say, I'm tired, sore, and cranky.
The music blasting downstairs keeps trying to drown out the playlist pouring
from my computer speakers. It's a weird mix of bluegrass and indie rock, which
for some reason lends itself well to this free draw exercise I'm currently putting
myself through. Sometimes, when I'm creatively blocked, I'll lie on my back,
sketchpad on my lap, pencil in hand. I'll close my eyes, breathe in and out, slow
and steady, and allow my pencil to draw whatever it wants.
My high school art teacher urged me to try it one day, claiming it's as
effective as meditation in clearing the mind, opening the creative floodgates. She
was right—whenever I'm blocked, free drawing does the trick.
I'm not certain how long I lie there, sketching with my eyes closed, but by
the time I register that my pencil's no longer sharp and my wrist is cramping, the
music in the living room has ceased, and my own playlist has restarted itself.
Shaking out my wrist, I slide into a sitting position. I stare down at my
sketch and discover that I've drawn Summer.
Not the season. The girl.
And not the girl with the dazzling smile. Not the laughing Summer, or the
Summer whose cheeks go brighter than Red Delicious apples when she's pissed
at me.
I drew the Summer whose green eyes shimmered with pain as she'd
whispered the words, "I have substance."
On the page, her full lips are frozen in time. But in my mind, they're
quivering as she takes a shaky breath. The sketch hints at the tears clinging to
her lower lashes, conveying an air of vulnerability that tugs at my heart. But the
tight set of her jaw tells you she won't go down without a fight.
I suck in a breath.
She's completely and utterly perfect for the character in the new game I'm
designing. I've been working on the assets for the past few months but haven't
found any inspiration for the female lead, and it's been slowing my production.
I stare at the sketch for nearly five minutes before forcing myself to close the
pad and put it away. The moment my brain snaps out of art mode and into I'm-aliving-breathing-creature mode, I realize not only do I have to piss like a
racehorse, but I'm hungrier than that horse and could probably eat it. My
stomach rumbles so loudly I'm surprised I didn't notice the hunger pangs until
now.
I take care of the bladder issue first, then go downstairs to scrounge up some
food. From the staircase, I hear a wave of laughter from the living room and
Hollis' voice saying, "That's what I'm talkin' about!" Usually when Mike Hollis
sounds this excited about something, it's either the most horrifying thing in the
world or unimaginably awesome. No in between with that guy.
Curiosity has me following Mike's voice instead of turning toward the
kitchen. When I approach the doorway, I feel like I've been transported back to
the eighth grade. A bunch of people are still over. Including my team captain,
Nate, who's rubbing his hands gleefully, urging the bottle on the table to stop in
front of him.
Yes, I said bottle.
Either I'm hallucinating, or my college-aged friends are playing Spin the
Bottle. They're on the floor or sitting on various pieces of furniture in some
semblance of a circle. Clearly Summer was the spinner, because she's leaning
forward from the couch, watching the bottle. Meanwhile, all the single dudes in
the room are watching her. Beyond hopeful.
The green Heineken bottle slows, just passing Nate and Hollis. It nearly
lands on Jesse Wilkes's girlfriend Katie. It spins another fraction of an inch,
glides to a stop. And points directly to the living room doorway.
At me