Sweet Ache

“Fucking figures,” he grumbles. “That’s even worse.”

“Yep. You know me—I make all the wrong decisions with all the wrong guys,” I say, imagining the look on his face at that comment.

“Fuckin’ A, Q … What the—”

“Night, Colton,” I tell him with a smirk on my face. I’ve fulfilled my little-sister duty to torment her older brother for the week.

“Night.” I love the exasperation in his voice because it means I was successful.

I hang up the phone and toss it on the couch beside me and scrub my hands over my face trying to ignore my racing thoughts even though I know they are going to win in the end anyway. I glance over to the trash can, where an empty cookies ’n cream half-gallon ice-cream container sits on the top. Ironically, I ate the dessert earlier as I tried to process what the fuck happened after the lecture today. And I’m still just as clueless now as I was before the rigorous workout, the soak in the tub, and the call from my brother.

How did Hawkin and I go from hot, curl-your-toes sex before the lecture to him going out with Delta Sig girl? Something is screwy and I’m so fucking sick and tired of thinking about it—being hurt by it despite telling myself I shouldn’t be—that I just want to go to bed to prevent myself from doing the one thing I’ve wanted to do since I walked up the steps of the auditorium: Call him.

I refuse to be the desperate groupie clinging on for one more roll in the sheets when he made it obvious he’s already put me with his other dirty laundry. I could answer my phone when he calls to ask him myself but just need to figure this all out before I do that. I’m not a weak person but something tells me I could easily fall back under his hypnotizing spell.

I close my eyes, the couch beneath me a little too comfortable, and drift off. At least I think I do, because when the pounding starts on my front door, I’m startled and jump up off the cushions, heart racing, head foggy, and adrenaline pumping. My immediate thought is fear. I mean I’m still trying to clear dreams from my head as I trudge to the front door, my mind not even considering that I’m wearing my cami-tank and panties.

The knocking begins again and when I look through the peephole, I’m shocked wide awake with anger. “Go away, Hawke! You’re not welcome here.”

“C’mon, Quin!” He pounds again, the door vibrating beneath my cheek pressed there so I can watch him through the hole.

“No. Go away.” I flick the porch light off, holding tightly to my resolve and dignity, and shuffle down the hall. I stand in the family room for a moment, indecision reigning over what to do next as he bangs on the door again. I flick the light off by the couch, certain that I just need to sleep this off and maybe like a hangover, it’ll be gone in the morning.

I head to turn the light off in the laundry room, where the washing machine is running midcycle, when the door to the backyard flings open. I yelp out in fright as it bangs against the counter behind it but then it quickly turns to anger when I see Hawkin there, shoulders leaning against the wall framing the jamb, head down, looking more than worse for the wear.

“Quinlan,” he slurs, head lifting slowly for his eyes to meet mine. “I need you.”

My heart skips a beat at the desperation in his tone. Hurt me and want me back, shame on you. Hurt me and I take you back twice? Dream on. In theory it sounds brilliant but when the man you want is standing before you with a pout on his lips and those words falling from his mouth my tough-girl facade wavers.

C’mon, Westin. Don’t cave. He was an asshole. Discarded you and now realized what he did and is looking at you like a puppy dog kicked to the curb.

I lean against the washer behind me, willing my damn heartstrings to quit tugging on everything inside me, and cross my arms over my chest in a futile attempt to keep him at arm’s length. “What? Your thirty-second flavor expire and now you’re coming back for more?” My tough-girl front returns momentarily with much more bravado than I actually feel.

“Q,” he sighs. “I need to explain.”

“You’re damn straight you do. You think I deserve—anyone deserves—to be treated like that? Discarded that way?” My voice rises as the hurt overrides the anger and fires in my veins. All of the pent-up emotion of the day that I tried to pretend didn’t matter bubbles up and explodes.

“There’s an explanation,” his voice is quiet, resigned, and I recognize the sadness but I’m on a roll here and nothing is going to stop the rejection I felt from coming out now.

“I don’t care, Hawkin! You may be some hotshot rock star but you know what? It doesn’t give you the right to be an asshole,” I yell at him.

“If you’ll be quiet I’ll explain!” he yells back, stepping into my space. He reaches out to my arm and I yank it out of his vicinity.

“No! There are no excuses good enough. We’re just friends, remember?” I shout like an adolescent throwing a tantrum. He runs a hand through his hair, eyes on mine, and muscle pulsing in his clenched jaw. “You think—”

Before I can finish my thought, his mouth is on mine. I struggle against him, arms pushing, legs moving, head darting from side to side but he holds me still: hips pinning me against the spinning washing machine at my back so that my arms are trapped between our bodies and his hands hold my head firmly in place. The fight in me rages stronger.

“No!” I yell against his lips, hating my body for betraying my mind as it begins to hum with the heat of our connected bodies, remembering just how good we can be. “How dare you!” It’s a halfhearted protest.