The Hook Up (Game On Book 1) (13 page)

George nods to confirm, his expression lofty. “A man can only take so many feminine supplies in his bathroom before it’s time to cut and run.”

“I have my own bathroom, you tool,” I say.

“Yes. And you give me food. Now I’m wondering why I moved out.” Quick as a flash, George leans forward and lands a smacking kiss on my cheek. He’s fucking with Drew, seeing if he’ll care.

And it’s working. Drew’s expression goes completely neutral. He picks at his frittata before setting his fork down. “So… you guys…?”

He looks from George to me. Iris makes a horrified face, and George laughs. He’s a stinker, but he isn’t a jerk, and he puts Drew out of his misery. “This might be hard to believe, cuz you’re obviously into our girl, but the thought of doing anything with Anna kind of turns my stomach.”

“Ditto,” I snap back dryly, noticing that Drew looks way too pleased.

George grins at me. “She’s like the sister I never had.”

“Hey!” Iris gives his arm a punch. “I’m your sister!”

“No, you’re my twin. Totally different, 'Ris.”

“Whatever.”

As George and Iris debate whether there is a distinction between “twin” and “sister,” I lean in close to Drew. “Their constant bickering may have factored into George moving out.”

He chuckles and takes another bite. “This is good, by the way.” He glances at my plate. “You sure you have enough?”

I stop his move to offer me some of his with a touch to his hand. He’s warm, and I want entirely too much to twine my fingers with his and tug him out of here. I pull back.

“That’s sweet, but this is fine. I cooked this more for you.”

His expression is soft. “Thank you, Anna.”

The space between us grows close, quiet, as if Iris and George aren’t squabbling, as if we’re alone. His large thigh presses against my smaller one and heat blooms along the connection. When he speaks, it’s low and just for me. “So, ‘Banana’, huh?”

I give him a look. “If you call me that, you’ll lose a finger.”

A little dimple forms along his left cheek. “Why a finger?”

“Isn’t that where the bad guys always start? Lose a finger, then an eye, maybe an ear…” I shrug. “Seemed appropriately threatening.”

“Oh, very. Don’t worry, Jones. I’ve learned my lesson. No nicknames for you.” His index finger taps the tip of my nose. “Our relationship is special that way.”

There it is again. That “R” word. I take a bite of frittata. The eggs have gone cold.

“Well, I’m out of here,” announces George.

Iris’s face scrunches up. “You said you were going with Henry and me to the movies.”

“You don’t need me being a third wheel, 'Ris.” George wears the same expression I’m sure I do when talking about Henry: valiantly trying to hide disgust. “And I’m not in the mood to be one.”

Iris plunks her fist on her hip. “Hasn’t stopped you from going out with us before. Besides, it was your idea to go to the movies.”

George simply shrugs. “Changed my mind. It happens.” He turns to Drew. “Good to meet you, Baylor. I gotta say, you do some impressive work on the field, man.”

Et tu
, George?

Drew takes the praise in stride and simply smiles, a polite smile, not like the ones he gives me when his eyes light up and a dimple graces his cheek. “Thanks. I try my best. Good to meet you too.”

George isn’t gone for more than a few minutes when the lock to the apartment door turns and Henry walks in, key in hand.

“You gave him a key,” I hiss at Iris. There is no way I’m letting Henry have open access to our house.

She has the grace to wince. “Not permanently. I’ll get it back.”

“Now,” I snap in a low voice. Beside me, Drew is frowning, having heard the exchange.

Henry saunters up to the breakfast bar. “Sweetness.” He gives Iris a messy kiss, but his eyes are on the rest of us. Mainly Drew. He does a double take as recognition sets in.

“Battle Baylor.” He sets a hand on Iris’s hip. “I thought I was seeing things.”

“Nope,” says Drew, his tone bland, his eyes watchful.

Henry laughs, as if they know each other. I’m not sure that they do. I’ve never seen them exchange any words. Henry ends my suspicion by saying, “Henry Ross. I play midfield on the lacrosse team.” His gaze shifts from Drew to me. “And here I was, beginning to think you didn’t like guys, Anna.”

“Henry,” Iris snaps.

“What?” Henry says, all innocence.

“No,” I say lightly, “you got that wrong. I don’t like assholes.”

Iris glares at me, as Henry leans his forearms on the bar and gives me a nasty smile. “I figured you were too uptight to put out.”

Before I can say a word, Drew’s warm hand lands on my nape. It engulfs me, a comforting weight and a support. “Careful.”

He’s not speaking to me. His eyes are on Henry. There’s nothing overtly threatening about his pose, with his other hand resting casually on the counter and his shoulders relaxed. And yet the message is clear. Should Henry make a wrong move, Drew would take him down in an instant. I don’t need to be protected. But if feels nice knowing that he’s willing.

Henry’s frown is as contrived as his tone. “Careful?”

“Do I need to spell it out for you?” Drew doesn’t need to raise his voice. The authority of his presence is enough for Henry to look away first.

“You all need to relax. I’m just messing around.”

Aware that Iris is cringing, I refrain from calling him on that lie. Drew does as well, but he doesn’t drop his hard gaze from Henry.

“We going out?” Henry snaps at Iris.

“Yes.” She gives us an apologetic look as she takes Henry’s arm and all but tugs him to the door.

“Leave the key,” I say before they get there.

Henry stops, his shoulders stiffening, and turns his head to glare at me. But his gaze clashes with Drew’s, and he simply shrugs before reaching into his pocket and pulling out the spare set of keys. Henry tosses them on to the counter where they land with a loud clang.

As soon as they leave, I lean against the counter with a sigh. “He’s such an asshole.”

“I’m guessing Iris doesn’t see that.” There’s a knowing tone in Drew’s voice.

“I’d like to believe that she’s living in ignorant bliss rather than choosing to be with him with eyes wide open.”

I move to take Drew’s plate, but he reacts first, picking up both his and mine and taking them to the sink.

“Whatever the case,” I say as he rinses off the dishes and I open the dishwasher to tuck them away, “she hasn’t kicked him to the curb.”

Drew leans a hip against the counter. “It happens sometimes to guys on the team. They’ll go out with a girl who is bad news, manipulative, caring only about the fame. Every now and then someone will try to warn the poor sap.”

“It’s sweet that you guys watch out for each other.”

His teeth flash in a quick but tight smile. “Well, it isn’t entirely altruistic. A team is only as strong as its weakest link. None of us like to see a guy laid low by head games.” Drew’s broad shoulders lift on a shrug. “Not that it matters. Warning a guy about a girl only pisses him off and drives him closer to her.”

“Which is why I grit my teeth and try to steer clear of Henry.”

Drew’s expression grows pinched. “I saw him at the party. Is that why you didn’t want to go?”

“I didn’t want to go, because I don’t like parties.” I toss the hand towel into the sink. “Henry being there merely made it that much worse.”

The corner of his mouth tilts up. “I’m still glad you were there.” His eyes are liquid caramel, and all thought of Henry melts away in a rush of heat and longing. As if feeling the same rush, Drew’s chest lifts on a breath, and his voice lowers to a rumble. “Show me your room, Jones.”

DESPITE THE HEATED promise in his voice, and despite the fact that he came to my apartment for only one reason, when we get to my room, Drew doesn’t touch me. We lay side by side on the bed, both of us staring up at the ceiling. Our shoulders brush, but that is the extent of our contact. My hands are safely folded over my stomach and so are his. We aren’t fucking. I’m not trying to climb him like a tree, or lick him like a Tootsie-Pop. Though I want to do those things. Part of me always does.

I still can’t believe I have Baylor in my room. His presence fills every inch. He’s so expansive with his charisma that I can’t get enough air, or when I do, it makes my blood fizz and my head spin.

When he finally talks, my skin jumps at the rich, deep sound.

“What’s your thing with old Siouxsie there?”

I don’t need to see him to know he’s gesturing with his chin toward the framed poster of Siouxsie Sioux, lead singer for Siouxsie and the Banshees, that hangs over my bed. With her exaggerated straight black brows, wild black bob, and tiny red bow mouth she looks like a deranged Betty Boop, a Goth flapper girl. She screams timeless beauty and “fuck off” all at once. I love her style.

“She’s not old,” I protest. Though I suppose she is now. Likely she’s in her fifties. I really don’t want to know. Up there, on my wall, she’s immortal.

“You didn’t answer me,” he presses. A soft rustle of noise, and I know he’s turned his head to look at me. I keep my eyes on Siouxsie. This doesn’t deter Baylor. “You seem to have a thing for her.”

We’re listening to her now, her haunting voice singing a cover of
Dear Prudence.

I shrug, and my arm rubs against his. “Just look at her. She didn’t give a fuck. She led an all-male band, was part of a sound revolution.” I shrug again. “And she’s fucking cool.”

He chuckles. It’s a good laugh. Deep and infectious. Just hearing it makes me smile.

His laughter dies down, and we’re silent for a moment, just listening to music and lying there. His legs are so long that his bent knees rise at least five inches higher than mine. They are dusky blue hills beneath the backdrop of Siouxsie’s haunted eyes. I’m relaxed, I realize. And at the same time, tension, ever present when he is near, simmers low in my stomach.

“So you like old music, huh?” he asks.

I turn my head just enough to see his arm. His biceps is so big that I wonder if I can get my two hands around it. I’m tempted to try. “Yeah,” I say, my voice far too husky. “I guess I do.”

He nods, and his square chin comes into view. And his mouth. I’m in love with his mouth, and I’ve never even tasted it. The lower lip is wide yet full, a gentle curve that I want to follow with my tongue. But I won’t.

His upper lip is almost a bow, a cruel little sneer of a lip, and yet the effect is ruined because Drew is almost always smiling. He isn’t now, though. His lips are relaxed, fuller.

They move when he speaks. “I like Lynryd Skynryd, Zepplin, Queen.” He says this like it’s a confession. Like I’m going to sit up and point and shout,
Ah-ha! Closet classic rock junkie!
When he ought to know that I won’t, not when I listen to Brit-punk albums older than I am.

It’s his turn to shrug, as if my silence is agitating to him. “My dad used to listen to that stuff.” His body tilts toward mine as he reaches in his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. The picture held between his thumb and his forefinger shakes only a little as he hands it to me. “My parents.”

His parents are young in the picture. They’re hanging on to each other, arms slung over their shoulders as they ham it up for the camera. His dad is tall, dark, and handsome, in a fashion victim sort of way because he’s sporting a bad 80’s mullet and wearing skintight jeans and a black AC/DC tee. But his grin is wide and a dimple graces his cheek. Drew’s mom is kissing his other cheek, but she’s sort of smearing her lips over him as she turns to the camera, and she’s clearly laughing about her antics. She’s her own fashion victim, maybe more so than his dad, but she looks awesome doing it. Her blonde, curly hair is teased to epic proportions and brushes her shoulders. A floppy black lace bow keeps the mass of it off of her small face. She’s got on an honest-to-God black lace bustier and a shin length tight black skirt, paired with combat boots that I kind of covet when I see them. Black rubber bracelets engulf her forearms.

“So your mom was into Madonna, I take it?” I grin over at Drew, and he laughs lightly.

“Yeah, for a few months, the way she’d tell it.” His expression turns soft. “They called this their Hall of Shame picture. They were on their way to Live Aid.”