Block Shot (Hoops #2)(16)

I curl my lip and glare.

“Despite your daddy’s money, and all your connections and this little post pubescent posse at your back, when it comes down to it, you’re just a pathetic boy with nothing to show for himself.”

I grab my jeans from the pile with my shoes and socks. In complete awkward silence, I pull my jeans on, looking each one of those cowards in the eye while I do it. Even when I have to strain and wiggle to get my jeans over my hips and buttoned. I don’t know how much longer my bravado will hold. It’s straining and about to break. I rush past them all to leave the back room, determined to get out of here before the dam bursts and tears give away just how shattered I am. I’m scooping up my backpack and on my way out the door when a gentle hand stops me. I look over my shoulder, and cannot believe the audacity of Jared Foster.

“Banner, wait.” That desperation brightens his eyes to azure. It looks like desperation. But he’s really good at making things look like what they’re not. He made me think he liked me, that he wanted me. Mama didn’t raise no fool, but tonight that’s exactly what he made me. And over what? A sculpted body, blond hair, and blue eyes. I did it again, fell for a man’s lies and the flattery of his touch. Am I that desperate? That pathetic?

“You better let me go right now,” I snarl, my eyes tracing a jagged line from his grip on my arm to that damn handsome face.

“No, you will listen.” Frustration sketches lines around his mouth and between his brows.

My hand flies up and slams into his cheek. I’ve never slapped anyone before. Despite my hubris with Prescott, I abhor violence of any kind, but I don’t regret the bright red handprint blooming over his cheekbone. Anger flares in the stare we hold, his bouncing off mine.

“Oh shit,” someone says from the back room.

I glance over his shoulder to find all the guys gathered at the door, watching our exchange. Prescott’s smirk and a few snickers are last straws. Hot tears prick my eyes and I jerk away, walking as swiftly as I can toward the door. On the sidewalk, I can’t hold back the torrent of emotions any longer. A sob erupts from that place I’ve been guarding ever since those lights came on. The indignity, the humiliation, the cruelty of the situation presses against me on all sides, closing in and trying to crush me. I don’t even know how I make it home through the blur of tears, but as soon as I am on the other side of my apartment door, I slide my back down the wall until my butt hits the floor.

And the tears won’t stop. I’m shaking, trembling at the shocking cruelty of those guys.

Aftershock.

How the earth tremors following a seismic disruption. A result of great upheaval at the core. And at the epicenter lies Jared Foster.

I hate him.

I hate them all.

I hate the wretched, pitiful sound of my own tears. I hate the sting of shame piercing my heart like a thorn. I hate my stupidity, my naiveté believing Jared Foster wanted someone like me instead of someone like Cindy. I hate the way my thighs spread, stretching the denim of my jeans. The way my legs rub together when I walk. I hate this roll of fat hanging over my waistband.

This body is an inadequate shell that doesn’t reflect the powerful, confident person I am inside. And yet there’s a part of me that knows it shouldn’t matter. That knows whether I’m a size 2 or 22, I’m still smart and ambitious and kind and generous. And yes, speak Italian, Russian, and a little Chinese.

It shouldn’t matter, but I have to be honest with myself as I weep uncontrollably and admit that it does. Right now, it does.

“Banner, open the door.”

Jared’s voice bellows from the hall.

Could this night get any worse?

“I’m not leaving.” He gives the door four successive bangs. “You left your coat and your clients’ laundry. You have to get those so you’ll have to open the door.”

I cup my hand over my mouth to catch the sobs that won’t stay down. He won’t hear me crying for his fine sorry ass. I can imagine how glamorous I look with my just-fucked hair all over the place, puffy eyes, and blotchy cheeks. When I cry this hard, the blood vessels around my eyes always burst. Technical term: facial petechiaec. Layman’s term: hot mess.

“Okay. You want to do this.” I hear a sliding sound on the other side of the door and assume he sits on the floor, mirroring my position. “We can do this. I’ll stay out here until you open the door. I swear I had nothing to do with this. Prescott is a liar.”

I sniff, hope pushing through like a tiny bud in a storm somehow preserved from the wind and the rain, but I keep my voice hard and sure. I’ve seen what he does with my vulnerability. I focus on my anger to dry up my tears.

“So you had nothing to do with it? He’s lying? Did Prescott ask you to . . .” I clear my throat and close my eyes but force myself to say the words “. . . fuck the fat girl—me in case we’re confused about that. Yes or no?”

There are a few seconds of guilty silence through the door before he speaks.

“It wasn’t like—”

“Yes. Or. No.”

“Yes, he did tell me that if I wanted to get into The Pride, I had to fuck . . . you, but I—”

“The Pride?” I run through the various fraternities on campus and cannot place that one. “What the hell is The Pride? Like lions?”