Take Me for Granted (Take Me #1)(11)

“If I won’t see you here, why would I drive to New York City to see you?” I demanded.

“Because it’s the city that never sleeps, and neither will you.”

“Oh my God.” Where the hell did he come up with this stuff?

“Just go out with me. Anywhere. Dinner, the city, coffee. I’ll f**king sit out on the quad with you, and we can let people stare at us again. Just give me a chance.”

“Why?”

What I wanted to ask—but I was actually holding back for the first time in my life—was, Why me? I wasn’t some slutty sexpot. Even if we went out, I wasn’t going to give him what he wanted. I understood that I had said no and so that had made me appealing to him in some way, but it wasn’t enough to justify all of this.

“Because I know what I want.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“I know I want you.”

“And that’s enough?” I asked desperately.

“For me.”

We were staring at each other so intently that I hadn’t even noticed the professor had walked up the aisle to stand in front of my desk.

“Since you two seem unable to contain your conversation, perhaps you should continue it outside.”

My mouth fell open. “I’m so sorry. We’ll be quiet.”

“Sir, it was my fault,” Grant said, taking the fall.

That surprised me a bit.

“I don’t care whose fault it is. I expect you to pack up your things and leave. Return when you will not disturb the class,” he said before turning and walking back to the front of the room.

I grabbed my things and rushed out of the classroom in shame. I had been kicked out of class. I couldn’t believe it. By the time I exited the room, I was fuming.

Grant followed behind me a minute later. “Aribel, I’m really sorry.”

“You got me kicked out of class!” I yelled at him.

“I know. I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t think—”

“That’s right! You didn’t think. You have no idea what this means to me or how this could affect me. All you care about is your stupid game. Newsflash, Grant—I’m not going to sleep with you!” I screamed in his face. “I’ve known you for less than twenty-four hours, and you’re already messing up my life. So, do me a favor, and just get out of it!”

Chapter 9: Grant

Thirteen years.

It had been thirteen years since I last pushed too hard for what I wanted…since the last time I had failed. All of that came crashing down around me as I stood there and let Aribel lay into me like I was no better than the scum on the bottom of her shoe.

In all honesty, I probably wasn’t, not compared to someone like her. She seemed like a package deal—smart, really f**king smart, hot, and feisty. Why the hell would she want to go out with a guy like me anyway?

And that should have made me back the f**k off. It should have made me want to walk dick-first into the next easy pu**y I stumbled across. But it didn’t. As she rambled on about my utter douchiness, all I could think about was how I could fix this. So, I let her walk away. I was already going to be late for rehearsal, and if I were late one more time, Miller would have my ass.

Arriving just on time, I hopped out of my lifted dark blue F-150 and strolled into the garage. When I’d first bought the place, I’d renovated the garage, so we would have a place to rehearse. I’d only left enough space for my sleek red Ducati.

“Bro, where the f**k have you been all morning?” Vin asked.

“With your mother.”

“Fuck off!” Vin yelled back at me.

I sauntered over to my baby and picked her up from her stand. She was a cherry red Gibson SG that I loved more than anything else on the planet. She had gotten me through the rough times, and every day that went by when I wasn’t strumming her to life made me feel like I was dying.

“Seriously though, Grant,” Miller started his best reprimand, “can’t you ever manage to be on time? You’d think a label scout coming to our show tomorrow night would get you to be more serious about rehearsals.”

“Miller, chill the f**k out. I’m serious about rehearsals.”

“Then, can we f**king get started?” McAvoy leaned back against the wall, balancing precariously on two legs of his stool. He flipped a drumstick between his fingers.

“Yeah. Are we playing ‘Hemorrhage’?” I asked.

McAvoy started the beat to our lead song.

The words were spilling out of my mouth. My hands were flying across my baby as I coaxed the chords and rhythms out of her. My body was super heated from the bright lights on the stage, and sweat collected on my brow and the back of my plain black V-cut T-shirt. My dog tags hung loose around my neck, moving in time with me.

McAvoy was shirtless and fully tatted with his hair swinging as he slammed the sticks down on the drums in front of him. Miller’s bass beats were thumping into my body. He looked completely unfazed in his crisp jeans and polo as the heat intensified through the set. Vin’s shirt was a size too small, and somehow he was flexing as he played his shiny black guitar next to me.

We were killing it tonight. Most nights, I’d felt like we were in sync, but nothing could compare to tonight. It was a Saturday night in September, and the dive bar in New York City where Miller had gotten us a show already looked like they were breaking the fire code with how many swaying, drunken bodies were crammed into the small space.