Fade Out (The Morganville Vampires #7)(14)
She rolls her eyes. “Wow. Where did this spunk come from, all of a sudden?” She shakes her head and dips her sponge in her bucket. “The Ryde really fired you up. Maybe this little spat was a good thing for you.”
She’s avoiding, too.
But as she says this, my immediate reaction is denial. To fall back on my claim that all I want is to coast unnoticed. Only, I realize with a start that Ryder’s antics, not to mention his gorgeous…everything, has awoken something inside me. Ignited a fire—one I never thought existed in the first place.
It might just be a distraction from all the tension currently binding me—but it feels like something close to relief not to be so focused on my issues for once.
For that, I’m sort of grateful. Still doesn’t mean I excuse his ego, however.
With a determined edge I’ve never owned before, I say, “All right. Tell me about this raffle idea. I’ll see what I can do.”
She actually squees.
It makes my insides fizz happily for her.
* * *
I need some kind of anchor. Something to make me feel secure in my new environment. While at Dartmouth, I had my weekly movie club. Lame, maybe. But unlike book clubs, where everyone tries to outsmart and outwit each other (college is nothing if not competitive), I could easily find the time to slip in a couple hours a week to indulge a movie.
And truthfully, it was the only way I’d allow myself the guilty pleasure. Anything that pulled me away from my studies was unacceptable to my father, but he couldn’t scoff at a social activity that promoted camaraderie among his people.
As I gaze over the signups on the cork bulletin board, my finger scanning such items as chess club, documentary divas, ECON club, I finally locate the boosters. It’s definitely not my club of choice, but despite my annoyance with “The Ryde” and all things football, I predict it will at least keep me busy. Anchored. Grounded. And joining will make Vanessa happy. I owe her that much.
Two birds, one stone.
I scribble my name on the signup page.
Truly, I had wanted to use the leverage for my revenge…but when it comes right down to it, what the hell is one girl against a team of football gods? The thought was petty. I was petty. Embarrassed, actually. And possibly even my feelings a little hurt. When Ryder called me “twigs” it stung—the car prank driving the mortification even deeper.
It’s better if I focus on the boosters as a way to help Vee accomplish her goal, do something to repay her kindness toward me, rather than for my vindictive reasons. Besides, I’m pretty awkward. I’d probably just screw it up, anyway.
I’m decided in my efforts, mentally letting go of the childishness of last week, when I hear a deep voice. It resonates in my chest. Makes the hair along my skin stand at attention. It’s that commanding.
“Really, carrot cake?” Ryder says. “The boosters?” He’s leaning against the wall, his forearm flat against the corkboard, elbow angled upward. He’s wearing a blue jersey with the number 16 scrawled above the high-riding hem. Peeking just below is a slab of hard, chiseled flesh that becomes painful to pry my gaze away from.
His hairline around his face is damp with sweat, as if he’s just come from practice, maybe.
Like he knows what his presence—his body—is doing to me, the bundle of nerves I become whenever he’s near, he moves closer, forcing me to back against the corner wall. Stretching his arm higher, his body bracketing me in, he smiles. All cocky. It’s for just this reason I’ve avoided him whenever our paths cross.
I clear my throat and tear my gaze away from his defined chest to his eyes. Damn, that doesn’t really help. “Thought I’d invest myself in Braxton’s claim to fame,” I say. “School spirit and all that.”
His smile widens, making some stupid, annoying flutter in my belly. “I can’t really see you as the peppy type.” His eyes languidly travel over my body, my gray pencil skirt, my black silk Chanel blouse. I feel I could combust under his scrutiny. “But hey, whatever blows your skirt up.”
And like that, my defenses flare. I turn my attention back to the board, already dismissing him. He continues, unperturbed. “Look. I’m sure you’re not quite over—”
“Actually,” I cut in, focus hard on the upturned corner of a page. “I am over it.”
From my peripheral, I watch him run a hand through his disheveled dark hair. “Oh, well good.” He pauses, the awkwardness between us a solid wall. “Glad to hear.” Then he reaches out and hooks a finger through the belt loop of my skirt. My nerves attack every inch of my body, tingles awakening my skin. Logic fights for dominance over the sudden assault of want that pervades me as he tugs me flush against him.
I can feel the brush of his rough jeans through my thin skirt. My breasts tighten and ache, and my nipples pebble as they rub against his hard chest.
I’m willing my breathing to regulate, but my quick breaths are tripping over my lips as his body heat presses against me. Setting my whole damn body aflame. My thighs tremble at the feel of his thumb rubbing a path along my waist. Traitor. My body is the ultimate traitor.
As he looks down at me, lips parted, his eyes flick over my face. Then, “I did want to apologize…”
My breath stills as I wait to hear his next words. But then, like it wants to be acknowledged as its own being, my stomach growls. Loudly. Oh, God.