There's Judy, all blond hair and long limbs, standing at the table, running her red nails over Dean's forearm.
His smile lights up his blue eyes. They're bright. Full of energy and life and lust for torturing me.
He raises a brow. Runs his strong hand through his shaggy dirty blond hair.
Shrugs his broad shoulders. Those are swimmer's shoulders. He has a swimmer's everything. I've seen him in a Speedo enough times to know—the guys practice a few lanes over.
He's more than a hot body too. He's handsome. Charming. Funny.
Evil.
My head knows better. My head despises the cocky playboy. For calling me sunshine. For taking nothing seriously. For throwing people away.
But my heart?
My body?
It's impossible to get over a guy you see shirtless five times a week. That's a scientific fact.
He laughs at Judy's joke. Shoots her that trademarked Dean million-dollar smile as he blows her a kiss.
She paws at his chest.
He shrugs maybe, maybe not.
He's indifferent. Effortless. Aloof.
He has so much female attention he could give or take a knockout in fuck me heels.
That doesn't give a nobody in combat boots much of a chance.
I force myself to look away.
Watch Alan—this is his place—pound his red solo cup. He finishes. Crushes the cup. Watches it fall onto the pristine white carpet.
Drops of brown liquor catch on the fibers.
He shrugs like he doesn't care, but the worry in his eyes betrays him. The jocks around him laugh. Pound their drinks. Whisper some secret.
There are a dozen people here. Half in that circle. The rest on the couch or in the airy, stainless steel kitchen.
Everyone here is casual. Comfortable. Used to parties. To money. To cheap booze in plastic cups.
I…
This is way out of my comfort zone.
My gaze shifts back to Dean.
His eyes lock with mine. He raises his glass. Smiles.
My combat boots tap together. My hands go to my tank top. I play with its edge. Try to figure out what the hell that means.
Dean and I have shared two classes a day, every day, for the last three years.
He spends most of his free time teasing me.
Calling me sunshine.
Mocking how seriously I take art, math, and science.
Mocking my all black clothes, my thermos of tea, my tendency to gush about cartoons.
He turns to Alan. Whispers something.
Alan laughs.
Dean nods hell yeah. "Everybody come here." His playful voice bounces around the room.
Everyone turns his way.
Looks at him.
Hangs on his words.
Dean commands attention, friendship, respect. All he does is smile and a dozen girls fall over themselves trying to claim him.
A dozen guys want to be his friend.
The world is his oyster.
"Why should I listen to anything you say, Maddox?" Alan teases back.
Dean's shrug is effortless. Why should I bother exerting a single ounce of energy on anything? "If you don't want me to blow your mind, go ahead. Leave."
"Maddox, I don't want you blowing anything." Alan laughs.
I roll my eyes. How original.
Dean's eyes catch mine. He shakes his head not great, huh?
I fight my smile.
Every day this year, he turned our art class from my happy place to my deal with Dean's constant teasing place.
He doesn't get a smile now.
Even if my body is buzzing with nervous energy.
Even if my limbs are light and airy.
Even if my sex is aching.
I must be blushing, because he's smiling wider. Knowingly. Like he's sure I'm eating out of the palm of his hand.
He turns back to the group. "Truth or dare."
"I'm not fourteen," someone says.
"Sounds like you're chicken." Dean turns to me. "What do you think, Chloe? Are you chicken?"
"No." My heart thuds against my chest.
My head fills with ideas. Every dirty dare he could offer me.
His hands in my hair.
His groan in my ears.
His lips against mine.
God, those soft lips.
I want to slap them for all the stupid shit he says. For not giving a fuck about the classes his parents pay a fortune for. For calling me sunshine every three seconds.
But he's calling me Chloe.
He…
I…
My heart pounds so hard I'm sure it's going to break out of my chest.
It doesn't.
But a deep breath does nothing to help me calm down.
For three years I've been smitten. Ever since our first day in geometry, when he turned to me and asked to borrow my protractor. Then promised to make it worth my while with a wink and a smile.
Calm eludes me.
Sense eludes me.
Everything but a fangirl voice screaming Dean Maddox eludes me.
His lips curl into a smile. He holds out his arm. Motions come here.
My knees knock together.
Lightness spreads into my chest, neck, head. I'm dizzy. Like I'm going to faint.
Who knew swooning was a real thing? I thought Gia made it up.
My feet move of their own accord.
My combat boots sink into the plush carpet.
My hands slip from my pockets.
One finds his palm.
He wraps his fingers around my hand. Rubs the space between my thumb and forefinger with his thumb.
He looks down at me—he has to, he has a foot on me—like I'm the only thing he needs.
Like I'm everything he needs.
His voice is soft. Sweet. "Nice of you to join, sunshine."
The nickname breaks my trance.
Dean doesn't need me. He needs to push my buttons.
Gia insists he's teasing because he likes me, but what does Gia know about guys like Dean? She met her boyfriend at a comics shop. They read Spider-Man and play video games together.
Gia doesn't know Dean, but I do.
With him, you have to bite back.
I shoot him my best fuck you smile. "Nice to see you, dick face."
He chuckles. "You know I take that as a compliment."
I shrug do you? People mill closer. Take seats on the couch, at the table, on the ground.
"If you'd seen my dick, you'd know why." He steps forward to let someone pass. His hand brushes my arm. His chest brushes my shoulder. His crotch brushes my outer thigh.
My body responds with gusto.
Any sense of calm, of upper hand, of any hand, dissipates.
My body goes into overdrive. Every molecule screams the same thing: more Dean please.
A jock's voice pulls me from my thoughts. "Damn, Maddox. Stop bragging. We're playing a game here." He pats a spot on the packed couch. It's all designer jeans and BCBG dresses and pretty girls in hot guy's laps.
I take a step backward, but there's nowhere to go. My ass hits the glass table.
Dean turns to his friend. "Should I whip it out instead?"
A girl sitting on the couch claps with glee. "Hell yeah!"
The five girls sitting on the ground clap with her.
"There's a demand." Dean shrugs, effortless. He reaches for his jeans. Pretends to undo his button. "I can't let my fans down."
"Save it for the game," the friend says.
A dozen awwws and no fairs bounce around the room.
Dean turns to me. Winks. "Fair is fair." He offers his hand. "Sit with me, sunshine."