Keeping Score Page 3

  As her gaze hits like a slap, I take a step back, and really, I shouldn’t be shocked at her angry outburst. She doesn’t want me here, and I can’t blame her. “You need some help?”

  “I don’t need anything from you and perhaps you should go back to your own place if you don’t like to be woken up early.” She gathers up the laundry she dropped and shoves it back in the basket. That’s when I notice the open, double closet doors across from my room, exposing a stacked washer and dryer. A grin turns up the corner of my mouth. Oh, I get it. She’s up at the crack of dawn to do laundry to drive me from her house. I kind of like her tenacity.

  Gorgeous hazel eyes narrow in on my near naked body, and she gazes at my scars, a mixture of fear and…is that concern? To be honest, last night I was hoping she’d tell Cochrane to go shove it, to clean up his own messes, but I should have known better. She jumped in to save him, despite the predicament he put her in. I shake my head. The rich protect the rich, and would go to extreme measures to help those they love. Or maybe she likes being treated like shit.

  So much for me showing her how a girlfriend should really be treated. Not that I’ve ever had a steady girlfriend. I’m too focused for that, and to be honest, I’ve never loved anyone, or been in love. The only people I care about on campus are the guys on my team and the ones I share a house with. It does make me wonder what I’d do, how far I’d go, to protect a loved one.

  I make a turn to gather up my stuff and get the fuck out of her place when she barks out, “Do you think you could put some clothes on?”

  I spin back around, and her chest is rising and falling quickly as she tries to avert her gaze. “Actually, my clothes are dirty, since you’re doing a load…” I gesture to my equipment bag and her face twists.

  “You want me to do your laundry?”

  “You do have a debt to pay off, Reagan.” I slide my thumbs into the elastic of my boxers, and her eyes go wide. “You can start by washing these.” I’m goading her, simply to get a rise out of her, although I’m not sure why.

  “I am not touching your…junk.”

  I laugh. “It’s not my junk I’m asking you to touch, Sunshine.”

  She stands, and huffs. “Don’t call me that.”

  “Hey look, I wouldn’t be here if Dick hadn’t sold you out.”

  “That’s not his name. Don’t call him that, either.”

  “Would you prefer it if I called him Cock?”

  Her cheeks go the prettiest shade of pink. “Don’t call him...him…that.”

  “Cock? What, can’t you say it?”

  She starts shoving clothes into the washing machine, grumbling something under her breath. She fills it with liquid detergent, and pounds on the start button, but nothing happens. She curses some more, mumbling something about the broken button and stupid washer.

  “I’m sorry, Sunshine. Can you speak up? I can’t hear you.”

  She turns, and her face is completely flushed when she says, “I don’t know how you beat Cochrane.”

  I lean against the door jamb and cross my feet, curious as to where this is going. “Are you saying I’m stupid?”

  “No, I’m just…” she bites her lip. “He’s good at cards, and you…”

  “What about me?”

  She waves her hand. “You’re just…you.”

  I grin. “Did you ever stop to think that maybe I’m good at cards too?”

  She folds her arms and leans against the machine, her eyes full of accusation. “Maybe you cheated.”

  That almost makes me laugh. Yeah, I’m the one who cheated. Freshman year, Cochrane and I were in math together, and he cheated off everyone. He never cheated off me, though. He just assumed I was a loser, here on a football scholarship, and probably couldn’t add two plus two. Does she not know her boyfriend at all? One thing is for sure, she sure as shit doesn’t know anything about me, and dammit, I shouldn’t want to change that.

  I take a step toward her and she stiffens. “I don’t cheat.”

  She swallows, and lifts her head, her hazel eyes a bit darker as they lock on mine, unafraid…but afraid. “Yeah, well that’s what you would say.”

  She’s a tiny girl, clearly frightened of me—not that I’d ever hurt her—yet her shoulders are squared as she’s standing before me holding her own. It makes me like her a little bit more. Her chest rises as she draws in a fast breath and that’s when it hits me. She might be a pampered princess, living in this big ornate house with only one roommate, but there’s this innocence about her, a vulnerability. There’s also a fire in those hazel eyes of hers, a fire that could burn bright, but she, or someone, keeps it smothered.

  “That’s what I know,” I counter, and make a split-second decision to stay around a bit longer. I’m not really sure why. I don’t need to prove to her I’m an honest guy. I don’t need her approval for anything.

  I step closer, crowd her, and don’t miss the quiver traveling the length of her body. I reach out, and she gasps. “What are you doing?”

  I slide my hand around her and press the start button on the machine. It instantly starts, and her eyes go wide.

  “Starting the machine. What did you think I was doing?”

  “I…I don’t know. How…how did you do that?”

  “Right touch, I guess.” I say and step back, the air between us changed, and her body vibrates against the washer and she searches the hall, like she wants to look at anything and everything except me. “Reagan.” Her focus returns to me.

  “What?”

  “I know you hate me, but this…” I wave my finger back and forth between the two of us. “It’s not on me. It’s on your boyfriend.”

  “I never said I hated you.” Her voice is low and I have to strain to hear it over the washing machine.

  “You didn’t have to.”

  “I…I don’t know why you and Cochrane hate each other so much, and obviously, your hate for him extends to me too, otherwise—”

  “I don’t hate you. I don’t even know you. Just like you don’t know me.” Dark lashes fall slowly over those gorgeous eyes of hers and her head bobs slowly as she glances down, like she can’t figure out why I’d want to stay and make her miserable just to get back at Cochrane. But I’m not sure I do want to make her miserable. In fact, I’m not really sure about much at the moment—what the hell am I doing and why am I doing it—and while there’s very few fucking things that scare me, that uncertainty does. “But we’ve got a whole month to rectify that, don’t we?”

  “I…listen if you want to toss your laundry in with mine, you can.” I reach for my boxers again and she holds her hands up. “Don’t.”

  I laugh. “You know I’m just messing with you, right?”

  She laughs, an almost airy, light sound that curls around me. “Yeah, okay. But we do need to set some rules on what can and can’t be worn outside the bedroom.”

  “Does that go for you, too?”

  Her eyes go wide, like she’s just realizing she’s still in that sexy, almost see-through nightie from last night. She folds her hands over her chest. “Oh, I…”

  “It’s okay, I don’t mind.”

  “I’m not used to guys staying overnight.”

  “Are you telling me Cochrane doesn’t stay over?” My God, there is no way this girl is a virgin. She’s been with Dick since freshman year, and maybe even before that.

  Before she can answer, another door opens, and I turn to find a girl standing there in a T-shirt that barely covers her ass. Her shirt lifts, as she rubs her sleepy eyes, and I catch sight of her pink underwear.

  “What the hell is going on out here? I’m trying to…” Her words fall off when she finds me standing in the hall beside Reagan. Without any shame or embarrassment, she lets her gaze go from my face, down a slow, leisurely inspection all the way to my toes, and back up again. “If this is a dream, do not wake me.”

  “It’s not a dream,” Reagan huffs out, her shoulders stiff. “Miranda, this is Rocco. Rocco, Miranda.
Rocco will be staying with us for the next month. Some things went down last night, and I didn’t want to wake you, but I hope you’re okay with it.”

  “Okay with it, why wouldn’t I be okay with it?” She continues to gaze at me, her smile reaching her eyes as she appreciates my battered and bruised body. “And you don’t have to tell me who he is. Everyone knows the Falcons bad boy, Rocco Gianni. He’s the best tight end the team has ever had, and I mean that in more ways than one.”

  Reagan’s face turns blood red as Miranda steps closer and pokes me with her finger. “What is it they call you… Rock Hard Gianni?”

  “He’s real, Miranda, and you can’t just touch someone without asking. It’s called consent.”

  “Oops, sorry,” Miranda giggles and presses her finger to her bottom lip in a cutesy, innocent way. I don’t think there is anything cutesy or innocent about her, but I like her. Hard to believe she’s roommates with Reagan. They seem so different. Maybe that’s what makes them good together. They do say opposites attract, and you can’t get much different than Reagan and me. Not that I’m attracted to her. Well, okay, yeah, I’m a red-blooded male, and there’s no denying she’s gorgeous. But she’s not mine, and never will be, and I’m okay with that.

  “How would you like it if he just touched you…never mind.” Reagan groans, exasperated and already knowing the answer to the question, much like I do. For a brief second, I wonder how Reagan would like it if I touched her.

  Stop!

  “She’s right,” I tell Miranda. “You can’t touch without permission.”

  She chuckles. “If I ask for permission, will you grant it?”

  “Ohmigod,” Reagan says and holds her hands up to cut off her friend off. “Enough. Go back to bed, Miranda. There’s nothing to see here.”

  “Then you need glasses, girlfriend.” Miranda looks me over again. “I should probably ask why you’re staying here for a month, but I’m not even sure I care.”

  Reagan frowns. “He’s…I’m…”

  “She’s helping a guy out,” I explain, to save her from the embarrassment of explaining that Dick the Douche Bag sold her out.

  “Helping a guy out, huh?” Miranda wags her brows playfully. “Is the guy helping the girl out too? ‘Cause girlfriend, you’ve been so uptight lately, it would do you good to find yourself between a rock and a hard place.”

  Reagan takes a breath, like she has one last nerve and her friend is close to fraying it. “It’s not like that.”

  “Oh yeah, well that’s too bad,” Miranda says and spins, an exaggerated swing of her hips as she goes back to her bedroom and closes the door, leaving us alone in the hall, my body hyper-aware of the woman next to me.

  I turn back to Reagan and grin. “She seems nice.” Her eyes fall shut and she’s murmuring something under her breath about Miranda being her ex-best friend, and I can’t help but think Reagan is super intense and maybe Miranda is right.

  Maybe she could use a little rock and a hard place.

  4

  Reagan

  “You know you do that a lot.”

  I lift my head as Rocco strolls into the kitchen like he’s lived here his four years of college. I can see why his nickname is Rock Hard Gianni. Everything about him draws my attention, overwhelms me in the strangest ways as his muscles bunch and shift with each easy movement.

  He still hasn’t put a shirt on, but at least he has sweatpants on as he stretches his arms like he’s getting ready for a run. And no, I am not going to think about the way his pants hang low on his hips, showing a dark line of hair that trails downward, drawing my gaze like I’m some dimwitted moth. I force my head up, and that’s when I see the long purplish scar on his chest. I caught a hint of it in the hallway earlier, but now I can’t seem to stop staring at it.

  “This?” he says and points at it.

  I pull my gaze away, and toy with my ponytail. “Sorry, it was rude of me to stare.”

  From my peripheral vision, I catch the way he rubs his scar. “No worries,” he says, and doesn’t explain how or why he got it. Not my business anyway.

  “What do I do a lot?” I mumble, my eyes back on my laptop, but my focus now shot.

  He steps closer, almost in front of me and rubs his chest with those big, stupid hands of his, and I’m going to kill Miranda. A rock and a hard place. God…

  “Huh?”

  I take my eyes off the statistical equations I can’t figure out, and lift my head. My God, I hate statistics. Hate it! I have no idea why it’s a requirement for a Bachelor’s of Business degree. “When you walked in here, you said I do something a lot.”

  “Oh, yeah, you mumble under your breath when you’re pissed off about something.” He comes even closer and glances at my laptop. My first instinct is to slam it shut. I don’t want to come off as stupid because I suck at statistics, and have been struggling through my courses for the last three years. But I force myself to keep my hands on my lap, not wanting to rouse his suspicions by reacting. “Why are you pissed off?” He does some lunge thing to stretch his legs as he strains to see my screen.

  With a little nudge, I ever so slightly slide my computer to the right, and through gritted teeth, say, “Didn’t we just discuss rules about you wearing clothes?”

  “I don’t really think it was a discussion.”

  Lord, how can he stay in that lunge position so long. I did yoga once and couldn’t move for a week.

  “What’s the problem anyway?” he asks as she swipes at his brow. “It’s ridiculously hot in here.”

  “It wasn’t hot.”

  “Wait, are you saying…” I glance at him to find his lips curl at the corners, and I shake my head.

  “I’m not saying anything.” Truthfully it wasn’t hot until he walked into the room. Usually I’m freezing, even in summer, so this insane hot flash means I’m either going into early menopause or…or… Never mind, I don’t want to think about it.

  I’m about to tell him to go get dressed when my phone pings. I don’t need to look at it to know who’s calling. My boyfriend has his own special ring. Rocco leans in close, and I smell my grapefruit body wash on him. I should be angry, to think he was in my shower, using my things—it feels far too intimate—but I can’t think about that right now. Not with Cochrane calling, and I’m not even sure I want to talk to him.

  “Aren’t you going to get that?”

  I blow out a breath, and fist my hands on my lap. “I don’t really want to speak to him right now.”

  “Can’t say as I blame you.”

  My head jerks up. “Hey, don’t say things like that.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I briefly close my eyes. Look at that, always the good girl, always jumping in to defend family and friends, because it’s been ingrained into me.

  “It’s great that you stand up for your people, Reagan. Admirable, really.”

  I glare at him. He wants to say more, I can feel it, but instead he crosses his arms, and goes silent. But maybe he should say it. Maybe I do need to hear what a horrible thing my boyfriend just did to me. If his father ever found out…if my father ever found out. They’re best friends, and I can imagine they’d come to blows over this, and Cochrane could possibly get kicked out of college…Rocco too.

  “Just…don’t say bad things, okay?”

  “You’re right. He’s your boyfriend, and I shouldn’t talk trash about him. That’s not really my style.”

  I get what he’s saying. It’s Cochrane’s style, not his. I’ve heard Cochrane mutter a few things about Rocco. I never stood up for Rocco because I didn’t really know him, but that didn’t stop me from being nice, considering he was always nice to me whenever we met in passing.

  “Why do you two hate each other so much anyway?” I get up, pour a mug of coffee and his eyes widen in surprise when I turn and ask, “Milk or sugar?”

  “Black is good.”

  I step up to him, and take in his blue eyes in the overhead light, and wait for him to answer my first
question. When he doesn’t, I press, “Why do you hate him?”

  “That’s a question you should ask him.” He winks at me. “I did just agree not to talk trash.” He holds three fingers up. “Foster Mom number three always said, if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” He gives a humorless laugh. “Of course, she was coaching me before my social worker showed up for her monthly check-in.” He takes a sip of coffee, and turns, a scowl on his face like he said too much. I’m not about to probe, his past is his past and not my business, although it does sound like he had a horrible upbringing. Freshman year, rumors went around that he had actually killed someone. Pair that with him being a beast on the field, and everyone learned pretty quickly he wasn’t a guy to mess with.

  He angles his head and says, “Although, come to think of it, I don’t want you to ask him. For the next month, I don’t even want you to see him.”

  My mouth drops open, hardly able to believe what he’s suggesting. I sink into my chair. “You can’t do that. That takes us into Thanksgiving, and we usually spend that with my parents.”

  “Not this year.”

  “Rocco—”

  “It’s like this, Reagan.” He sits in the chair across from me, sets his mug down, and shifts so our knees are lightly touching. “He’s the one who should be paying his own debt. Why should you be stuck with me, and he gets off easy, never having to take responsibility for his actions.” I shift closer. “I think not talking to you for one full month is just what he deserves.”

  Okay, breathe, Reagan, breathe. He’s just a guy, nothing special, and there’s no reason for you to be breaking out in a sweat just from his proximity. “You do?” I ask, somehow managing to put those two words together and push them from my lips.

  “Hell yeah, if you were mine, and I couldn’t talk to you or touch you for a month, I’d probably end up killing someone.”

  My heart beats like I’d just downed a triple espresso and before I realize what I’m doing, I reach for his mug of coffee and take a mouthful. The second I set it down, he picks it up and drinks. Here I thought him using my bodywash was intimate…suddenly that’s nothing. Drinking from the same mug sends shivers skittering through me, like his mouth wasn’t on the mug, but instead on my body. What the hell is going on with me?