Out on Good Behavior (Radleigh University Book 3) (17 page)

She laughs, and I let the tip of my index finger slip inside the black lace panties I’m wearing for no one. I could paint my entire body in what her voice does to me. “You’re so sure I’m wearing one.”

“Yes.” But I wouldn’t really pull it out. I’d wrap it around my fist, yank her head back, and suck every inch of skin around the base of her throat until I left marks. “You are, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

Two fingers, circling, sliding, marveling.

“Do you hate the way my hair looks up?”

“I like the way it looks swirled on my thighs better.”

“Well that’s a different story.”

My hips jerk off the bed as I finally let my fingers graze my clit. “It’s a very good story.”

“You’re just a sucker for happy endings.”

My fingers pause in their ministrations. “That was a terribly good pun.”

“Thank you. I thought so.”

There’s no heaviness to her breathing, nothing to suggest she’s mirroring my hand on the other end of the line. She’s probably sitting upright on her bed, maybe even doing her nails or something in preparation for her date. My girl is so very, very good.

And I am losing her.

The unbearably horny girl in me wants to press her to play along, ask what she’s wearing, or something equally obvious. Not that the answer matters; whatever it is, I’ll just picture her fingers creeping under it, stroking her golden skin. I’ll wish they were my fingers, to be followed by my tongue.

But they’re not, because she’s there, and I’m here.

Because I’m a fucking idiot.

“Hey, you still there?” she asks.

“Always.” But I slip my hand back out, wiping my fingers on my thigh. She deserves so much better than me, and now she’s gonna go out and find it.

“After all this time?”

“Huh?”

She laughs. “No
Harry Potter
for you, huh?”

“Oh, no. Not yet.” I have no idea why I throw on those last two words. I have no desire to read or see
Harry Potter
. But I somehow sense admitting so would be a dealbreaker.

“As long as you read it eventually. I could totally see you getting a hot ‘mischief managed’ tattoo.”

“I have no idea what that means, but if you think it’s hot, I’ll certainly consider it.”

“You’d do that to your body for me?”

Okay, she can’t possibly expect me to keep my hands above board with that one. “Wouldn’t be the first thing I’ve thoroughly enjoying doing to my body for you.”

“Jesus Christ, Frankie.” My name ends on a soft groan.

“You brought that on yourself and you know it.”

“And yet somehow, you always take it a step further than I’ve even imagined possible.”

Before I can respond, there’s a static-y noise over the phone, and then a muffled “Be right there!”

All the heat that’d been coursing through my body turns to ice. “Date’s here?” I try to sound casual, but I sound like an asshole. There’s no way she misses it, but she’s polite enough to pretend she does. “Cait, uh, mentioned something.”

“Oh, well, yeah, and somehow I got distracted from finishing my makeup, so I’m a little bit of a mess. I should go.”

There’s no way she looks like a mess to any degree. I should probably say, “Have fun,” but the words stick in my throat. All I want to do is ask her not to leave, to stay here with me on the phone until we fall asleep, completely spent. I want to tell her about the Met, and the adorable couple on the steps, and all the paintings I’d want her to see if she were here. I want us to watch the Food Network together and listen to her yell at the TV until we fall asleep.

I want her to be my fucking girlfriend. And I don’t want to share her. Not with anyone. Not like that.

“I’m sure you look gorgeous,” is what I actually say. “Bye, Sam.”

A woman’s voice floats back to me, obscuring Samara’s, and I hang up.

The topic of The Date feels unavoidable when Samara stops by my desk to say hi on her way out of class on Monday morning, even though it’s obviously the very last thing we should be talking about. I’m not proud of the fact that I’m burning with morbid curiosity about every single detail, from where they went to exactly how well the night ended. But all I ask is, “So, how was getting out there?”

Her face lights up, and immediately I am beyond sorry I asked. “It was good!” she says, and I force myself to mirror her smile. “I mean, I was still super nervous, even though I’m a woman of experience now, but she was so sweet, and it was a lot of fun!”

As I listen to her talk, new things hit me about the surrealism of this situation. Like the fact that some other girl on campus got to take Samara out on an actual date, not having to worry about whether anyone saw them, not having to worry if it was too obviously romantic, not having any stupid rules between them at all. It feels so fucking unfair, like I’m retroactively being judged for my painting in a contest that was actually for sculptures.

“That’s great!” is what I actually say aloud, because apparently instead of her ex-girlfriend, I’m her sexual Yoda. She seems to genuinely not realize that this is all killing me, and what the hell am I supposed to do with that? “And you were okay? No parent-related panicking?”

“Some,” she admits. “But it was just pizza and a movie—nothing too out there or too public. Baby steps.”

She smiles sheepishly, but all I can think is,
How dare you eat pizza with someone else. That is
ours.

That’s a lie. I’m also thinking,
Did she make a move on you during the movie? Did you make one on her? Did you see any of the movie at all? Or did you just have your tongues down each other’s throats the whole time? Fuck, I wanna die.

“Hey, that’s a legit date. Sounds like a big step to me.”
And one you should’ve taken with me.

(She tried.)

(I fucked up.)

(I know this.)

She flushes with pleasure and it’s all I can do not to pick up one of the files on my desk and slice into my skin with it. “Thanks, Frankie. It means a lot to me that you’re so supportive about all this stuff.”

“Of course.”

Kill me.

“I just want you to be happy,” I add.

With me. And me alone. Nora can go fuck herself. Or anyone else on campus. But you’re mine.

“I know,” she says softly. “And I really appreciate that.” She glances around, then leans in. “Can I tell you something wild? I actually got asked on another date.”

“By Nora?” I smile slightly despite myself. “I’m not exactly shocked, Sam.”

“No, by a girl in my Political Theory seminar! I feel like I’m suddenly wearing a rainbow flag everywhere I go. How did she even know to ask me?” She frowns. “Or maybe it was just a friendly coffee offer, now that I think about it. God, this is confusing.”

At that, I can’t help laughing for real; she’s such a fucking adorable babygay. “I’m guessing it’s whatever you wanna turn it into, but yeah, unfortunately, that part stays confusing for a good, long while. Hell, I wasn’t sure about you for months.”

“Really?” She laughs. “God, I felt like I was so obvious around you from that very first night. I knew I was in trouble the minute we met. You make it so impossible not to flirt with you.”

“Just one of my many superpowers,” I reply, waggling my eyebrows.

Her cheeks turn pink as she suppresses a smile, and it feels like the sweetest little victory. “I should probably let you get back to work.”

“Yes, I have very important files to…file. I’ll see you around, Sam.”

She flutters her fingers goodbye, and then she’s gone.

On Wednesday, I call in sick.

• • •

I’m tempted to do it again on Friday, or to quit altogether, but the sad irony is that I need the money even more than I did when I first got the job, because taking a girl out on dates was definitely an unanticipated expense. Anyway, it’s not like Samara’s actually there on Fridays; it’s just impossible to sit at that desk and not subconsciously wait to see her long legs coming around the corner. The four hours I spend there that morning feel even more interminable than usual, and everything I do to pass the time—outline my final paper for Richter, sketch, screw around on Twitter—reminds me of her.

I am so pathetic.

“You are so pathetic.”

I blink up into the shadow Lizzie’s casting on my face, standing over me while I lie on the couch for what could be hour two or hour seven; I have no fucking clue. She looks dressed to go out, though, so I’m guessing it’s closer to the latter. “A little more sympathy and tequila, a little less stating the obvious, please.”

“Is this what you pining looks like? It’s gross.”

“Your warmth is really appreciated at this difficult time.”

She shoves me over and sits down at my shoulder. “Francesca. This is not you. Which means one of two things: either you aren’t you anymore because you are actually in love with somebody, which is great, but
you need to fucking tell her
, or you’re wasting the hottest years of your life wallowing over nothing when you could be getting off with some fine young gentleperson.”

I know I should have some smart response to this, but Lizzie’s words have struck me totally dumb. “You think I’m…no.”

She snorts. “How many times do we have to do this? In the past year and a half, you have watched your two best friends in the entire world find happiness in romance. Do we make it look so fucking terrible?”

“Oh, shut up.” I whack her in the face with a throw pillow. “You know that’s not the issue.”

“Then what is?” she asks, plucking the pillow from my fingers and tossing it on the floor.

“Well, for starters, the fact that even if I’m interested in settling down,
she
isn’t. Or did you conveniently forget that part?”

“No, I didn’t forget, but I also think you’re giving up awfully easily. I’ve seen you guys together, Frank, and you are so damn happy. Both of you. I don’t think you even notice how she stares at you half the time when you think she’s watching TV, or hear how she talks about you like you’re the most gifted artist who ever walked the earth.”

“Then why—”

“Because she thinks it’s what
you
want, is my guess.” She sweeps a hand over my hair in one of those maternal gestures I’ve noticed her picking up a whole lot more in the past year. “It doesn’t sound like you put up much of a fight when she suggested you see other people.”

“How could I put up a fight about that at all?” I protest. “If that’s what she wants, who am I to tell her she can’t have it? What kind of hypocrite does that make me when it’s what
I
wanted at the start?”

“Jesus, Frankie, you’re allowed to change your mind. Connor did it to me about a billion times, and it was annoying as fuck, but you know what? Love is
confusing
as fuck. It’s okay if you used to be scared of something you aren’t anymore. You don’t have to be the same person a month or even a week into a relationship; pretending other people don’t change you is bullshit. When you really care about them? Of course that can change you. I know that’s scary as shit, but it’s not always a bad thing.”

I close my eyes, letting her words wash over me. I am different. I can argue the hell out of that in my brain, or I can just embrace it. My father entered seminary thinking his love for God was the most supreme love of which he would ever be capable, and then he met my mother at a rest stop near Springfield and it completely flipped everything he ever trusted he knew about himself. My mother hadn’t been sure she ever wanted to get married or have a kid, but being with him changed that about her too.

Let’s face it—love reminding Bellisarios that we don’t know ourselves as well as we thought we did is in my genes.

When I open my eyes again, I see Lizzie smirking down at me. And I reply with the first words that come into my brain: “Can I borrow that purple shirt with the non-existent neckline?”

She gets up and reaches down to help pull me off the couch. “I thought you’d never ask.”

• • •

It’s wrong to make Lizzie think I’m going to Samara’s room, I know, but if I want to make sure Samara is really my future, I have to know that I’m ready to give up my past, first.

Inside XO, lights are flashing, Gaga is playing, and the smell of alcohol and body spray hangs heavy in the air. Familiar faces smile and say hi and give me air kisses, and glittery arms hug me, and I’m not gonna lie—it feels a little like being back home. This place has been my mothership for years in the less-than-rainbow-y rural wild of upstate New York, and I love it for the fact that it never changes.

Until I spot one very big, glaring change at the bar, in the form of the last person I ever expected to see there.

I contemplate walking over, but I can’t force a single one of my limbs to move. Instead, I just watch Samara Kazarian sip from a glass while she flirts mercilessly with Lana, the pink-haired bartender who used to overdo the vodka in all my drinks. Judging by the way Sam’s throwing her head back as she laughs, I’m not the only one who’s been on the receiving end of this particular move. Or maybe it’s the fact that I have never, ever seen her take so much as a sip of alcohol, and for all I know, this is her very first time. Which makes me wonder who she’s here with—Nora or politics girl or someone else entirely—because they better be keeping an eye on her if that’s the case.

When no one comes up to her after two minutes, bleeding into three, I start to make my way over, but she unexpectedly gets up first. And spots me. To my surprise, her eyes narrow and she abruptly turns back to the bar. She says something to Lana, and a few moments later, I watch in abject horror as another bartender—this one an unfamiliar face to me—relieves Lana from her post so she can join Samara on the dance floor.

I realize then I’ve never seen Samara dance, and it’s probably a good thing, because I never would’ve been able to go a month of abstinence if I had. Her body moves with Lana’s like they’ve been fucking for months, and absurdly I wonder if maybe they have, if maybe everything I thought there was between us was one huge surreal joke.

She catches my eye again, and holds it as she slides her hand lower to just brush Lana’s ass.

That is fucking
it
.

Before I can stop myself to think better of it, I storm over and yank Samara out of Lana’s grip, into the corner of the floor where it’s a fraction of a decibel quieter than where she’d just been dancing. “What the hell?”

She raises an eyebrow, which just feels like an extra layer of cruelty. I fucking love those eyebrows. “Got a problem?”

“Yeah, I do. Why the hell are you here?”

“I imagine the same reason you are,” she says coolly. “This is where you come to party, right? To have fun and drink and get laid? It’s obviously good enough for you to be back here, so why not me?”

“Come on, Samara. You don’t want to be here. You’re not this person.”

“But you are, right? This is the life that’s so much more compelling than one with me you can’t give it up. This is who you are and need to be, right? So don’t you want me to get it? Wouldn’t everything be easier for both of us if we were both like this?”

Well, fuck me—Lizzie was right after all. I am so stupid. “Sam, stop. I don’t want you to be anyone else.”

“Oh, really? Because you seemed pretty supportive of it the morning after we slept together. You were more than ready for me to become just like you.”

“
I’m
not this person anymore, Samara.
I
am fucking obsessed with a girl and haven’t touched anyone else since the first time I kissed her.
I
am the fucking idiot who spent 48 hours in the city missing and getting herself off to her ex-girlfriend instead of enjoying the trip.
I
have become someone who’d rather watch the Food Network and eat pad Thai than go out and party because it means more quality time with you. I’ve basically given up tequila for tea because all I want is for you to be happy, so don’t tell me I’m this person. I haven’t been this person since I fell head-over-ass in love with you.”

The entire room falls deathly silent, and my shouted proclamation rings out in the club that hasn’t been my playground in a good, long while. Even the DJ’s stopped spinning. Sam doesn’t say a word; no one does. Not until the DJ leans forward and says into the mic, “Well, that was romantic as fuck.” Then he mercifully starts the music back up.

The corner of Samara’s pretty mouth curves up. “It was, wasn’t it.” She reaches out, taking an indigo strand of my hair in her fingers and twirling. “I haven’t been trying to change you, Frankie. I never wanted to change you. Or maybe that’s dishonest.”

“No, I get it,” I say, because I finally do. “You didn’t want to change me; you wanted me to want to change.” I shrug. “Well, I did change. But it seems you did too.”

“I want what I’ve always wanted,” she says, shaking her head slowly. “You. The you who is passionate, adventurous, artistic, fearless, and incredibly sexy. I don’t want all that to be behind door #1 while I’m behind door #2.
You
decided I didn’t mesh with your life, that I wanted you to be someone other than who you are.
You
decided you couldn’t talk to me about how much you were freaking out, that you had to be finished with this place and frat parties and whatever else. But I’m not looking to cut you off from everything you love, Frankie; that’s not the relationship I want to be in. I just want to be part of those things
with
you. But if I bring you down, if I change you in any way other than by keeping you monogamous, then you should break up with me.”