Out on Good Behavior (Radleigh University Book 3) (6 page)

“On what?”

“On what you’d say if I was asking you to pose.”

“I’d say…let’s do it.” She drops onto the couch and flashes me that panty-wrecking smile.

One thing’s for sure—if she’s not flirting, she
is
trying to kill me. And so help me God I can’t think of a sweeter way to go.

• • •

“When can I see?” she asks for the millionth time that hour. Or maybe it’s been two hours. I’m actually not sure how much time has passed. We’re sitting on the patio and I guess it’s been getting a little chillier, but I hadn’t noticed until just now.

“When I’m finished,” I say, the same as I’ve said the last fifty times, but it’s hard not to smile with each one. She sounds so damn excited, and the truth is, I don’t even want to show her when I’m done, because I wouldn’t be able to stand the thought of letting her down. It’s not exactly prize-winning work—just a pastel pencil outline of her face and the trees in the background—but the way she keeps trying to peek, you’d think I had naked pictures of Christina Hendricks clipped to my easel.

“And when will that be?”

“Not yet.” I fill in her strong eyebrows, then touch up the shading of the bridge of her nose. “Now finish your story.” She’d been telling me about rushing a sorority back at Clemson, and though I couldn’t fully focus on her words, the comforting lull of her mellow drawl is the perfect background to some lazy sketching.

We’re both interrupted a minute later by the chime of a text message, and I glance over at my phone. It’s Racquel, wanting to know if I’ll be at XO tonight. I ignore it; she doesn’t really care whether I answer or not, and I’m certainly not going to in front of Samara. Not that I couldn’t, of course, but it’d be rude while she’s sitting here, posing for me.

“Do you need to answer?” she asks.

“Nope.” I keep drawing while she goes back to her story, but after a few minutes, my phone chimes again.

“I’m gonna grab a drink of water while you get that,” she says, stretching her arms over her head and revealing a tempting strip of smooth golden skin. She walks inside without waiting for an answer, and I sigh and take my phone, ready to tell Racquel I’m busy. But it’s not Racquel; it’s Gideon, a med student I used to hook up with occasionally, who lives in the complex next door. He must have the night off, and I’m guessing he must’ve broken up with his girlfriend recently, too.
Free 2nite?

“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter at the screen. “You’re going to operate on people; I think you can type the entire word.”
Not tonight, no
, I write back.

I see he’s typing back, and then,
Just saw u outside.

It takes me a few seconds to realize he has a view of my patio.
Then you saw me being busy.

W that girl? She’s p hot. I’d be down.

“Oh, fuck off,” I mutter at the phone, tossing it aside. I’m so not entertaining that conversation. Not that I’m wholly opposed to threesomes by any stretch, but they’re not happening because some straight guy decides girls who like girls are his God-given playthings.

While I wait for Sam to return, I darken the shading along her part, where the medium-brown of what I assume is her natural hair color peeks through the honey blond. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my phone light up again, but I ignore it. Finally, she comes back outside, but instead of re-taking her seat in the chair in front of me, she joins me behind my easel. “Oh my God,” she whispers, her voice full of so much reverence, it makes me want to curl up and hide.

“I told you not to look until I was done.”

“Frankie, this is…wow. I mean, I know you’re talented, but—this is such a weird way to see it.” She laughs. “I mean, God, that didn’t come out right. Just…this is beautiful,” she says quietly. “Really, really beautiful.”

“I draw it like I see it,” I say casually over the weird pounding thing my heart’s doing in my chest.

She doesn’t say anything, just reaches out and touches the paper, tracing the line of her mouth. I might have paid a lot of careful attention to that mouth. Hell, I’m still paying a lot of careful attention to that mouth. “Do you really?” that mouth says in a slow, raspy drawl that travels straight between my thighs. Fuck, I am on the last legs of my restraint here, and I swear, if she turns the four inches necessary to look at me, I am going to kiss that damn mouth.

“Hey, Frankie, you don’t answer your phone anymore?”

What the actual fuck. Sam blinks as if coming out of a daze, and I know exactly how she feels as I snap my head up to find Gideon walking around the building in our direction. Most of the time I like having a ground floor apartment, but right now I wish I were up on top so I could drop a fucking toaster on his thick skull. “Usually, when someone stops answering, that means something.”

“Well, I figured you just got busy,” he says with a lazy grin he thinks is far more charming than it is. If I recall correctly, though it has been a while, Gideon’s maaaybe a seven in the sack, a six in the shower. He gets a few points for giving decent head, but right now, he’s losing every single one of them, fast. “Hi,” he says, turning that non-existent charm on Samara. “I’m Gideon. I’m in med school.” He extends a hand over the low brick wall separating the patio from the outside grounds, and it makes me wish we had bars on it. “And a good friend of Frankie’s,” he adds with a vomitously loaded wink.

She looks like a deer in headlights, but she’s nothing if not polite. “Samara.” She doesn’t sound particularly impressed by the med school part, or anything else about him.

“Beautiful name for a beautiful girl,” he says, lifting her hand to his lips.

I want to shove him away from her, but there’s no need; she steps back all on her own. “I…should be going, actually. It was nice to meet you, Gideon.”

“Please don’t,” I say quickly. “Gideon’s just saying hi on his way to…something else.” I am a fucking terrible ad-libber. “Aren’t you, Gid?”

“Well, actually—”

“Dude, take the hint.”

“No, really, I have a ton of homework,” says Sam, already backing away, and I have no choice but to follow her inside, leaving Gideon out on the grass.

“I’m really sorry about him,” I say as soon as the sliding glass door is shut behind me, blocking out whatever whining Gideon’s doing on the other side. “I didn’t invite him here, I swear.”

She laughs, but it sounds so forced, it cuts my insides. “Frankie, it’s your apartment; invite whoever you want.” She pulls on her jacket and flips her long blond hair over it. “I’ve totally overstayed anyway. You already got me lunch; you didn’t have to do that beautiful drawing, too.”

The drawing. Crap. It’s still outside, along with maybe Gideon, if he’s seriously too dumb to realize he’s not getting laid tonight. “Please, posing for that was totally a favor to me. If you want it, I can—”

She waves a hand dismissively. “No, please, you should keep it. I gotta run. It’s later than I thought. I’ll see you…Monday morning, I guess.”

The one-two punch of “Keep your shitty drawing” plus “Don’t even think about seeing me tomorrow” stings like a bitch. I don’t really know what to say after that, so I just mumble acquiescence and shuttle her out the door.

Thankfully, when I return to the patio to get my phone, Gideon’s gone. The picture’s still there, and I take it down, not bothering to be careful. When I come back inside, I delete all the noxious messages from Gideon, which leaves me on Racquel’s.

XO?
is all it says, but right now it feels like a lifeline out of a night that would guarantee nothing but me sitting alone and feeling like shit. I allow myself one more fleeting thought of Samara and how close I came to kissing her, and then I write back,
See you there.

Neither a night of dancing and making out with Racquel at XO nor a day of homework and studio time could make me forget how shitty I felt seeing Sam walk out of my apartment on Saturday. I know I didn’t exactly do anything wrong, but I have a burning need to make things right anyway—one that leads me to get up extra early so I can get her a large green tea in addition to my own hazelnut latte.

The wait for her to show up is slowly killing me, and continuously glancing at the door while organizing mail is landing me some stinging papercuts. Finally, I see her, dressed not-very-Samara-like in jeans and a hoodie, her hands wrapped around a hot cup, a blond braid hanging over each shoulder. She looks so cute in this new look it takes me a beat to realize how dumb it is that I brought her tea; I may sometimes run too late to get my morning caffeine, but she never does.

As she gets closer, I realize she might just walk right by me without saying hi, so it’s possible I’m a little overly loud in my determination not to let that happen. “Samara! Hey!”

Smooth, girl. Smooth.

She stops, but not without an obvious glance at her watch. “Hey, Frankie. What’s up?”

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry about Saturday, and Gideon being a creep.” I push the cup forward. “I see you’re already set, but I bought you an apology green tea, just in case.”

I see a little of the tension in her face break, and my stupid heart gets a little fluttery. “Thank you,” she says softly, putting down the cup in her hands and picking up the tea instead. “Perfect timing—I just tried something new and it was not for me.”

Well, that’s a potentially loaded statement if I’ve ever heard one, especially when I toss out her old cup and notice it’s nearly empty. “Great.”

I wait for her to acknowledge my apology, but all she says is, “I gotta get to class. Thanks again for the tea. That was really sweet.”

And then she’s gone.

“Guess that’s that,” I mutter, going back to the mail. There’s no good reason her rejection should sting more than these stupid papercuts—we were never A Thing, and I’m not looking to be A Thing with anyone, anyway. The whole
point
of college is to experience new things, which means new people and, on a good night, new positions.

Gideon obviously won’t be happening again, and judging by last night, I’m kinda lukewarm on Racquel by now, but the semester just started; there’s plenty of time to find some people who want to have the same kind of fun I do. I’m cursing myself now for not getting more information on the genderqueer redhead from Rainbow House, and it’s making me think another trip to XO this weekend is absolutely in order, this time with a wingman and an eye open for new possibilities.

I text Abe to make plans, then tuck my phone away and get back to work, forcing my mind off of the blonde sitting in class just ten feet away and onto possible clubbing outfits. I keep it up for over an hour of sorting mail, fielding phone calls, scheduling appointments, and handling invoices, and by the time Samara’s class lets out, I’ve almost forgotten about her completely blowing me off.

And then, suddenly, there she is, standing at my desk and looking a little nervous.

“Do you need to schedule a meeting with a professor?” I ask her, pulling up the departmental calendar on the screen. It’s all I can imagine she’s here for, since she sure as hell didn’t seem interested in talking to me an hour ago.

“Actually, um, I was wondering if you’d wanna go to a, um, thing with me tonight. No pressure,” she adds quickly.

Fuck, why is it so hard to control my smile right now? “What kind of thing am I not pressured to come to?”

“Well, it’s kind of a concert, but, like, a classical thing. Which is probably not your thing—not that you can’t be into classical, obviously, but it’s not
my
thing, I mean. It’s just that Andi’s playing in it—she plays violin—and she asked me to come and I felt like I had to say yes. And, well, obviously I can’t ask Cait, but I don’t really wanna go myself, so.”

If that’s her way of asking me on a date, her approach needs a little work, but I’ve also never seen her this nervous, and it’s cute as hell. Of course, she might
actually
just need accompaniment to Andi’s concert, and she’s certainly correct that she can’t bring Cait—pretty sure nothing brings on performance anxiety like seeing the girl your ex basically dumped you for. Especially if you and that girl used to sleep a few feet apart. Either way, this sounds terrible—she’s correct that I’m not a classical music fan, and I’m not exactly psyched by the idea of sitting in the audience for Mase’s ex. There is no reason in the world for me to say yes to this.

And yet, “Sure, I’ll keep you company,” rolls off my tongue before I can stop it. “What time is it?”

Her face lights up, and my insides go with it. “Eight, at Schneider Hall. I’ll meet you there with our tickets. I gotta run, but I’ll see you later.” She waves as she leaves and nearly trips over her feet. I have no idea what’s going on or why I just said yes or what the fuck this internal glow is, but if this is an honest-to-goodness crush, I am going to be really fucking pissed.

• • •

I don’t realize I’d thought meeting up would clarify whether or not this is a date until I get to Schneider Hall and feel no clearer on the subject than I had that morning. I didn’t wanna hear Lizzie or Abe’s teasing, and I
definitely
didn’t want to tell Cait where I was going, so my usual voices of reason are absent from this conversation. But none of that matters if I don’t want it to be a date, right? And I don’t. I can’t. I’m not ready for everything that means being responsible for, everything it means saying goodbye to. And that doesn’t change just because a girl can apparently rock a little black dress like nobody’s business.

But it really would help if she’d stop looking so damn beautiful all the time.

“Was I supposed to dress up?” I ask as I join her in the lobby. “I thought this was just a little campus thing.”

“You’re fine,” she says, handing me a ticket. “I just felt like getting a little fancy.”

“You’re fine” isn’t exactly a glowing compliment, nor does it leave an opening for me to tell her she looks gorgeous. Strike a point for the “Not a date” column. Plus another point for handing me my ticket instead of handing them both over together, maybe? It seems decidedly more friend-like.

Jesus, I am making myself crazy.

“So where does Cait think you are tonight?” I ask as we make our way to the fourth row—far enough to potentially hide our boredom but close enough not to be obvious that we want to be able to.

Andi spots Samara then and smiles, lifting her hand in a little wave. Samara waves back and whispers, “I told her I was going to a concert; I just didn’t say whose.”

Or who with, I’m willing to bet.

We chat about nothing for a few minutes as the room fills in a little more, then sit back quietly as the concert begins. It’s not that bad, truthfully, and Andi’s pretty good as far as I can tell. Not that I’m terribly focused on the music. My eyes keep darting to our arms on the rest between us, how close they are to touching but not. It would be so easy to reach out and take her hand, to answer the question once and for all. It’s not like it’s a big deal—plenty of people are out at Radleigh. Hell, just in this room. Sure, sometimes it comes with its annoying shit, but this is a pretty open-minded, liberal campus; I can’t escape the thought that if she really were into me, she’d have made a move.

I try to think back to when I was a little baby queer, but the truth is, I can’t even remember a time before I knew I wasn’t just into guys. Sure, I juggled “Am I gay?” for a while, not because I wasn’t attracted to guys but because I didn’t know there were a plethora of options between the ends of the Kinsey scale, let alone between “boy” and “girl.” I definitely played around with different labels until I decided pansexual felt like the best fit. But thinking I was straight? Not part of my particular past.

Sidra is really the person I should be asking; she came out much more recently and would probably have more insight. But she’s also a Relationship Person, and she’d never get why all of this is weirding me out so much.

I
don’t even really get why this is weirding me out so much.

Honestly, this is ridiculous; I get far too much ass for me to get this worked up about one girl. If she’s straight, whatever, and if she’s in the closet, that’s her prerogative. It’s obvious I’m exceptionally attracted to her, and maybe that’s mutual and maybe it isn’t, but I have expended way too much brainspace on this crush that I should be spending on—

A stocking-covered thigh rubs against mine, and I glance down to see that Samara’s crossed her legs, making her dress ride up quite a few inches. It’s
also
pressing her leg against mine, and there’s no way she doesn’t feel that. Instinctively I press back, just a little bit, and wait for her to move.

She doesn’t.

Okay then.

I’m not sure how long we sit like that, or at what point our limbs start inching even closer, but at some point during a flute solo, my fingertips brush soft, bare skin, sending a little tremor through my fingers. I let my gaze drop to our arms, and I can see hers is covered in goose bumps, but she doesn’t move.

It’s not the slightest bit cold in here.

With any other girl, this is where I’d push it—trace lines along the silky inside of her forearm, or drop my hand to massage her knee—but I strongly suspect doing that now would spook Samara, and that’s the last thing on earth I wanna do.

So I leave my thigh pressed to hers. I keep my fingertips resting lightly on her arm. And I sit through the longest fucking concert in the history of human existence.

• • •

When it’s finally over, Sam walks up to Andi to congratulate her on a job well done while I go out to wait out in the lobby; something tells me Andi wouldn’t particularly appreciate Samara’s choice of company. I check my phone while I wait, and see I finally have a reply text from Abe from this morning:
Sorry, Franklin—date Fri night. Sat?

I have a text from Lizzie, too:
Staying w/C tonight. NO SEX ON THE COUCH WHILE I’M GONE.

A laugh startles me, and I realize I’m sticking my tongue out at my phone. “Who’s that?” Sam asks.

“Just Lizzie being a brat,” I say sheepishly, sliding my phone into the back pocket of my jeans. “On the bright side, she’s vacating the premises for the night, if you wanna come hang out a little longer. We can rehash the…stringwork, or something.” I offer up a flash of a smile. “Sorry, my classical knowledge remains wholly unimpressive.”

I expect my sadass flirting to put her at ease, but if anything, she only looks more tense. Even though I’m dying to see just how much more she might like being touched, it would seem that portion of the night has ended. “I can also just walk you back,” I tell her. “Don’t worry, I’ll run as soon as you’re safely inside so we don’t have to deal with The Wrath of Cait.”

She thinks it over for a minute, then says, “Let’s go to your place for a bit.”

There’s nothing flirty or suggestive in her tone, but it leaves me feeling optimistic anyway. A little too optimistic, because I offer my arm and she just smiles wryly and promptly starts walking. As I trudge along quietly beside her, I wish I’d absorbed some Psych knowledge from my time working in the department, because I have absolutely no clue what’s going on in this girl’s head.

We walk in complete silence the entire way, not a word exchanged between us until she says “Thanks” when I hold open the door to my apartment, followed by “Sure, thanks,” when I offer her tea. I pull off my ankle boots and pad into the kitchen, searching through the cabinets. I know we have tea here somewhere…aha! There’s a box of peppermint that Cait or Connor must have put away, because it’s a couple of inches out of my reach. I jump up, just barely grazing it with my fingertips.

I’m about to try again when I feel a warmth at my shoulders. My breath catches in my throat as Samara’s long, slender arm stretches over me, her breasts pressing against my back, her citrus-y hair wafting by my nose, and pulls down the box. Only when it’s back at her side do I dare turn around, and there she is, no more than six inches away, her lower lip caught in her teeth. “I’m a little taller,” she says with a note of apology in her voice, handing over the tea.

“Samara.” God, my voice sounds raw.

She swallows hard but continues holding up the tea box as if I haven’t said a word. I take it, and the spark when our fingers touch is so impossible to ignore that she visibly winces.

Fuck this.
I put the tea on the counter and take her face in my hands, gently as if I were cradling a china cup. “Samara.”

She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t move, either. Her eyes are pleading, and even though this is so stupid for so many reasons, I couldn’t restrain myself if I wanted to.

The instant our lips touch, it’s like a tidal wave rushing through my veins. Even I have to acknowledge I’ve never felt anything like this, and I desperately want more, whatever she’s willing to give. But apparently that isn’t very much, because she pulls away, panting as if she’s just run a marathon. “Frankie. I can’t.”