Hard Facts by Penny Clarke

11

Summer

Grayson is in a mood.

In our Sunday afternoon tutoring session, he’s downright surly when I mix up dependent variables in a word problem (like adding English to math makes it any easier).

While leaving the library on Monday, I pull him closer under the guise of fixing his shirt collar. He pushes my hand away. Right in front of a group of my sorority sisters, who all run up to me after he storms off to ask if we’re having a lover’s spat.

Tuesday, when I ask him what’s wrong, he goes, “Nothing.”

Nothing is a dumb word. Nothing means something. As in, something is up with Grayson, and he’s not telling me because that something has to do with me.

Not that I can figure out what that something is, since he cancels our Wednesday lesson.

Same for Thursday.

By Friday morning, when it happens yet again, it’s clear what’s happening.

Grayson Rowe is avoiding me.

And his blowing me off has not gone unnoticed. Whispers float around the ABB house that there’s trouble in Prescott paradise. Everyone knows it that it wouldn’t last forever. Summer actually can’t hold down a man.

Or so Liz texts me. Since I’ve been home all day, too busy checking my phone to do my usual Friday philanthropy busy work.

“I could hold down Grayson James Rowe,” I mutter, flopping onto the couch cushions, head buried in a throw pillow.

Or better yet,he could hold me down. Pin me right under him. Hands around my wrists. Legs over mine. Tongue on my—

My phone dings. I lift my head. Nope. Just Liz, with another update from the house.

“What the fuck is going on?” I sit up.

Barring tricky word problems, the tutoring’s clicking. And with every sorority event he’s attended, my sisters get just a little more off my back. Even Natalie’s stopped her persistent questions whenever I tag along to football games. Well. Mostly. She did quiz me on rocket shuttle launches the other weekend.

Point is, everything was going so well.

For the most part.

Because there’s still the fact that we’re just so awkward together. The moment we’re within five inches of each other and eyes are on us, it’s all bumping heads and strained pats and clumsy contact. And Grayson, pushing my hands off him.

Now there’s this. Whatever this is.

Liz texts again, about some unrelated philanthropy thing, and I slide my phone across the coffee table. It smacks into my chemistry textbook. I’d tried to study earlier, but I kept getting distracted by thoughts of Grayson and how, when he talks about molecules bonding, his voice drops to a pitch that I feel deep in my—

“Enough,” I say to my empty apartment, rising to my feet.

This is not me. I have never been, and will never be, this girl. Grayson made me wait by the phone once before. Fuck if he thinks I’ll sit around doing it again. No more. I have no idea what prompted his attitude change, or why he thinks avoiding me is the best response to it, but I’m going to get to the bottom of it.

Checking my phone—for the hour, not for any messages—I confirm that there’s enough time.

More than enough to make Grayson Rowe regret that he ever kept me waiting.

* * *

Conversations halt. Heads turn. And several pairs of eyes sweep over one centered point. Somewhere in the crowd, someone drops their drink, and the smashing shatter of glass acts like a record scratch on the pounding music, drawing even more looks to the door.

Where I stand. Basking in every one.

Tucking a curl behind my ear, I take one small step into the bar. The crowd settles, returning to what they’d been doing before my arrival. Except for three particularly daring guys, who all simultaneously step towards me.

I dismiss each with a dark look. What, did they think I came here for them?

No, my target’s over there. Sitting at a table. Laughing with Natalie Mason and Theodore Morris as he drinks from a glass stein.

And it strikes me. Solid and swift and strong, right in the middle of my chest. Raw, tender. Absolute agony.

For a split second, there’s a chink in my armor. A fault in my courage. And this intense longing to just go over to him. To wrap my arms around him. Bury my head in his neck. Ask him to tell me every fact he knows. About killer sharks. Space ships. Chemical reactions. Even fucking math. I don’t care what. It doesn’t matter what. I just want to listen. Feel the rumble of his voice and the beat of his heart through the comforting warmth of his chest. Hear that laugh and see that smile directed at me.

The song changes over the stereo system—to something low and pulsing and perfect for snapping me back to my original temper.

For fuck’s sake, it’s been three days. How the hell can you miss someone after three fucking days?

Right. That’s just the shots talking. Because I’d misjudged how much time it would take me to get ready. Or how, even after dolling myself up, I’d still feel the need for some extra fortitude. Courage, in a liquid state.

Gathering my wits, I get a grip. Regain composure. I’m in control tonight. Not some smug, know-it-all nerd in glasses and a dumb Geology rocks! t-shirt.

That in mind, I detour to the bar. The bartender fixes my order, sliding it across the counter on a tray. I take it, winding around drunk football players and blowing off guys trying to hit me up, and beeline straight for that back corner of the bar.

Three bodies jump when I slam the tray on their table.

Theodore Morris chokes out a cough.

Natalie Mason’s jaw drops. “Whoa.”

And Grayson Rowe says nothing.

Because I drop myself. Right on his lap.

Gone is his smile. His laughter. In their place is stony indifference. Giving no indication any way what his thoughts are on my being here, my invasion of his personal space, or my outfit.

Which should be a crime. Because I think I speak for all those lingering gazes when I say that tonight, I am an absolute dish.

Makeup? Dark. Smoky. Fierce.

Hair? Disheveled. Voluminous. Wild.

Shoes? Lace-up. Peep-toe. Razor-sharp, six-inch heels.

And this dress?

Well, it’s gorgeous. Dark plum. Demurely knee-length. Even weather appropriate, with long sleeves to combat the cool early autumn night. A perfectly modest dress—

If you ignore the waist-exposing side cutouts.

And also the plunging neckline, putting on a grand display to an ample portion of my breasts.

Or that every single strip of it embraces me like a second skin, making it altogether clear that I am, without a single doubt, not wearing any underwear.

This dress mocks the idea of underwear.

Liz calls this look the triple threat. Scary. Sexy. Summer. Because when I don it, I’m imbued with quiet, irresistible assurance. With a dangerous, potent ability to hypnotize and magnetize. I take breaths away, and I don’t give them back. Forever condemning a trail of breathless victims in my wake. In this outfit, I fucking stun.

And while it’s a tad extra for Kellermann’s…

When I look this good—I am invincible. Nothing gets to me.

Especially not a man I’m only pretend dating.

“A little privacy?” I barely spare his friends a glance, refusing to take my eyes off my fake boyfriend’s blank face. “Grayson and I need to chat.”

“You can’t get privacy in a—” Natalie starts, before the quarterback knocks back his chair as he quickly rises, dragging her with him to join Walsh and Armstrong at the pool table.

The last two of their group are busy dancing, so I settle in. Twisting and getting comfy on this nice, firm seat, my legs draped over his thighs. Picking up one of the shot glasses from the tray, I hold it between us, “You get one subject. One you know everything about.”

“You can’t—”

“Can’t what?” I sneer, my retort fueled by annoyance and frustration and yes, lots of pre-gaming. “Can’t talk to my boyfriend? Can’t bring him a drink? Can’t sit on his lap?”

I wiggle my ass, showing him that I can, indeed, do that very thing.

His eyes narrow to slits, expression still so maddeningly impassive. When he opens his mouth again, I press one thumb against his lips.

“Now,” I say. “Did you know a single worker bee only makes five grams of honey before she dies? That’s one whole teaspoon.”

He says nothing. Probably because my thumb’s still keeping him quiet. I let it drift down. Release that top lip. Lay light pressure on the bottom as I lean closer, “Well? Did you know that, Grayson James?”

Just when I think he’ll push me off him, when he’ll tell me to take a hike, there comes that competitive stare again. The same one from that first day, at the library, when he so emphatically told me how right he always is. And he says, “Yes.”

“Good,” I salute him with the shot glass. “Your turn.”

“You’re drunk, Summer.”

“Yeah, so?” I challenge. “Play with me.”

Looking away, Grayson pinches the bridge of his nose. A wrinkle forms between his eyebrows. I want to smooth it away. To make him stop thinking so much—Nope. No, I don’t. Because he pissed me off. He deserves to work his stupid brain into overdrive until it explodes.

Jaw working tightly as that wrinkle deepens, he finally says, “A volcano’s danger zone spans a twenty-mile radius.”

“Volcanoes it is.” Then I tip back my head. Down the first shot. Thump the empty glass upside down on the tray. Wipe the corner of my mouth with my thumb. The same thumb, I realize when I catch Grayson staring at it, that had traced a path on his. So I repeat the motion. Deliberately rub the digit over my bottom lip. Flick the tip of my tongue out to catch one last tasty drop.

I settle one arm around his shoulder. “I didn’t know that. You sure it’s not the diameter?”

His gaze leaves my mouth, straight into my eyes. There’s that smug smile, even as his voice rasps, “Pretty sure. You need a quick math lesson?”

“Nope.” I boop his nose, then grab another shot. “Did you know beeswax is used in medicine?”

“And makeup.” I don’t miss the flash behind those glasses when his eyes glance over my face. My flushed cheeks and tumbled curls. The devastating cosmetic combo I call the Summer-Just-Got-Fucked look. “The loudest volcano eruption was reportedly one-hundred-eighty decibels.”

“I’m guessing that’s loud?”

“Really fucking loud.”

“Wanna know something?” I press one hand in the center of his geologically themed shirt and lean in to say, “I can be really fucking loud, too.”

Backing up, I just barely glimpse his eyes go round behind his glasses before he hides all emotion again. But that look—I fucking caught it.

How nice to know, that my charms aren’t entirely lost on him.

With a brazen wink, I take another shot. Set the second glass next to the first. Give him a new fact about bees, which again, he already knows.

Soon, he figures out my game. And after the fourth fact about volcanoes that I don’t know, he realizes that game will be quickly finished, with me having drunk every last shot on the tray. So he starts going easy. Gives me simple facts. Like volcanoes shoot lava and ash. Or that the word ‘volcano’ comes from a Roman god. And that they’re simply mountains with a giant hole that contain a molten pool of rock.

Something I can attest, is truly interesting, if only because it reminds me of another molten pool. The one forming between my thighs, making me fidget more and more on his lap. And as I move, trying to relieve that building pressure, rolling my hips into a better position—

There it is.

Thick. Long. Hard.

Gray’s cock.

I almost moan.

I might actually moan. Who knows, I’ve had a lot to drink. And Grayson’s dick is poking my ass, making it impossible to think clearly about anything other than Grayson’s dick is poking my ass.

There’s one other subject I know everything about.

Suddenly, I want to share every fact with him.

Tightening my grip on his neck, I pull him closer. Brush my lips over his ear and whisper, “Did you know the average size of a man’s cock is five-point-two inches? I wonder…”

I shift in his lap, feeling that bulge under his jeans. The one that responds to my body. His hands, which had been relegated to his sides throughout our game, reach up. Clasp to my hips. Stopping me from making the little round circles with my hips that I’d unknowingly begun to meet each slow twitch of his erection.

“Where do you fall on that scale?” I release a breath, low and shuddered.

His head jerks to mine, our noses grazing. We’re in each other’s space. Mouths a breath’s width apart.

I catch another look. His eyes dip. To my mouth. So close to his.

And in my feeble, liquor-soaked mind, all I can think about is that Grayson Rowe is going to kiss me. He’s going to kiss me, and I’m going to take him home and fuck every single last fact from his head.

Until he glances away. Stares off at some distant corner of the bar as he orders through clenched teeth, “Don’t.”

I’m not sure how my alcohol-sloshed mind registers the word. But it does, making me freeze.

What thefuck am I doing?

Just because a guy gets a hard-on, doesn’t mean he’s interested. I should know this. From his reluctance to being my boyfriend, to the simple fact he can’t stand me touching him. Why can’t I grasp this simple thing, when he’s made it plenty obvious before now?

Gray doesn’t want this. Doesn’t want me.

And I remember the reason I came to Kellermann’s in the first place. To figure out what his problem is. Now I’ve only upset him more with my unwanted advances.

I set my feet back on the floor. Prepare to take myself far away from Grayson Rowe and pretend that this whole night didn’t happen. I’ll show up Monday for our tutoring lesson, claim I got super drunk on Friday night, I did things I don’t even remember doing, and that’ll be the end of it. We can forget all of—of this.

But Grayson stops me. Tightens his hold on my waist. Presses me back, bottom fully pressed to his arousal. “Dammit, Summer, you can’t just—Don’t go.”

Mouth parting, I let him hold me in place, unsure whether to leave or stay or why exactly I can’t just or what he wants me to do.

He drops his forehead to my shoulder. There’s a deep vibration against my skin, and—Is he groaning or am I imagining things again?

“Bees,” he says over the bar music. “What else do you know about bees?”

Hesitantly, I tell him. Everything I know, until I start mining my memory for more. Because I’ve gone through so many, and Gray’s still so hard, that I lose track, repeating a few I’ve already used.

Finally, he wraps one arm around my back. Pulls me closer so he can lean forward and grab the last remaining shot glass from the table. He holds it up, inspects its pink color, but says nothing before swilling it down.

His face puckers at the tart sweetness. “What is that?”

“Vodka. Peach Schnapps. Cranberry and lime juice. Or, as I call it,” I keep myself absolutely still. “A wet pussy.”

Then, he does groan. Openly. Shoulders slumping and head falling back against his chair. I want to brush my fingers over the taut skin of his neck. What would he do, if I licked that same path?

Too soon, he straightens. “What are you doing here, Summer?”

I balk at the censure in his tone. “Why are you mad at me?”

“I’m not.”

“Like fuck you’re not, Rowe,” I snap, bracing one hand on his shoulder to back away. “You completely bailed on me. With no warning. For three fucking days.”

Gray closes his eyes, squeezing my hips to still my movement. “I know. It’s just, this—I needed a break. It’s too much.”

Something delicate splinters inside me. Needle-thin shards embed themselves into my every nerve ending, forcing me to feel each cruel, biting edge.

A break.

From me.

I’mtoo much.

And I suddenly have an answer to that question I’d asked myself. What am I doing? Making a fucking damn fool of myself, coming here, playing this game, missing him.

I push off him. And when I stand, the effects of several shots in a row hit me, causing me to wobble in my heels. Grayson’s hand shoots out to catch me, but I slap it away. I don’t need his help.

“You’re upset,” he says.

“Nope,” I reply, curt. “You were right the first time. This is me, drunk. If I were upset, I’d do something—” I shove the drink tray. Off the table. Into his lap. “Like that.”

He jumps to his feet as shot glasses and peachy vodka scatter on the floor. But I’m already walking away. Not looking back as I push through onlookers.

Until a hand grabs my wrist and Grayson spins me around.

“That was uncalled for,” he shouts over the music.

I yank my arm away, stumbling into someone else and spilling their drink. Even though it was my fault, Grayson sends a vicious glare when my victim looks like he’s about to raise hell. The guy leaves with no other complaint.

To me, Grayson says, “Summer, talk to me.”

“No,” I childishly respond. “I won’t. I don’t want to. I’m not saying another word for another three fucking days and then you can see how you like it.” Despite how much my mind tells me to get out, to leave, the throbbing in my chest keeps me rooted where I stand, poking his shoulder. “How’s that for a break? Why not go longer? Hell, how about we just call the whole fucking thing off? This isn’t working anyway. We don’t work. You won’t even fucking touch me.”

“What?”

“You. Won’t. Touch. Me.” Bitterness tinges my voice, and I hate that it sounds on the verge of crying. I emphasize my point by forcing against his torso with both palms, intending to push him away, but gripping fistfuls of his shirt instead. I justify it by our mere proximity to other people. By the throng of bodies surrounding us, all pushing elbows and prodding shoulders, blocking me from a stormy exit. It has nothing to do with keeping him as close to me as possible, in this transitory moment before he inevitably pushes me away again.

Gray’s hands curl around my wrists. My grip on his shirt tightens, unwilling to let him go just yet. I pull him down, snarling in his ear, “How much longer do you think our charade will last like this, when every time I put my hands on you, you brush me off? No kissing? What the hell kind of idiotic idea—”

Someone knocks my side, forcing me to release him.

“Sorry ‘bout that—” The interloper’s glassy eyes widen when he sees who he bumped into. “Damn. Hey girl—”

“Fuck off,” Grayson and I echo each other. When I turn to him, he glowers until the drunk scrams.

When he meets my gaze again, he opens his mouth, only to be shoved from behind. We’re too close to the dance floor. Near too many people. Under too-loud speakers. Too drunk. Revealing too much. It’s all too, too, too much.

He reaches out again. I expect him to take my wrist again. So I jump when I feel his hand weave with mine. Pulling me away. Leading me to a spot along the wall. Out of the way, from the high traffic area and the chaos of other people and the loudness of the music.

The instant we’re alone, he steps closer. Places one hand on the wall. The other stays, resolutely, where it is. Interlaced fingers, meeting palms. Holding hands. And he’s not pulling away this time.

“If we can’t make this work, Summer,” he looks me straight in the eye. “It won’t be because of me. You want me to touch you? Consider it done. But I want something in return. Quid pro quo.”

“Name your price.” Because I promised, didn’t I? Whatever he wants, I can certainly afford it.

“No more secrets.”

Except that.

This time, it’s me letting go first. Dropping his hand and crossing my arms. “No.”

Gray runs both hands through his hair, mouth set with annoyance. “I’m sick of it. Of you keeping things from me.”

“Everyone has—”

“Bullshit. I don’t.”

I snap to attention at his vehement denial. “Really? There’s absolutely nothing that you’re keeping from me.”

He removes his glasses. Drags a hand over his face before placing them back. And when he does, he glances to the back of the bar. To his friends, Rylie and Levi having joined the rest at the pool table. Five sets of eyes immediately glance away. The last, under a magenta fringe, waves at us.

Gray stares at one golden head in particular.

“Morris and I have a bet,” he turns slowly back to me. “That you and I break up before the end of the semester.”

I freeze, processing. Remembering the drive-in. Arranging our terms. How he’d brought up when it should end.

How often do you win?

Always.

Because he’d known. He’d known it was definitely a sure thing. A bet he could win. And he always wins.

“You asshole—”

“Yes,” he says, blocking me from leaving. “And I didn’t have to tell you. I could’ve kept it secret. But I didn’t. Because I want you to know. I can’t—I won’t—keep it from you. For this partnership to work, we have to be partners. To tell each other things. To not keep secrets. So just tell me. Tell me why you didn’t tell me your last name when we met. Or why you don’t like having your picture taken. Why you keep all these secrets about other people.”

I try stepping around him. “Maybe I don’t want—”

Only he surges forward with renewed determination. Braces both hands on either side of my head, boxing me against the wall. Shows no signs of relenting.

“Eff-ee-two-oh-three. Do you know what that is?” His voice startles me with its urgency.

Giving a slight shake of my head, he explains, “Iron oxide. You know it. You’ve seen it. On gate railings. Bridges. Old nails and pipes. Shit, it’s all over my fucking car. You know it, Summer.”

I still don’t.

“It’s rust. Metal, changed by oxygen and hydrogen. By simple air and water. And do you know what rust does?”

This time, he doesn’t wait for my answer. “It corrodes. It takes iron—strong, resilient, durable iron—and it gradually deteriorates it. Breaks it down to nothing. Crumbles it to dust.”

Too much, too much, the intensity of those honey-brown eyes. I can’t take it. I glance away. Over his shoulder. At his friends, all openly watching. And I can’t take that, either. So I stare at my feet, willing some of that earlier mettle to return. To prove that there’s still iron there. Still strength and resilience and durability.

“Secrets are rust, Summer. They’re corrosive. And they’re going to eat away at you.”

Music booms in my ears. But it’s muffled. The sound of a stereo through a closed door and a small, dark space and warm hands on bare hips and murmured whispers and panting breaths—

No.

He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He doesn’t know shit about me, or my secrets, or anything. All he knows are stupid facts.

So why does it feel like my heart’s about to rip out of my ribs?

“Every time I get close—every time I think I’m getting somewhere, you shut me out,” he’s still talking. “When all I want to do is know you.”

My eyes fly back to his.

He wants… to know me.

Grayson Rowe doesn’t want to know me. He doesn’t even want to touch me. He wants the things I can give him. Money. And an internship. He wants to know Nolan. That’s what everyone else wants, isn’t it? Either it’s to get in my metaphorical pants—which Grayson has made it plenty clear he doesn’t—or to get an in with my wealthy father.

No one ever wants to know me.

He steps close. Too close. Crowding me. Forcing me to look at him. In his eyes. Honey-brown eyes behind clear glass lenses.

And suddenly, I believe, without him having to spell it out for me, that what he’s saying is fact. Because isn’t the proof right there, right in front of me? In those eyes. That unflinching gaze. Blazing in the dim bar light. Staggering in its fervent openness.

Awareness ripples through me. It’s the same look Gray gets when he talks about numbers, or chemical reactions. Any time he tells me a new fact. I’ve only caught glimpses of it before. Sought it out any time he dives deep into a topic. Because that look, it’s called to me from the very start. Captivated and confused me, because I’ve never quite known what to call it.

Now, with it centered so surely on me, I recognize it for what it is.

Passion.

Grayson Rowe radiates with passion. Vibrates the very space around us with it. Makes my hands quake, until I sink my fingers through his hair. Those wayward strands that never stay flat.

And I claim that passion. Capture his mouth with mine for my own selfish desire.

Because I’ve craved this for so long now. Hungered for this kiss. Starved for a taste, a portion, of that passion. And now I want to devour it. Devour him. Consume that delicious groan rising from his throat. Sample every movement of my lips against his. Savor each ravenous caress, after being left famished and wanting for so long.

Stillwanting. Because he doesn’t kiss me back. I pull away. Lower my hands. Rest my forehead in the crook of his neck. Fist his dumb geology shirt and squeeze my eyes shut. I can’t look at him. I’ve done it again. Gone too far. Shown too much. Pushed too hard.

A finger catches under my chin. Tips my head up. Honey-brown eyes meet mine with bold exploration, before sliding downward. Everything in his face slackens with lust, with all that passion, as he watches my lips part under his examination.

He fastens his mouth back to mine.

Wrenches my body closer. Crushes me between the wall and his hard chest. Exploring unknown territory with gentle hands. Fingers tracing down my sides. Thumbs petting the exposed skin of my waist. Until they veer in separate directions. One hand on my back. The other to my hip. Both tugging me closer, closer, closer. Until I feel the pressing weight of his zipper and the steely ridge just beneath it. And I wind my arms around his neck, pulling his body into mine, because even that’s not close enough.

I don’t know if it’s our game, all those facts he’d shared, or even his dumb shirt, but suddenly, all I can think about are volcanoes. Long dormant mountains, rousing to life. Hot breath mingles with mine on a groan. Hazy steam, venting into the air. Shivers follow in the wake of a warm hand trailing down my spine. Tremors, from shifting tectonic plates. Hips and breasts and tightened nipples giving easily along a hard, solid wall of torso and arms and swelling cock. Pressure, slowly building up, up, up from a searing core. Tongues greeting in a wet, hot slide. Thick magma, spreading and flowing and melting everything standing in its way.

A whistle rips between us.

Gray lifts his head, eyes half-lidded. Breathing heavy, harsh. And once he spots the group of other students, laughing for having interrupted our kiss, he flips them off.

When he turns back, he finds me pressing a palm to my forehead. Staring dazedly at nothing. Thinking a million things. About volcanoes and geology and iron and secrets and bees and cocks and fuck did I drink too, too, too much.

“Sum—”

“I have to go.” I leave before he can say anything else. Or if he does, I can’t hear it. Not over the music. Not while pushing through other people. Not with my mind on so many other thoughts.

Instead of reliving that, that—whatever that was.

I expected a kiss. A meeting of mouths and bodies and passions and that’s all. Nothing like that. Nothing quite so, so…

Earth-shattering.