Boyfriend Bargain by Ilsa Madden-Mills

9

Sugar

Zack waltzes into our poetry class, and my stomach flutters.

It’s midday and the auditorium is packed with mostly underclassmen and a ton of athletes, probably because it’s an easy elective and interesting if you dig American poets—which I do. Hello, Emily Dickinson.

He strides in and sweeps his gaze across the crowded lecture hall, moving his eyes up until he finds me, tucked into a corner in the very last seat next to a wall vent, shivering because the heating is shit in this building. My coat is thrown over me like a quilt and he grins when he sees it.

That smile is…devastating to my ovaries.

Shut it down, Sugar.

But then, instead of heading to the open front seats like he usually does, he takes the steep steps up until he reaches my row.

I wonder if he sees the horror growing on my face. I really, really didn’t want to have to face him until I had a pie in my hand and more makeup on my face.

He looms there, looking down the aisle for an empty seat, eyes landing on the one next to me.

“Excuse me,” he says, sliding in to brush past the students already there. He eases past them, uncaring that some of them are having to get up to let him pass. Most of them murmur hellos and “Great game last week, Z!” as he scoots by, and he gives them a brief nod.

He comes to a halt in front of me and my eyes go up and up, taking in the designer jeans, the way his long-sleeved black and gold HU Lions T-shirt clings to his chest. His hair looks damp and disheveled, the ends curling around his shoulders. He’s just had a shower.

Red colors my face.

I had sex with…that…him.My lower body tingles at the memory. My breathing accelerates. He had me pinned against the wall last night. He took me apart and made me come and oh my God—

“Hi,” he says.

Dammit.

Why is his voice warm yet so insinuating…as if instead of hi, he’s really saying, I’m sexy and I know it.

“Hey, yourself,” I say, sitting up straighter and adjusting my coat over my bosom.

He watches me, a small smile tugging at his lips.

The classroom door opens, and one of the TAs rushes in and heads to Professor Goldberg with a stack of papers. They stand and talk among themselves, giving us a little time—which Zack takes full advantage of.

He glances down at the empty seat with my backpack in it. Without asking, he picks it up, sets it at my feet, and takes the chair. We’re in even closer proximity now that he’s sitting, not to mention his leg is pressed against mine.

Here’s the thing about lecture hall seats at Hawthorne: they were probably built in the 60s and were made for normal-sized people without any extra room. Zack’s body is definitely not your average man’s build. I watch—with a bit of amusement—as he wedges his six-foot, six-inch frame in the small seat, his knees pressed against the back of the one in front of him, no doubt the pressure being felt by the girl sitting there.

She looks over her shoulder in annoyance, sees who it is, and immediately smiles. With shoulder-length golden brown hair and a pretty face, she’s wearing a Delta sorority shirt. “Oh, Zack, hey. I didn’t know that was you. Glad you could join us back here.” She invites him to their next party, some shindig they’re having next week.

A second later, she scribbles on a piece of paper and passes back her number. Her eyes rove over his shoulders. “You know, in case you want to come. Call me.”

“Right,” he says with a smile as he takes the note. She turns back around and he tucks it in an outside pocket of his backpack.

I lean over and whisper, “Will she be theone next?”

“Maybe. I wonder if she likes Kappa parties.”

“Or bathrooms.”

“Or anywhere,” he says.

I arch a brow. “You like having sex in public places?”

“I’m up for it—with the right person.” His gaze grows hot, his grey eyes darkening, and I feel my chest expanding.

Shit.

I clear my throat and tap my pen on the desk. “Word to the wise: phone numbers can be tricky, expectations and all that.”

“How so?”

I clear my throat. “I guess it really doesn’t apply to you, but if you had a girlfriend and you took that number and slipped it in your pocket, it’s cheating, even if nothing ever comes of it, because the intent was there. You thought about it and consciously tucked it away.”

An eyebrow shoots up. “You’ve experienced this type of behavior?”

I nod. “An ex who put numbers in his jacket all night long and lied every time I called him on it.”

“Ah.”

I give him side-eye. “Are you going to call her?”

“No.”

“Then why take the number?”

He leans in, the smell of his woodsy cologne intoxicating. “I tell you what—I’ll give her number back if you give me yours.”

“Doesn’t mean I’ll answer.”

His eyes glitter. “Oh, you’ll answer. You and I…we have unfinished business.”

Before I can whip out a retort, he leans forward and hands the paper back to Sorority Girl. “Hey, I’m never gonna call. Sorry, babe. Here’s your digits back.”

She huffs and snatches it out of his hand then sends me a glare over her shoulder.

I bite back a laugh.

He leans back and shifts those grey eyes back to me. “And your number?”

“I never said I’d give it to you.”

He bites that bottom lip—on purpose, I bet—and runs his gaze over me. “You will.”

“You wish.” Ugh, I like sparring with him.

“Miss Ryan, if you’re finished conversing with Mr. Morgan, perhaps you’d like to comment on the current question?” Professor Goldberg’s voice booms across the room, and I jerk up, suddenly at attention. Apparently the TA has slipped out and he was lecturing.

And that’s what sitting next to Zack Morgan does to a person.

“Um…?” I look up and straighten my glasses.

Professor Goldberg points to the poetry book in his hand. “We’re discussing the poem you were supposed to have read.”

My brain has completely melted.

“You did read the poem?” the professor asks, arching a brow.

My voice is high. “Yes, quite fascinating this one, actually…”

Zack nudges me and I look down at his notebook where he’s scribbled something.

“Yes! ‘Acquainted with the Night’ by Robert Frost, sir. It’s a sonnet, written in strict iambic pentameter. Very lovely.”

“Continue. I’m sure you have thoughts. I hope you do for your participation points. Who’s the speaker?”

There’s a rumble of laughter in the room and I grimace. I did read the damn thing. “The speaker is a lonely man who only walks at night,” I say.

“Why does he do that?” the professor asks, casting his eyes across the room. “Any takers?”

Zack’s leg brushes against mine as he straightens and speaks. “He doesn’t think anyone will understand him. Darkness is his home, where he belongs.”

He points at Zack with a long finger. “Elaborate.”

Zack rubs at his jawline, and I think I see color rising on his cheeks, but that can’t be right because nothing seems to ruffle him. “He’s at the end of his rope, and it gets to the point where he can’t even make eye contact with people. There’s a blackness inside him.” He taps his pen on his leg. “At the end of the poem, he looks up at the moon in the sky and acknowledges that time has no meaning for him because his isolation is unending. He hates himself. He doesn’t deserve anything.”

Shit. The narrator hates himself? I didn’t get all that, but I can see it…

“Buzzkill,” murmurs someone in front of us, and I glare at the offender.

“He’s completely alone,” Zack adds, and part of me wants to pick at those words, at the weight I hear in his voice.

And…

Don’t I know how lonely feels?

I have three people in my life I can count on for anything—Mara and my besties Taylor and Poppy—but besides them, nada. No family, and now no Bennett. Even when Mama was alive, she was always somewhere else in her head, thinking about my father, wishing she were with him.

Professor Goldberg is complimentary of Zack’s analysis and class continues as we move on to discuss each line. I take notes on my small laptop, keenly aware of him as he shifts in his seat beside me.

“Good job,” the professor says to us as the bell rings out in the hall. “Next up is Edgar Allan Poe. Get ready to delve into the supernatural.”

I smile. After my upper level law classes, this is one I can just…enjoy.

Because we’re in the last two seats, we sit and wait for the row to empty out. Neither of us speaks, and Zack’s brow is furrowed as he gathers up his backpack and sticks his notebook inside.

“You okay?” I ask, pushing my glasses up.

“Yeah.” He rakes a hand through his hair and gives me a broad smile, the same one he gave Sorority Girl.

I frown. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

He blinks. “What do you mean?”

I take out a packaged Ding Dong from my coat pocket, carefully opening it and tearing off a piece. I give him a look. “I’m not after your phone number, I don’t want to brag to my friends that we banged—in fact, I don’t want anyone to know because that is just not their business—and I don’t want to invite you to my sorority party. So, if you’re not feeling on top of the world, I’m cool. No need to give me smiles that aren’t real.”

I take the bite and chew.

“Okay.” His eyes take me in, lingering a little bit too long on my lips, and I stop masticating. Is anyone attractive eating? No.

I swallow down my bite. “That poem—you liked it?”

He nods, a careful expression on his face. “Yeah. I got it, the darkness in people and how it tears you down.”

I nod. “My mama used to say brushes with darkness are part of every man’s journey. Besides, those real-life Mary Poppins types really piss me off.”

He huffs out a laugh and looks away from me, his face hesitant. “Your mom sounds smart.”

“She had a lot of heartache in her life.” I don’t tell him my father broke her spirit the day he paid us to move away so his wife and kids didn’t have to see us.

He nods.

“What’s your darkness, hockey player?” I ask. My tone is light, but I want to know what makes him tick. He seems so…perfect.

He sighs and stares down at his backpack. “People depending on me to win, Coach wanting a trophy, the NHL wanting a superstar—” He stops, rubs his neck, and stands. “Sorry. TMI.”

“No, it’s fine. I can’t imagine the stress you must be under. You’re practically famous.”

“What’s your darkness?” His eyes are back on my face, searching.

I laugh. “You want a list? It might take a while.”

One side of his lips curves up. “You’re funny.”

I shake my head. “I’m just trying to graduate this May and get to law school, maybe live in a warmer place and have a little house out in the middle of nowhere. That’s all I want.”

“Ah.” He gives me a long look. “I’m headed to lunch. You want to join me in the student center? I swear I won’t talk about poetry.”

“I like poetry.”

“Okay, we’ll talk about whatever you want.” He grins. “Edgar Allan Poe, huh? He’s twisted. I dig The Raven a lot, but his short stories are my favorite. Ever read ‘The Tell-Tale Heart’? It’s a classic Gothic horror story. And the sound of the heart beating in the background…damn, gets me every time.”

I feel my lips parting. He talks about Poe like he’s his bestie. A man that knows his literature and looks like a Greek god. Well. I clear my throat. That’s a turn-on.

And wait…

Is he asking me out?No, goofball. It’s lunch.Right, right. Casual.

But…

I’ve seen him with his hockey friends in the student center before. They’re a loud, gregarious group and girls are always all over them, flitting from one player to the next.

Nope. Can’t do it.

“Uh, yeah. Poe’s cool.”

His eyes get heavy. “Or we can go back to my place.”

And there he goes…

I shake my head. “You just assume I’m ready for a repeat, don’t you? I’m not looking to be your girl of the month.”

“Hmmmm. You sure? You like me.” He grins.

I shake my head. “It’s not going to happen.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Stop being so infuriating,” I say, my free hand on my hip.

“But it’s so fun to mess with you. I think you like it.” He reaches out and toys with a piece of my ponytail then pauses, looking at his hand in my hair, as if he’s surprised it’s there.

He drops it and stares. “Can’t seem to help myself.”

My mouth dries. I’m not sure how to respond.

His chest rises as he looks at me, and heat hums inside me.

Maybe he sees it on my face.

“Come on,” he says, his voice lowering. “Let’s get out of here. I don’t care where.”

My lower body clenches, and shit…

I suck in a shuddering breath. “I can’t. I’m going to see someone.” Mara.

“A guy?”

“Pfft. Maybe.”

“No boyfriend though?”

“I have friends.”

“Huh. I see. Okay.” He shrugs and takes off down the row, and I follow. “You know, I can walk you to meet your friend,” he offers, a glint in his eyes as he waits for me at the bottom of the stairs.

I squint up at him. “Jealous?”

He laughs. “No way, babe.”

Babe.The word sizzles around me and I want to burn shit down.

I give him my own nonchalant shrug as I walk past him. “Oh, yeah, you definitely are.”