All Played Out (Rusk University #3)(10)

I smile, and Dylan immediately pokes a finger into my sternum. “Whatever you’re thinking, not that broad.”

“Chill out. I was just thinking that explains why it seemed like she’d never tasted alcohol before. She’s trying new things. That’s cool.”

“And that’s exactly why she needs to take baby steps. And you like to jump in the deep end.”

“Sometimes that’s the best way to learn how to swim.”

“Mateo Torres. I will kill you if you hurt her.”

I tuck an arm around her and pull her close in a half hug.

“Jeez, I thought you were a pacifist.” When she bristles, I continue: “Relax. There will be no harm or deaths of any kind.”

Silas shows up then with new drinks for both him and Dylan and says, “Dude. Hands off.”

I back away, my hands raised, still grinning.

“You snooze, you lose, man. I’m going to steal her from you one of these days.”

Dylan shoots me a warning glance, but I’m pretty positive that it’s not a reaction to that comment. I take a few steps back and she says, “I mean it, Torres.”

“Gosh, Captain Planet. Careful or Moore here might find out about the sweet nothings you’ve been whispering in my ear.”

I leave before Dylan can frown at me again or before Silas can glare.

Couples, man.

Then I forget about them and set off in search of Nell.





Chapter 7


Nell’s To-Do List

• Normal College Thing #6: Drink alcohol (and not at church).

• Survive Halloween (preferably without popping a button on this shirt).





It takes me a long while to find any semblance of calm at this raging party. For a moment I’d thought of leaving, but then I fished my phone out of my bag to discover it was only half an hour since I’d arrived. I decided it probably wouldn’t be honoring the spirit of my bucket list if I were to let myself leave after thirty-one minutes.

Finally, I settle myself down beside a mesquite tree on the side of the house and pull my bag into my lap. The only reason Dylan let me get away with bringing it was that I insisted it added to my schoolgirl persona. If she knew I’d also brought along a few spirals and the latest issue of Scientific American, she likely wouldn’t have been so accepting.

But it’s not the magazine I reach for when I open my bag but the familiar spiral, the contents of which have been plaguing my thoughts nonstop for days.

I’m a list kind of girl. I make a lot of them. I make them in the morning, in spare moments throughout the day, during classes when the professors move slower than my thoughts. I make them in notebooks, on my phone, on sticky notes, and just in my head. But now I flip forward to that list and start scanning through it. With a smile, I retrieve a pen and draw a line through

6. Drink Alcohol (and not at church).

The rush of satisfaction that tears through me at the simple action is astonishing. It’s not as if I’d accomplished any great feat or had a brilliant intellectual breakthrough. I’d had a rather yummy cup of Torres’s signature concoction, and most of the people here had probably been doing something similar for years now.

The thought of Mateo—no, Torres—pinches something in my belly, and I glance back at the very first item on my list. I run my finger over the words, and it is terrifyingly easy to imagine completing that task with the handsome athlete. Then my eyes dip down to item number five on the list.

5. Lose my virginity.

The pinch in my belly progresses to a twist, and I cannot decide if it’s a good feeling or a bad one. And for a moment . . . I seriously consider the idea.

What if I lost my virginity to Mateo Torres?

It would knock off two items on my list in one go, and I’m nothing if not efficient. But I’m not silly enough to think I should let some list cobbled together from my own imaginings and the offerings of the Internet decide my first sexual experience.

But I have to admit . . . the idea has appeal. He’s attractive, that’s for certain. Perhaps not as conventionally handsome as Dylan’s boyfriend, whose looks just scream a career in film or modeling if football doesn’t work out. No, Torres isn’t quite that pretty. His forehead is large, and his nose rather blunt. But when he smiles, which he does nearly all the time, it softens his edges and makes him plenty appealing. My own features aren’t exactly perfectly formed either. My nose has always been just a tad too large for my face. Well, in my younger years there was no tad about it. And while my hair is long, it’s never been all that soft or shiny. It’s a tangled mess most days, which is why it’s most often piled and knotted atop my head.

Beyond that, though, I’m fairly confident that he’s attracted to me, which should make the experience enjoyable for both of us. And if his blatant sexuality is any clue, he would be no novice.

I’m partly scared by that. Would he be disappointed that I don’t know what I’m doing? Would it make it less . . . well, just less for him? What if after all this buildup between us, I bore him?

It wouldn’t be the first (or last time) someone found me boring. It’s something I’ve come to terms with in the rest of my life, and I’m happy enough with how I am not to care. But doing something like this . . . for the first time, well, I’m not sure my self-assurance could withstand that kind of blow.

The part of me that isn’t scared is intrigued by his confidence and probable experience. Why start completely from scratch when I can use a trusted source of knowledge to further my education at a much faster rate? Maybe he’ll understand, and he’ll guide me through it with as little turmoil as possible.

Or maybe he won’t. Maybe he won’t like that I’m a virgin, and he’ll find the whole thing bland and a waste of his time.

UGH.

I groan, and flip the page in my spiral so I won’t have to look at the words anymore. Starting small with the alcohol had been a wise decision. Perhaps I should do the same with other big items on my list. But how did one get smaller than sex and hooking up? I couldn’t just put “kiss.” I’d done that before, and a few more kisses weren’t going to make any difference in my confidence when it came to sex.

Really, it’s the unknown that bothers me. Not just on this list, but in everything. So maybe that’s what I need to get used to.

I skip to the bottom of my list and add . . .

17. Kiss a stranger

I tap my pen against the page, surveying the words, and decide that kissing a stranger is a good stepping-stone. Then a voice comes from over my shoulder, making me jump up and drop my spiral in shock.

“Do I count as a stranger?”

I press my hand over my thundering heart and turn to face the subject of my rumination.

“You scared me.”

“My bad.” Contrary to his words, Torres doesn’t look the least bit sorry.

He bends to pick up the spiral, and I lunge forward to stop him. “Wait! Stop!”

It’s too late. He already has ahold of it, and lifts it up above his head, completely out of my reach. He’s got nearly a foot on me in height, and when I try to jump, I barely get my unathletic self a few inches off the ground.

“Give that back.”

“Hold up, sweetheart. I just want to take a little peek.”

“Don’t you dare! It’s private.”

Frantically, I try to recall what was written on that page as he holds it above his head in an attempt to read.

“ ‘Go skinny-dipping’?” he says, his eyes dancing suggestively. “Whatever this is . . . I like it.”

I step toward him, and he angles his body to the side so that the spiral is farther away, but we’re still close.

“ ‘Pull an all-nighter.’ ‘Sing karaoke.’ ‘Flash someone.’ Oh, sweetheart, tell me this is a list of things you want to do. Please, God.”

“It’s none of your business. That’s what it is.”

“Unlucky for you, I’m a nosy person.”

He starts to turn the page back, and my heart tumbles in fear. He cannot see the first page. Not ever. I hurl myself at him, practically climbing up his body in an attempt to retrieve my list. And all he does is laugh, and stand there as if there isn’t a whole person hanging on to him.

“Asshole!” I say, pushing at his chest.

“Come on, you can do better than that.”

“Nosy bastard.”

He rolls his eyes. “Well, if that’s all you’ve got . . .” He starts to turn the page again, and there’s thunder in my ears, and my lungs feel all twisted up inside my chest.

“Fuck you,” I say once, quietly. Then I repeat it, louder, my voice raspy from fear and exertion. “Fuck you, Mateo Torres.”

And I resign myself to the fact that I’m not going to get my spiral back until he’s had his fill of humiliating me. But to my shock, he bends and picks up my pen from where I’d dropped it when he surprised me. Then he draws a line through something on the paper.

“Congratulations. You’ve officially completed number sixteen. ‘Cuss someone out and mean it.’ ”

He hands me the spiral, then the pen, before folding his arms over his chest and meeting my eyes with a carefully blank expression. I glance down at the item on the list that he’s crossed out, and I don’t know whether I want to laugh or stab him with my pen. Maybe both.