The Deal (Off Campus #1)(33)

Not an option, either.

Rock, meet hard place.

"Oh my God, this is so good," she announces as she takes another deep swig. "I totally want another one."

I chuckle. "How about you finish this one first, and then we can talk about a refill?"

"Fine," she huffs. Then she drains the rest of her drink in one of the  most impressive feats of speed I've ever witnessed, licks her lips, and  beams at me. "Okay. How about that refill?"

I can't fight the grin that stretches across my face. Man oh man. I have  a feeling Hannah is going to be a very …  interesting drunk.


I AM ABSOLUTELY right.

Three piña coladas later, Hannah is up on stage doing karaoke.

Yup. Drunk girl karaoke.

The only saving grace is that she's a phenomenal singer. I can't imagine  how cringe-worthy it would be if she was drunk and tone-deaf.

The entire bar is going batshit crazy for Hannah's performance. She's  belting out "Bad Romance" and almost everyone is singing along,  including more than a few of my wasted teammates. I find myself grinning  like an idiot as I gaze at the stage. There's nothing lewd about what  she's doing. No coy almost-stripping, no suggestive dance moves. Hannah  throws her head back happily, her cheeks flushed and eyes shining as she  sings, and she's so beautiful it makes my chest hurt.





  

Fuck, I want to kiss her again. I want to feel her lips on mine. I want  to hear that throaty noise she made the first time I sucked on her  tongue.

Wonderful. And now I'm hard as a rock, splat in the middle of a bar teeming with my friends.

"She's amazing!" Logan shouts, sidling up to me. He's grinning too as he  watches Hannah, but there's an odd gleam in his eyes. Looks a bit  like … longing.

"She's a music major," is the dumbass response I come up with, because I'm too distracted by his expression.

Thunderous applause bursts out when Hannah's song ends. A second later,  Dean climbs on the stage and whispers something in her ear. From what I  can glean, he's trying to persuade her to sing a duet, but he keeps  touching her bare upper arm as he works the charm, and there's no  mistaking the flicker of unease in Hannah's eyes.

"That's my cue to rescue her," I say before threading my way through the  crowd. When I reach the bottom of the low-rise stage, I cup my hands  around my mouth and call out to Hannah. "Wellsy, get your sexy butt over  here!"

Her expression lights up when she spots me. Without skipping a beat, she  dives off the stage and into my waiting arms, laughing in delight as I  spin her around. "Oh my God, this is so much fun!" she exclaims. "We  need to come here all the time!"

As laughter tickles my throat, I study her face to gauge where she lands  on my incredibly accurate drunk scale. One being sober and ten being  I'm going to wake up naked in Portland with no memory of how I got here.  Since her eyes are sharp and she's not slurring or stumbling, I decide  she's probably at about a five-tipsy but aware.

And maybe it makes me an arrogant bastard, but I love being the one who  got her to this point. Who she trusted enough to take care of her so  that she could allow herself to let go and have a good time.

With another brilliant smile, she takes my hand and starts dragging me away from the tiny dance floor.

"Where are we going?" I ask with a laugh.

"I have to pee! And you promised to be my bodyguard, so that means you  have to wait outside the door and stand guard." Those mesmerizing green  eyes peer up at me, flickering with uncertainty. "You won't let anything  bad happen to me, will you, Garrett?"

A lump the size of Massachusetts lodges in my throat. I swallow hard and try to speak past it. "Never."





20

Hannah


I CAN'T BELIEVE I was ever nervous about coming to the bar tonight,  because holy moly, I'm having a blast. At the moment, I'm crammed in a  booth next to Garrett, and we're involved in a heated debate with Tucker  and Simms, arguing about technology, of all things. Tucker won't budge  on his position that young kids shouldn't be allowed to watch more than  an hour of TV a day. I'm totally with him on that, but Garrett and Simms  disagree, and the four of us have been bickering about it for more than  twenty minutes now. I'm ashamed to admit it, but I honestly didn't  expect all these hockey players to have articulate opinions about  non-hockey-related matters, but they're a lot more insightful than I  gave them credit for.

"Children need to be outside riding their bikes and catching frogs and  climbing trees," Tucker insists, waving his pint glass in the air as if  to punctuate his point. "It's not healthy for them to be cooped up  indoors staring at a screen all day."

"I agree about everything except for the frogs part," I pipe up. "Because frogs are slimy and gross."

The guys burst out laughing.

"Sissy," Simms teases.

"Aw, come on, Wellsy, give the frogs a chance," Tucker protests. "Did  you know that if you lick the right one you might get high?"

I stare at him in horror. "I have zero interest in licking a frog."

Simms hoots. "Not even to get the prince?"

Good-natured groaning rings out.

"Nope, not even then," I say firmly.

Tucker takes a deep swig of beer before winking at me. "How about  licking something other than a frog? Or are you anti-licking  altogether?"

My cheeks scorch at the innuendo, but the impish glimmer in his eyes  tells me he's not trying to be crude, so I respond with my own dose of  innuendo. "Naah, I'm pro-licking. As long as I'm licking something  tasty."

Another round of hoots breaks out, but Garrett doesn't join in. When I  glance over at him, I notice that his eyes have flared with heat.

I wonder if he's imagining my mouth on his … nope, not going there.

"Shit, someone needs to hog-tie that old dude so he stops monopolizing  the jukebox," Tucker declares when yet another Black Sabbath song blasts  through the bar.





  

We all turn toward the culprit-a local with a bushy red beard and the  meanest scowl I've ever seen. The moment the karaoke machine shut down  for the night, Red Beard had raced to the jukebox and shoved ten bucks  worth of quarters inside it, keying in a rock playlist that has so far  consisted of Black Sabbath, Black Sabbath, and more Black Sabbath. Oh,  and one CCR song that Simms claimed he'd lost his virginity to.

Eventually our debate turns to hockey talk, as Simms tries to convince  me that the goalie is the most important player on a hockey team, while  Tucker boos him the entire time. The Black Sabbath song blessedly comes  to an end, replaced by Lynyrd Skynyrd's "Tuesday's Gone," and as the  opening strains echo through the bar, I feel Garrett stiffen beside me.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"Nothing." He clears his throat, then slides out of the booth and tugs me up with him. "Dance with me."

"To this?" I'm baffled for a moment, until I remember what a huge  hard-on he has for Lynyrd Skynyrd. Come to think of it, I'm pretty sure  this song was on that playlist he emailed me last week.

Tucker snickers from his side of the booth. "Since when do you dance, G?"

"Since right now," Garrett mutters.

He leads me to the small area in front of the stage, which is completely  empty because nobody else is dancing. Discomfort shifts inside me, but  when Garrett holds out his hand, I hesitate for only a second before  taking it. Hey, if he wants to dance, then we'll dance. It's the least I  can do considering how amazing he's been tonight.

You can say a lot of things about Garrett Graham, but he's definitely a  man of his word. He's been glued to my side all night, guarding my  drinks, waiting outside the bathroom for me, making sure I don't get  harassed by his friends or the locals we've met. He's totally had my  back, and because of him, I was able to lower my guard for the first  time in a very long time.

God. I can't believe I ever thought he wasn't a good guy.

"You know this song is like seven minutes long, right?" I point out as we step onto the dance floor.

"I know." His tone is casual. Unaffected. But I have the strangest feeling he's upset about something.

Garrett doesn't plaster his body to mine or try to grind up against me.  Instead, we dance the way I've seen my parents do, with Garrett's hand  on my hip and his other one curled around my right hand. I rest my free  hand on his shoulder, and he leans in closer and presses his cheek to  mine. His stubble is a teasing scratch against my face, bringing goose  bumps to my bare arms. When I take a breath, his woody aftershave fills  my lungs, and a rush of giddy dizziness washes over me.

I don't know what's happening to me. I feel hot and achy and-it's the  alcohol, I assure myself. It has to be. Because Garrett and I agreed  that we're just friends.

"Dean's enjoying himself," I comment, mostly because I'm desperate for a distraction from my out-of-control hormones.

Garrett follows my gaze toward the back booth, where Dean is sandwiched  between two blondes who are very eagerly nibbling on his neck. "Yeah.  Guess so."