So why in the hell do I feel like a flustered mess who knows I definitely made an ass out of myself in that stupid lecture with Hawkin?
And why do I even care?
I groan out in frustration knowing full well the mistake I made.
How I told Hawkin I was his TA when I have no desire to see him again. My plans were to hoof it across campus back to Carla’s office and tell her no way in hell I was going back—so why am I sitting in my car instead?
And why did I give the upper hand I battled for away so easily with that stupid parting statement? I basically implied I’ll be sitting here next week with bells on waiting to assist him in any way possible.
Now I’m just being dramatic.
I groan in frustration because I damn well know that I made a mental slip with my comment, but I’m pretty damn sure parts of me secretly wanted the chance to assist him in all sorts of ways.
I’m so frustrated with myself, especially since my mind won’t stop envisioning him, smirk on his lips, challenge in his eyes, or the rough edge to his pretty-boy looks. I swore off men. Told myself I needed a break, that I needed to focus on my thesis rather than getting hurt again, so why am I sitting here thinking about him? I stare at the ceiling for a moment in an attempt to convince myself that there’s no shame in being attracted to him, in wondering about the sound of his voice and if he talks dirty in bed. None of that matters because he’s an asshole and I may be drawn to the bad boys but they are not mutually exclusive.
Acknowledging that he gets me hot and bothered doesn’t mean that I still can’t drop the class.
Time to pull on my big-girl panties and go tell Carla I can’t do this. Save yourself from yourself.
Pep talk in place I put my hand on the handle of the car door and look up before I open it to see Hawkin and his friend whose seat I took walking about twenty feet in front of me down the row of cars. My breath hitches and I tell myself it’s just because I’m surprised at seeing him there.
And of course I sit and stare, observe without him knowing. Take in the faded jeans worn in all the right places, the black T-shirt tight on his biceps with a Rolling Stones emblem on the front, and the black combat boots. I watch him push the brown hair off his forehead and smile that lopsided smirk that makes parts within me clench that shouldn’t be clenching.
He throws his head back and laughs, obviously at ease with the guy who accompanied him to the lecture. I take a closer look at his friend, as Hawke’s physical presence is far enough removed that I can pay attention to something other than him. Then my thoughts snap into line and I recall vague tabloid images of the band to realize that it’s Vincent Jennings, Bent’s bassist.
I watch them a few more minutes as they laugh. Hawkin pulls out a bag of Skittles and pours them straight into his mouth, and I just grin at the little-boy gesture in a grown man. They bump fists a couple of times before I notice the bodyguards not far behind. Just as I’m sinking into the idea that he might not be too much of an asshole, that I was overreacting to being called out, I watch two female students wearing their sorority letters approach them.
I’m immediately conflicted because a part of me wants to watch the exchange while another larger part doesn’t want to because I already know deep down that I’m going to be jealous.
And the notion that I even care pisses me off, but in true female form, I can’t bring myself to look away.
The girls giggle and flirt as they introduce themselves. Hair is twirled, eyelashes are batted, and backs are suddenly arched so that tits are front and center between them and the men. I roll my eyes at the sight, then narrow my gaze when that lopsided grin tugs up Hawkin’s mouth in a way that makes him the perfect combination of sheepish and wolfish. As he signs something for the sample-size brunette with boobs proportionate to a Barbie doll’s, I watch her make her move.
She reaches out to touch the cuff of his shirt on his bicep. He hands her back her pen and then laughs as he pulls up the sleeve of his shirt so she can see the tattoo she’s obviously asked about. I cringe when her hands immediately reach out to trace the ink that I can’t see because she’s now blocking my line of sight. I shift my gaze to Hawkin’s face, watch him watch her coo over his tat.
“It’s just ink, honey. Got a pen in your backpack with some don’t you? Get over it already,” I mumble, knowing damn well I want to know what the tattoo design is. And before I finish saying the words, she’s lifting up his shirt to see if there is another tattoo there. “Brazen little hussy.”
I grit my teeth at the sight of her hands touching as much of his bare skin as she can while he just grins at her—and Vince is equally occupied with the other way too perky Delta Sig girl. Seconds turn to minutes and before much time passes, Hawkin’s arm is around Barbie’s shoulder and the four of them are walking somewhere off campus.
By the time they disappear, his hand has conveniently slid down her back and is resting comfortably on the curve of her ass.
Shaking my head, I start telling myself I shouldn’t be surprised, can’t be angry at what I’d already pegged him for. Once a player always a player.
Time to go visit Carla.
“Ugly Heart” plays through the speakers as I flop back on my couch, research notes scattered all around the table in front of me and the cushions beside me. I hum along, trying to decipher my scribble that made perfect sense when I took the notes but now seems like a jumble of incomprehensible mishmash.
It doesn’t help that my talk with my adviser was fruitless. Every attempt to explain the exact reason why I couldn’t assist Hawkin’s seminar fell on deaf ears until the conversation ended with the one word everyone dreads hearing: Don’t disappoint me, Quinlan.