Inhaling the now-familiar smell of him, I dragged my fingers across the words and designs on his skin as he kissed me, banishing my shrill pang of conscience to a distant drone.
Chapter 23
“So where’s…” Benji’s voice trailed off when I glanced at him, and he finished his sentence with a quick head angle toward Lucas’s unoccupied seat and a characteristic eyebrow waggle.
“It’s final review day, so he doesn’t have to be here.”
“Ah.” He smiled, leaning over the arm of his desk and lowering his voice. “So… since you know that bit of inside info, and you two left class together the last couple of days… can I assume that somebody’s getting a little private tutoring now?” When I pinned my lips together, he snorted a laugh, held up a fist and sing-songed, “Nailed it!”
Rolling my eyes, I bumped his knuckles with mine, knowing he’d hold his fist aloft between us until I did. “God, Benji. You’re such a bro-it-all.”
He grinned, eyes wide. “Woman, if I was straight, I would steal you from him so hard.”
We laughed and prepared to take macroeconomics notes for the last time.
“Hey, Jacqueline.” Kennedy slid into the empty seat next to me and Benji gave him a narrow-eyed stare that he didn’t deign to notice. “I wanted to give you a heads up.” He sat sideways in the desk, facing me, keeping his voice low. “The disciplinary committee decided to let him stay on campus for the next week, as long as he abides by the restrictions of the restraining orders—because he’s pled innocent, and because there’s only a week left in the semester. He has to vacate the premises as soon as finals are over, though.”
I already knew Buck was out on bail, and that he’d been served the temporary restraining order on Thursday afternoon—Chaz had called Erin to tell her, and she’d passed the information to me, as well as to Mindi and her parents.
“Awesome. So he’s staying in the house?” We’d all hoped he would be kicked off campus, but administration was embracing an innocent-until-proven-guilty stance.
“Yeah, for the next week, but then he’s gone. The frat doesn’t have to be as impartial as university officials do.” He smiled. “Apparently D.J. saw the light after Katie told him off. Dean finally agreed. Letting Buck stay for finals week was the only compromise they made—and he’s only allowed to go to his scheduled finals and back.” Laying his warm hand over mine, he stared into my eyes. “Is there… is there anything I can do?”
I knew my ex well enough to know what he was actually asking, but there was no second chance for him in my heart. That place was filled, but even if it hadn’t been, I was sure that I’d rather be alone than be with someone who could desert me as he’d done. Twice. I withdrew my hand into my lap. “No, Kennedy. There isn’t. I’m fine.”
He sighed and shifted his gaze from my face to his knees. Nodding, he looked at me one last time, and I was both gratified and saddened to see the full realization of what we’d lost in his familiar green eyes. Standing to go to his seat, he excused himself to edge past my late-arriving neighbor who, for once, had nothing to say about her weekend plans.
***
Freshman year weeded out musicians who’d ruled their high school orchestra, band, or choir without a lot of practice—the ones who came to college believing themselves to be above mundane technical proficiencies like scales and internals, let alone music theory. Most music majors were devoted to perfecting our skills, so we spent hours a week practicing—often hours a day. Nothing was ever perfect enough to risk slacking off.
I’d come to campus a little spoiled. At home, I’d practiced whenever I wanted to; mom and dad had never limited me, though admittedly, I was reasonable in my practice times. Unable to keep my furniture-sized bass in my dorm room, I had to procure a locker for it in the music building and schedule booth times to play. I quickly learned that evening spots went fast; though the building was open nearly 24/7, I didn’t want to trudge across campus at 2 a.m. to practice.
Scheduling jazz ensemble rehearsals was even more of a pain. Beginning freshman year, we met two or three times a week. Recently, it had become obvious why Sunday morning studio reservations were easy to get: Sunday was hangover day for much of the student body, and fine arts majors weren’t immune. By halfway through the fall semester, most of us had skipped Sunday morning rehearsal once or twice. What worked freshman year wouldn’t work at all by the time we were juniors.
Just before the peer recital began on Friday night, I reiterated to one of our horn players why I couldn’t make the hastily assembled last-minute rehearsal on Saturday morning, even though our performance was that evening. “I have a class tomorrow—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Your self-defense class. Fine. If we suck tomorrow night, it’s on you.” Henry was undeniably gifted, as if he’d been born with a saxophone in his long-fingered hands. His pompous attitude backed by genuine skill, he usually intimidated the hell out of all of us. In that moment, though, I was tired of him being an ass.
“That’s bullshit, Henry.” I glowered at him as he slouched smugly on the other side of Kelly, our pianist, who’d opted to stay out of the argument. “I only missed one rehearsal the entire semester.”
He shrugged. “But it’s about to be two, isn’t it?”
Before I could reply, the recital began. I sat back in my seat, gritting my teeth. I was as much of a serious musician as anyone else in our group, but Saturday was the last self-defense class, the culmination of everything we’d learned. It was important.