Page 26 of Beyond the Lines (Pine Barren University #1)

fifteen

LEA

I rush past the woman who’d been banging on the bathroom door and head for the fire exit, moving like the whole library is on fire. It may as well be, because the white-hot humiliation burning through me would put any regular fire to shame.

No one can see me like this. No one.

As I stumble away from my bad decisions, the fluorescent library lights feel like spotlights tracking my every stumble. Mascara tears have turned my face into a Rorschach test of bad decisions. The hickey forming on my neck feels like a brand.

A scarlet letter.

H for Horrible Judgment .

But still my body still pulses with the ghost of pleasure even as my thoughts scream in protest. With every step, my mind helpfully reminds me of Declan’s hands, his mouth, the things I let him do, the things I’d still probably be letting him do if we hadn’t been interrupted.

And the things I did to him .

Oh god!

The taste of him lingers, salty and unfamiliar.

My phone vibrates in my bag. I ignore it, knowing it’s him.

I push through the emergency exit door, ignoring the sign that claims an alarm will sound—Em had told me that the Pine Barren security team disabled those years ago after too many false alarms, most of them perpetrated by the hockey team—and the concrete stairwell is cold and quiet as I flee downward.

My reflection flashes in a small window—smudged mascara, swollen lips, and pupils still dilated—and I decide I look wrecked.

Thoroughly, utterly wrecked. By the guy who lied to me—the first time I opened up to someone just a little bit after Chris destroyed me—and who tore my art apart in front of an entire class.

By the guy whose taste still fills my mouth.

I reach the bottom of the stairs, hit the crash bar on the exit door, and launch myself into the hallway, only to collide with what feels like a brick wall covered in flannel.

I tumble to the ground as Brick Wall Guy doesn’t move an inch, though he does me the favor of showering me with the books he’d been carrying.

“Jesus! Watch—” The guy’s voice trails off, and I know exactly why. “Lea?”

Fuck. My. Life.

The universe isn’t just laughing at me; it’s doubled over in hysterics, pointing and cackling like the schoolyard bully. But there’s no escaping it, so I let out a sigh that sounds suspiciously like a sob as my gaze travels upward and locks onto the familiar eyes of my brother.

As he takes in my appearance with growing alarm, Mike’s annoyance shifts to surprise then concern so quickly I can practically hear the gears grinding. “Lea?—”

“Sorry! Wasn’t looking!” My voice sounds unnaturally high and brittle as I avoid the obvious question, like a helium-filled balloon about to pop.

His eyes narrow as I immediately begin to gather his books, grateful for any excuse not to face him directly. Maybe if I move fast enough, I can hand everything back and escape before he processes what he’s seeing and who I would likely have been meeting with in the library.

“Leanndra, look at me.” Mike kneels beside me, his hand catching my arm. “Are you… crying?

The touch sends a bolt of panic through me, and I jerk away instinctively. “I’m fine,” I say, stuffing a book into his arms. “Just… allergies. Library dust. You know.”

“Bullshit, Lea.” Mike’s voice is low, dangerous. “Tell me what happened? Who did this to you?”

The protective edge in his tone makes me want to crawl into a hole and die. My brother has always been my defender, my protector. The one who checked under my bed for monsters when I was six. The one who put me back together when Chris broke me.

I know he’d jump in front of a train for me, kill anyone who hurt me or die trying, or stand there while I cry my heart out for hours and not complain. But now I’m kneeling on the cold floor, reeking of sex (with his teammate!), the taste of said teammate still coating my tongue.

“Nothing happened.” I gather the last of his notebooks, my hands visibly trembling. “I just… I have to go, Mike. Let’s catch up for bagels tomorrow?—”

Mike catches my chin, tilting my face up to his, cutting me off. The gesture is gentle but firm—big brother mode fully activated. His eyes scan my face, lingering on my swollen lips before dropping to my neck, and I watch as comprehension dawns.

“That’s not from crying.” He points to the mark on my neck, his voice disturbingly calm. “Did someone do something to you? Did they hurt you?”

The irony of the situation hits me like a punch to the gut; the “someone” he’s worried about, that he’s ready to fight for me, is his teammate, his friend, and the person he trusts most on the ice.

But hurt ?

I’m not so sure.

I don’t really know what it was, or how I feel.

But I’m not sure it’s hurt .

“No one! Nothing!” I blurt out, scrambling to my feet, clutching my backpack to my chest like a shield. I force a smile. “I’m fine, Mike. Really. I’ll text you later.”

I don’t wait for his response. I can’t. If I stay another second, he’ll see through me completely. He’s known me too long not to recognize when I’m lying through my teeth, and as I push through the double doors into the crisp air, I can feel his gaze on my back.

I sprint across the quad as if being chased by my poor choices. Thankfully, the campus is quiet. That means fewer witnesses to my walk of shame. I keep my head down anyway, praying I don’t run into anyone else I know, because one mortifying encounter per day is my limit, thanks.

My phone buzzes again in my pocket. I don’t need to look to know it’s Declan. I ignore it, not quite ready to litigate what happened with him, and not even sure what he’d say to me right now.

Hey, thanks for sucking me off in a public bathroom …

My cock. In you. Tomorrow. Deal?

God, I gave him a blow job. In a bathroom . A public bathroom. The kind of place normal people avoid touching anything except what’s required to pee and escape. Yet I’d knelt on that floor, swallowed as much of his ample cock as I could, and let him blow in my mouth …

The worst part?

Some dirty corner of my mind is already replaying it in glorious HD, remembering how he tasted, the sounds he made, and the way his eyes never left mine. It was as delicious controlling him like that—bringing him undone—as it was having him between my legs.

Argh! My mind screams. Stop!

My dorm comes into view, and I’ve never been so grateful for its ugly red brick facade. I flash my ID at the security desk without making eye contact, because I know every judgment the guard is making without needing to look, and then bolt for the stairs.

Three flights later, I’m in my room, and the moment the door closes behind me, I lock it. I take three long, steadying breaths, glad—for the first time ever —that Em isn’t around, because I just need a moment.

Or a day.

Or maybe a few months.

I head for my bed, climb in, and pull the covers up over my head, lost in a maelstrom of my own conflicting thoughts. This isn’t me. I don’t hook up with guys in bathrooms. I don’t betray my brother’s trust. I don’t fall for guys who lie to me and criticize my art in front of everyone.

Except, apparently, I do.

Because, underneath the shame and fear and confusion, there’s something else I’m trying to ignore. A warm, pulsing feeling that has nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with the way Declan touched me. The way he looked at me. The words he said about my art.

But how can I trust any of that?

What if he’s just saying what he thinks will get me to forgive him.

To sleep with him.

Guys always do.

But what do I even know about what kind of guy Declan is? Am I judging him too harshly because he plays hockey? Chris had been charming too, and he’d said all the right things, looked at me like I was the only girl in the world, taken me to bed, and treated me like his queen…

Until I wasn’t.

A sob escapes me, followed by another. I bury my face in my pillow, but there’s no stopping the hot tears that spill down my cheeks. “Fucking hell, Lea,” I say.

This is ridiculous. I’ve known Declan for a few weeks and, in that time, we’ve had exactly one real conversation, one fiery art class, one awkward art project meeting, and… whatever the hell that was.

So why the hell am I so worked up about this guy?

I press my hands to my eyes, willing the tears to stop, but they keep coming.

Not just for what happened today, but for everything—for Chris, for the trust I’ve lost, for the girl I used to be before I knew how easily someone could shatter me, and for the hope I’d had about college being different and about me being different.

The girl who walked on campus and the girl lying on this bed feel like different people. One bold and reckless, ready to attack a new year, fresh from healing a broken heart, and ready to take on the world. The other messy and debauched and confused.

And worst of all, there’s part of me that already wants more.

Of him.

Of that.

I spend an eternity under the covers, lost in my misery, until eventually I register the sound of a key in the lock. I freeze, holding my breath as if that might somehow make me invisible, even as the door creaks open, bringing with it Em’s typically exuberant entrance.

“Professor Yamada said the most hilarious thing about jazz dancers, which I didn’t know was possible because dance jokes are usually so?—”

Em’s chatter cuts off, and I can picture her perfectly—eyes scanning the room and landing on the me-shaped lump under the covers. There’s a beat of silence, and I consider pretending to be asleep, but it’s no use because Em has some kind of sixth sense for emotional crises.

“Lea?” Her voice is uncharacteristically soft as her footsteps approach my bed. “Are you OK?”

“Mmhmm,” I mumble into my pillow.

The edge of my bed dips as she sits. “I can literally see your body shaking under there.”

“I’m cold,” I say, my voice catching on the obvious lie.

Em sighs. “I don’t know who you think you’re fooling, but it’s not me.”