This Love Page 2

He inhales, sculpted abs contracting. A sexy rumble filters out along with his departing breath. “Guess some things never change, huh? Just … take the shirt. If we wake the succubus, you’re putting her back down.”

  Shrugging off my purse, I set it and the glass on the table and accept his tee. “The succubus? That’s a new one.” I motion for him to turn away from me, but he doesn’t.

  He simply hooks his thumbs in his beltloops and sends me a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s more flattering than Satan or Countess Bathory.”

  She must have really stung him. Usually, he calls her “Mom,” no matter what she says to get under his skin. “Careful,” I murmur softly. “You’re going to summon her, and then she’ll want us to draw her a bath of virgin blood and the tears of her enemies.”

  “The tears will be easy—the virgin blood, not so much.”

  He’d be surprised. Clearing the uncomfortable scratchiness from my throat, I bow my head at the wall behind him. “Turn around.”

  He faces the painting Monica won at auction a few years ago. I’ve heard the story of how it was a steal—at just under twenty thousand—twenty thousand times. “Christ, Mom has shit taste in art. This looks like a bunch of overlapping dicks.”

  “You sound like Cain.” While the oldest Delaney has lived in California for a while, he was around the day the painting was delivered and had no issue voicing his opinion on the monstrosity.

  “Cain is smart.”

  “Are you kidding? You don’t know taste or intelligence, Bennett, and neither does your brother. It’s a genuine Sam Langely. Just study the use of color and brush strokes on the fourth peen from the top.” He laughs at my horrible attempt at her patented whine. So do I. Taking off my top, I wait until my shoulders stop quaking to say, “You really didn’t have to give me your shirt. I was about to go home anyway.”

  He rolls his broad shoulders. “Why? Not enjoying my company?” He does that thing with his shoulders again, the ripple, and it's hypnotic, delicious. Tattoos cover every inch of space, from just below the blond hair above the nape of his neck to his lower back. That ink? It wasn't there before he left for Duke.

  I would know. I’ve ogled him enough.

  “Vero?”

  Fisting my blouse, I rub the excess liquor off my chest. “You didn’t even know I was here until five minutes ago.”

  “How the fuck could anyone not notice you?” He thumps the pads of his fingers on the painting's gilt frame for several beats, then impatiently demands, “Did you forget how to get dressed?”

  “You didn't have to wait for me, I know how to…”

  He steals the rest of the comment straight from my tongue by glancing back at me. Blue eyes delve down, to the white lace of my strapless bra. And then lower, to where the waistband of my jeans hugs my hips. That’s when his grin wavers.

  Instinctively, I suck in my stomach, but the butterflies fan out, attacking anywhere they can.

  "Trust me, V." He swallows, Adam’s apple dipping. “I don't mind waiting."

  Heat blisters my cheeks, so I yank his shirt on to cover my body from his perusal. Which is silly, I tell myself, considering he’s seen me in a bathing suit.

  “Your back,” I start once I get the nerve to speak to him again. Since there’s no saving my blouse, I toss it to the floor and push it around with my foot to clean the pink droplets on the marble. “You got a tattoo.”

  “Several, in fact. I’m a sucker for drunken dares.” He strides forward, tucking one hand into the front pocket of his jeans. “Mom hasn’t seen them yet or she’d retaliate by fucking one of my friends. But then, she’d do that anyway.”

  “Ben—” I begin, but he cuts me off.

  “Don’t start with the pity.” Heat radiates off his bare chest, and I bask in his warmth. Allow it to pull me in. “I don’t want that from you, never you.”

  For someone who claims not to worry, I can tell from the thickness of his voice he’s thinking about his friends’ reaction to Monica. I wonder if he’ll go back to the party like this. Half-naked. Wearing a dimpled grin and pulling some crazy stunt for their benefit in hopes it will distract them from what happened. When I start to speak, to assure him they’ve all forgotten by now, he repeats, “Don’t, Veronica.”

  He knows me better than I thought. “I wasn’t going to,” I lie and run my tongue from one corner of my lips to the other. “Do you want me to grab you a shirt from your room?”

  “You're not my maid, V, and I don’t want a shirt. I just want to celebrate my new car.” He feathers his knuckles over my collarbone, and I stiffen my spine. “Have a drink.” His fingers inch under the cotton neckline, arousing a sound—a soft, pleading murmur—from my lips. “And pretend we’re ordinary people.”

  For me, it’s never been a game of pretend. Normalcy is my reality.

  My brain finally latches on to what he’s doing. Why he’s touching me. He tugs my long hair from where it’s trapped beneath his shirt. Drops it over my right shoulder, the way I usually wear it. His touch lingers on a pale blonde lock just above my breast, leaving my stomach in tangles and knots.

  “That’s better,” he says, breaking the trance.

  “Yeah. Thanks.” Stumbling away, I grab my shirt from the floor and swipe my brown leather bag off the table. My legs are a pair of shaky twigs while I walk to the elevator. “Come on, Delaney. Let’s get you back to what’s … ordinary.”

  We stand on opposite ends of the small car. All the way down, though, he holds my attention in the polished metal doors. It’s unnerving, what with the way his cologne seems to seep right off his shirt and beneath my skin. When we stop on the first floor, I anxiously rush off.

  He doesn’t follow.

  Veering around, I clap one hand over the door to stop it from closing. “Did you change your mind about the shirt?” I hope so. Liz Jones, his ex-girlfriend, is edging our way, a predatory glint in her eyes. Earlier, I overheard her telling a friend she gave it a week, tops, before she and Bennett were an item again.

  My stomach devours my heart because she undoubtedly overestimated her timeline and will get her heart’s desire tonight.

  “I’m not putting on a shirt. I’m just not in the mood to deal with anymore shit tonight.” The elevator alarm dings, so he strides forward, covering my hand on the door. My fingers spasm beneath his. “There’s a bottle of Cuervo and a rooftop calling my name.”

  “And Liz?” She’s only a few feet away now, chatting loudly with a group of her friends about how she can’t wait to go to Tahiti before returning to Yale this fall. That’s exactly how she talks, too—emphasizing every few words with a complimentary toss of her black hair.

  Bennett slants his eyebrows. “I’m full on crazy, but thanks for the suggestion.” He bends his head to mine. “I’d rather drink by myself than with her.”

  “Don’t do that. This is your party, remember?”

  “And I’ll drink if I want to.” He drops my hand, and for the third time tonight, we’re skin to skin as he adjusts the neckline of his tee shirt. “Don’t want me to do it alone, V?” The pressure of his thumb at the base of my throat robs my lungs of air. “Don’t let me.”

  His eyes probe mine as he backs away. “For what it’s worth, Veronica—” The doors begin to slide together, and he twitches his lips. “—I really fucking hate drinking alone.”

  The doors seal, and I stare back at my reflection. It took all of ten minutes for him to entirely change my appearance. My gray eyes are bewildered, long lashes fluttering over them, and a deep blush skates across my narrow jawline and high cheekbones to paint my pale skin a vibrant shade of pink. My head spins, muscles quiver, so I wrap my arms around my stomach.

  And ask myself what just happened.

  “Where the fuck did he go?” Liz hisses over the blood pumping in my ears and the bass of Outkast’s “B.O.B.” when I shuffle past her.

  “He said he’s tired.”

  “But it’s 11:15 on a Friday night.” She turns t
o her friends to reiterate her complaints, so she doesn’t hear me excuse myself to find Charlotte.

  She’s with Graham, cozied up on the seat that’s been his headquarters all night. There’s a game of Never Have I Ever playing around the coffee table, but they’re not participating. Instead, their heads are together, Graham’s grin illuminating his typically scowling features. With his dark hair and eyes, he looks nothing like Bennett—and very much like their father—except when he does that.

  Their smiles, all the Delaney boys’ smiles, are paralyzing.

  Charlotte motions me over. “Tell me how a guy who hates politics ends up the president of our class.”

  I perch myself on the edge of the chaise, supporting my back on Graham’s long legs. “He’s good at bullshitting?" He knees my side playfully, and I shoot him a sharp look. "Why? What happened?”

  “I told him I was going to be the youngest senator from New York.” I can believe it, Charlotte was top of our graduating class. She’s also the most driven person I’ve ever met, having been offered a full ride scholarship to six out of the eight Ivy Leagues. All while working full-time our senior year. “And then possibly president,” she adds with a wink.

  “Possibly? You sounded so sure of yourself ten minutes ago.” Graham swigs his beer and winces at the light punch she lands on his chest. “She claims she keeps doing that because I don’t have a hard-on for what a bunch of old fucks in Washington are doing. I just think she likes putting her hands all over me.”

  “You never quit with the self-praise, do you?” But I don’t miss the glimmer of excitement in her eyes. He lowers his mouth to her ear and whispers something that visibly tenses her body.

  “No, because I don’t play games I know I won't win,” she cheekily informs him. Smoothing her hand through her shoulder-length brown hair, she nods at my change of attire. “What happened to your shirt?”

  “I spilled my drink.” Gripping the strap of my crossbody purse, I study the mosaic pattern of the floor—gold, ivory and copper, swirling into intricate diamonds and circles. “Bennett gave me his.”

  “That’s my big brother, always chivalrous and shit—first with Monica and then with you.” Graham grins like a fool. “So, what’s he wearing? And does he expect his shirt back tonight or …?”

  “Why don’t you get off your ass and find out?” I retort, and Charlotte laughs before sobering her expression.

  “You’re not ready to leave, are you?” She nibbles on the tip of her thumb. “I mean, I’m ready if you are.” She lives in Queens, too, so it makes sense for us to take a cab together.

  “I—” But my thoughts ping to Bennett. All by himself on the roof terrace. Expecting me to follow him. Standing, I stroke my fingertips over my throat. Where he touched. “No, I think I’ll wait. Do you want me to stay with you?”

  I already know the answer, but I’m relieved she moves her head to either side. And then, before I can stop myself, I’m escaping the party again because of Bennett Delaney.

  He’s sprawled out on the linen and wicker sofa in front of the outdoor fireplace, his forearm draped over his eyes and an unopened fifth of tequila on the terrace floor next to him. At first, I believe he really has fallen asleep—except for the gentle rise and fall of his chest, he’s not moving. When I remove the Eminem CD from the sound system, though, he clears his throat.

  “Not a fan of the musical stylings of Marshall Mathers?”

  “You’re drinking cheap tequila on a roof by yourself. You need a more upbeat soundtrack.”

  “You’re here, so that means I’m not alone. And Cuervo isn’t cheap—it’s practical.” He positions his forearm behind his head, propping himself up to watch me grab another CD from my purse. “Let me guess, The Verve?”

  The Verve. I’m shocked he remembers. Two summers ago, I played “Bittersweet Symphony,” the theme from Cruel Intentions, so many times I had to replace my copy. The memory itself is bittersweet. It was the last trip Mom and I took with the Delaney boys—she was volunteered to go after Monica and Erik bowed out last minute.

  That was also the summer I came to terms with my feelings for Bennett.

  I already loved him—you can’t grow up alongside someone and not care for them deeply—but that summer, those feelings grew. Morphed into something deeper that kept me awake at night, something that was almost agonizing to think about. I no longer just loved Bennett Delaney, I was in love with him.

  Squaring my shoulders, I slip the new disc into the player. “Be honest, you adore The Verve as much as I do.” The first track starts, causing him to shift an eyebrow. “Unfortunately, this is a different group.”

  “And I thought you cringed at boy bands.” His gaze caresses me as I slide onto the sofa with him. Tucking my legs beneath me to hide how they tremble, I toss the album case onto his stomach. He picks it up to examine the cover.

  “Maroon 5. Songs About Jane.” He hands it back to me, grinning as I stuff it in my bag. “You bought this because that’s your middle name, didn’t you?”

  I manage a smile that feels undaunted even though lightning zooms through my body. “I bought it because the music is good. That and I got an employee discount at Ellerby’s.”

  “The music store in Brooklyn?” I nod. “You’re working there?”

  “Just for the summer.” Or until Dad and I figure out how to pay the rest of my tuition to Barnard. My scholarship covers most of it, but I’m five thousand short. I can’t tell Bennett that because he’d never understand. Five thousand dollars is pocket change to his family.

  Scooting into to a sitting position against a tasseled throw pillow, he grabs the Cuervo and opens it. “I don’t know, I just pictured you at a book store or library. Tonight’s the first I’ve ever seen you without a book under your nose or in your bag.”

  “That’s bull and you know it.” But there is a book in my bag—a copy of Erich Segal’s “Love Story.”

  “No, it’s not.” He takes a drag from the bottle before passing it to me. I hesitate. He chuckles. “You don’t have to if you’re scared.”

  “Screw you, Delaney.” I snatch the tequila from him and take a sip, barely maintaining a straight face. The liquor has burnt a hole in my throat, I’m sure of it. “See, I didn’t even spill any on myself.”

  “Shame because I’m all out of shirts to give.” He eases closer to pluck the tequila from my fingers. He tilts it to his lips, gaze zeroed in on me the entire time, even when a helicopter passes overhead. I flinch at the sounds of its blades slicing the air, but he doesn’t blink. “I’m glad you stayed for me.”

  “Who said I did it for you?”

  He twists his body to mine, sinking the cushion beneath us. “You didn’t?” I shake my head. He inches a little closer. “Just like you didn’t come upstairs to check on me?”

  My pulse stutters. “I came upstairs for Monica, remember?”

  “That’s right. My mother, whom you love so dearly.” He’s so near I can see the flames from the fire reflected in his eyes. So damn close I taste the tequila on his tongue when it moves. “Guess I should thank whoever it is you stayed for—even if I envy the bastard.”

  My lips part. “What do you mean, en—?”

  “There you are, baby!” A shrill, unwelcome voice rips us apart, but he still holds me captive, from my stare to my breath, a second longer.

  Eyes squeezing into thin slits, he groans. “She always knows when to fuck up my night.” He glares across the roof at Liz and a gaggle of her followers. They’re headed in our direction, glasses in hand as they drown out my favorite track—“This Love”—with their rendition of Kylie Minogue’s “Can’t Get You Out of My Head.”

  Once again, my heart drowns in my stomach.

  Bennett’s lips sink into a taut line that only breaks when he downs another drink straight from the bottle. “We’re going to need more tequila.”

  CHAPTER 3

  VERONICA

  Needles. Hundreds of them. Stabbing relentlessly into my
skull. I flop over onto my stomach, muttering into my pillow that smells like clean linen and citrus. I attempt to piece together everything that happened last night, but the clang of metal and music—“Move Bitch”—makes it difficult.

  There was the party. I decided, last minute, to go with Charlotte because she was dying to experience one of the fabled Delaney parties firsthand. Bennett had touched me. So many times, my flesh is still feverish from the memory. His lips were centimeters from mine on the rooftop of his family’s penthouse, but then Liz and her friends showed up—along with more booze and a seemingly endless game of “Up the River, Down the River.”

  And, for the first time in my life, I had gotten drunk.

  Which will never happen again since I’m paying for it now. I pat around for the glass of water I always keep on my nightstand, but my hand catches nothing but air.

  “Dad,” I croak, squishing the pillow around my ears to muffle the sounds that refuse to quit. The songs he normally plays is a mix of artists like Earth, Wind, and Fire and Hall & Oates and the Eagles—the music he grew up listening to in the sixties and seventies. He’s picked a terrible time to blast Ludacris telling everyone to get the fuck out of his way.

  “Dad, can you please turn it down?”

  The metal jangles one more time, then the volume diminishes, replaced by muted male laughter. The tiny hairs on the nape of my neck stand on end.

  That’s not my dad’s laugh, not even remotely close.

  My eyes fly open, and the breath whooshes from my lungs, choking me. This isn’t my tiny bed either. This is a king-sized platform, positioned in the center of a bedroom that’s so large, I could fit my cramped room inside it five or six times. I scramble to sit up, the throbbing in my skull forgotten as I dart my eyes around.

  This is all painfully familiar. From the luxurious Egyptian cotton sheets, to the brown upholstered accent wall behind me. It matches the covering on the custom bench at the foot of the bed and ties in with the overall theme of the three-room suite—ivory and bronze opulence. The only thing out of place, other than myself, is the blue and white duffel bag. It’s lying on the floor by the half-open pocket doors on the far end of the room, the Duke University mascot staring back at me. When the double doors glide open, a Nike connects with the bag and kicks it out of the way.