Dolce (Love at Center Court #2) (10 page)

Between the memory of the first movie and the tentative swipe of my fingers, my heart pumped faster. As my body began to tighten and then fracture, green eyes and stubbly cheeks came to mind. Thoughts of messy blond hair floated through my rattled brain, became my focus. I wondered what it would be like to run my fingers through that hair, to weave my red-painted nails through his mussed locks.

My breath came in short pants as visions of Blane Steele attacked every one of my cells.

One day, a man would think of me like that. And I would attack every one of his cells with my passion for life and my smile. It was a good smile. A bright one, according to my dad.

But that man wouldn’t be Blane Steele. I’d told him I couldn’t be responsible for fucking up his current season or upcoming deal, but the truth was I couldn’t fuck with my own heart like that.

Even as buddies.

Catie

F
riday started with the last and final discussion of the porn fest with Stanwick. I couldn’t take another second of dissecting those movies. If we weren’t looking at still photos of the bondage one, the man whipping a tied and trapped woman, her face painted with a look of sheer ecstasy, we were chatting about the cop.

The first gave me a pit in my stomach. I didn’t even enjoy the idea behind it or that it actually happened in bedrooms. The latter made me ache in ways I didn’t care to admit.

When class was finished, I tried to make a beeline for the exit, but Stanwick stopped me.

“Caterina?” she called from behind the lectern. Her voice was as uptight as her look, with her hair pulled up into a bun, small readers perched on her perfect nose, and a fitted suit hugging her lithe body.

“Yes?” Wary, I held in place, not wanting to approach.

“Come here, please,” she said as she beckoned me.

Taking my time, I trudged down the stairs to the front of the lecture hall as if I were walking the plank, and I sort of was. She’d probably seen me with Blane on Tuesday night, and wanted to make an issue of it.

“Caterina, who was that boy here earlier in the week? I called the paper and they said there was no such article, so naturally I was concerned. Fortunately, I saw the two of you leave together.”

“Um, I tripped and ran into him—”

“Enough of that. I know who he is. Remember, I have a son on this campus. That was Blane Steele, and I want to know how he knew where to find the movie seminar.”

“He was curious. I don’t know him well. I ran into him and it slipped out in conversation, and then he wanted all the details.” My mouth ran like verbal diarrhea, every last detail purging straight from my lips.

“I see. And when you left, what did he say?”

“Honestly, not much.”

She gave me the stink eye over her readers. “Caterina, I hope you’re not falling for that boy. I know the type, and no good can come from it. Especially for a girl like you.”

What the heck is that supposed to mean . . . a girl like me?

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Don’t get involved. I did once, and look what it got me. A son your age and no man to help, but this isn’t about me. You have brains and the power to stay on course. Stay focused, Catie. Don’t be a lamb going to slaughter. Don’t let him ruin your life.”

“I don’t like him like that, Professor Stanwick,” I lied. “We barely know each other. I appreciate you looking out for me, but I didn’t realize we were this close.”

She laughed, loudly and boldly. It rang throughout the now empty lecture hall. “I see everything that goes on in my class and my department. You are my business. I’m graduating future female leaders, not love-struck temptresses who date jocks.”

“Um . . .” Stunned, I lost my words. I couldn’t make a sentence if I tried.

“Besides, according to my son, Steele is off the market.”

“Yes, he certainly is. Thank you for the warning, but I’m all good.”

“You can go now, but know I’m watching, Caterina.”

And like that, I was dismissed.

I ran back to my room as fast as my short legs would allow, tore off my leggings and sweatshirt, pulled up my hair in a messy bun, wrapped myself in a towel, and hit the shower across the hall.

After a quick rinse off, I padded back to my room and dressed to go to the music fest. I put on jeans and ankle boots, hoisted my boobs into a navy racer-back bra, and slipped on a layered shirt—the bottom was a black camisole covered by red lace.

In front of my small mirror, I ran my fingers through my curls with a little bed-head solution. There was no way it was going to cooperate and lay flat, so I went for the opposite look. I dipped my finger into a few pots of eye shadow and made my eyes look smoky and sensual, and then lined them in black liner before adding a healthy dose of mascara.

Hey, I was from New Jersey, not Kansas.

I grew up on my mom blaring Springsteen and Bon Jovi, and I might be all about equality for women, but in my world . . . this was how women dressed. In fact, in high school, I’d secretly dreamed one of the Jonas Brothers picked me out of millions of girls who asked for any one of them to go to their prom. In reality, I went with Billy Reynolds as friends, but a girl can dream.

Sonny might be forcing me to stay behind the scenes, but I didn’t go out much and this was the music fest. It was a big deal in the middle of central Ohio where there was nothing to do, and it was something I could legally go to and have fun. There would be a roped-off area for legal drinkers, but the main drag, College Avenue, would be closed for everyone else to enjoy the music and food.

As a final touch, I spritzed myself with Marc Jacobs Water Perfume, a Christmas gift from Clara. Then I grabbed my backpack purse and went to meet Tess.

As I approached her door, she stepped out in worn and ragged skinny jeans, a tight white long-sleeved T-shirt that emphasized her cleavage, an Army-green jacket left open, and high-topped Chucks. Her hair was a wild blond mane. She looked like Manhattan, which was where she came from, the Upper West Side. Her parents were new money, but she tried to look like sexy grunge.

“Hey, girl! Look at you,” she said with pink-glossed lips.

I touched my own lips and realized I forgot lipstick.

“Wait! I have the perfect color for you,” Tess said without missing a beat. She opened her door and came back with a tube of fire-engine red lipstick.

“No way!”

“Way,” she said, grabbing my cheeks and swiping some on my mouth, coloring perfectly inside the lines.

I peeked inside her door at the mirror and gave her a dirty look. “I look like a Robert Palmer girl from the nineties.”

“No, you look hot. Marlboro, New Jersey, hot.”

“That’s not the look I’m going for. I need Sonny to take me seriously, and I don’t want to be thought of as some sex symbol.”
Did I?

“You’re perfect. Let’s go.” Tess grabbed my arm and dragged me to the stairs and out the building.

We hit the chilled air, and I considered a jacket but ditched the idea. I would warm up from moving around and dancing. And maybe I would have a drink. Surely someone would sneak me one.

Tess rambled on about Ryan and his food-truck entrepreneurial spirit, and wasn’t he so hot?

But I was only listening with half an ear, worried that I was having a schizophrenic break, which I knew happened to people in their late teens and early twenties. I couldn’t stop myself from exploring the possibility that I was cracking up.

My life goal was to be the voice of women’s angst everywhere, yet here I was trotting to a music fest dressed like a sex kitten and wanting to drink, dance, and maybe get laid.

Again, that last part I couldn’t help, what with my Jersey upbringing and all. It was in the tap water.

But the drinking and the visions of myself dirty dancing? I’d spent the better part of the last five years offended by my mom, disgusted with my sisters, and repressed when it came to my own desires. And why? Because women like Stanwick told us as feminists we should repress our sexuality and focus on being like men.

Who thought about sex more than men?

Me—right now.
What the fuck?

I smiled to myself. I even swore in my thoughts. I’d bet Blane would laugh at that.

And there I was thinking about him again, the guy I’d run away from earlier in the week.

“Okay, there’s Ryan,” Tess said. “I gotta run. Come by later.”

Apparently I’d missed the entire walk and conversation. We’d made it to the foot of College Avenue where it ran into the other main thoroughfare through campus, and Tess hurried over to a rainbow-painted food truck. The van looked more like the piece of crap in
Scooby-Doo
than a restaurant on wheels.

I closed my eyes tightly for a moment and tried to center myself. I breathed in deeply and let out a long breath, ridding myself of anything sexual before I headed toward the radio station’s setup. Sonny was standing behind the DJ tables, earphones cockeyed on his head as he flirted with a gaggle of blond girls. All of them were hanging over the table, purring compliments and taking selfies.

“I’m here,” I said as I sneaked up behind him.

“Look who it is . . . my intern. Ladies, if you’ll excuse me, I have to put this one to work.”

I glared at him. “I think it’s time you quit that, Sonny. Seriously.”

“It’s Mr. Boots to you.”

“No, it’s not. You’re going to respect me as a person.”

I wasn’t sure if it was the crowd in the distance or just the comfort of the public space that gave me a backbone, but I wasn’t letting him bully me anymore.

“What? You put on a red ho top and grow a set?” Sonny peered up at me with blue eyes surrounded by ridiculously long lashes, which complemented his perfectly coiffed bed head. If he weren’t such a pig, he’d be cute.

“That too. Cut it out. Now, tell me what to do since I don’t have a speaking role.”

“Oh, I think you’re gonna get on the mic this weekend. This is too rich, this banter. But in the meantime, babe, go flaunt your bad self over by the giveaways table and entice people over. The guys are gonna go nuts for that shirt.”

“Why don’t you put it on, babe?” I sneered.

“A, because red isn’t my color. B, I don’t want to attract the guys. And C, you should’ve shown this fire weeks ago, girl. Stop being such a hermit and come out of your shell. I think you may have a chance.”

Speechless, I simply stared at him for a moment.

Holy shit. A compliment from the shock jock.

I’d been busy for hours. The giveaway table never let up. Music blared from the stage as all the local bands got a turn to play for the audience.

Now that night had totally fallen, Sonny was going on and on about the evening’s main act taking the stage. Dirty Soul was a local band that had gone big-time after signing a record deal with a national label. They also had a female lead singer who played the electric violin, Carrie Stanford.

I liked them, and would have wanted to meet them or her. As of yesterday, I wouldn’t have asked Sonny. In my newfound assertive state, I was prepping to go over to ask when I heard a deep voice.

“Hey, coffee girl.”

I turned to find Ashton Denube standing alongside the table. He was wearing a dark gray Nike T-shirt, filling out every inch of cotton, and low-hanging jeans. His eyes jumped with curiosity as he waited for me to answer him.

“Um, hi!” I said, forcing a bright smile to my face. “You want a prize or something?”

“Nah, just saw you standing here and thought I’d come say hey.”

“Catie,” I said, reintroducing myself and pointing at my chest like a cavewoman.

“Right, with a
C
.”

I laughed. “Yeah, with a
C
. So, you having fun?”

“Nah, this isn’t really my kind of music, but the chick from Mean Beans asked me. And I’m a sucker for her. You like them?” He bumped his chin toward the stage.

“I do.”

“Your guy is here, getting food. I’m going to send him your way.”

“Who?”

“Really?” He chuckled. “Blane, silly girl.”

“He’s not my guy.”

“He might have this crazy bet going on, but you should’ve seen the jerk when you came on the radio. He kept shushing us all. You’re definitely his girl.”