By Referral Only Page 5

  I made sure to knock, even though it was my own damn door and it wasn’t locked. Emilie and I had never instituted a tie-on-the-doorknob policy. Boys were technically not allowed above the first floor of the house, and with all of the alumna advisors milling around downstairs, my roommate had taken a sharp right into daring.

  A couple of grunts, followed by some giggles and hushed curses, followed my knock. Emilie flung open the door, her hair a little out of place and her cheeks pink. “Why on earth are you knocking on our door, doofus? Come in.”

  I peered around her, taking a hesitant step inside, and spotted Quinn lounging on the edge of Em’s bed. He looked as drop-dead gorgeous and put together as ever—the perfectly cut suit and slightly crooked ice blue tie certainly didn’t hurt matters—and gave me a slight smile and a wave.

  “Hey, Ruby.”

  “Hmm.” Quinn and I had come to an unspoken alliance last summer, brokered by our mutual adoration for Emilie, but he’d been such an ass before then that part of me hated to like him.

  “How’s the illicit website business?”

  “I had to tell him, Rubes. He wouldn’t stop checking it. It was obnoxious.”

  “Quinn being obnoxious? I don’t believe it.” I threw her a smile and a small head shake so she knew I wasn’t mad. There had been zero chance she’d keep anything from Quinn.

  “It’s good. Over a hundred ratings in two weeks. Maybe some girls will actually have positive dating experiences this semester, all thanks to little ol’ me.”

  “Maybe. You know the reason this won’t work is because you’re girls, though, right?”

  Emilie gave him a look, and Quinn held up his hands, falling silent. She continued to stare him down, and I hid a smile at how easily my five-foot-three roommate managed to cow her hulking ex-pro athlete boyfriend with such ease.

  “Guys do shit like this all the time, Quinn. Hell, Facebook was started by a bunch of nerds who never got laid running March Madness-style brackets with the girls at Harvard. Why shouldn’t Ruby let us refer the guys who deserve it? At least we’re basing it on real experiences and not looks.”

  Quinn stood up, a grin cracking his handsome face, and slung an arm around Em’s neck, snuggling her into his side. He kissed the top of her head as she struggled loose, still trying but failing to look pissed. “You see why I fell for this beautiful sorpresita, Ruby? She referenced getting laid and basketball in the same sentence. She is a gem. A gem.”

  As he looked down into Emilie’s face, an expression of genuine wonder, with a splash of gratitude, replaced his cocky grin. She stretched up on her toes and slung her arms around his neck, kissing him with more ardor and for longer than made me comfortable, but for some reason it was hard to look away.

  I had told Quinn last summer that they were perfect for each other, that they just fit somehow, like pieces of a puzzle. It was even easier to see when they were together.

  The thought sprung to my mind that Liam and I weren’t like that. Being with him wasn’t uncomfortable, and he turned me on and everything, but it wasn’t like a lock and a key. I didn’t miss him when we weren’t together. My heart didn’t leap when my phone buzzed with a text.

  Out of nowhere, Cole Stuart’s mossy eyes sprang to mind, confident and keen. He’d managed to speed up my heart with a dry kiss and a smile.

  I shook my head and banished that nonsense. For one, I didn’t even know the guy. He’d picked up my pencil in class and played opposite me for a two-minute scene. It didn’t matter that his low ratings made me curious, or the way he’d been so quick to insist he was no hero intrigued me.

  Or the fact that I hadn’t been more tempted to throw out my rules since freshman year.

  Liam might not be Mr. Right, but he fit the bill for Mr. Right Now. I’d had a crush on him for months and we were finally headed somewhere. He would never be the lock to my key, but that was okay.

  None of that had anything to do with Cole.

  “Okay, you guys. I’m not in the mood to clean up my own vomit.”

  They pulled apart, both still looking a little dazed, like they didn’t know how they got here. They needed help focusing, and so did I.

  “Quinn, what do you mean, the website isn’t going to work because we’re women?”

  His previous statement hadn’t been snarky or contemptuous; actually, I’d found that, in a strange way, Quinn had a lot of respect for women.

  There were certainly girls at Whitman who would disagree with me, but he never pulled any punches. Quinn didn’t act as though we were too fragile to get up if he knocked us down. In a perverted, backward, dumbshit and totally Quinn way, his treatment of women displayed inherent belief in our equal strength.

  He cast a nervous glance at Emilie, then shrugged. “Just that you’re not capable of separating sex from feelings. It’s not a bad thing. It’s biology. So the ratings on your site, they’re going to be tainted by other factors than simply performance.”

  “You’d definitely say that if you saw some of your horrible ratings that I’ve been holding back because you’re dating my best friend.”

  It didn’t seem to faze him. “Exactly. I mean, obviously those girls did not go away unsatisfied, physically.”

  “Obviously,” I echoed dryly.

  “So, they’re rating me low or clicking no on the referral because they didn’t like what happened afterward, or they wanted a relationship and I didn’t—”

  “Or you tricked them into falling for you so you could win a bet.”

  “Ruby.” Emilie’s reproachful tone nudged my conscience.

  “No, she’s right, doll. I was an asshole to a lot of girls, and plenty of them have a reason to hate me, but that’s not supposed to be what your website—which I think is brilliant in concept, by the way—is supposed to be about.”

  “What can I do about it?”

  “Nothing. It’s like communism. A great fucking concept, but it doesn’t take human nature into account. Your website can’t compensate for the way women tangle sex up with a bunch of other crap. For instance.” Quinn gestured to my laptop, asking silent permission to log on.

  I nodded and he plopped in the chair and punched a few keys. Emilie scooted forward and dropped a hand on his shoulder, as though she couldn’t stand to not touch him. His free hand reached up and covered hers unconsciously and for some reason, my heart twisted.

  “For instance,” Quinn started again, “Cole Stuart.”

  Just the sound of his name dried out my mouth. What in the hell was the matter with me? It pissed me off, so I snapped at Quinn because I could. “What about him?”

  Emilie gave me a look, but Quinn didn’t seem to notice anything weird about my reaction. Probably because irritated was my default setting when addressing Quinn.

  “He’s got a disproportionate number of low ratings, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe he’s that bad.”

  Quinn shook his head. “I know the guy. His family is one of the investors in my company and he’s sitting on the board in the States—they’re into water polo and hoping to get more coverage.”

  Theatre Board, Water Polo Board. It was a wonder Cole had any time to go to class or piss off so many girls with all the time he spent Board-ing.

  “So, you know him. Have you slept with him?”

  “You’re being deliberately obtuse, Ruby. It’s not like you. All I’m saying is that, by all accounts, Cole’s a great guy. Smart, considerate, friendly…why would he be any different in a relationship? I’d bet he’s pissing these girls off for a reason other than satisfaction, so they’re rating him low.”

  “Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t. It doesn’t matter, though, does it? I mean, the bottom line purpose of the website is for girls to be able to check a guy’s references before going out with him, and if any of his previous girlfriends wouldn’t give him a referral, the reason is kind of moot.”

  “Would you refer a guy who broke your heart?”

  “Yes. I did.” I leaned
over his other side and scrolled to Michael’s name, then pointed. “He was a great boyfriend before his parents didn’t approve, but that’s a personal thing.”

  Emilie’s hand left Quinn’s shoulder and reached across his back, squeezing my arm. I didn’t expand any further, and Quinn had the good sense not to ask. He shut my laptop and stood, stretching his long arms above his head until his joints popped. Before attending Whitman, I would never have thought there were men as comfortable in dress clothes as basketball shorts and tees, but they were common here. Quinn looked as at home in his tailored black pinstripes as I felt in lounge pants.

  “I just feel kind of bad for Cole. You’re not…average, Ruby.”

  I snorted. “You mean I’m not normal.”

  Quinn shrugged. He didn’t have many friends last year, but Emilie had mentioned he’d been making changes in all areas of his life, not just when it came to her. His sympathy for Cole almost made me reconsider, but then I remembered Chaney’s mussed appearance on the porch a couple of weeks ago. Guys who deserved referrals didn’t send girls walking home alone after midnight.

  “If he’s half the dick you used to be, then maybe his karma’s just coming back to bite him in the ass. You got off easy, if you ask me.”

  “I’m a lucky bastard, Ruby. I think we’ve established that, but I can promise you I won’t ever forget it.” He held out a hand and Emilie slid her fingers between his.

  She bent to pick up her overnight bag but he waved her off, shouldering it easily. They left me alone with my thoughts—mostly the nagging doubt over how things were going with Liam, and the guilt over what my brainchild might be doing to Cole Stuart’s reputation, neither of which made any sense at all.

  Chapter 6

  We were about two weeks from opening night now, and West Side Story had started to take shape. Maria felt less foreign to me every time I stepped into her skin, even though the innocent immigrant girl who believed in love at first sight would always be a bit of a mystery to me. But when I looked at New York City, at America, through her eyes, I believed in possibilities.

  The play had never been a favorite of mine; Romeo and Juliet had a special place in my heart and this had always felt like a cheap rip-off, with none of the beautiful angst or desperate measures. Maria hadn’t even had the guts to kill herself at the end. Juliet for the win.

  Liam and I were the last two to leave after rehearsal, having drawn the short straw and charged with sweeping the dust and costume droppings off the stage. It was late, I was tired, but as we were walking down the dark hallway toward the back door, Liam dropped his bag and pinned me against the wall. He kissed me like our ship was going down, until my knees shook and I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think about anything but putting an end to my drought.

  “Come home with me,” he whispered against my ear, nibbling a little.

  I nodded, unable to find the words, and followed him out to his car.

  His apartment was empty, thank God, when we stumbled through the front door, locked at the lips and stripping clothes as we went. My stretchy pink cotton dress went easily, and Liam stepped out of his shorts and pulled off his shirt before I could go for them.

  We fell into his bed in our underwear, on top of the messy covers and sheets that probably hadn’t been washed in way too long. His lips were hot on mine, searching and prying, a little too slobbery in his excitement, but nothing terrible.

  His hand fumbled with my bra for a few minutes before I took pity on him and unsnapped it, trying to ignore the way he pawed it loose and then went for my breasts like he was dying of thirst. Not in a good way. Instead, I focused on the way his hand wandered lower, cupping my ass and tilting my hips against his. His fingers tugged my drawers loose and I helped, using a foot to push them the rest of the way off, then doing the same for him.

  Liam’s fingers slid around my thighs and teased, dipping gently inside me before withdrawing, slipping everywhere but the spot that ached for his touch. It had been so long that even his not-so-gentle tongue scraping my boobs couldn’t distract me from the heat pouring between my legs. I forgot about trying to be cool, rocking against his teasing fingers, whimpering until he went for it, shoving them deep.

  It wasn’t enough, and I certainly hoped that the outline of what I’d felt in his pants a couple of weeks ago lived up to my expectations. I was about to shatter from sheer need.

  “Jesus, you are so wet, you little vixen. I knew this would be worth it.”

  His words barely made sense in my stupor. Worth what? It wasn’t like a few weeks was a long time to wait, and before that he hadn’t exactly seemed interested. Liam took his fingers away, frustrating me further until I saw them fumbling with a condom wrapper.

  I took it from him and handled it faster than he probably could have, then yanked him down on top of me, kissing him hard in an attempt to convey my pressing desire without actually having to beg him to do me like this was an audition for cheesy internet porn.

  He either got the message or suffered a similar eagerness, because he buried himself in one movement a split second later. It felt so freaking good that I yelled something incoherent and shifted my hips, encouraging him to move.

  “You like that? I like the way you said my name, baby.”

  Oh, Jesus. He was a baby guy. There hadn’t been any early warning signs. My vagina would have dried and snapped shut if it wasn’t otherwise occupied at the moment.

  Forget it, Ruby. You can work it out later. Just enjoy the moment.

  Focusing on the blessed relief from celibacy helped. But as soon as Liam’s admittedly decent penis found a home, he forgot about the rest of me. While my abused boobs welcomed the respite, a kiss or…something would have been nice. I did my best to stay engaged, moving against him and gasping when he managed to accidentally hit a good spot. He finished a few minutes later, straining against me and groaning into my neck.

  Liam remembered I had a face and a mouth and a bunch of other body parts a few minutes later, pulling back and dropping a dry kiss on my lips before disappearing into the bathroom.

  The open windows let the sticky Florida heat into the room, bathing my not-as-sweaty-as-it-should-have-been skin with a pleasant breeze. I shoved away my disappointment. First times were usually awkward, and it wasn’t like he’d sent me packing, or couldn’t get it up, or quit in the middle to go grab a burrito. We just needed to work out a few kinks. Or try some new ones.

  The faucet shut off and Liam stepped back into the bedroom, his lower half covered by a clean pair of basketball shorts. It charmed me, his unexpected modesty, and the warm towel he brought me further eased my frustration.

  Liam climbed back in bed, tugging me against his chest after I’d cleaned up a little, and I rested my chin against his chest. His arm wrapped around my back, fingertips trailing soft circles on my bare skin. I’d finally had sex with the guy I’d been lusting after for three-plus months, and my body felt, if not satisfied, less abandoned.

  Things could definitely be worse.

  “That was okay, huh, baby?”

  Okay, they could be better, too.

  “Hey, Liam?”

  “Hmm?” His eyes were closed but he wasn’t sleeping. The warm night and the peace that came with easing the tension between us tempted me to do the same.

  “Can I tell you something without pissing you off?”

  He opened one eye. “When have I ever seemed like a pissed-off kind of guy to you?”

  “Fair enough. You can’t call me baby. I fucking hate it.”

  He chuckled, fingertips kneading my back. “Noted.”

  “Awesome.”

  Silence reigned for a few minutes, long enough for my insecurities to creep in. Had it been as mediocre for him as it had for me? Now that I had the kind of guy I’d been looking for in my grasp—someone who understood my career choice, a guy who didn’t come from money and knew there was more to life than working for your parents, and one I would never be in danger of falling for—I sudd
enly felt afraid that he didn’t like me.

  Girl moments were the fucking pits.

  “Have you ever been to South Africa, my pretty little rich girl?”

  “No. Why?”

  “I got a call earlier from my agent. I landed a decent part in the new Bruckheimer film, and we’re shooting there over Christmas.”

  I sat up, grinning. “That’s great! How come you didn’t say something before?”

  “I was distracted by the fact that I hadn’t gotten you into bed yet,” he joked, reaching up to tug on my tangled hair. “Seriously, I don’t know. I didn’t want to brag or anything.”

  The way Liam added that last part bugged me, sprinkled some water on the seed of doubt in my gut that I’d been trying to ignore. It sounded exactly like he wanted to brag. “Sharing news isn’t bragging. I think it’s great.”

  “I know, but…community theatre and snobby Whitman kind of pales, don’t you think?”

  Anger sputtered to life on the back of my tongue. Liam had hidden this part of him until now, the guy who apparently lorded success over others, and it made me wonder what else I’d missed. Maybe it should have drawn me to him, the kindred desire to make our own way, but instead it brought up an unfamiliar urge to defend my lifestyle and my choices.

  “Whitman has its advantages, Liam, and not everyone wants the next Bruckheimer film.”

  “You don’t?”

  I snuggled closer, urging my temper to cool and my tightened muscles to relax, and considered. Maybe it was stupid to not want to be the next Megan Fox, but I didn’t. I loved acting, not strutting around red carpets and posing for pictures—or finding myself in candid, unauthorized photos in the supermarket checkout line, for that matter. “No. I mean, I’m not saying I wouldn’t take the right role, but being a big star isn’t my end goal.”

  “It figures. You can act in little plays and show your tits in art movies for the rest of your life and still have money. But guys like me…acting either ends in splashy success or giving blowjobs in a dirty bathroom in exchange for a bit part on a soap opera.”