The Risk (Briar U): Chapter 8

“I can’t believe you’re abandoning me.” I glower at Tansy, but deep down I’m not surprised.

I had desperately hoped that she and Lamar wouldn’t ruin this weekend for me, but as my father likes to say, hope is for fools. Work hard and make your own dreams come true, he always harps, and then you won’t have to hope for a damn thing.

“It’ll only be for an hour or two,” my cousin promises.

“Yeah right,” I scoff from her roommate’s bed. Once again, Aisha proved herself to be my hero. Somehow, she replaced the standard-issued mattress that came with the dorm room with one of those memory foam ones that make you feel like you’re sleeping in a cloud. I dove right back under the covers when Tansy and I returned from our afternoon of lunch and shopping. That’s how comfy this bed is.

“I’m serious,” Tansy insists. “I’m just going over there so we can talk about what happened last night.”

“Oh, you mean how the two of you screamed at each other like maniacs in front of the entire bar?”

Yeah. That was fun. Tansy and Lamar started arguing almost the instant we arrived at the Frog and Fox. It was one of the most impressive snowball progressions I’ve witnessed in a while.

They kissed hello, she teased him about getting the location wrong, he grumbled that she gave him the wrong bar name, she denied it, he insisted, she said it wasn’t her fault his dumb ass couldn’t read a text message, he said, “Why are you acting like such a bitch,” and there you have it—the Apocalypse.

Oh, Lamar. You never, ever tell your girlfriend she’s acting like a bitch. Even if she is.

Lamar’s friends and I decided to do a couple of tequila shots. We figured that Tansy and Lamar would eventually tire themselves and rejoin the group, except they never did, and Tansy dragged me out of the bar in tears and we went home before midnight.

I woke up this morning and didn’t even have a hangover. As far as I’m concerned, that constitutes a crappy night.

“Come on, Tans, tell him you’ll see him tomorrow. You already ruined Newbury Street by texting him the entire time.” We were supposed to be shopping and having a blast, and instead I spent the day watching her tapping on her phone. We barely spoke during lunch because he kept messaging her.

“I know, I’m so sorry. It’s just…” She peers at me with big, imploring eyes. “We’re talking about getting engaged after graduation. I can’t ignore him when we’re fighting. We need to work it out.”

I don’t even blink at the word “engaged.” Tansy and Lamar have been on and off and off and on so many times that I no longer take their relationship seriously. If you keep breaking up, there’s a reason for it. Fun fact: perpetual drama is not conducive to a long-lasting commitment.

I highly doubt an engagement between them is in the cards. And if by some chance it happens, no way does it lead to an actual wedding. I’d bet my meager life savings on that.

But I tamp down my skepticism and say, “Okay, you’re talking about getting engaged. That has nothing to do with the fact that your cousin, who you haven’t seen in months, came all this way to spend the weekend with you. Last night turned into a sob fest. Today’s shopping trip turned into a text fest. And lo and behold, now you’re blowing off dinner and the club.”

“I’m not blowing you off, I swear. I’ll miss dinner, but we’re still hitting the club. You can use my meal pass and eat here, won’t even cost you anything. Then take a nap or something, and I’ll be back in no time, and we’ll go to Bulldozer just like we planned.”

Bulldozer is the nightclub I’ve been dying to visit. Despite its crappy name, it’s been getting rave reviews, and apparently the music is off the charts.

I have a feeling I’ll never get to hear it.

“Please,” Tansy begs. “I won’t be gone long. Just a few hours.”

I love how it went from “an hour or two” to “a few hours.”

“And I promise I’ll never, ever do this to you again. The next time we plan a girls’ weekend I’ll come to Briar, and Lamar will stay home, and you and I will have the best time ever.”

I swallow a nasty retort. She’s already made up her mind, so what’s the use in arguing? “Do whatever you want, Tans.”

“Come on, Bee, please don’t be mad at me.”

“Then don’t ditch me.”

“Brenna—”

My phone goes off. Normally I wouldn’t be rude and check it in the middle of a conversation, but Tansy’s testing my last nerve, so I grab the phone just to be a bitch.

Except…how lovely. The notification on the screen is even more aggravating than my cousin’s bullshit.

“Harvard beat Princeton,” I growl.

She eyes me warily. “Is that good or bad?”

I take a calming breath. “If you’d listened to a word I said today, you’d already know the answer to that.”

The message comes at nine o’clock, triggering a rush of relief. Finally. She’s been gone for three hours.

Earlier, I took full advantage of her dining hall privileges. Had a yummy dinner, chilled with some cool chicks, fended off the advances of a few lacrosse guys. But now the boredom is creeping in, and for the past forty minutes I’ve been lying on Aisha’s bed, mindlessly swiping through Tinder profiles.

I don’t use dating apps much, but what else do I have to do right now? I can’t call any of my friends—they’re all back at Briar, either attending the semifinals game against Yale, or playing in it. I can’t watch the game on the New England station because Tansy and Aisha don’t have a TV, and I was unable to find a live stream on my phone.

So, chatting with random dudes it is.

Within two minutes of opening the app, I matched with about fifteen guys. And fourteen out of fifteen have already messaged me, an assortment of heyyy and hey sexy, a handful of heart-eyes emojis, and a “holy shit are you real??”

The last one brings a laugh to my throat. I peek at the guy’s profile again. His name is Aaron, he has the lean, lanky build of a basketball player, and a great smile. Rolling onto my side, I message him back.

At first I’m intrigued. Until he follows it up with a winky face.

Uh-oh.

I decide to keep my response vague, because I sense where this is heading.

Two more winky faces appear.

Although he hasn’t officially gone full douche yet, it’s only a matter of time, so I kibosh the conversation by typing, Sorry, I’m not interested in being an actress.

Ugh. Why? Why?

I unmatch him without delay and stare up at the ceiling.

I am honestly starting to question evolution. We went from cavemen, to homo sapiens, to this incredible society of great minds—Alexander Graham Bell inventing telephones, Steve Jobs inventing…everything. And now we’re devolving. We’ve travelled back to cavemen, only nowadays we call them fuckboys.

Evolution has come full circle and that’s a real bummer.

I groan out loud, willing my cousin to get home already. I can’t believe I’m missing the semifinals for this.

At the reminder, I check my phone for an update on how Briar’s doing. According to Twitter, the second period ended with Briar leading 2-1. That’s still too close for comfort. Harvard beat Princeton by three goals.

I bet Connelly is mighty pleased with himself. Maybe he’s out with Hot Bambi right now, celebrating the win with a follow-up BJ and some kiss/swirl oral action. Goodie for him.

I’m pulling up Tinder again when another text from my cousin pops up.

My fingers clench around my phone. Seriously? This is our girls’ weekend. Her boyfriend already ruined every single thing we’ve done so far, and now she’s letting him ruin Bulldozer? I was excited for Bulldozer, damn it.

I call her rather than text, resentment slithering up my throat. “Are you serious?” I demand when she picks up.

“I’m so sorry,” Tansy moans. “It’s just…we made up, and he asked if he could come, and what was I supposed to say? No?”

“Yes! Yes, you’re supposed to say no. Tell him it’s not personal. We need girl time.”

“Come on, Bren, it’ll be fun. I swear.”

Right. The way last night was fun? I grit my teeth so hard they begin to throb. I try to relax my jaw with a slow exhalation. I’m tired of arguing with her. “Fine. Are you picking me up or should I meet you there?”

“We’ll pick you up. Lamar’s driving because he doesn’t plan on drinking tonight. I’m going to get ready here, so we’ll be about an hour?”

“Whatever. Text me when you’re on the way. I’ll start getting ready.”

I push aside my annoyance and take a quick shower, then dry my hair and style it in loose waves using Tansy’s flat iron. I brought a sexy clubbing dress with me, a shimmery black body-con number that reveals a lot of cleavage and a lot of leg. I slip it on and then settle at Aisha’s awesome vanity to do my makeup. I put on more than usual tonight; along with my trademark red lips, I create a smoky-eyes look, with winged liner and thick mascara.

After I’m done, I examine my reflection in the mirror, happy with the results. Last night sucked. Today, too. But I have a good feeling about tonight. So what if Harvard is moving on to the finals? Briar will too, and we’ll kick their asses. And in an hour or so, I’ll be dancing the night away at Bulldozer.

My phone chirps. Good. Here we go. Tansy’s on her way to pick me up and—

The dream is dead. Bulldozer officially slips through my fingers. As anger quickens my pulse, I sink onto the edge of Tansy’s bed, at a complete loss for words. Cousin Tansy has officially usurped Cousin Alex. She is, hands down, the worst. Nothing tops this. Nothing.

My hands tremble as I respond.

Reconnect? They see each other every day! Outrage coats my throat, and my jaw is harder than stone.

I’m not afraid of confrontation, and I’m certainly not going to pretend everything is fine and dandy when it isn’t. My harsh words clearly have an effect on her, because after several tense moments, she backpedals like crazy.

My jaw falls open. Is she nuts? Why would that be okay? Teeth clenched, I quickly compose an essay. Thesis statement: fuck you.

Five seconds later, the phone starts to ring.

I ignore it.

My sparkly dress and I end up at a small music venue near Fenway Park. Initially, I try hitting a couple of different bars. I usually have no problem going out alone and talking to strangers, but I’m in such a sour mood tonight that I find myself scowling at anyone who tries to approach me, male or female. I don’t want a hookup or a conversation. I want to be left alone.

I decide I need a place where the music is so loud it’ll deter any and all overtures.

Bulldozer fits that bill, but I don’t feel like dancing anymore, either. I want to order a drink and sulk in silence. Or rather, sulk to deafening heavy metal music, because the venue I wander into is featuring a metal band tonight. Perfect.

The club consists of one main room just big enough to house a narrow stage and a tiny mosh pit. A few standing tables are tucked against a brick wall that’s painted black and spray-painted with graffiti. There’s a bar on the other wall, but no counter space, so I saunter toward the tables. They’re all empty.

Everyone is staring at me as I cross the dark room, probably because I’m dressed for a night out on the town, whereas most of them look like they crawled out from under a boardwalk. Rumpled clothing, greasy hair, and more Pantera and Slayer shirts than I can count. Luckily, the lighting is practically nonexistent, so it’s nearly impossible to make out people’s actual faces in the shadows. While I feel their stares, luckily I don’t have to see them.

“What can I do ya for?” A waiter with black hair that hangs down to his waist comes over to serve me. “Band’s about to go on, so you’d better order quick.”

“A vodka cranberry, please.”

He nods and walks off without asking me for ID. I have it with me, so I wasn’t worried anyway. I angle my body toward the stage and watch as the longhaired lead singer bounces up to the microphone stand.

“Hello, Boston! We’re Stick Patrol and we’re about to FUCK YOU UP!”

If by “fuck us up” he means they’re going to play six ear-piercing songs with garbled lyrics and wrap up before I even finish my first drink, then mission accomplished.

I resist the urge to bury my face in my hands and honest-to-God cry.

What the hell was that?

As the singer thanks everyone for coming, I stand there gaping at him. I’m goddamn agape.

Their set lasted fourteen minutes. That averages out to about two-and-a-half minutes per song. Aren’t metal songs supposed to be a gazillion minutes long? I swear every Metallica track I’ve ever heard is longer than the Lord of the Rings movies.

Fourteen minutes, and then the house lights flicker on and I’m left watching the band dismantle their equipment. Some guy carts an amp off the stage. Another one is rolling up the microphone cords.

Fuck you, Stick Patrol. Fuck them and their dumb name, and fuck my cousin for not adhering to the girl code, and fuck Harvard for winning their game tonight, and fuck global warming for dumping all this unwelcome rain on us. Fuck ’em all.

I drain the rest of my drink in one gulp, then signal the waiter for another.

This is truly the worst weekend ever.

“Wait, did I miss the band?” A beefy guy with a shaved head and two eyebrow rings lumbers over. He glances from me to the empty stage and then back at me. Lust heats his gaze when he notices my dress.

I absently run one fingertip along the rim of my empty glass. “Yeah, sorry. They just finished.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Tell me about it.” And I’m not even a metal fan. I can’t imagine actually wanting to see the band only to show up and discover their set is already over.

“Mind if I join you?” He curls his fingers over the edge of my table.

My gaze drops to his hands. They’re huge, two big meaty paws with red knuckles. I don’t like them, and I don’t particularly want company, but he doesn’t give me a chance to say no.

He moves closer, resting his forearms on the tabletop. His arms are also huge, and the left one is covered with tribal tattoos. “Are you into music?”

Did he just ask me if I’m into music? In general? Aren’t most people? “Sure. Of course.”

“Who’s your favorite metal band?”

“Er, I don’t really have one. I’m not into metal. I wandered in here because I wanted a drink.”

“Cool.”

I wait for him to say something else. He doesn’t. He also doesn’t leave.

“So, are you a student?” I ask, resigning myself to this conversation. It’s not like I have better things to do.

“Dropout,” he says flatly.

Um. Okay. I don’t care either way, but that’s an odd thing to say. “Where did you drop out from? BC? BU? I’m at Briar.”

“I went to St. Michael’s.”

“St. Michael’s?” I scan my brain. “I haven’t heard of that college.”

“High school,” he grunts. “It’s not a college. It’s a high school.” He thrusts both thumbs at his own chest. “High school dropout.”

Um.

How on earth does one respond to that?

Luckily, the waiter spares me from replying. He appears with another vodka cran and a bottle of Corona for the self-proclaimed dropout. I eagerly raise my drink to my lips.

My companion takes a long swig of his beer. “So what’s your name?”

“Brenna.”

“Dope.”

“Thanks. How about you?”

“No, that’s my name—Dope. My name’s Dope.”

Um.

I swallow a soul-sucking sigh. “Your name is Dope?”

“Well, no, it’s actually Ronny. Dope is my stage name.” He shrugs his massive shoulders. “Used to be in a band, we performed GNR covers.”

“Oh. Cool. I think I’m going to call you Ronny, though.”

He throws his head back and laughs. “You’re a ballbuster. I like that.”

Silence falls between us again. He sidles closer, his elbow nudging mine. “You look sad,” he says.

“Do I?” That’s doubtful. The only emotion I’m experiencing at the moment is irritation.

“Yep. You look like you need a hug.”

I force a smile. “No thanks, I’m good.”

“Are you sure? I’m the hug master.” He holds out his beefy arms and arches his eyebrows, like he’s Patrick Swayze from Dirty Dancing beckoning me to jump up on him.

“I’m good,” I repeat, firmer this time.

“Can I try your drink?”

What? Who asks that? “No. But I can buy you one, if you want.”

“Nah, I never let a lady treat.”

I try to ease away and create a larger space cushion, but he steps toward me again. I don’t feel threatened by him, however. He’s a big guy, but not menacing. He isn’t trying to bully me with his physicality. I think he’s just completely oblivious to the I’m not interested vibes I’m transmitting.

“Yeah, so I know, my life story is…it’s complicated,” Ronny confesses, as if I asked for his life story.

Which I didn’t.

“I grew up on the North Shore. Father’s a deep-sea fisherman. Whore mother took off with some asshole.”

I can’t. Oh God, I just can’t.

Ronny’s not a horrible creep or anything. An over-sharer, indisputably, but he seems nice enough, and he’s simply trying to make conversation.

But I can’t. I want this night, this whole damn weekend, to be over already. It’s been absolutely horrible. Dismal. I honestly can’t see how it could get any worse.

No sooner do I think those words than the universe decides to bitch slap me by bringing Jake Connelly into my field of vision.

Jake fucking Connelly.

My neck muscles snap to attention, going taut with suspicion.

What. Is. He. Doing. Here.

“It sucks, you know? You move to Boston, thinking you’ll land a sick job, but it’s hard ’cause you don’t have that diploma.”

I’m only half-listening to Dope. I mean, Ronny. Jake holds the majority of my attention. With his faded blue jeans, dark green Under Armour shirt, and Bruins cap, he’s the only male in the venue who isn’t wearing black or a band shirt. He’s also about a foot taller than everyone else.

I grit my teeth. Why do athletes have to be so big and masculine? Jake’s body is incredibly appealing. Long legs, muscular arms, sculpted chest. I’ve never seen him without a shirt, and I find myself wondering what his chest looks like when it’s bare. Ripped, I assume. But is it hairy? Smooth like a baby’s bottom? My traitorous fingertips tingle with the urge to find out.

He hasn’t spotted me yet. He’s standing at the edge of the stage, chatting with one of the band members. The guitarist, I think.

I wonder if I could sneak out the door without him noticing. Having Connelly find me here, in this dump of a club, decked out in a glittery, skintight dress… That would be the rotten icing on the past-its-expiry-date cake that this weekend is turning out to be.

“And you know what’s harder? The whole online-dating thing,” Ronny is bemoaning.

I tear my eyes off Jake. “Yeah, online dating sucks,” I say absently, trying to locate the waiter.

“I get all these matches and girls being like, ‘Hey handsome, you’re so great and sexy,’ and then the conversations just die. I don’t get it.”

Really? He doesn’t get it? Because I have a sneaking suspicion why those conversations are dying. Elements of his game are desperately lacking. For example, the casual mentions of his “whore mother” and constantly referring to himself as a “dropout.” Sadly, Dope might not be putting his best foot forward, but I refrain from offering constructive criticism. I’m too busy trying to execute an escape plan.

My gaze darts toward the stage. Jake’s still engaged in deep conversation with the guitarist.

Crap. Where is that waiter? I need to pay for my drinks and get the hell out of here.

“You’re a cool chick, Brenna,” Ronny says awkwardly. “Easy to talk to.”

I cast another look around at the room. It’s time to go. If Jake notices me, he’d never let me live this down. The dress, the location, the company.

Yes. I spot the waiter emerging from the swinging door next to the bar. I frantically wave my arm.

“Sorry, just trying to get the bill,” I tell Ronny. “I—”

I stop talking. Because Jake isn’t across the room anymore.

Where on earth did he go?

“You’re leaving?” Ronny is crestfallen.

“Yeah, I’m getting tired, and I—”

“There you are, babe,” drawls a familiar voice. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

The next thing I know, Jake strolls up, cups the back of my neck, and lowers his mouth to mine.