Page 50 of Best Man on Campus

There’s a lot of hoots and thumping on the floor and the guy on the guitar starts up playing some kind of stripper song as best he can. The place is getting unruly and the bartender reaches me. “You’ve had your fun. Get down from there before you fall.”

He can’t accuse me of being drunk because I’ve had nothing but ice water. Meeting his eyes, I take a step up onto the bar. The shouts and whistles get louder. Dooley touches my ankle, but I kick at him.

“Shit, Jaz, you can’t—” He cuts himself off and I turn to see where his eyes are because the relieved expression on his face tells me something’s changed.

Looking at the doorway, I see who just walked in. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. A war between joy and panic thunders through me, spiking my adrenaline and making my pussy clench as my heart beats like I’m on crack.

Ben the fucking unicorn meets my eyes, no censure, no surprise, not even concern as he walks straight to me and holds up his hand.

“Let’s go, Jazzy.” I hold my breath for a blink, unsure, panicked then pleased and then back again. But as soon as I shut my mind off and let myself go, I reach my hand down to his and he hauls me off the bar and into his arms.

“Thanks Dooley,” he says. Then he whispers in my ear, “I heard police sirens before I came in. Any chance they’re headed here?”

I nod and flash a guilty look at Dooley who says, “I saw the bartender make the call. We should probably go now.” Ben holds an arm around me, escorting me through the murmuring crowd of people to the back door. Dooley follows.

“Fuck—pardon my language—I was never so relieved to see anyone in my life,” Dooley says.

“You okay to drive home, Dooley? Jazzy is with me.”

Dooley nods and runs to his car as the sirens get louder and I see some flashing in the distance. Ben puts me in his Jeep and I’m aware that if the police catch up with us he could get in trouble, so I scramble to get my seat belt on with shaky hands.

As cool as the ice in a rink, he gets in and starts the car. We pull out of the Bald Man’s Bar before the first racing police car reaches the lot and when we pass a second one on the way, I roll down the window and vomit over the side of his Jeep.

He takes me to BMOC House up the back stairs and a surprisingly clean bathroom and I close the door on him, but that makes my tears come faster. I’ve been crying but otherwise silent and I need to cut the shit, to clean myself up, to leave him be. But I know Ben isn’t about to let me go tonight and it breaks my heart because I want him with everything in me. It’s not fair to him and I don’t know what it’ll do to me, or more importantly to him. But as I look in the mirror, splashing water on my face, I know I’m incapable of stopping it, like stopping a meteorite heading to earth. I need to feel the impact whether it obliterates me or not.

When I open the door, he’s standing in the hall waiting for me, his heart on his sleeve and in his eyes and his desire shows in the tension I can feel without touching him. And I do so want to touch him, but I don’t. Not yet.

“Jazzy, are you all right?”

“Which one is your room?” He points across the hall. Stepping past him, I push the door open and walk in. He’s right behind me and flicks on the light switch as he closes the door.

“Lock it,” I say. Looking around, I’m not surprised that it’s neat and masculine, decorated in forest green and teal and adorned with a framed photo of the Wildbeast hockey team with a trophy.

Not saying another word, I undresses and so does he. When we’re both naked, he kisses me like it’s our last night and maybe it is. We fall into bed together. Without stopping his kisses all over my face and my hair, he pulls the covers over us and holds me in the cocoon of his arms. It’s a protective circle of strength and warmth and it calms me so that the tightness in my chest eases and my heart settles to a thrilled hum.

“I want to clear the air between us,” he says.

“I don’t owe you any explanation,” I say which is a fucking lie because I bailed on him, but my defensive hackles are up in a reflexive response.

“I don’t care about you dancing on a bar.”

“If it’s about fucking—”

“I don’t care about fucking you—well I do care, but that’s not what frustrates me most. It’s that you won’t open up to me, share whatever your reason is for not wanting to …. fuck.” He looks pale, almost scared and that makes me almost feel bad, but I re-clench my emotional resolve, shore up the cracks he’s trying to wedge through my armor, the bastard.

“Maybe I’m saving myself for Mr. Right. Did you ever think of that?”

He takes his time responding to that, holding his breath. But he finally says, “Is that your reason?”

His eyes are so deep, so true and fucking needy. But he has everything, all his shit together in the right places. what could he need or want from me? The truth, Jazzy.

Trying to take deep breaths, I can’t, they’re shallow and almost panicked, all the calm gone out the window, but I close my eyes and concentrate on who he is, the man who holds me, who kisses my hair, who sleeps with me without any sex at all. I open my eyes and release everything.

“No,” I say. “My therapist told me that excuse wouldn’t work.”

“Therapist?”

“Music is my therapy. People are my poison.”