Page 43 of On Merit Alone
“Ira!” I whispered. “Let me go.”
Turning his head one way and then the other, he scanned the court theatrically before bending his head into my space and asking, “Why are we whispering?”
He smelled good, like spring-scented soap and something fresh, maybe eucalyptus shampoo. The scent made me want to curl into it, but that thought made me stiff with the acute awareness of our bodies.
I refused to look back up at him. If I did, it would bring our faces very close. Instead, I beamed a stare at his shoulder. “Because we need to get up before someone sees us.”
“You see, I don’t really care if anyone sees us, though,” he said like it was the simplest thing in the world. “I came here to talk to you.”
“You can talk to me when I’m not sitting on you,” I hissed. I didn’t dare say “in your lap” because, for some reason, that sounded more intimate than it should.
“I’m fine with you right here,” he said. Well, that was great for him, but I wasn’t. Lifting, I tried to move myself off of him again. He just used his hand on my hip, and another that slid onto my thigh, to sit me back down in a firm hold. Leaning forward, he brought his chin down near my shoulder, his mouth near my ear, as he added in a surprisingly husky tone, “I’m actually going to need you to stop squirming if you don’t want to make this complicated for the both of us.”
Sucking sharp air into my lungs, I allowed myself to look up at him. His eyes weren’t hard, but they held a seriousness that was still foreign to me from him. A sternness that suggested he meant what he promised. Whatever that promise actually meant, I had no idea. But it got me to stop moving and to look at him. Wanting to at least get this conversation over with if it had to be done.
Clearing my throat, I tried to make it sound like my heart wasn’t beating in my throat when I asked, “What do you want, Ira?”
He let his eyes drift along the features of my face before he spoke. “You never answered my text.”
“I tend to ignore stalkers who use my number without my permission,” I retorted.
“You were answering just fine until I asked about that interview,” he pointed out, getting right down to it.
Swallowing, I looked away. What was there to say? I didn’t want to talk about it, especially not with him. So I tried to pretend he wasn’t there. Tough when I was sitting in the guy’s lap, I know, but I was nothing if not stubborn.
“Merit,” he said patiently.
I didn’t respond.
“Mer.”
I didn’t even look at him.
“C’mon, Six?” he said with a sigh that held frustration for the first time since I met him. “Tell me what's up.”
And it may have been the fact that he was the only one to evercall me Six like it was my name, or maybe the feeling of his cool fingertips as they grazed just underneath my chin, asking me to look at him but not demanding, that finally got me. Swallowing hard, I took the plunge and looked into his deep grayish-brown eyes, hoping to find an answer that would ready me for the sting I knew I was going to feel at the real outcome.
As I suspected, nothing could shield me from the pain of being hurt, and it was my own fault for opening myself up for it to begin with. It was time to face the consequences of letting someone get close enough to affect me and take responsibility for the inevitable feelings I knew would always follow such a mistake.
Ira stared right back at me, unafraid of facing me head-on, even when I wasn’t agreeable. It made my heart pull in a painful sort of squeeze. The longing sort, and I had no idea what that meant.
Grunting, Ira said, “You’re frowning at me.”
“Do you guys say stuff about us in the locker room?” I asked.
I watched closely as his face changed, his eyes tracking over me as he contemplated his answer. “Did somebody say something to you?”
I shook my head quietly, and his eyes changed, getting darker as he bore them into me. Angrier.
“Merit.”
“I’m just curious, Ira,” I said.
He frowned, shifting. I could feel his fingers tighten along my thigh to keep me in place as he moved.God. “I mean, the guys talk a lot in the locker room, yeah. I haven’t heard anything unacceptable, though.”
I swallowed, nodding, but I kept my gaze locked on his—determined to be strong. I was always strong. I could do this. “Do you ever hear them call me an Ice Queen?”
He didn’t have to answer. It was written all over his face as the nickname seemed to register and he winced in obvious discomfort. “Merit?—”
