Page 3 of The Rebel (Looking to Score 1)
I accept the flask and take a small sip. It’s surprisingly smooth, but the burn of whiskey lingers on my tongue.
When I pass the flask back to him, Holt brings it to his mouth, placing his lips where mine were a second ago as he takes a long pull. The thought of it sends a small flash of something foreign racing through me, and I look away.
His bedroom is sparsely decorated with a twin-size bed on a metal frame, no headboard, and a single pillow. I sleep with at least six pillows. Excessive? Yes, but I like what I like.
His dresser is tall and narrow. One of the drawers sags like it’s been pulled from its frame and never quite settled back in the same way again. A desk sits under the small round window, groaning under the weight of textbooks and an ancient laptop.
For the first time, I wonder about Holt, about his history, about what kind of things he likes to do, what type of girls he dates.
If I’m the well-bred society type that people assume me to be, then Holt Rossi is the opposite. From a working-class family and here on a merit scholarship, I’ve heard.
It’s only natural that I should wonder about him. Right?
“You’re not his type.” Holt’s deep voice pulls me from my thoughts again.
“Huh?”
“Braun.”
I lift one shoulder, trying to look disinterested, but Holt’s words slice straight through me, stealing the air from my lungs.
When he passes me the flask this time, I accept it eagerly, grateful for the distraction. I take a longer sip, letting the whiskey warm a path inside me.
“Why wouldn’t I be his type?” I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
“Because.” Holt shrugs, taking the flask back and draining it. “You’re a good girl. You give off girlfriend vibes. And I’m pretty sure Braun is allergic to monogamy.”
His words sting, but I have to admit that, somewhere deep inside, they make sense. If it’s true that Alex will be entering the NHL draft next year, why would he want to be saddled with a college girlfriend?
Holt pulls out the chair that’s tucked neatly into the space in front of the desk and offers it to me. I lower myself onto it while he takes a seat on the end of his bed.
Whereas Alex is athletically handsome in a rugged, hockey-player kind of way with his thick thighs, bulky forearms, and messy hair, Holt gives off a hot bad-boy vibe. He’s tall, even bigger than Alex, and judging by the rough stubble on his jaw, his face hasn’t seen a razor in weeks. But his eyes are kind, warm like melted honey. I’ve always liked his eyes.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say at last, realizing Holt’s still watching me like a butterfly captured in a net. “It won’t be happening. Not now.” I look across the room to the door where, only a few paces away, Alex Braun is probably fucking some lucky/poor girl’s throat.
Holt’s tone softens. “He doesn’t deserve it, you know that, right?”
I can’t figure out how he’s so perceptive. How he seems to know what I’ve been planning with Alex tonight. Not that I’d ever admit it to him.
“It?” It is a crass way to refer to someone’s virginity, and my tone more than hints at my annoyance.
“Your devotion,” Holt says to clarify, one dark eyebrow raised.
I straighten my shoulders. “Oh. Right.”
Holt clears his throat and looks away. I’m not sure if he’s embarrassed for me or simply giving me a moment. I release a slow exhale and try to collect myself. My hands are still shaking.
“You have any more of that?” I tip my chin toward the flask on his dresser.
Holt’s mouth lifts in a crooked smirk, and I think it’s probably the closest to an actual smile I’ve ever seen from him. He doesn’t give off any warm and fuzzy vibes, but at the same time, I feel safe with him.
I recall sophomore year, after studying together in the library, he insisted on walking me back to my dorm when we realized it had gotten dark outside. He waited on the stoop, even though it was raining and he was without an umbrella, as I unlocked the door. He didn’t move from that spot until I waved at him from my second-story window. Then he dropped his chin and shouldered his heavy backpack before he stalked away.
“Sure.” He rises from the bed and opens the top dresser drawer, producing the bottle from which I assume the flask was filled.
When he hands it to me, I twist off the cap and take a sip. I can already feel myself growing warm and slightly tipsy.
“So, what’s your story?” I ask.
“My story?”
I shrug. “Your major. Life plans . . . you know.”
I already know his major, but I don’t want to seem like a creeper. I also know he works part time as a bouncer at the off-campus bar called the Tavern, a regular weekend hotspot. He checks IDs at the door and breaks up fights when things occasionally get too rowdy.
