As Colby laughed at his own joke, Blane took the CDs from my hand and picked out some Enya.
Soon “Enigma” filled the room, and Blane slipped his hand under my shirt and drew circle eights on my back. “Ready?”
For what? Sex?
How could he be so sexual in this moment?
“This is just a dare, you know.” I studied his boyish features, so incongruous atop his huge frame, trying to use my brains rather than my emotions.
“It is and it isn’t, but let’s do it anyway,” Blane said. His fingers ran up and down my spine, causing goose bumps to pop out along their path. “At the end of the day, I’m always about winning.”
“So this is about Sonny.” My heart beat faster as I watched Colby practice writing The Stealer in script.
“No, Cate. It’s about you. Don’t think for a second it’s about anything else. You think you aren’t desirable, but I disagree. I’m winning you.” Blane gripped my shoulder and pulled me close, dipping his face into my hair as he breathed me in.
How many times had I told this cat to scat? Now he was being all tender and loving, as if I left milk out every night for him to lap up.
I scanned the room, checking for hidden cameras. This must be some type of prank they were going to upload to YouTube later. Feminist goes gaga for the jock.
“Take your shirt off, Cate.”
And like a victim of Stockholm Syndrome, I did. Laid on my stomach on the table, with my boobs smashed painfully beneath me and Blane Steele rubbing my shoulders, I got my first tattoo. The Stealer, scrolled across my left shoulder.
Of course, Colby did the honors, snapping a pic on his iPhone and tweeting it to @SonnyB_KnocknBoots as fast as he could before I snapped back to reality.
“We should turn on the radio,” Colby said as I tried to pay him, shoving some cash his way. He waved me off. “On the house.”
“No radio,” I countered.
Colby shrugged. “Fine by me.”
Blane grabbed my hand and pulled me out to the front room where Tess and Shelby were waiting. Impatient, they pawed at my sweatshirt, trying to pull down the shoulder and get a glimpse of my tat.
At the sight of my sour face, Blane grinned. “Come on, Cate, you have to have some fun in life. Right?”
This from the guy who knew he was going to make millions next year. I, on the other hand, was going to have to look for a new job tomorrow. And a new major.
Blane’s phone beeped, and he pulled it from his pocket.
“Hey, what are you doing?” I asked.
He shoved his phone in my face. “We’re making headlines. Look.”
@Hafton101:
Rumor has it that @CuteCatieP is the winner of the Phish tickets?!?! Doesn’t she work for the station?
@HaftonSweetiePie:
I got one too @CuteCatieP, and mine is better.
A picture of a “The Stealer” tattoo was embedded with the tweet.
Oh God. I hope Stanwick isn’t on Twitter.
Catie
Convinced I’d been roofied, I found myself at a party at Alex White’s place two days later. I was wearing black leggings tucked into my boots and a deep burgundy off-the-shoulder long-sleeved tee with a chocolate-brown cami underneath. The shirt was baggy enough to hide a few of my extra curves but kept slipping off my shoulder, revealing my most recent lapse in judgment.
“Damn, girl . . . he wasn’t lying!” and “You did it!” and “Look at that fresh tat!” were the most overheard comments of the evening. I cursed my love of off-the-shoulder clothing, blaming New Jersey and Sarah Jessica Parker. It might be an oldie, but we grew up on a steady diet of the movie, Girls Just Want to Have Fun.
Music blared all around me. A DJ spun tunes, and a makeshift dance floor had been erected in the living space. The team was on a high; they’d won their second non-conference game by forty-two points.
Blane’s larger-than-life personality ruled the room.
“Cream puffs,” Mo called out. “Nothing but a bunch of babies.”
“Damn straight,” Blane yelled back. “Loser cream puffs!”
“Go, Green!” Alex chimed in as he headed toward me.
“So, you’re the little girl causing all the commotion,” he said, knocking his chin in my direction. His dreads were pulled back in a ponytail, and he was holding a bottle of beer that looked small in his huge hand.
“Be nice,” Blane growled. “I’m the one passing you the ball.”
“Shut the fuck up, Steele,” Alex shot back, “and let me say hello to DJ girl.”
“Hey, DJ girl is my nickname for her.”
Someone came up behind me and ground their pelvis against my hip. I jumped forward and nearly knocked the beer out of Alex’s grip. Twirling around, I found Ashton standing there, smiling as if he’d just won the lottery.
“Watch it, basketball boy,” I said, tossing his own barb back at him.
“Ooh, her claws come out.” Alex slapped Blane five, and they laughed like wild hyenas.
“Move out of my way,” Mo shouted over the chaos. He lifted me and spun me around. “Hello there, pretty lady.”