Ben punches the button to close the garage, then opens the door to the rec room. “Coming?”
As I follow him down the hall, I feel a frown folding around the words that form in my mouth. What the hell was that? Why did you yell at your mom? As I turn to say this, Ben kisses me. I kiss him back, and he wraps his arms around me. He slips an arm under my thighs as he bends, and lifts, gently laying me back on the sectional that outlines half the den.
“Wait,” I whisper between kisses. I want to talk to him about what is happening. He is kneeling on the floor, his upper body slowly settling on top of me, his arm around my lower back pulls me close, every part of him pressed up against me. The same desperate kisses from out in the driveway fill my mouth, the heat of his body against mine steals my breath, and fogs all the things I want to say, words written on a mirror in a steamed-up bathroom.
He reaches for the zipper at the back of my dress and draws me up with the arm underneath me as he unzips it. I feel his bicep bulge and remember again how powerful he is. I say, “Wait,” once more, but it’s as if he doesn’t hear me. His fingers are warm on my bare back, his tongue adamant against my own as he pulls the dress loose from my shoulders, one hand sliding down, down, down my back, cupping my hip in his hand. He pulls me more tightly beneath him, throwing one leg up onto the sectional with me, rolling his full weight onto the couch, while his fingers continue searching beneath me.
My pulse is racing now as fast as my mind. I press my palms flat against his shoulders, pushing back and up. I roll my mouth away from his and thrust my whole body against him, bucking him sideways, back off the couch and onto the floor.
“Jesus! Ben.”
He stares back at me, dazed. “What?”
“What is with you tonight?”
He blinks at me, then scowls. “You’re the one who wanted to come inside.”
“Yeah, I did, before you decided to make your mom cry. And I just told you to wait. Twice. What the hell?” I pull my dress up and sit back on the couch, huffing out a long slow breath.
He is kneeling on the carpet and sits back on his heels. His face red now, he peers up at me, ashamed. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Really. I wouldn’t—”
“That was some bullshit out there with your mom.”
His eyes darken and he looks away, pulling off his jacket and tossing it onto the couch. “Don’t tell me about my mom. She’s crazy.”
“You know what else is crazy?” I snap. “That you’re way more upset about a stack of paper towels than you are about what’s going on with Dooney and Deacon.”
His eyes flash up to mine. “What do you mean?”
I can’t hold the question in any longer. “Were you there when it happened, Ben?”
He gapes at me. “When what happened? I was dropping you off at home.”
“After that,” I drill down. “When you went back for your truck. What was going on?”
“I went in to tell Dooney bye. That’s it.”
“So, what Stacey says happened . . . you’re saying it didn’t?”
“I don’t even know for sure what she’s saying.”
A response forms in my mouth but is pulled back by a jolt in my chest. It’s the first time this phrase has entered my mind. Ben looks at me, expectantly. Finally I force out the words in rush. “That she was raped, Ben. More than once. By different guys on your team.”
Ben groans and rolls his eyes, but I keep going.
“Sloane Keating said Stacey was in the hospital all day on Sunday—”
“Wait.” Ben holds up a hand. “That reporter? She said this on the news?”
“No. Last night. She told me.”
Ben frowns. “Where were you talking to a reporter?”
I take a deep breath, then blurt it out. Quick, like a Band-Aid. “At Coral Creek. I went to see Stacey. Sloane Keating was hanging out in a news van.”
I see Ben blink twice when I say this. Even in the dim light of a single lamp the color seems to drain from his face. “Kate. What the hell are you doing?” He hisses this in a loud whisper, as if he’s afraid the walls are listening in or the whole house is bugged. “Why did you go talk to Stacey?”
“I didn’t talk to her,” I tell him. “Her mom shut the door in my face, and then I got ambushed by a reporter.”
“We weren’t there,” Ben says. “Nothing happened. And even if it did, you and I were already gone.”
“When ‘nothing’ happens at a party, charges aren’t filed, and reporters don’t show up.” These words slice through the air between us, and Ben rocks back on his heels as they find their mark.
“Coach told us that we shouldn’t talk to anyone about this. Why are you talking to reporters?”
“He’s not my coach. And I didn’t talk to her.”
“She sure as hell knew our names tonight.”
I sigh. “We’re both all over the Buccaneers Facebook page. It’s not hard to figure out. She’s a reporter.”