The Dare (Briar U Book 4)

I’m trying to listen to what Conor is saying to me, but the sight of him in a suit is affecting my concentration. His big shoulders and broad chest fill out that navy-blue jacket like nobody’s business. I’m tempted to ask him to do a little spin so I can assess the butt situation. I bet his butt looks amazing.

“Taylor,” he says impatiently.

I blink, forcing my gaze back to his face. “Conor, hi. Sorry, what?”

“It’s been a week,” he says, with a strange eagerness about him. “You haven’t called me. I thought we had a good time together at the party.”

My mouth falls open. Is he serious right now? I mean, yeah, he technically said “call me” as he left Saturday morning, but that was part of the performance, right? He hadn’t even provided his phone number!

“Uh, sorry again?” I wrinkle my forehead. “I guess we got our wires crossed.”

“Are you avoiding me?” he demands.

“What? Of course not.”

He’s acting weird. And sort of whiny. Suddenly I’m wondering if this is some kind of personality disorder thing.

Or maybe he’s drunk? There have been a lot of free drinks at this thing. Hence why I’d been making a beeline for the restroom before he’d lunged from out of nowhere and ambushed me.

“I can’t stop thinking about you, Taylor. Can’t eat, can’t sleep.” He rakes an agitated hand through his hair. “I thought we made a connection that night. I wanted to play it cool, you know. Not come off too aggressive. But I miss you, babe.”

If this is a joke, it isn’t funny.

Clenching my fists to my sides, I take a step back. “Okay, I don’t know what this is, but for what it’s worth, I saw that Instagram post of you in bed with some girl. So I’d say you’re coping just fine.”

“Because you messed with my head.” He lets out an agonized groan. “Look, I know I screwed up. I’m weak. But only because I’ve been so hurt thinking that amazing night we spent together didn’t mean anything to you.”

Now I’m worried about him.

Exasperation has me stepping forward again. “Conor, you’re—”

He grabs me without warning. Envelops me in his arms, digging his big hands into my waist as he dips down to bury his face in the crook of my neck. I freeze, stunned, and honestly a little scared of what’s happening right now.

Until he whispers against my ear.

“I promise I’m not a weirdo, but I need your help and I won’t touch your penis. Just go with it, T.”

I pull back to meet his eyes, glimpsing a gleam of urgency and a twinkle of humor. I’m still not sure what’s going on, though. Is he trying to get back at me for what I did to him last weekend? Is it a joke? A silly callback?

“Con, man, leave the poor girl alone,” an amused voice remarks.

I turn toward the dark-haired guy who’d spoken—and that’s when I notice Abigail and Jules. My sorority sisters are sitting with their boyfriends and some of the Sigma guys and this is all starting to make more sense.

My heart melts a little. The world doesn’t deserve Conor Edwards.

“Get lost, Captain,” Conor drawls without turning around. “I’m wooing my woman.”

I swallow a laugh.

He winks at me and squeezes my hand in reassurance. Then, to my complete dismay, he drops to his knees. Oh God, everyone who wasn’t staring at us before is sure as shit staring at us now.

My good humor comes precariously close to evaporating. With his heart-stopping face, I’m sure Conor is used to being the center of attention. Me, I’d rather have wood slivers shoved under my fingernails than be on the receiving end of it. But I can feel Abigail’s eyes laser-beaming into me, which means I can’t convey weakness. Can’t show even a trace of the anxiety currently eating away at my stomach like battery acid.

“Please, Taylor. I’m begging. Put me out of my misery. I’m ruined without you.”

“What in the actual hell is happening?” another male inquires.

“Shut up, Matty,” the first guy admonishes. “I’m dying to see where this goes.”

Conor continues to ignore his buddies. His gray eyes never leave my face. “Go out with me. One date.”

“Um, I don’t think so,” I reply.

A shocked gasp sounds from the vicinity of the Kappa table.

“C’mon, T,” he pleads. “Just give me a shot to prove myself.”

I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. Hysterical tears well in my eyes. When I hesitate for a long time, it’s not because I’m trying to create drama and tension. I’m worried if I open my mouth, I’ll either burst into laughter or sob from embarrassment.

“Fine,” I finally relent, shrugging. To appear even more aloof, I sort of gaze off toward the stage, as if I’m bored with this entire exchange. “One date. I guess.”

His entire face lights up. “Thank you. I promise you won’t regret it.”

I already do.

We don’t stay at the alumni banquet much longer after Conor’s big performance. Considering I hadn’t wanted to go in the first place, I’m more than grateful to leave.

Last year Sasha and I got tipsy and had a blast, but she couldn’t attend this time because she had a last-minute rehearsal for her spring showcase. Which means I’d just spent the past several hours smiling and mingling and pretending to be BFFs with Kappas who either hate me or are just indifferent. Not to mention this stupid cardigan I’m wearing; I’d thrown it on earlier after growing weary of all the ogling being directed at my cleavage, and I’ve been sweating like crazy.

Conor offers to give me a lift back to my apartment since we both live in Hastings, but turns out he’s some kind of sneaky mind-wizard because somehow we end up at his place instead. I don’t know what compels me to agree to dinner and a movie. I decide to blame the two glasses of champagne I drank at the banquet, even though I feel completely sober.

“Fair warning,” he says, as we stand outside a townhouse on a quiet tree-lined street, “my roommates can be a bit excitable.”

“Like trying to hump my leg excitable, or easily startled and afraid of loud noises?

“A bit of both. Just smack ’em on the nose if they get out of hand.”

I nod and square my shoulders. “Got it.”

If I can handle a classroom full of two dozen six-year-olds raging on a sugar high, I’m well up to the task of taming four hockey players. Although it’d probably be easier if I had pudding cups.

“Con, that you?” someone calls when we enter. “What do you want in your grain bowl?”

Conor takes my coat to hang on one of the hooks by the door. “Everyone put your dicks away,” he announces. “We’ve got a guest.”

“Grain bowl?” I ask, confused.

“Team nutrition rules. We’re all eating like mice. No wasted calories.” He sighs.

I know the feeling.

He leads me around the corner into the living room, where three men of imposing figures are spread out on the couches, two playing Xbox.

They’re still in their suits from the banquet, albeit in various stages of disarray, with ties undone and shirts untucked. Together they look like a GQ cologne ad that ostensibly attempts to portray the aftermath of a fashionable boys’ night out in Vegas or something. All that’s missing is disembodied female legs in heels draped over their shoulders, and maybe a pair of lacy red underwear elegantly slung over the armrest.

“Guys, this is Taylor. Taylor, these are the guys.” Conor strips out of his suit jacket and tosses it on the back of a chair.

For a moment I’m transfixed, watching the way his muscles push against the crisp white fabric of his shirt. His chest straining against the buttons. He may have just ruined me for suits.

In unison the guys reply, “Hi, Taylor,” like we’re all in on a joke.

“Hi, guys.” I wave, now feeling awkward. All the more so because it’s hot in this room and I really, really want to take off my sweater.

But the dress I’m wearing must have shrunk in the wash yesterday, because my tits have been attempting to jailbreak out of it all afternoon. It’s discouraging to walk around a room full of former White House officials, Nobel laureates, and Fortune 500 CEOs, and find that they still haven’t perfected looking a woman in the eyes since their fraternity days.

Men are a failed species.

“So you’re the one.” Hunched forward with a game controller in his hand, one of the roommates raises an eyebrow at me. He’s handsome, with the kind of dimples that leave bodies in their wake.

I recognize him from the banquet as the dude standing with Conor’s team captain. He’d beat Conor home, but that’s my fault—I needed to hit the ladies’ and the lines had been atrocious.

“What one?” I ask, playing dumb.

“The one who sent Con to his knees and turned him into a slobbering, love-professing fool?” Mr. Dimples eyes me expectantly, waiting for me to fill in the gaps.

“Oh shit, that was you?” another guy demands. “Can’t believe we skipped out before the big show.” He pins an accusing look on the guy beside him. “Told you we should’ve stayed for one more drink.”

“No interrogating my guests, Matt,” Conor grumbles. “Same rule applies to all of you.”

“Are you our new mommy?” The third guy cracks open a beer, smiling with stupid puppy-dog eyes, and I can’t help but laugh in return.

“Alright, that’s enough.” Conor kicks Matt off the smaller of the two couches and gestures for me to take a seat. “This is why you dumbasses don’t get visitors.”

Their house is huge compared to my little apartment. A big living room with old leather sofas and a couple of reclining chairs. A massive flat screen TV with at least four different game consoles hooked up to it. When Conor said he lived with four roommates, I expected to walk into a nightmarish cave of man smells, pizza boxes, and dirty laundry, but the place is actually pretty tidy and doesn’t smell at all like feet and boy farts.

“Yo, visitor?” A fourth face appears in the doorway that separates the living room from the kitchen. “What do you want from Freshy Bowl?” he demands, a cell phone pressed to his ear.

“Grilled chicken salad, please,” I call back without delay. I’m very familiar with the menu of one of Hastings’ only healthy eating choices.

“On me,” Conor murmurs when I reach for my purse so I can chip in.

I glance over. “Thanks. I’ll get the next one.”

The next one? As if this rare occurrence of me having dinner at Conor Edwards’ house will ever fucking repeat itself? There’s a better chance of Halley’s comet showing up a few decades ahead of schedule.

And I’m not the only one marveling over this unforeseen turn of events. When Sasha texts a few minutes later and I inform her where I am, she accuses me of pranking her.

While Conor and his roommates debate over which movie to stream, I surreptitiously text my best friend back.

ME: Not a prank, I swear.

HER: You’re actually at his HOUSE????

ME: Swear on my signed poster of Ariana Grande.

That’s the only pop star Sasha allows me to fangirl over. Usually it’s “if they can’t sing live without lip-syncing or using their auto tuner, then they’re not a real musician, blah blah blah.”

HER: 50% of me still thinks you’re lying to me. Is it just the two of you?

ME: Six of us. Me + Con + 4 roommates.

HER: Con???? WE’RE ON NICKNAME BASIS NOW?

ME: No, we’re on shortening his name for texting convenience basis.

I’m about to punctuate that with an eyeroll emoji when the phone is unceremoniously snatched from my hand.

“Hey, give it back,” I protest, but Conor just flashes an evil grin and proceeds to read my entire text convo with Sasha out loud to his roommates.

“You have a signed poster of Ariana Grande?” Alec demands. At least I think it’s Alec. I’m still trying to learn all their names.

“Do you kiss it good night before bedtime?” inquires Matt, which evokes a howl of laughter from the others.

I glare at Conor. “Traitor.”

He winks. “Hey, like my junior high teacher Ms. Dillard always warned, if she catches you writing notes in Geography, she’ll read ’em out loud to the whole class.”

“Ms. Dillard sounds like a sadist. And so are you.” I roll my eyes dramatically. “What if I’d been texting about my horrible period cramps?”

Next to Alec, Gavin blanches. “Give ’er the phone back, Con. Nothing good could come of this.”

Conor’s gray eyes dip back to the screen. “But T’s friend doesn’t believe we’re all hanging out. Hold on, let’s show receipts. Smile, boys.”

Then he has the gall to snap a picture. My jaw drops when all four roommates flex their biceps for the camera.

“There,” Conor says with a satisfied nod. “Sent.”

I forcibly wrest the phone from his stupid hand. Sure enough, he’d sent Sasha that pic. And her response is immediate.

HER: OMFG. I want to lick Matt Anderson’s dimples.

HER: And then suck his dick.

I burst out laughing, which prompts Conor to try to steal my phone again. This time I win the battle, and firmly shove the iPhone into my purse before anyone can get their grubby hands on it.

“See this?” I tell the room, holding up the leather purse. “This is a sacred place. Any man who dares snoop through a woman’s purse will be murdered in his sleep by the Bag Butcher.”

Conor snickers. “Damn, babe. Your serial killer is showing.”

I just shoot him a saccharine smile. Then I finally shrug out of my cardigan, because all these big male bodies are generating a crazy amount of heat.

The moment the material slides off my shoulders, I feel more than one set of eyes travel to my chest. A flush rises in my cheeks, but I ignore it and purse my lips.

“Everything okay there?” I ask Gavin, whose brown eyes are completely glazed over.

“Um, yeah, all good. I’m…you’re…ah…I like your dress.”

Matt snickers from his new perch on one of the recliners. “Pick your tongue off the floor, loverboy.”

That snaps Gavin out of his stupor. And despite their initial ogling, the rest of the guys go back to acting normally, which I appreciate. I wouldn’t quite call them perfect gentlemen, but they’re not sleazebags, either.

Once the food arrives, the guys stream DeepStar Six. I eat my grilled chicken salad and watch as the underwater naval station is under attack by a giant crab monster, all the while wondering how I’ve been hypnotized into hanging out with Conor Edwards.

Not that I mind, exactly. He’s fun. Sweet, even. But I still haven’t figured out his angle. When it comes to men and unprovoked friendship, I tend to lean toward skeptical. In the car I’d quizzed him about why he’d made that big show in front of Abigail and her cronies, and he’d merely shrugged and said, “Because it’s fun to mess with the Greeks.”

I do believe he had fun messing with them, but I also know there’s more to the story. I just can’t ask him in front of his roommates. Which makes me wonder if he knows that, and is therefore using them as a shield so he doesn’t have to answer any questions.

“Like how does that even make sense?” Joe, who told me to call him Foster, hits a bong while reclined on the La-Z-Boy. “The pressure variance between such extreme depths would require several hours of decompression before ascent.”

“Dude, there’s a giant crab monster trying to eat their mini sub,” Matt says. “You’re thinking too much.”

“Nah, man. This is preposterous. If they expect me to take their premise seriously, they have to stick to certain basic laws of physics. I mean, come on. Where’s the dedication to storytelling?”

Conor’s shaking his head beside me on the love seat, visibly holding in a laugh. He is so ridiculously attractive it’s hard to concentrate on anything other than the chiseled cut of his jaw, the perfect symmetry of his movie-star face. Every time he glances over at me, my heart flips around like a happy dolphin, and I have to force myself to play it cool.

“I think you’re taking this a bit hard,” he tells Foster.

“All I’m asking for is a little pride in one’s work, okay? How do you make a movie about an underwater sea station and just decide that the rules don’t apply? You going to make a space movie where there’s no vacuum and everyone can breathe outside without a space suit? No, because that’s fucking dumb.”

“Take another bong hit,” Gavin advises from the couch, then shoves a forkful of food in his mouth. “You’re cranky when you’re sober.”

“Yeah, well, I’m gonna.” Foster takes a long hit, releases a plume of smoke, then goes back to sulking as he angrily eats his quinoa.

He’s a weird one. Hot, though. And obviously highly intelligent—before the movie started I was informed that Foster is majoring in Molecular Biophysics. Which makes him a science geek/hockey player/stoner, the strangest of combinations.

“Aren’t you guys drug-tested?” I ask Conor.

“Yeah, but as long as we keep the intake to a minimum and not too often, it doesn’t pop up on the piss test,” he says.

“Trust me,” mumbles Alec, who’s draped over the armrest and not entirely conscious. He’d fallen asleep on the couch beside Gavin pretty much as soon as the movie started. “You don’t want to know Foster without weed.”

“Bite my ass,” Foster barks back.

“Could you jackasses try not embarrassing yourselves in front of the company?” Conor chides. “Sorry, they’re not housebroken.”

I grin. “I like ’em.”

“See that, Con,” retorts Matt. “She likes us.”

“Yeah, so fuck you,” Gavin says cheerfully.

I wish living in the Kappa house had been more like this. I had hoped for sisterhood and got season one of Scream Queens with my very own Chanel Number One instead. Not that all the girls became as unbearable as Abigail, but it was all too much. The noise, the constant commotion. Every detail of life being a group activity.

I’m an only child, and for a while I entertained the idea that having siblings would fulfill some hole in my life I hadn’t known was there. Well, I learned real quick that some people are built to share a bathroom and some would sooner poop in the woods than spend one more morning waiting for ten other chicks to finish brushing their hair.

When the movie ends, the guys are gunning for a scary one next, but Conor says he doesn’t feel like another film and tugs me off the sofa.

“C’mon,” he drawls, and my heart does a couple more backflips. “Let’s go upstairs.”