The Goal (Off-Campus Book 4)

“Naked painting?” Suspicion floats through me as I pull open the door to Wine and Brush. The sign cheekily displays a pair of art dolls arranged in a sordid embrace. Fitting for a college town wine bar, I guess. “You took that blurry picture on purpose,” I accuse my friend.

“Of course I did,” Carin says smugly. “I didn’t want you to have an excuse to say no.” She strolls in and then stops about two steps from the threshold, her gaze glued to the bar across the room. “Nice.” She whistles under her breath. “You did good, B.”

I grin. “I’ll happily take credit were none is due.”

We each snag a wine glass from a tray by the table before moving forward. Our dates are leaning against the bar talking to each other. Even slouching, they’re about a head taller than almost any other person in the room. I notice other girls eyeing their dates and then casting covetous glances toward Tucker and Fitzy.

It’s those glances that propel me across the room and onto my tiptoes to give Tucker a kiss on the lips.

The corners of his sexy mouth curve up as if he knows exactly what I’m doing. “Good to see you, darlin’. Sleep well last night?”

“I did. You?”

“Like a baby.”

Carin doesn’t miss a thing. “Did you sleep in Boston last night?” she teases.

He shakes his head. “Just heard a good story.”

I use the wine glass to smother a smile while Tucker introduces our friends. “Carin, this is Colin, but everyone calls him Fitzy.”

“I like that better,” she announces. “Carin and Colin sounds too cutesy together.”

The six-foot-plus guy smiles shyly and takes Carin’s hand in his, carefully shaking it as if he’s afraid he’s going to hurt her. He doesn’t have to worry, though. She’s small, but tough.

“Are you roommates?” Carin asks, and she’s not at all covert as she admires him from head to toe.

I can’t deny that I’m kinda doing the same thing. Fitzy is incredibly appealing. He’s got messy dark hair that you just want to run your fingers through. And those tats…yum. He’s wearing a T-shirt that reveals two full sleeves of intricate designs and a lot of fantasy-type imagery—I make out several dragons and at least one sword. And there’s ink peeking out of the collar of his shirt too. Carin’s not usually into tattooed guys, but her eyes are glued to this one.

“Nope. I live alone,” Fitzy tells her. “Tuck lives with the glory boys.”

“The glory boys?” I echo, but I suspect I know the answer.

Tucker’s expression grows amused. “Garrett and Logan are the stars. Both guys are going pro. And you know Dean.”

I wrinkle my nose at the mention of his name.

“Don’t get her started,” Carin warns.

Fitzy gives a lopsided grin. “A girl who doesn’t love Dean? I didn’t know they existed.”

“He got an A because he was sleeping with the TA!” I grouse.

Carin places her hand over my mouth. “I warned you. Come on, Fitzy.” She drops her hand and crooks her finger toward the big hockey player. “Let’s find a place to sit. I’ve heard this story before and it’s not a good one.” She hums a few bars from Frozen as she leads him away.

I make a frustrated sound in the back of my throat, but since half my audience is gone, I turn to the only person who’s left. “Are you going to tell me to let it go too?”

“Naah, you hold on to that as long as you want. It’s not my place to dictate what you get mad about.” He cups the back of my neck with one large palm and leans down to whisper in my ear. “But I’ll be happy to tell you what to do later on tonight.”

My body tightens immediately. Sex with Tucker is about the least stressful, most enjoyable thing in my life, and as I lean into his solid grip, I realize I’m no longer interested in fighting the attraction between us. My friends are right—I do need this. Not only the sex, but the company. Hanging out with a smart, cute guy who wants nothing more than to be with me, any way he can.

I think I’m just going to roll with this and see what happens.

“It’s a deal.”

He winks. “I’ve got ideas now.”

“As if you didn’t have them before,” I scoff.

“I’ve got more ideas. You’re very inspirational.”

His hot gaze has me stepping forward and lifting my hand to his chest—his very ripped, very lickable, very gorgeous chest. Under my palm, his muscles flex and his heart beats quickly. I rise up on my tiptoes to—

A loud cough behind us has me dropping down.

“Yeah?” Tucker says to Fitzy without taking his eyes off mine.

“You might want to grab a seat. Everyone’s waiting on you.”

I shift around to see that most of the room is turned in their chairs, either waiting for us to sit down or hoping we start mauling each other in front of them. The long tables are set up in a C-shape, and there’s a small riser in the center where I assume the model will stand. We each get our own easel, canvas, and an array of brushes and acrylic paints. It’s pretty cool.

“Unless you’re stripping and going to serve as our models, come and sit,” Carin orders.

Tucker’s hand drifts downward, managing to raise a thousand goose bumps on the way to my hand. I clasp it and lead him to the chairs next to Carin.

“You’re supposed to wait until after the date to jump his bones,” she whispers as I sit down.

I set the wine glass aside and pick up a paintbrush. “Rules are for suckers and boring people, Careful.”

She runs a brush over my nose in mock disgust, but then the instructor starts speaking and we shut up out of habit.

“Hey everyone! I’m Aria and I’ll be your instructor for the night! I’m so pumped by the turn-out!”

Oh boy. Our teacher is one big ball of energy, bouncing on her feet as she addresses the room. On her head is a crazy swirl of Medusa-like dreadlocks that swing around like snakes as she bounce-talks.

“First thing I’m going to do is introduce our model! This is Spector—”

Spector?

Tucker sways in his chair, and I turn to find him fighting waves of laughter. I plant a hand on his knee to still him.

“Be nice,” I hiss.

“Trying to.” He chuckles while muttering “Spector” to himself.

A tall guy in a white bathrobe steps forward and waves at the group. His black hair is longer than mine, and he has those squinty James Franco eyes that make him look perpetually stoned.

“Hi,” is all he says.

Then he takes off the robe.

I choke on a gasp, because oh my God, his penis is right there. And it’s impressive.

Beside me, Carin is also quick to examine the goods. “Now that’s what I’m talking about! Well, hello there, Manaconda!” she calls to the model before sweeping her gaze over the other females in attendance. “Ladies, I think Spector deserves a slow clap right now, no?”

Now I’m the one fighting laughter, because damned if the ladies don’t all break out in a slow, slow clap that leads to a burst of applause followed by whistles and catcalls. The shade of poor Spector’s face is so red it belongs on the palette in front of me.

Tucker snorts loudly in the chair next to mine, while Fitzy leans around Carin’s and asks me, “Is she always like this?”

“Usually she’s worse,” I say cheerfully.

He doesn’t seem put off by that. Our instructor, meanwhile, is starting to get annoyed.

“Guys!” She claps her hands together. “Focus! There’s beautiful art to be made!” Her stern expression cracks, replaced with a grin. “Which, of course, will absolutely include Spector’s equipment.”

This is the weirdest fucking date I’ve ever been on.

Aria gives us a rundown of how it all works. It’s not very complicated. We drink wine and paint Spector’s penis. Surprisingly, Tuck, Fitz and the other men in the room are instantly on board. Paint tubes are opened, brushes are raised, and then we’re making beautiful art.

Sort of.

I awkwardly drag my brush over the canvas. I tried to mix yellow, white and brown to create a peachy skin tone for my canvas Spector, but it looks like he has an awful spray tan.

Tucker runs one of his dry brushes across a knuckle that’s sporting a bruise. “I can think of a dozen good uses for one of these. Might take it home.”

I roll my eyes. “Paintbrushes aren’t sex toys.”

“Says who?”

We work steadily for the next hour. Carin is awesome at this. So is Fitzy, who, according to Tuck, designs his own video games. Tucker is surprisingly decent, though he seems to be avoiding the dick region on his canvas.

“You’re gonna have to paint his junk eventually,” I taunt.

He winks. “I’m saving the best for last.”

From the other section of the tables, a guy with floppy blond hair and a Red Sox T-shirt raises his hand. “Teach, I can’t do the pubes! They look like little ants!”

A burst of laughter roars through the room. I think Red Sox is on a double date too, because he and his date are sitting next to another couple, who are in hysterics.

“Seriously, Spec,” Red Sox’s friend calls out. “You couldn’t have done a little manscaping before you came here tonight?”

“Can’t,” Spector replies from his perch, sounding bored. “My contract doesn’t allow it.”

He has a contract? To pose naked at a college bar paint night?

“The pubic hair adds texture to the painting,” Aria explains to the group. “But art is about interpretation, remember? Paint what you see in here—” She taps a hand over her heart, “not what you see here—” She points to her eyes.

“What the hell does that even mean?” I whisper to Tucker, whose entire face is flushed from laughing so hard.

“Like this!” Aria declares suddenly. “This is interpretation!”

I glance over to find her swiping Fitzy’s canvas off his easel. The big guy rumbles in protest, but she ignores him and holds up the painting with a grand flourish.

My jaw drops when I see what Tucker’s friend has painted. It’s Spector, but a badass version of him in a helmet and wielding a shield. Instead of the much talked about penis, Fitzy painted an elaborate-looking sword jutting from the guy’s crotch. Like, a sword worthy of Game of Thrones.

“Dude,” Tucker exclaims, suitably impressed.

“That’s amazing!” a wide-eyed Carin gushes to her date.

He shrugs. “It’s all right.”

His modesty makes me smile. I only grin harder when Aria gives him back the canvas and then begs him to leave it with her instead of taking it home with him.

We resume our painting, cracking jokes and sipping our wine. Every so often, Tucker leans toward the elderly gentleman beside him and helps the poor guy out.

“Naw, man, you want to shade under here,” he advises. “Imagine that the light is hitting his arm from up there. So the shadow would be down here.”

The old man harrumphs loudly. “This whole thing is a waste of time.”

“Hiram!” his wife scolds.

“What? It’s true,” he says in a crabby voice, then gives Tucker and me a surly look. “This was her idea.”

“Because I thought you would enjoy it,” the gray-haired woman protests. “You’ve always told me how much you envy my artistic skills.”

The couple appears to be in their late sixties. Or hell, maybe their late seventies. I’ve never been a good judge of age. Besides, seniors look so young these days. Nana could pass for my older sister.

“Gee, I’m sorry, Doris, but I never learned how to draw naked folks when I was getting shot at in ’Nam!”

Doris slams her brush on the table. “We talked about this! Dr. Phillips said you weren’t allowed to discuss Vietnam anymore. It’s destructive to our relationship.”

“It was the most taxing time of my life,” he says stubbornly.

“And you think it was easy for me?” she challenges. “Being at home and raising two children in diapers while you were off hunting Charlie?”

He squawks in outrage. “You were wiping bottoms! I was killing human beings!”

I bite my lip to stop from laughing, even though this isn’t a particularly funny conversation. Maybe the wine has gone to my head.

“Now, now,” Tucker drawls. “Hiram, my man, your wife is gorgeous and obviously devoted to you. And Doris, Hiram here fought for his country to keep you and your children safe—think of how much he must love you for him to have done that. So let’s not fight, huh? Why don’t we just focus on painting this nice fellow over there and doing justice to his equipment?”

Fitzy snorts from the other side of Carin.

So does Hiram, whose voice becomes gruff as he addresses his wife. “I’m sorry, Dorrie. You’re right—this was a lovely idea.”

“And you were very brave in the war,” she says magnanimously.

Hiram leans over and pats Tucker on the shoulder. “All right. Show me that shadow trick.”

My heart melts as I watch Tucker help the older man. Doris, meanwhile, is blushing prettily, probably thinking about how he called her gorgeous before.

“I like you, kid,” Hiram tells my date.

Yeah. I like him too.

*

Tucker

We’re all feeling stupid and giddy when we troop out of the bar with our wrapped-up canvases tucked under our arms. Well, except for Fitzy—our instructor made him leave his masterpiece behind so she could show it to future classes.

Outside, the air is frigid, but that doesn’t stop Hiram from saying, “I saw an ice cream parlor down the road. Let’s check if it’s still open.”

And yup, our double date has turned into a triple date and suddenly we’re going out for ice cream with an old war vet and his sweet-as-molasses wife.

I hold Sabrina’s hand as we amble down the sidewalk. I honestly didn’t expect to have this much fun tonight. I mean, a painting class? There are a million—dirtier—things I would’ve rather done, but this wasn’t bad at all. Even Fitzy has laughed more times tonight than I’ve ever heard in the past.

The ice cream place is just closing when we arrive, but the kid who’s about to lock the door takes pity on us and opens the cash register. Thanking him profusely, we order waffle cones and then head back to the bar parking lot.

Now that they’re no longer bickering, Hiram and Doris regale us with stories about their forty-six years together. They’ve lived through some pretty harrowing times, but I’m more interested in the happy memories they describe.

Forty-six years. It’s fucking surreal to think of being with someone for that long. Am I totally nuts for wanting that?

Sabrina seems equally mesmerized by their tales, and when the elderly couple climbs into their little car and drives off, she seems genuinely disappointed to see them go.

“We’re going to finish our ice cream in my car,” Carin announces, and there’s nothing stealthy about the way she says it. With a mischievous smile, she tugs on Fitzy’s hand and drags him toward the blue hatchback parked across the lot.

He glances over his shoulder and grins at me.

“They’re totally going to hook up,” Sabrina says.

“Yup.”

I drag her toward my own vehicle. Once we’re settled in the front seat, I flick the ignition and blast the heat. Ice cream was probably a bad idea—Sabrina is visibly shivering as we wait for the truck to warm up.

“So,” I say.

“So.”

“That was entertaining.”

“Which part? When the Red Sox guy painted ants for pubes? Or when Hiram and Doris described what it was like to live through the boob job craze in the eighties?”

“Holy fuck. When she said she’d considered getting her ‘bosom done’?”

“Oh my God. I died!” Sabrina is in stitches beside me, the sound of her high-pitched giggles bringing a rush of warmth to my chest.

Damn. I really like this girl. She’s…incredible. She’s not the ice queen Dean insists that she is, not in the slightest. She’s smart and funny and caring and—

And I might be falling for her.

My laughter dies off.

“What’s wrong?” Sabrina asks immediately.

“Nothing,” I lie. It’s either that or tell her what I’m thinking about, and I’m pretty sure she doesn’t want to hear it.

I don’t even want to imagine what her response would be if I admitted that I’m falling for her. We’ve fucked twice and gone on one date. It’s way too early to bring the L-word into the conversation.

“You sure?” She sounds concerned. “You got a really deep crease right…here.” She smooths two fingers over my forehead.

“Naah, I’m good.” I shift in my seat and ease closer to her. “I’m having a great time.”

“Me too.” Her bottom lip pokes out a bit. “I wish…”

“You wish what?”

She sighs. “I wish we could go back to my place, but I’ve got to be up at four in the morning. This isn’t a good night for me to be up late.”

“Same. I’ve got practice at seven.”

“So no sex,” she says glumly.

“Not unless you want to get it on in the truck again.”

Interest flickers in her dark eyes before fading to resignation. “Tempting, but I’d feel weird having sex when Carin is like ten feet away.”

“I’m pretty sure Carin isn’t paying any attention to us right now.”

Sabrina shakes her head. “Trust me, they won’t be in there for long. She has a strict no-sex-on-the-first-date rule. Fitzy’s only going to get a make-out session.” She snickers. “And probably blue balls.”

“What about me? Are my balls gonna hate me when I get home?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.” Then she slides over the console and kisses me.

When her tongue swirls seductively over mine, it sends a bolt of lust to my balls. I groan against her soft lips. “Yeah,” I croak. “I’ll definitely be icing the boys tonight.”

“Aw. You poor baby,” she whispers, then proceeds to torture me with hungry kisses and the lazy glide of her palm over my crotch.

We make out for a while, neither of us anxious to take it further. But it’s still hot as hell. The windows of my truck fog up, and I’m hard as a goal post by the time we break apart.

“I should get home,” she says regretfully.

I nod, offering a wry smile. “Rock, Paper, Scissors to decide who knocks on their window?”

It turns out to be unnecessary, because suddenly there’s a knock on my window. I roll it down to find Carin’s flushed face peering down at me. Her lips are swollen, her hair a tangle of red curls.

“Sorry,” she says with a sheepish shrug. “But B said she needed to leave by ten-thirty. It’s past that already.”

Very, very reluctantly, I slide out of the pickup and then hurry around to Sabrina’s door to open it for her. Her expression is as reluctant as mine.

A tousled-haired Fitzy is leaning against the side of my truck, and Carin smacks his ass as she makes her way back to her car.

“We’ll do this again?” I murmur to Sabrina.

“Naked paint night? I don’t know. Once might be enough.”

“Another date,” I correct. “You’ll call me when you have some free time?”

I half expect an argument, but she simply lifts up on her tiptoes, kisses me on the lips, and pulls back to say, “Absolutely.”