The Score
Page 68
The same thing happened during our drive to the city. Listening to Dean talk about “silent comers” and past hook-ups hadn’t upset me, not the way it had the night I saw Penelope pawing him at Malone’s. But I hadn’t felt threatened this time around. Maybe because they were clearly memories for him and not present day specters that could interfere with whatever we have going on? I’m not entirely sure what the reason is, but I like this odd, unexpected trust I have in him.
In the seat beside me, Dean is rolling his eyes in response to Beau’s taunt. “Trust me, I’m happy to be snubbed.”
I wait for him to elaborate. When he doesn’t, it heightens my curiosity, so I poke him in the side and say, “Spill, sweetie. I want to hear about this blood feud you’ve got going on.” As Hannah can attest, I’m too nosy for my own good.
“So do I,” Beau says honestly.
Dean waves it off. “It was just some stupid bullshit in sophomore year. No big deal.”
“Obviously it is if it still bothers you two years later,” I point out.
Reluctance creases his forehead. “Long story short? I was struggling in a course, but every time I thought I failed a test or wrote a shitty paper, I’d get an A on it. Me being a total moron, I didn’t connect it to the fact that I was banging my TA.”
Beau snickers. “Love it.”
I sigh. “Oh boy.”
“I know, it was a stupid move,” Dean says penitently. “Anyway, Sabrina and I were paired up on the final project. We each did half the work and it was graded separately. My half was C-material at best and we both knew it, except then our grades came back and I got an A. Sabrina got a B-minus.” His jaw tightens. “She was pissed. She went to the professor to bitch about it, and he ended up rereading every paper I turned in and every test I took—all graded by the TA I was screwing. Turned out I should have been failing the class. But I was acing it.”
Dean sounds so disgusted it startles me. Before we hooked up, I assumed he was the kind of guy who breezed through life on a free pass because of his looks and money. This story corroborates that. But the anger in his voice reveals something else—he doesn’t want the free pass.
“I couldn’t stomach it,” he admits, confirming my suspicions. “I told the prof to give me the F. I was perfectly willing to retake the course over the summer. But the bastard wouldn’t fail me.”
“Why not?” Joanna speaks up, both indignant and bewildered.
“He knew my father,” Dean mutters. “They went to law school together, and he told me he’d look the other way as a favor to my dad. I said no way. We argued for a while, until he finally agreed to lower the grade to a B-plus. It was the ‘best he could do’.”
Dean’s expression is darker than a storm cloud. “I should’ve failed that fucking course, but the Di Laurentis name bought me a pass, and Sabrina never lets me forget it. She thinks I’m a rich asshole who gets whatever he wants.” His tone grows dismissive again. “Whatever. She can think what she wants. Only matters what I think, right?”
I see right through the careless smile he flashes. It bothers him that people think he’s a wealthy playboy who has everything handed to him on a silver platter. And yes, I do recognize that side of him—the Life of Dean is pretty fucking sweet—but I’ve also seen other facets of his personality this past month.
He’s tenacious. Seriously, this guy never, ever gives up when he wants something.
He cares about his friends and teammates. Hell, I didn’t see him on Monday and Tuesday this week because he’d requested extra ice time so he could help some guy named Hunter hone his skills.
He owns more books than the public library in Brooklyn, and I can tell from their wear and tear that he’s actually read all of them.
He—
“Your purse.”
My head lifts up. “What about it?”
Dean gestures to the black clutch on the bench seat between us. “It’s vibrating.”
I shake myself out of the bizarre Why Dean Is So Great list I was composing, and snap open the clutch to find my phone buzzing.
I set down my rum and coke. “My friends are here. Will you come get them with me? I might need you to talk to the bouncer again.”
He gives an exaggerated sigh. “I knew it. You’re just using me for my connections.”
“Yep,” I answer cheerfully.
We head back to the staircase, and I squeal when I spot a familiar face behind the rope.
“They’re with us,” Dean tells the bouncer.
A moment later, there’s a teeny, equally excited brunette hurling herself into my arms. “Oh my God! It’s so good to see you!” shrieks my best friend from high school. “You don’t fucking call me enough!”
I grin and say, “It takes two to tango” and then we’re happily hugging again, until I notice the shadow looming over us.
Dillon disentangles herself from the embrace and introduces us to her boyfriend. “This is Roy.”
Last time we spoke on the phone, she mentioned she was dating a football player. I would’ve guessed it even if she hadn’t told me, because Roy is a monster of a man. At least six-seven, with arms as thick as tree trunks and thighs that are bigger than my torso. And either I’m imagining it, or he looks exactly like—
“Dude, anyone ever tell you that you look like a young Samuel L. Jackson?” Dean demands, stealing the words right out of my mouth.
Roy’s massive shoulders set in a rigid line. “Ahhh, I get it, ’cause all us brothas look the same to you, right?”
My alarmed gaze flies to Dillon, because the menacing glare twisting Roy’s features is downright terrifying. And his voice is deeper than the bass line thudding through the club.
“What next?” Roy growls. “You gonna say there’s somethin’ wrong with me going out with this fine white girl? Is that what you’re saying?”
Dean is unfazed. “Yeah, you got me, man. I’m a huge racist.” He shakes his head incredulously as he continues to stare at Roy. “It’s frickin’ uncanny. You look exactly like him.”
I’m seconds away from clapping my hand over Dean’s mouth before this behemoth snaps him like a twig, but to my astonishment, Roy’s ominous expression dissolves.
In the seat beside me, Dean is rolling his eyes in response to Beau’s taunt. “Trust me, I’m happy to be snubbed.”
I wait for him to elaborate. When he doesn’t, it heightens my curiosity, so I poke him in the side and say, “Spill, sweetie. I want to hear about this blood feud you’ve got going on.” As Hannah can attest, I’m too nosy for my own good.
“So do I,” Beau says honestly.
Dean waves it off. “It was just some stupid bullshit in sophomore year. No big deal.”
“Obviously it is if it still bothers you two years later,” I point out.
Reluctance creases his forehead. “Long story short? I was struggling in a course, but every time I thought I failed a test or wrote a shitty paper, I’d get an A on it. Me being a total moron, I didn’t connect it to the fact that I was banging my TA.”
Beau snickers. “Love it.”
I sigh. “Oh boy.”
“I know, it was a stupid move,” Dean says penitently. “Anyway, Sabrina and I were paired up on the final project. We each did half the work and it was graded separately. My half was C-material at best and we both knew it, except then our grades came back and I got an A. Sabrina got a B-minus.” His jaw tightens. “She was pissed. She went to the professor to bitch about it, and he ended up rereading every paper I turned in and every test I took—all graded by the TA I was screwing. Turned out I should have been failing the class. But I was acing it.”
Dean sounds so disgusted it startles me. Before we hooked up, I assumed he was the kind of guy who breezed through life on a free pass because of his looks and money. This story corroborates that. But the anger in his voice reveals something else—he doesn’t want the free pass.
“I couldn’t stomach it,” he admits, confirming my suspicions. “I told the prof to give me the F. I was perfectly willing to retake the course over the summer. But the bastard wouldn’t fail me.”
“Why not?” Joanna speaks up, both indignant and bewildered.
“He knew my father,” Dean mutters. “They went to law school together, and he told me he’d look the other way as a favor to my dad. I said no way. We argued for a while, until he finally agreed to lower the grade to a B-plus. It was the ‘best he could do’.”
Dean’s expression is darker than a storm cloud. “I should’ve failed that fucking course, but the Di Laurentis name bought me a pass, and Sabrina never lets me forget it. She thinks I’m a rich asshole who gets whatever he wants.” His tone grows dismissive again. “Whatever. She can think what she wants. Only matters what I think, right?”
I see right through the careless smile he flashes. It bothers him that people think he’s a wealthy playboy who has everything handed to him on a silver platter. And yes, I do recognize that side of him—the Life of Dean is pretty fucking sweet—but I’ve also seen other facets of his personality this past month.
He’s tenacious. Seriously, this guy never, ever gives up when he wants something.
He cares about his friends and teammates. Hell, I didn’t see him on Monday and Tuesday this week because he’d requested extra ice time so he could help some guy named Hunter hone his skills.
He owns more books than the public library in Brooklyn, and I can tell from their wear and tear that he’s actually read all of them.
He—
“Your purse.”
My head lifts up. “What about it?”
Dean gestures to the black clutch on the bench seat between us. “It’s vibrating.”
I shake myself out of the bizarre Why Dean Is So Great list I was composing, and snap open the clutch to find my phone buzzing.
I set down my rum and coke. “My friends are here. Will you come get them with me? I might need you to talk to the bouncer again.”
He gives an exaggerated sigh. “I knew it. You’re just using me for my connections.”
“Yep,” I answer cheerfully.
We head back to the staircase, and I squeal when I spot a familiar face behind the rope.
“They’re with us,” Dean tells the bouncer.
A moment later, there’s a teeny, equally excited brunette hurling herself into my arms. “Oh my God! It’s so good to see you!” shrieks my best friend from high school. “You don’t fucking call me enough!”
I grin and say, “It takes two to tango” and then we’re happily hugging again, until I notice the shadow looming over us.
Dillon disentangles herself from the embrace and introduces us to her boyfriend. “This is Roy.”
Last time we spoke on the phone, she mentioned she was dating a football player. I would’ve guessed it even if she hadn’t told me, because Roy is a monster of a man. At least six-seven, with arms as thick as tree trunks and thighs that are bigger than my torso. And either I’m imagining it, or he looks exactly like—
“Dude, anyone ever tell you that you look like a young Samuel L. Jackson?” Dean demands, stealing the words right out of my mouth.
Roy’s massive shoulders set in a rigid line. “Ahhh, I get it, ’cause all us brothas look the same to you, right?”
My alarmed gaze flies to Dillon, because the menacing glare twisting Roy’s features is downright terrifying. And his voice is deeper than the bass line thudding through the club.
“What next?” Roy growls. “You gonna say there’s somethin’ wrong with me going out with this fine white girl? Is that what you’re saying?”
Dean is unfazed. “Yeah, you got me, man. I’m a huge racist.” He shakes his head incredulously as he continues to stare at Roy. “It’s frickin’ uncanny. You look exactly like him.”
I’m seconds away from clapping my hand over Dean’s mouth before this behemoth snaps him like a twig, but to my astonishment, Roy’s ominous expression dissolves.
