Bang Out: A New Adult College Romance (Main Desire Book 2)

  Penny Clarke

  Bang Out

  A New Adult College Romance

  Copyright © 2020 by Penny Clarke

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  First edition

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  Contents

  1. Kennedy

  2. Kennedy

  3. Spencer

  4. Kennedy

  5. Spencer

  6. Spencer

  7. Kennedy

  8. Kennedy

  9. Spencer

  10. Kennedy

  11. Kennedy

  12. Spencer

  13. Kennedy

  14. Kennedy

  15. Spencer

  16. Kennedy

  17. Kennedy

  18. Spencer

  19. Kennedy

  20. Spencer

  21. Kennedy

  22. Kennedy

  23. Kennedy

  24. Spencer

  25. Kennedy

  26. Spencer

  27. Kennedy

  28. Kennedy

  29. Kennedy

  30. Spencer

  31. Kennedy

  32. Kennedy

  33. Spencer

  34. Kennedy

  35. Spencer

  36. Spencer

  37. Kennedy

  38. Spencer

  39. Kennedy

  40. Kennedy

  41. Spencer

  42. Kennedy

  Epilogue

  Thank You!

  Did You Know…

  About the Author

  Also by Penny Clarke

  In this Series

  Nude Awakening

  1

  Kennedy

  You know those scenes in romance movies right before the couple kisses? Where they gaze longingly into each other’s eyes and hold one another tight? The ripped male lead positively smolders. He’s yearned for it since the first act. The sassy female protagonist does that sexy lip lick thing. She wants it just as bad. Maybe he flew her out to his exotic private island for the dreamiest weekend ever. Maybe she turned down the promotion of a lifetime to run a quaint squash farm with him. And now, they consummately, unquestionably, absolutely must kiss.

  This is not one of those moments.

  Oh, sure, it has all the makings for chick flick potential. A gorgeous moonlit night. A secluded front porch with wicker chairs and twinkling lights strung from Craftsman columns. A whimsical porch swing built for two. A young couple. A man. A woman—i.e. me.

  But let’s observe everything in the frame impeding it from silver screen glory:

  It’s the middle of winter. While I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’d prefer a tropical getaway (Redheads sunburn. Case in point: every summer family vacation photo where I am bright as a tomato), it’s hard to keep an ardent mood when I’m shivering in my coat.

  Have you tried the lip lick thing while wearing lipstick? Granted, ‘Fresh Strawberry’ complements my features. But it doesn’t taste quite as appealing as the name suggests.

  I don’t think anyone, ever, at any time, has known me and thought ‘That Kennedy Walsh, she’s one sassy lass!’

  Likewise, I don’t think my co-star Pete can be distinguished as leading man material. Adorkable sidekick, perhaps. Possibly the courtroom lawyer who tries to convince the heroine that a squash farm is beneath her. Surely no one who smolders.

  Unless that’s what he thinks he’s doing now, I realize when I open one eye to find both his staring back at me. Who keeps their eyes open when they kiss?

  “Do you think, maybe, um,” I pull away. “Can you close your eyes?”

  “Yeah, totally,” Pete says. He closes them, and I let him put his mouth back on mine now that I no longer feel like my every reaction to this kiss is being evaluated.

  I squeeze my own shut, willing myself to overlook my last observation:

  I don’t feel any sort of consummate, unquestionable, absolute need to kiss Pete.

  In fact, when I first stepped into the house party tonight, I pegged him for an Ivy League wannabe, with his v-neck sweater and polo combo, artfully styled hair, and inclination to drop words like ‘ubiquitous’ into conversation. Turns out, when my friend Natalie introduced me to him, I hit it right on the nose. He’s a communications senior, who just applied to Dartmouth for grad school.

  Which is not to say I don’t find all that attractive. As my roommate Rylie would say, he’s Kennedy catnip.

  He’s just a little too much like the last guy I kissed: a pre-med student with the same cardigan in seven different colors. And before him, an econ major that favored bow ties.

  Kennedy’s catnip is apparently the entire J. Crew men’s catalog.

  Pete inches closer, and the porch swing sways. I shift my leg to stop the movement, but as previously established, it’s wintertime, and my boot slides on icy porch planks. The swing, well, it swings, and the sudden momentum causes Pete’s teeth to clack into mine.

  I pull away again, pressing a finger into my incisors to dull the uncomfortable ache.

  “Whoops,” Pete chuckles. He places both feet firmly on the porch and pats his thighs. “Here, how about this?”

  “Get in your lap?”

  “Exactly. I’ll hold you and keep the swing from moving.”

  I frown, uncertain that will work. Cold wind drifts over the porch, carrying with it another shiver along my neck. I should have taken down my ponytail before coming outside. Why didn’t I bring a scarf? As it is, my ears will probably catch frostbite. I also can’t feel my butt through my jeans, the swing is that chilled. Maybe it’s just the cold taking me out of the moment. Maybe closeness—and body heat—will get me back into it.

  So I climb onto him, though I’m not sure where to put my arms. Around his neck seems appropriate, but his coat comes with a furry, bulky hood. Should I unzip it to make space for my hands? No, that would be far too forward. I settle for leaving them at my sides.

  Pete brings my head down to his, and this time, he sticks his tongue right past my lips. Wow, okay, right for the kill, huh? That’s fine, I guess. It took a couple of months to teach Ashton how I like to be kissed—slow and sweet grazes, drawn-out caresses, delicate explorations of each other’s lips. Pete has what, four or five months until graduation? Then the summer, provided he stays on campus. Dartmouth’s far. Way more than a single day road trip for one driver. And plane tickets don’t come cheap for someone on a college budget. Not exactly ideal if we continue this.

  Although, as he wiggles his tongue around my mouth—not even attempting to coax mine—I start to think this isn’t going to last the night, let alone a couple of seasons from now. A shame, really. I’ve never been to New Hampshire, and my fall wardrobe is on point.

  I tilt my head, determined to slow down the eager thrust of his tongue. Pete switches to kissing my throat—and okay, there, that’s kind of nice. Pleasant, even. One of his hands slips into my hair—

  “Ow!” His grasp yanks my hair from the elastic band holding it in place.

  “Sorry,” he says wit
h a chaste smile. He untangles his hand and sets it on the back of my neck, then resumes kissing. Only now there’s a crick in my neck from this new angle. One of my older sisters, Deirdre, once pinched a nerve from bending her neck too much. I concentrate on not repeating her injury. At this rate, I wouldn’t be surprised if this makeout landed me in the hospital.

  That would make an excellent story to tell our grandchildren one day, though. Am I not giving Pete enough credit? Sloppy kissing skills aside, he’s precisely my type. And who knows, maybe I’ll apply to Yale or Harvard for grad school. The distance wouldn’t be so bad then. We could go apple picking in autumn. Snowshoeing in winter. Visit the Cape once it gets warm.

  Girl, you have got to lay off the Hallmark movies.

  Just as I envision Pete and me, strolling along some Atlantic boardwalk eating lobster rolls, he groans, crushing our bundled bodies closer as he returns to my mouth with that lizard tongue. The sudden movement jars me back. Pete’s foot slides out. The swing pitches.

  I fall right off his lap.

  “Shit, Kennedy, are you okay?” Pete asks, helping me up from the porch.

  I nod, wind knocked out of me despite the buffer of my winter jacket. “Just peachy,” I tell him once I can breathe. Straightening my coat, I check my phone with numb fingers. “Do you want to go inside? It’s freezing.”

  “Actually,” he says, squinting his eyes and pursing his lips. Trying that smolder on for size again. It doesn’t work. “I was hoping we could go back to my place?”

  I freeze fixing my hair. Not from the cold.

  Oh, no. Absolutely not.

  There are things I need to do before reaching that level. There’s shaving. Plucking. Waxing. Exfoliating, moisturizing. Selecting matching underwear. Not to mention wearing something cuter than jeans and a sweater, or using a racier lip shade than ‘Fresh Strawberry’. I hadn’t expected one of my friends to set me up tonight. I’m nowhere near ready to go back to a guy’s place or go any further than kissing.

  I mean, Ashton and I had waited until junior prom, six months after our first date. I’d had to teach him how to kiss properly first. If I have to revisit square one with Pete, there’s no way we can skip ahead several steps in just one night. Especially when I’ve had no time for preparation.

  “Natalie has my keys,” I point at the front door, which I will have to enter in order to get said keys back from her.

  The instant we’d arrived, she’d stolen them, with the caveat she would return them after I’d stayed at the party for a whole hour. Her exact words had been, “Kennedy, you are a beautiful mermaid. Go splash in the ocean. There’s no need to run home before the clock strikes midnight.”

  Ignoring that the ocean is closer to Dartmouth than it is to Lakewood University, or that she’d completely mixed up fairy tales, I’d tried to grab my keys, only to have her drop them in her bra.

  “One. Hour.” had been her final warning. In the next sentence, “Oh, look, there’s Pete from my sociology class. Let’s say hi.”

  Now, Pete shrugs. “I can drive.”

  Which would leave Natalie with my car. Natalie, who is no doubt drinking and will continue to drink until Morris has to take her home, where he will carry her to her room and leave a glass of water and ibuprofen on her nightstand. Our other friends at this party will be in similar states. And I refuse to leave my car at an unknown residence overnight. Or go home with a guy I just met.

  “This has been nice…” I draw out, looking for a way to smooth out my rejection.

  “So let’s continue it elsewhere,” Pete says. “What’s the problem?”

  The problem is I barely know him. That I’m not a one night stand kind of girl. That I need time and connection and mutual understanding before rushing into bed. That his kiss didn’t give me goosebumps or make anything south of my neck flutter like it should. That the last time I’d had sex, it had been with a trusted partner in a vested relationship, and having to learn it all over again with someone new scares the zings right out of my girl parts.

  “Look, Ash—”

  “Who is Ash?” Pete rises from the swing, smolder dissipating.

  “He’s my b—” I almost say before cringing. “No one.”

  Because Ashton Keeland isn’t my boyfriend. Not anymore.

  “Whatever, let’s just go,” Pete says, waving off that I’d obviously called him another guy’s name. He grabs my hand and leads me off the porch. I don’t have a chance to answer, he’s that quick about it.

  I jerk my hand out of his and dig my boots into the lawn before I can slip on another patch of ice.

  “Pete, I’m going inside,” I stomp back up the porch steps. “You can come with, or you can stay out here in the cold.”

  “Don’t be a tease.” He reaches for my arm.

  Uh-uh. No way. Sassy may never describe me, but there is one word I’ve been called more than I like.

  I whirl on him, face hard and impassive. “‘Compliance in or approval of what is done or proposed by another’. Know what that means, Pete?”

  He steps back, eyes wide. “What?”

  “Textbook definition of consent, you presumptuous moron. Memorize it.”

  I march to the door, my hand on the doorknob when I hear his muttered response, “Bitch.”

  Bingo. That’s the word.

  I snap around again, “Learn how to brush your teeth. You taste like garlic.”

  I slam the door behind me, not that anyone notices. It’s a party, and any noise drowns in music and drunken guests shouting over one another. Warmth floods back to me, my fingers and ears and thighs burning from the delicious heat inside.

  Weaving around people to the kitchen, I spot Natalie perched on the counter, her dark teal hair a beacon amongst other party-goers. When we met last semester, it’d been purple, but she’d changed it to the extreme blue when it was announced the Lakewood Leopards made it to the college football championship playoffs. She sweeps her bangs to the side to watch as team captain and quarterback Morris helps our friend Grayson stack red plastic cups. When I approach, she digs her phone out of her pocket, the mass of bracelets on her wrist clinking together.

  “Keys.” I hold out my hand.

  “You have fifteen minutes.” She waves her phone, displaying the time. Noticing my arms crossed over my chest and my stern pout, her shoulders slump. “Another bad fish, huh?”

  “More like a smelly one,” I say. She pats the counter beside her, and I hoist myself up, nodding at the guys. “What’s going on here?”

  “This,” Grayson says, carefully perching the bottom of one cup on the brims of two others. “Is a feat of hard work, dedication, and physics.”

  “And alcohol,” Morris adds. To me, he says, “Gray’s smashed.”

  Behind his dark-rimmed glasses, Grayson’s eyes are glossy. There’s a slight tilt to his movements, an ease in his normally concentrated expression. Unlike Morris, whom I have never seen consume a drop of something that wasn’t water or a sports drink, Gray occasionally partakes in the average college student’s favorite pastime: drinking. But with an above-average intellect and the knowledge of how many beers it takes before one loses all inhibitions, he doesn’t get drunk. This might be the first time I’ve seen him in such an inebriated state.

  “Watch, in a minute, he’ll knock it over,” Natalie whispers to me. “Then we can really mess with him.”

  Her estimation’s off. It only takes Gray five seconds to lean too hard against the counter. The cup tower tumbles. He stares down at it, the next cup still in his hand. His eyebrows furrow behind his glasses.

  “Gray, you killed it!” Natalie gasps with a delighted smile.

  “But the physics…”

  “Physics lied to you, man,” Morris claps his shoulder. Natalie snorts.

  “Physics doesn’t lie. It’s science…”

  Morris and Natalie glance at each other with matching grins, even as they try to hold in laughter when Gray picks up another cup and starts the tower
all over again.

  I smile, taking off my jacket now that I’ve regained feeling in my hands. At the beginning of this school year, all I’d had was Ashton. Our weekends consisted of frat party after frat party, where I hadn’t known anyone. Never would I have imagined by spring semester, I’d be attending house parties with members of the Lakewood football team. It wasn’t until I befriended Rylie, and by proxy, her football-playing boyfriend Levi Hart, that I’d been welcomed into this close-knit group.

  With my phone, I take a quick snap of the drunken confusion on Grayson’s face, Natalie and Morris sneaking each other a high-five on the side. Then I close the camera, thumb pausing over another app icon. Natalie catches me.

  “I don’t think so,” she says, snatching the phone out of my hand and turning it off.

  “I was taking a pic—”

  “Then you were going to check Ashton’s profile,” she shakes a finger at me, bracelets jingling.

  I don’t deny it, because I know she won’t believe me, even though I only planned to look at my own social media pages. It’s five am in Italy, anyway. It’s not like he’s awake.

  Natalie then shoves my phone down her shirt, in the opposite bra cup than the one she’d stuck my keys in. I wrinkle my nose. “For real?”

  “Yep, you can have it back in thirteen minutes.” She tugs on my sweater collar. “Whoa, did Pete give you a hickey?”

  Morris and Gray perk up, both their stares swiveling to me. My face flushes. I slap a hand to my throat, swiping a finger over the area. It’s sticky, and when I move my hand, my thumb’s covered in residual red matte.

  “It’s lipstick,” I explain. “Look, give me my keys, and I can clean up at home.”

  “Orrr,” Natalie singsongs. “You can clean up in the bathroom, and in thirteen minutes, you can come back and get your keys. Or, you know, enjoy the party. Maybe smudge more lipstick.”

  I press my lips tight, trying to hide the evidence of Pete’s not-so-overwhelming kiss. With my narrowed gaze, I give her my best glare. For whatever reason, however, Natalie is immune to my resting witch face. So I grump, then grab my purse from behind her where she’s been guarding it. “Thirteen minutes, and then I want my keys.”