Which meant we went to different high schools, and I wasn’t present when Lincoln Kolb dumped her in front of the entire seventh-period lunch crowd a week after she told him she’d been diagnosed with cancer again. The fucker. I could literally go over there and wring his neck just thinking about it.
The anger in my bones over Catherine’s death, over how unfair it is, still rages like a forest fire with no chance of being extinguished. And when I think about the guy who wronged her so horribly, who embarrassed her while her body began to fail on itself ... I understand now how people commit murder.
That’s why I knew I had to come to Warchester. It sounded villainous, my plan, but it’s not unlike anything Lincoln Kolb and all the other fuckboys out there like him have attempted. Manipulate the opposite sex into falling for them, falling into their bed, and then completely shatter their world when you admit that they were nothing but a hole and a good time.
Except I had to take this one step further. Catherine was half-blind for the guy, which means I have to make him fall in love with me. I have just enough piss and vinegar flowing through my veins to make it happen. There just needs to be a clear-cut plan, and then it should all fall into place.
Lincoln and his cronies are walking my way, making a beeline for the group of giggling freshman about to take their cover-ups off for all to see.
“Ladies, interested in a party tomorrow night?” The brawny, olive-skinned guy flanking Lincoln’s right side says.
Lincoln’s eyes are so wolfish as he approaches, I half expect him to start humping one of these willing participants right in front of the entire quad.
“Of course!” they all singsong in unison.
I have to try my best to swallow the snort. At least I can roll my eyes behind my sunglasses.
But talk of a party, now that has me interested. Scooting a little farther over on the bench, I listen in.
“It’s at the football house over on Hudson, tomorrow night. Five dollars at the door for the keg, but mention my name, Lincoln Kolb, and I’ll see what I can do for you.”
God, he’s so cocky. It’s freaking irritating the way his voice, smooth like the first cup of morning coffee, slides down my spine. It’s deep and just a little bristled, and clearly, I’m not the only one affected.
“Well, we’ll just have to see what we can do for you.” A brunette in a cherry red bikini leers at him.
Jesus Christ.
“What’s your favorite drink?” The other guy walking with them, another football bro, can’t tear his eyes away from the girl in the white two piece’s ass.
I mean, it’s pretty hard for everyone’s eyes not to direct there, it’s a piece of dental floss thong that I wouldn’t even dare wear on a nudist beach in the South of France.
“A buttery nipple,” she deadpans, fluttering her eyelashes so many times it should knock an eyeball loose, and I almost have to applaud her.
That kind of sexual confidence in the middle of the afternoon with no drinks in one’s system, that I know of, is bold. That level of obvious desperation is one I’ve heard about in college, but hadn’t yet witnessed. This girl all but invited him to suck on her tits in the middle of the quad.
“Mine too. Or well, I prefer blow job shots most days. Or Jell-O shots, because I can work my fingers.” He wiggles his digits in front of her face. And there you have it, folks.
If I didn’t already think most men were perverts, and a lot of the chicks here wanted to land on their backs, I do now. I can’t contain the snort that works its way through my throat and am not fast enough to swallow it.
The sound comes out, and I quickly redirect my sitting position, trying to look off in the other direction.
But then a shadow falls over me, and I know I’ve been busted.
“And what’s your favorite drink?”
The timbre of his voice makes my teeth clank together, because goddamn it if I didn’t just get a little wet.
Part of me keeps my vision directed down into the course catalog I have in my lap, pretending to not hear him.
“Let me guess. You’re a white wine spritzer kind of girl.” His tone is haughty and all-knowing, and I wish I could slam the thick spine of the book in my lap right into his crotch.
“Hm?” I ask, pretending to only just realize he’s there, but not looking up.
From the corner of my eye, I see his foot tap once, then twice — an insecure tic. Pretty boy isn’t used to being ignored.
“Your drink of choice? I’m asking because apparently buttery nipples and blow jobs don’t seem to be your thing.”
Neither of us miss the way he leaves the word shot off the end of both of those popular liquor drinks. And it should be illegal the way the word blow job sounds coming out of his mouth.
“Jim, Jack, or Johnny.” I sneer up at him, too annoyed to care that he baited me.
And it’s true. Growing up in a North Carolina town that was nearly on the cusp of being rural, my father taught me that you don’t drink unless it’s a strong whiskey. “It’ll put hair on your chest,” he always said, and I would cringe. Later on, after Catherine died and he snuck a fifth of Jack into my room, I understood why that was a good thing.
My hair and most of my face are shaded by the large sunhat I wore out here, along with the sunglasses obstructing his view of my face. I’m thankful I decided for an incognito look, not only because it makes me more mysterious, but because it gives me ample time to inspect the god-like specimen in front of me.
Lincoln Kolb … shit, it should be a sin to look like this guy. You know when you read about guys in books or watch movies and they claim tall, dark and handsome? This guy exceeds all of those wimps by a hundred miles. His body is a mass of lean muscle, broad shoulders, tapered waist. His body is both the kind of pickup truck you want to get on your back in, and the sleek sports car that turns you on to the point of climbing over the gearshift.
He has thick chocolate-colored hair that usually falls past his shoulders; today it’s up in a man bun. It shouldn’t be attractive, but goddamn him, it’s making my mouth water. Lincoln’s face is all defined jaw and chiseled cheekbones, with one boyish dimple just barely there on the right cheek. Those lips are things women inject themselves with fillers to get, and then there is the ultimate panty slayer.
His eyes. One blue. One green. They’re so brilliant and interesting that it’s impossible not to get lost in them. And it’s not even fair that they’re rimmed with such thick, almost-black lashes, they put my own to shame.
I guess it doesn’t suck that the guy I’m going to seduce and suck the life out of, like I’m a black widow spider, is fucking gorgeous. At the end of the day, good sex is a bonus and there is no way Lincoln Kolb could be bad. It would be such a damn shame.
I see him trying to check me out, to see what’s going on under the hat, glasses, and loose sundress I’m sporting. I know my body is a good, no, great. I’ve always been pretty confident, and decent genes plus a love to lose myself in a run have served me well. I don’t miss the way Lincoln’s eyes blaze a trail up my bare legs.
“Well, Jimmy, maybe I’ll see you at my party tomorrow night.”
I guess I have a party to go to. Unfortunately for Lincoln Kolb, he has no idea the door he just openly invited me to walk through.
3
Henley
By the time I make it back to my dorm room, my roommate has arrived.
I know this because as I stand outside my door, about to swipe my ID card to unlock the electronic lock, I can hear the bump of the bass from a Rick Ross song pounding through the metal. It’s not my favorite type of music, but even I have to admit it has a certain swag that I can’t help nodding my head to.
When I finally take a breath, knowing I’m going to encounter the human I’ll be sharing space with for the next nine months, I open the door and walk in.
A very slim, taller than average girl with a waterfall of silky straight candy pink hair is standing on top of her designated bed
, hanging a poster of Jimi Hendrix on the wall. Compared to my striped gray comforter and black-and-white photo print I took of the Venice Beach boardwalk when I visited California, her side of the room is bursting with color. A comforter that matches her hair, topped with lime green pillows. She’s replaced her desk chair with one of those clear plastic chairs that looks like it’s floating on air. There is a mass of photos of what must be her friends and family plastered to the wall above her desk, and another five classic album posters join Jimi Hendrix next to her bed.
“Hey,” I throw out, hoping my voice carries over the Bose speaker vibrating on her desk.
She whips around, and I’m struck by the teal blue nose ring and gorgeous, cat-like features.
“Oh, hi! I didn’t hear you come in. Shit, sorry if this is too loud!” She scrambles down and somehow makes it look graceful.
My roommate looks like Misty Copeland, beautifully long limbs and soft, darkened skin. Her finger slams down on the volume button on her speaker as she smiles at me sheepishly.
“No worries at all, it’s a good song.” I nod, trying to sound cool.
In all honesty, I just want this to be easy. Going in, I knew I probably wouldn’t find my next Catherine. Shit, just thinking the thought feels like a slap across my own face. The sting of losing her, of disrespecting her memory or replacing her … I hate it. But I do need this to work. I need my roommate to be relaxed and not get in my way on the quest to ruining Lincoln Kolb’s life. And not having to tiptoe around a person I’m living with would be a nice bonus.
“Sweet. I’m Rhiannon.” She sticks out a hand, and I notice her nails are the exact same shade as her nose ring.
For someone who appreciates color ratios and odd pairings, I would love to take a photo series on my new roommate. Not many people could pull off these color combos so boldly, and with such grace, but Rhiannon does.
I shake her extended fingers. “Henley. I hope it’s okay I took that side of the room.”
She shrugs. “Totally cool, I’m really not picky. Except about my music. Do you like rap? Because if not, we’re going to have a problem.”
Part of me can’t help but laugh at the way she states her preference as if it’s a fact everyone should live by. I think I’m going to like this girl.
“I like it, although I’ll tell you now I’m not super educated on it. I’m more of an easy listening slash pop girl myself, but I can hang.” God, I sound like a seventy-year-old grandmother who doesn’t know how to use Spotify.
Rhiannon nods, assessing me. “We can work with that. By the end of this school year, you’ll have at least four Tupac songs memorized.”
“Goody.” I half laugh, half roll my eyes.
Our cinderblock dorm room looks like a picture in opposites. Rhiannon is a pastel and neon cloud of color, where my side is pretty stark of any personal touches and done in swatches of gray and white. Somehow, it kind of works. We’re in one of the nicer dorms on campus, and thank goodness this floor isn’t co-ed because there is something disgusting about sharing a public bathroom with boys.
“So, what’s your story, Henley? Do you despise color or something?” She’s surprisingly upfront, and it catches me off guard.
I haven’t encountered many girls like myself over the years. I’m no-nonsense, bullshit-proof, and rarely take a liking to someone at first impression. I’m not sure why, I had a good childhood and plenty of positive reinforcement. Maybe it’s just how I’m programmed. Aside from Catherine, I only had surface friends back in my hometown.
Which makes part of this whole scheming to break Lincoln Kolb’s heart thing sit uneasy in my stomach. I’m not a liar. Hell, I can barely let a white lie slip when someone asks if something looks good on them and I know it doesn’t. Or when my mom asks if dinner is good, I have to bite my tongue and plant a super fake smile on my face … lord, the woman is an angel in many areas but food is not one of them.
But the final task on Catherine’s bucket list requires almost undercover-level disguise; I’m not this person, I don’t con other people from the truth ever. Yet this asks for so much deceit.
“I’m a photography major, and I love black-and-white subjects. It’s a weakness that unfortunately seeps into my closet and design choices.” I shrug.
There, that wasn’t a lie. At least with Rhiannon, I can attempt to be myself.
She nods. “I dig that. Honestly, it kind of suits you. So, photography major, that makes sense. How long did it take you to get here?”
“About an hour? I live in North Carolina, so pretty close by. How about you? And what’re you studying?” I flop down on my bed as she walks to her clear desk chair, folding her long limbs into a yoga-like pose.
“I’m from Florida. Took me a plane to get here. But this was the best recording industry program on the East Coast that I could get into, so here I am.” Rhiannon starts flipping through vinyls she retrieves from a bag.
“So you want to go into music?” I assume.
She shakes her head. “Nope. I want to find musicians. The next Beyoncé. The next Bruno Mars. I have an ear for this thing. I know everyone trying to muscle their way into A & R says that same thing, but I swear it’s like my sixth sense.”
I’ve only known her for a few minutes, but I’m inclined to believe her. “That sounds like such a cool job.”
“And a hard one. It’ll take a lot of blood and sweat, and maybe a few blow jobs, to get where I want,” she deadpans.
It takes a second for the slow smile to spread over her lips, and then we both crack up at her sardonic joke. Honestly, her climb into music manager stardom sounds a little like my mission to make this college’s big man on campus fall in love with me.
“Anything else I should know? Jealous boyfriend from home who will be visiting? Do you smoke?” She eyes me, half-joking.
I hold my hands, as if I have nothing to hide. “No boyfriend, men are horrible beings. I don’t smoke, unless you’re into a weed brownie now and then. In that case, I’m down. I don’t snore, or I haven’t been told I do. I binge seasons of Vampire Diaries and Parks & Rec, although I’ve seen them all already. And I will always be in for a late-night taco order.”
Rhiannon walks over to me, extending her hand for a high five. “My girl. Tacos are the thing that will bond us, of this I’m sure. As long as you like extra hot sauce on yours.”
“Wouldn’t have them any other way,” I second.
Walking back to her side, she pulls a bottle from the depths of her suitcase. “So, when are we getting drunk?”
“I do have this party we could go to …”
4
Lincoln
The house feels like it’s on fire.
An inferno licks up my back as I make my way through the mass of sweaty bodies, noise, and heat and confusion coming from every angle. It’s the best kind of chaos, but fuck, didn’t someone think to open a window or crank the air up?
“Linc, grab me a beer!” Derrick calls through the noise, a girl’s ass pinned to his front.
I already have about three shots of bourbon in me, and I’m feeling loose, but in control. Technically, this isn’t my house yet, and I don’t want to make an ass out of myself in front of the upperclassmen. Especially since I’m the young guy coming in trying to be their driving force, their in-all-but-the-title captain. As a freshman, I won’t get that title. But as their soon-to-be quarterback, I need their respect.
It doesn’t mean I can’t have a great time, though. The amount of hot girls here tonight, some that would literally drop to their knees to service one of the guys on the football team, is insane. I’ve never seen so many beautiful women in a room together. And aside from that, there is an epic game of beer pong I’m about to start running on a table in the living room. My best friends are here, and I’m bonding with other guys on the team.
College is so fucking awesome.
Walking to the kitchen to grab Derrick and myself large cups of foamy beer, I can’t help but drink in all
the chicks barely covered in scraps of clothing. My dick tingles in anticipation; it’s been a month and a half of long preseason hours and no hot sex. I feel like a goddamn celibate, and I know many of the guys on the team feel the same as well. It’ll be a fuck fest in here tonight for sure, and I can say with one hundred percent certainty that I’m bringing one of these fine ladies back to my dorm room tonight.
When I finally make it to the keg, lots of suggestive glances following me, I pull two red cups from the stack and cut the line. No one protests, I’m already a known face and name here. I don’t plan on abusing that privilege, but I’m next up on the beer pong table and I don’t plan on missing that opportunity.
It’s not until a swath of golden hair and the scent of spicy citrus catches me that I pause, looking over the girl next up in line.
“Want a beer, sweetheart?” I puff my chest out at the blonde waiting for the keg.
She slants me a look that says Don’t use a nickname on me, buddy, and then her lips curl up in a sneer.
“I thought I told you I only drink the three strongest men in the bunch.”
Fuck, her voice. Like smoky heat that licks right down to my balls. It’s gravelly with a hint of sweet, just like the top-shelf whiskey she’s mentioned. I want to drink from her lips, to hear that voice moan my name as I’m buried fully inside her.
And if just this girl’s voice can have me sporting a semi despite the shots of bourbon I’ve already downed, then her face could make me come on sight. She’s an absolute knockout. All tanned tight curves like one of those girls who’s into hot yoga and working their ass on the stair stepper. She’s average in height, which means I have to tip my chin a fair amount down to peer into her cleavage, but I’ve never cared about coming off as a leerer. They’re great tits, full and perky, and she’s showcased them in a tight white dress that leaves little to the imagination. I wish I could ask her to turn around, because her ass has to be equally as great.
Fool Me Twice Page 2
