“Junior as well, but I’ve been here since I was a freshman.” He holds his hand out to the side. “Knox Gentry.”
I take it and give it an uncoordinated shake as we keep walking forward. “Emory Ealson.”
“Well, Em, what class are you headed to?”
Em. Not even my parents call me that, but I’m not about to make a stink about it, not when he’s my personal tour guide.
“Developmentally Effective Learning Environments.”
“Huh.” He smiles at me, sticking his hands back in his pockets. “Me too.” That’s unfortunately convenient. “What are you majoring in?”
“Early education. I plan on getting my master’s in library sciences.”
“Is that why you’re hiding a map of the school in your copy of Pride and Prejudice?”
Busted.
“Was it that obvious?”
“No one is that into the insufferable Mr. Darcy.” He tacks on a dramatic eye-roll, and, even though he’s insulting one of the greatest heroes ever written, I can’t help but get a little excited because it seems like he’s read it.
I mean . . . he called Mr. Darcy insufferable. My little literature heart beats wildly because an attractive man has clearly read my favorite book of all time.
“You’ve read Pride and Prejudice?”
“Fuck, no. Watched the BBC special. Colin Firth was the shit, a real dick to Lizzie.”
Poof, there goes my excitement. Only a man could think that being a dick to Lizzie made Colin Firth the shit. This man is completely classless.
“And don’t get me started on the exhausting mother. Stop pawning your daughters off on people. Show a little self-respect, lady.”
We reach a grey stone building with the smallest plaque I’ve ever seen tacked onto the side. MacMillan Building. I would have never found this place.
“It was her duty as a mother to marry her daughters off,” I reply, following him closely as a stampede of students make their way through the narrow halls.
“Maybe if she chilled out and wasn’t so shrillingly annoying, there would have been a longer line of suitors waiting to scoop up the harlots.”
“Harlots? Elizabeth and Jane were anything but harlots. Lydia, on the other hand . . .”
He stops at a door and rests his hand on the handle. “Jane, as a single woman, goes to Bingley’s Netherfield Park at his request and happens to spend the night? Harlot.” He opens the door for me and waits for me to step in, but I don’t budge.
“She was sick. She didn’t spend the night to have relations.” I’m nearly spluttering my responses to this dweeb. But, relations, Emory?
“Sick because the crazy-as-shit mother sent her on horseback during a storm. Fucking insane asylum, that’s where she belonged.” He ushers me into the classroom with his hand to my back. “Maybe if the mom sat back with some brandy, things would have been different. Their love could have matured organically.”
“Without her meddling, Elizabeth and Jane would probably have ended up as old maids or with intolerable suitors like Mr. Collins.”
“He was good enough for Charlotte Lucas.” He shrugs as if the statement doesn’t peel the nails off every Janeite in the country.
“He was a travesty,” I shoot back, literary passion taking over. Now, he was insufferable.
Ignoring me, Knox walks down a few steps into the lecture hall and turns down a row toward two other guys wearing the same sweatshirt as him. Both tall in their seats, the one wearing a backward hat is broader than the other, but they both seem just as commanding as Knox. Just as confident . . . just as cocky.
I stand in the stairway, unsure what to do. Do I follow him? Sit next to him? Or find my own seat? After all, he did consider Mr. Collins a good enough suitor. The horror!
When he notices my hesitation, he rolls his eyes dramatically with a sigh, walks back to where I’m standing, grabs my hand and ushers me down the row until we both join the other two guys.
“What’s up, Gent?” the one with the backwards hat asks and then eyes me over Knox’s shoulder. “Who’s your friend?” Oh, please God, don’t say the girl whose boob made me pass out the other night. I’d rather die.
“Em,” he answers simply while leaning back in his chair and adjusting his hood. “Junior transfer, she slapped me with her campus map.” He glances at me and gives me a sly wink before turning back to his friends.
And right there, in that moment, despite our fresh disagreement, I know he’s a nice guy.
He could have been an obnoxious dick and pointed me out to his teammates, but instead, he kept it simple.
Cool.
I respect him for that.
“He’s been slapped by worse,” the guy with the backward hat says before holding out his hand. “I’m Carson, and the guy sitting next to me with his face glued to his phone, that’s Holt.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, shaking his calloused hand.
Holt barely glances up from his phone and says, “Hey,” and then tunes us out returning to the digital world.
“Where did you transfer from?” Carson asks, leaning on the small desk attached to his chair, fist to his cheek, peering over at me as if he has a schoolgirl crush.
I push a piece of my long brown hair behind my ear and say, “Cal State, Fullerton.”
“She’s a librarian,” Knox adds for me, screwing up the facts.
“Hope to be a librarian. I want to master in library sciences.”
“No shit,” Carson says, giving my bare legs a quick glance. “Never saw a librarian in such a short skirt before. It’s hot. Makes me want to check out some books.”
Oh Jesus.
“Dude, that was lame.” Knox chuckles to himself while shaking his head. “And don’t get all heart eyes on her, she has some fantasized opinions about Pride and Prejudice.”
“Ah, hell,” Carson groans and leans back, as if he’s done with me. “Let me guess, she doesn’t believe the Bennet sisters were whores.”
“Correct.” Knox stares forward with a smirk playing at his lips.
“That is an awfully harsh word for a pair of women who didn’t even show ankle,” I counter, crossing my arms over my cropped sweater vest. I might have taken the sexy-school-girl look a little too far today with my plaid skirt, button-up white blouse, and navy sweater vest. At least I’m not wearing knee-highs. Just simple Mary Janes.
“As far as you know,” Knox replies, with a wiggle of his eyebrow. “They did enjoy showing off their dirty hemlines.”
I’m about to counter with a serious tongue-lashing when the professor walks in and drops his suitcase on his desk, sounding off a loud pop in the small lecture hall.
“Developmentally effective learning environments, that’s the class. Get out if you’re in the wrong place. I’ll give you ten seconds.” He holds out his wrist and stares down at it.
Yikes.
“This should be a fun class,” Knox grumbles under his breath while shifting in his seat.
At least we can agree on that.
* * *
“He was a fucking whack job,” Knox says as we step into the fresh air.
“Yeah, the fact that he was sneering at us the whole time doesn’t bode well for us,” Carson says before taking a sip from his water bottle. “I’m heading to the gym. What about you two?”
“Gym,” Holt answers, still plugged into his phone.
“I’m grabbing something to eat,” Knox says and turns toward me. “Want to come?”
“To get something to eat?”
“Yeah. Food. Are you hungry?”
Am I hungry? Yes, it’s lunchtime, and if I don’t eat my meals I grow fangs and get real nasty, but do I really want to eat with Knox? It’s bad enough he was writing notes to me on his computer, continually pointing at the screen during class, so I don’t know if I should spend more time with this guy.
His notes to me were simple: see that kid in the red, third row up? He’s a Rubik’s cube genius, and, girl two seat
s in front of you keeps giving you the stink eye.
And this professor has the sweatiest armpits I’ve ever seen.
I might have laughed at that one.
“Look at her trying to decide,” Carson says, calling me out. “She’s unsure, man, so you need to convince her.”
“Yeah, show her why your company is worth her time,” Holt says, pocketing his phone and looking at me for the first time.
Squaring his shoulders, Knox gives me a once-over and says, “What do you need to know? Name it.”
Uh, I wasn’t expecting an inquisition for a ticket to lunch, nor was I expecting an invitation at all.
“He’s the cleanest in the loft,” Carson says, sticking up for his friend.
“Cooks the best steak on the team,” Holt adds.
“He also can dance like a two-year-old.”
Knox’s face scrunches. “Fuck you. I dance like a goddamn king.”
Holt points at Knox’s hips. “Great pelvic action.”
“Knows how to work his hands.”
“Can’t sing worth a damn, but loves to sing anyway.”
“Sleeps in matching pajama sets.”
“No, I fucking don’t,” Knox says quickly and then shakes his head at me. “I sleep in boxer briefs.”
“Give him a chance, and he’ll pay for your lunch. He has an unlimited dining card,” Carson says, really trying to show up his friend.
“And he knows people, so he always ends up getting free dessert.”
“It’s true,” Knox says, with a shy smile.
They drive a hard bargain, but there is no way I can eat lunch with this man. Not when I can barely look him in the eye after what happened on Saturday. It’s bad enough I have a class with him. It almost sounds as though his friends are trying to sell him to me, as if they think I’m deciding whether to date him or not. And that would be a big no, given I just got out of a relationship and am not looking for another.
I shift my bag on my shoulder and pull out Pride and Prejudice. I clutch the classic to my chest and say, “Sorry, I have a date with Mr. Darcy. I’ll catch you later.”
I spin around and start walking away just as Carson and Holt make a raucous sound due to my dismissal.
From behind me, Knox calls out, “Hey.”
When I turn around, I find him standing there proudly, hands clipped to the straps of his backpack, a lift to his chin, and a devastating smile on his face. He’s not affected one bit from my brush-off. “Darcy is a tool. Want a real hero? You know where to find me.” Cocky ass.
I can’t help the lift of the corner of my mouth as I turn around and continue walking away, unsure where I’m going, just trying to get as far away from Knox Gentry as possible. He’s obnoxious, opinionated, and very much the typical jock. He called Jane and Lizzie harlots. There will be no friendship between Mr. Gentry and me. Mark my words.
Chapter Two
EMORY
“Are you almost done in there?” Dottie calls out from the common area. “The food is here.”
“One second,” I say as I finish reading the last paragraph of my early childhood and development chapters.
Lying on my stomach on my bed, I move my finger along the last few words in my book and then snap it shut. I’m starving but swore to myself I wouldn’t leave the bed until I finished my reading, even if my stomach was growling out the lyrics to the alma mater.
Dressed in my matching silk shorts and top—it’s the only bedwear I enjoy—I pin my long brown hair to the top of my head and make my way to where Dottie and Lindsay are waiting, Thai food spread across the coffee table.
We’ve been best friends since the age of five, growing up together and battling our way through social awkwardness and our love for books. We spent our days in Temecula—the town we grew up in—walking to the nearest Alberto’s, ordering the California burrito and splitting it in threes, rotating with who had to deal with the middle. We took it back to Dottie’s house where we would chow down and hold book club meetings.
Nothing was better than that.
And then we entered high school and Neil Langston came into my life. Fresh from Napa, his parents moved to Temecula to start a wine label. He was handsome, kind, and thought I was the most beautiful thing that ever walked the planet. We dated for six years and in those six years, I started to drift away from Dottie and Lindsay and became wrapped up in my boyfriend. They went to Brentwood after we graduated, and I stayed close to home to be with Neil, who was gearing up to be a part of the family business.
It wasn’t until a few months ago that I realized he wasn’t only interested in the family business, but his dad’s assistant as well. I’ll spare you the details of the compromising position I found them in, but I will tell you this . . . I lost my mind in that moment.
Yup, I snapped.
Everything turned black, and before I knew what I was doing, I walked right up to bare-ass Neil, who was balls deep in said assistant, doggy style—okay, so I guess I am giving you the details—and I smacked his nuts.
Exactly, you read that right.
I bitch-slapped his nuts so hard—twice—thwack, thwack. I made him yelp like a chihuahua who just had his tail stepped on.
And when I stepped back to watch them dangle and sway in pain, I snapped one last time, stepped back up and plowed my fist into them—kapow!
Knuckles to balls.
Fist to family jewels.
It was a snappy jab with a forceful blinding rage behind the drive, giving me enough momentum to almost shove them into his intestines.
I can still hear the strangled sound that came from his mouth right before he fell to the side, erect penis pointing to the ceiling, hands gripping his precious junk. The assistant—don’t know her name, don’t care—scrambled to the headboard, sheets pulled up to her chest as she screeched bloody murder, most likely afraid I was coming for her knockers next.
She, who most definitely knew about Neil and me—why do women do that to another woman?—didn’t deserve my attention, but man, would I have deflated those puppies real quick.
Thwack. Thwack.
Instead, I hovered over Neil, pointed at him, and said, “Your penis has always been borderline too small, but I dealt with it because I loved you. Now, I’m happy to say I no longer have to wonder if you’re in me or not.” I saluted the assistant and said, “I’m sure you know this, but when he comes, he has to beat his leg up and down like an excited puppy. It’s revolting.”
After that, I packed everything up, gave my parents a kiss on the cheek, and made my way to the Midwest, just outside Chicago, where I reunited with my best friends, and now share a three-person dorm room. I’m getting my life back together.
Well, for the most part.
Passing out with my boob in a stranger’s hand might have been a mild setback.
“Are we watching Big Brother?” Dottie asks when I take a seat on the stiff couch the dorm room provided.
“Is that even a question?” I ask while grabbing some peanut chicken and putting it on a plastic plate that’s seen better days. I’m not going to complain though, because Dottie and Lindsay welcomed me back into their lives without blinking an eye, so whatever they have for household items, I’m good with. “Juno is such an asshole.”
“No one likes Juno,” Lindsay says, around a mouthful of veggies. “But . . . I kind of love him.”
“What?” Dottie and I yell together.
“What is wrong with you?” I ask. “You can’t love him.”
“I love to hate him, is that better?”
“Much,” I say, taking a big bite from my plate.
“So . . .” Dottie says, with a huge smile on her face. “Saw you on campus today.”
“Yeah?” I ask. “Why didn’t you say hi?”
“You seemed quite busy.” Dottie and Lindsay exchange smiles.
Oh crap.
“Just say it.” I sigh while tucking my legs under my butt. I know the look that was just exchanged between my t
wo friends. I’m about to be put through the wringer.
“You were talking with Knox Gentry.” She squeals. “Do you even know who he is? Did you meet him at the baseball loft? Did you give him your phone number?”
See . . . wringer.
“I didn’t know who he was, but I know who he is now. I sort of met him at the baseball loft, but he actually caught my campus map . . . in the face, and handed it back to me. He recognized me from the party.” I’m not going into detail how he recognized me—I never forget a good pair of tits—because it’s not necessary to let people know about my boob being a self-soothing sleep contributor to drunk men. “And no, I didn’t give him my number. We are in a class together, and he might have asked me to lunch, but I told him I had to read.”
“What?” Dottie nearly explodes out of her seat. “Why on earth would you do that?”
I casually shrug, keeping my eyes trained on the peanut chicken in front of me. “I just got out of a serious relationship where my boyfriend of six years was cheating on me. Not quite ready to jump back into the dating game.”
Dottie’s face softens with understanding. “That’s totally understandable, but you are allowed to have fun, you know. Lunch wouldn’t have killed you.”
“Oh, don’t worry, I plan on having fun.” I smirk.
“You want to go to the locker room then?”
“What?” I asked confused, fork poised at my mouth. “Is that a club?”
“Uh, no,” both Lindsay and Dottie say at the same time.
Taking the lead, Dottie says, “The locker room is the actual men’s locker room.”
“Ew, why would I want to go there?” I vaguely remember Dottie and Lindsay talking about the magic of the locker room the other night but can’t quite place the details due to the amount of alcohol I consumed.
After blinking a few times, as if I’m the one who’s crazy, Dottie says, “Emory, the locker room is the most exclusive place on campus. It’s the holy grail, the mecca of all orgasms.”
“In a locker room,” I deadpan. “Where guys are sweaty and smelly? That’s the place to be?”
Lindsay rolls her eyes and sits forward, as if she’s explaining the simplest thing to me. “It’s not like other locker rooms in movies where the guys are gross and disgusting. It’s completely different. It has leather couches, brand new carpet every year—because they can afford that—wood lockers with nameplates, and mini fridges scattered throughout stocked full of electrolyte drinks.” She raises her fist to the air. “Electrolytes, damn it. That means you’ll never cramp up.”
The Locker Room Page 2
