by Elle Kennedy
Hunter doesn’t even notice that Tucker is dripping water all over our shoes. He’s too busy ogling Sabrina.
Tuck follows the freshman’s gaze. “Nice,” he remarks, then turns to grin at me. “I take it you already called dibs?”
I blanch. “Not a chance. That’s Sabrina, bro. She already busts my balls in class on a daily basis. I don’t need her busting them outside of school.”
Sabrina and I are both Poli Sci majors on the pre-law path, so we share way too many classes for my peace of mind. We both applied to Harvard Law too, which I’m not particularly happy about. The thought of spending two more years sitting in the same lecture halls as her makes suicide sound pretty appealing.
“Wait, that’s Sabrina?” Tucker says in surprise. “I see her around campus all the time, but I didn’t realize she’s the one you’re always bitching about.”
“One and the same.”
His southern drawl rears up. “Damn shame. She sure is fine to look at.”
“What’s the deal with you two?” Hunter pipes up. “She your ex?”
I recoil again. “Fuck no.”
“So I won’t be breaking the bro code if I make a move?”
“You want to make a move? Go nuts. But I’m warning you, that bitch will eat you alive.”
Sabrina’s head turns sharply toward us. She probably has some kind of internal radar that goes off every time someone calls her a bitch. I bet it goes off a lot.
As our gazes lock, she smirks at me, then flips up her middle finger before turning to talk to her friend.
Hunter groans. “Well, there goes that. She won’t give me the time of day now that she saw me with you. What’d you do to her, anyway?”
“Absolutely nothing,” I say darkly.
“Bullshit. A chick doesn’t murder a guy with her eyes like that unless he screwed up bad. Did you hook up with her?”
Tucker snorts. “What do you think, kid? I mean, look at her.”
“Looks can be deceiving,” I mutter.
My roommate cocks his head in challenge. “So you didn’t sleep with her?”
A sigh slides out. “No, I did. But it was a long time ago. I’m pretty sure hook-ups have expiration dates. Like after three years have gone by, it doesn’t count anymore.”
The guys laugh. “Let me guess,” Tucker says. “You didn’t call her afterward.”
“No,” I admit. “But in my defense, it’s hard to call a chick when one, she doesn’t give you her number, and two, when you don’t remember it happened.”
Hunter’s jaw falls open. “How could you not remember that?” He’s damn near salivating as he checks out Sabrina again.
“We were both wasted. Trust me, she didn’t remember much either.”
“So that’s why she hates you?” Hunter presses.
I wave a hand. “Naah. The beef started over something else. Which I’m not going to fucking talk about right now, because Jesus Christ, it’s Saturday night and we should be partying.”
Tucker chuckles. “I’m gonna grab a beer. You guys need a refill?”
“I’m good,” Hunter says.
As Tuck heads for the counter, I pull out my phone and check the time. It’s nine-thirty. I scroll through my contacts while Hunter starts talking hockey to me again. I think I still have Allie’s number from when she was planning Hannah’s birthday this spring. She’d sent about a hundred mass texts outlining every mundane detail of the party.
Yup, it’s still in my phone. I saved her contact info as Wellsy’s Blonde Friend. I should probably change that to Bondage Girl.
I type a quick message.
Me: U make it back to the dorm ok?
It’s a dumb question, because she left our place this morning, so of course she made it back. Still, I’m surprised when she answers right away.
Her: Yep. Here now.
Me: Shitty weather 2nite. Prolly good ur staying in.
She doesn’t respond to that. I stare at the screen in frustration, then wonder why I care. I’m the king of casual hook-ups. I rarely ever want a repeat performance after I’ve slept with a girl, and if there’s one girl I shouldn’t sleep with again, it’s Allie.
Not too many things in this world make it on my Scared Shitless list, but Garrett’s girlfriend is solidly positioned in the top three. Wellsy won’t be happy if she finds out I slept with her best friend, and if Wellsy’s not happy, Garrett’s not happy, which means I’ll have to deal with G tsking at me all disappointed-like. Logan will follow his lead, and then Grace will jump on the Dean-is-an-ass bandwagon, and the next thing I know, I’ll be taking shit from all directions. That’s reason enough not to go there, but my sexed-up body is being a stubborn asshole.
I want her again.
One more time wouldn’t hurt, right? Shit, or maybe twice? I’m not entirely sure how many times it will take to get her out of my system. All I know is that every time I think about her, my dick gets impossibly hard.
Beside me, Hunter has transferred his attention to a group of girls at a nearby table, and I can’t help but be proud when one measly nod from him causes the trio to saunter over to us. My boy’s got game.
“Which one of you is going to buy us a round?” one of them teases. She’s tall and blond and rocking a minidress that stops mid-thigh.
As Hunter opens his mouth to respond, all the lights in the bar flicker ominously.
I frown and glance over at Tucker, who’s just rejoined the group. “Is it the Apocalypse out there or something?”
“It’s coming down pretty hard,” he admits.
The lights stop flickering. I take that as my cue to bail, because if we’re dealing with a potential power outage, I’d rather be home when it happens instead of on the road. Besides, for all my talk about partying, I’m really not feeling the bar tonight.
“Hey, I’m heading out.” I clap a hand over my roommate’s shoulder. “See you back at home.” I don’t miss the disappointed pouts on the girls’ faces, but I’m confident they’ll forget all about me once Hunter and Tuck turn up the charm.
I exit the bar a minute later and realize Tuck wasn’t kidding. In the ten seconds it takes me to get to my car, I’m soaked to the bone, dripping water all over the Beemer’s leather interior. The bolts of lightning streaking across the sky are so bright they make the act of flicking on my headlights almost redundant. I could probably just let those blinding white flashes light the way home.
I fish out my phone again.
Me: Weather’s worse than I thought. Keep a flashlight near u in case power goes out.
Oh, for chrissake. I sound like I’m writing a shitty survival guide. Why am I even texting her?
Allie responds with, Thx for the tip, then follows it up with, Srsly, stop worrying about me. I’m reading on the couch. Under a blanket. Snug as a bug in a mug.
Me: In a rug.
Her: ??
Me: Snug as a bug in a RUG. That’s how u say it.
There’s five whole seconds of radio silence, and then my phone rings in my hand. I’m grinning as I answer the call.
“Why would the bug be in a rug?” she demands.
I snort. “Why would it be in a mug?”
“Because that’s a cozy place for it to be! If it’s in a rug, someone might step on it.”
“If it’s in a mug, someone might drink it.”
“Are we writing a bad Dr. Seuss book right now?”
Laughter bubbles in my throat. “Sure fucking sounds like it.”
“Well, either way, I think my phrasing is better.”
I’m momentarily distracted by the rain hammering against the windshield. It’s falling harder now, and a second later, all the lights in the parking lot go out.
I curse softly as darkness surrounds my car. “Shit. Malone’s just lost power,” I tell Allie. “Make sure you stay inside, okay? And don’t go wandering around the halls of Bristol House if the power goes out.”
“What, you think a serial killer is going to sneak into
the dorm and hunt me down?” She’s quiet for a beat. “Even if that happened, I’d probably be able to take him.”
I snicker. “Uh-huh. Sure.”
“Hey, I’m fierce,” she insists. “My dad and I took part in a really intensive father-daughter self-defense program when I was fourteen.”
“Father-daughter self-defense? Is that even a thing?”
“No, but we made it one. He traveled a lot when I was growing up, so whenever he was home he would come up with creative ways for us to bond. But since he’s Mr. Macho man, we were only allowed to do boy things. Like fishing or riding dirt bikes or learning how to beat each other up. Anyway, I’m hanging up now. I want to finish reading this play.” She pauses. “Drive safe.”
“Wait,” I blurt out before she can end the call.
“What is it?”
I stare at the rain that’s sliding down the windshield. Wondering what the hell is wrong with me.
Then I lick my suddenly dry lips and say, “I want to fuck you again.”
I can hear her breath hitch over the extension.
My body tightens in anticipation. I think about the sweet curve of her ass filling my palms. The way her nipples puckered when I flicked my tongue over them. The tight grip of her pussy squeezing my cock.
A silent groan shudders through my chest. Fuck me. I’m lusting hard for this chick. And now I’m holding my breath, waiting for her to answer.
After a long pause, her annoyed voice says, “Goodbye, Dean.”
I growl in frustration when the line goes dead.
5
Allie
My heart is pounding as I hang up on Dean. I hadn’t expected him to say that. At all.
“I want to fuck you again.”
Well, of course he does. I’m amazing in bed.
But there’s no way I’m sleeping with the guy again, not after I spent the entire day feeling like Hester fricking Prynne. Only, the self-judgment I’ve been hitting myself with is far more scathing than anything that poor woman ever got from those Puritans.
God, I’m not cut out for casual sex. I feel…defiled. Except that’s ridiculous, because if anyone was defiled last night, it was Dean. Not only did I seduce him, but I tied him up and rode him like he was my own personal amusement park ride.
I’m such a slut.
You’re not a slut.
Okay, maybe I’m not. Maybe I’m just a twenty-two year old woman who had some no-strings fun for once in her life.
The only problem is—I like the strings. Sex and relationships go hand in hand for me. I’m all about the snuggling and inside jokes and talking late into the night. I’m a card-carrying member of Team Boyfriend, and after last night, I can honestly say that Team One-Night-Stand sucks balls. The sex was incredible, but the shame it left me with isn’t worth the orgasms.
Sighing, I toss my phone on the couch cushion and pick up the script I’d been reading before Dean interrupted. The student-written play will be my final performance at Briar. I’m one of two female leads, and even though the material is a tad melodramatic for my tastes, I’m looking forward to rehearsals. Ever since my theater debut in Boston this summer, I’ve been itching to perform in front of a live audience again.
Which is just another contributing factor to the stress I’ve been under. I’m at a crossroads in my career, and I have no idea which path to take, damn it.
When I started college, I asked my agent to concentrate on only finding summer projects for me. It would have been too tempting to drop out of school if a juicy role came along, and I wanted my degree. Now that I’m graduating, all bets are off. Pilot season kicks off around January, and Ira has already sent me dozens of scripts for sitcoms and Glee-style dramedies, along with several romantic comedy screenplays that normally I’d be salivating over.
I always thought I was destined for comedic roles. I caught the acting bug when I was still in middle school, and all the bit parts I’ve landed over the years have been light and fluffy, highlighting my comedic timing and girl-next-door persona. I dreamed about being a rom com queen. The next Sandra Bullock or Kate Hudson or Emma Stone.
Until this summer, when a casting call went out for a super serious, super depressing play directed by Brett Cavanaugh, an Oscar-winning director and a fricking legend. Somehow my agent made it possible for me to read for Cavanaugh, and to my total astonishment I actually got the part—the heroin-addicted younger sister of the lead actress. The show only had a two-month run, but it was a huge success. Since then, I’ve received a ton of offers to read for more dramatic roles, both on stage and for television.
And someone told me Cavanaugh is developing another project for the stage, off-off Broadway this time…
Shit. Why am I so tempted to veer off the course I set for myself? Considering dramatic roles is one thing, but theater?
Hollywood means more money. More recognition. Oscars and Golden Globes and Rodeo Drive shopping sprees.
I stare at the stack of scripts on the coffee table. If I get hired for one of these pilots Ira sent over and the show gets picked up? Or if I snag a role in one of these films? I could actually break out in the business. So why am I fantasizing about stage acting?
I’m still lost in thought when my phone rings. I check the screen, and for a second I think it’s Dean calling, until I do a double take and realize it’s an S, not a D. Huh. My ex-boyfriend and my one-night-stand literally have the same name with one letter replaced. I wonder if that means something…
Sean’s calling you, you idiot.
Yeah, that’s probably the more pressing issue at the moment.
My chest fills with anxiety. I shouldn’t pick up. I really, really shouldn’t pick up.
I pick up.
“Are you okay?” are the first words I hear.
Sean sounds so frantic that I’m quick to reassure him. “I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I came by after class yesterday and you weren’t home. And I texted you all night.”
“I know.” I gulp. “I spent the night at a friend’s. I…” Another gulp. “I told you I didn’t want to see you.”
“I was hoping you’d change your mind.” There’s no mistaking the sheer torment in his voice. “Fuck, baby. I miss you. I know it’s only been a couple days, but I miss you so much.”
My heart cracks in two.
“I messed up, okay? I see that now. I shouldn’t have given you an ultimatum, and I definitely shouldn’t have said your acting career isn’t going anywhere. I was upset and lashing out at you, and you didn’t deserve that. When I came to your opening night in Boston this summer, I was blown away. Seriously. You’re so talented, baby. I’m an ass for saying all that shit to you. I didn’t mean it.”
He’s practically pleading with me now, and another piece of my heart splinters off. “Sean—”
“You’re the most important person in my life,” he interrupts, his voice thick with emotion. “You mean the world to me, and I want to fucking strangle myself for driving you away. Please, baby, give me another chance.”
“Sean—”
“I know I can fix this. Just give me a chance to—”
“Sean.”
He stops. “Babe?” he says uncertainly.
My throat goes impossibly tight, almost like it’s trying to prevent me from saying my next words. But the guilt is eating me alive. I can’t just sit here and listen to him beg, not when I’m feeling this way. I swallow again and force my vocal cords to cooperate.
“I slept with someone last night.”
Deafening silence greets my ears. It seems to drag on forever, and with each second that ticks by, my stomach churns harder.
“Did you hear me?” I whisper.
There’s a choked noise. “Yeah…I heard you.”
We both fall silent. Pain and guilt continue to stab my insides. I involuntarily flash back to the day I met Sean. It was during freshman orientation, and I remember thinking he was the cutest boy I’d ever seen with his floppy
brown hair that he’s since cropped, twinkling hazel eyes, and the cutest butt on the planet. Being the outspoken weirdo that I am, I commented on the cuteness of said butt, and his cheeks had turned redder than his Red Sox T-shirt.
We had dinner in one of the meal halls that night.
A week after that, we were a couple.
And now, three years later, we’re broken up, and I’ve just confessed to having sex with someone else. Where the hell had we gone wrong?
“Who?”
The strangled question startles me. “W-what?”
“Who was it?” Sean says flatly.
Discomfort tightens my chest. “It doesn’t matter who it was. I won’t be seeing him again. It was…” I take a breath. “It was a stupid mistake. But I thought you should know.”
He doesn’t answer.
“Sean?”
A ragged breath echoes through the line. “Thanks for telling me,” he mutters.
Then he hangs up.
It takes a while before I move the phone away from my ear. My hand shakes uncontrollably as I rake it through my hair.
God. That was…brutal. A part of me wonders why I even told him. It’s not like I cheated on him. I didn’t have to tell him. In fact, I could have spared him the pain he must be feeling right now if I’d simply kept my mouth shut. But I’ve always been honest with Sean, and some stupid, guilty part of me insisted he deserved to know.
An anguished groan flies out of my mouth. My heart hurts again. The guilt is even worse now, a tight, crushing knot in my stomach.
Rather than pick up my script, I grab my iPod instead and shove in my earbuds. Then I yank the blanket up to my neck and put Miley Cyrus’s “Wrecking Ball” on repeat because it pretty much sums up how I feel right now.
Wrecked.
*
Dean
“Awww, look at him, G, he’s so precious when he’s sleeping.”
“Like an angel.”
“A really slutty angel.”
“Wait—do angels even get laid? And if so, are heaven orgasms a million times better than earth orgasms? I bet yes.”
“Uh-doy. Where do you think rainbows come from? Whenever you see a rainbow, that means an angel just came.”
