The Learning Hours

by Sara Ney

  Me: Yes, but I’m protected by a cloak of anonymity

  Rhett: What’s your name?

  Me: Can’t tell you—cloak of anonymity, remember?

  Rhett: Fine, play games. It was nice knowing you.

  I bite down on my bottom lip and give Alexandra a side-glance.

  “Now what’s happening? Tell me,” she urges. “You look like you swallowed a dirty, smelly cock.”

  “He wants to know my name.”

  “So? What’s the big deal?”

  “Haven’t you heard of stranger danger?”

  Alex shrugs her petite shoulders. “Make one up.”

  “Good idea. Didn’t think of that.”

  “You’ve never given a guy a fake name? Shit, I do it almost every weekend.”

  My name is…

  Pausing, I feel a smidge guilty. This guy has been treated like absolute shit by his friends, and now I’m about to lie to him—again.

  “Why are you hesitating?” Alex asks. “Throw it out there. Give him a name.”

  Grinning, I type in A-l-e-x, hit send.

  Me: My name is Alex.

  Rhett: Well Alex, c’était amusant, but I have shit to do

  I sit up straighter. What the hell was that?

  French?

  Me: What did that mean??? Cetait amusant or whatever.

  Rhett: Google it.

  I sit there, staring at the words written in French, and shiver a little. Press down on the words to highlight them, copy and paste them into a translation search, hit enter: Well Alex, it’s been fun, but I have shit to do.

  I stare at that sentence.

  French.

  The guy speaks French.

  Rhett Whateverhislastnameis speaks French.

  That is…

  Really kind of sexy, if I’m being honest.

  I fidget in my chair, biting down the smile caused by learning this new bit of fascinating information.

  “Why are you smiling? What’s he saying now?”

  I lift my head to meet her curious, calculating gaze. “He told me to fuck off and leave him alone.”

  “Jeez, what a dick.”

  “Yeah.”

  But my wheels are spinning now.

  At an alarmingly rapid pace.

  Rhett

  “Do you assholes have any fuckin’ clue how many girls have been texting me? I could punch y’all in the nuts.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “That wasn’t me thanking you.”

  “But you should.” Eric stretches his arm across his body, stretching his shoulder muscles. “Tell us how many chicks are after your tiny cock right now.”

  I plop down in a chair, tossing the cell onto the kitchen table. “My phone is blowin’ up. It was funny the first ten times, but now it’s getting old. They’re all the same.”

  Eric pulls a sad face. “Poor poor baby, no one feels sorry for you.”

  “You wouldn’t believe how perverted girls are. I feel violated in so many ways and need a hot shower.”

  Now he groans. “Only you would feel violated by women hitting on you.”

  “Hitting on me? They’re propositionin’ me—huge difference. I’ve gotten more offers for blow jobs in the past twenty-four hours than I can count. It’s disturbin’.”

  “No, what’s disturbing is the fact that you’re bitching about it. You don’t like blow jobs?”

  “That’s not what I fucking meant.”

  “Seriously man, how long has it been since your shriveled-up dick has been in someone’s mouth?”

  “Screw you, Johnson.”

  The truth is, it’s been a few years. The last and only time I got laid was high school: Beth Ripley, a hometown girl who hung out with our crowd and wasn’t picky about who she dated. Admittedly, she was kind of easy. Part of the agriculture club, I remember sneaking off with her during a house party, remember her fondling my dick through my jeans before sticking her hand down my boxers.

  Beth was aggressive, producing a condom before I could think twice about having sex with her. Verdict: it wasn’t memorable, but at least we liked each other. I came within minutes, not long after rolling the condom on.

  I had a shit-ton of friends back home in Louisiana, male and female, was the two-time state wrestling champion, highly medaled, and All-American.

  College is a different story. Girls want to date athletes who are pro-bound, who come with big egos and enthusiastic groupies. The quarterbacks. Team captains. Basketball players with NBA point guard potential. Fraternity guys. Preppy assholes.

  Even nerds have better on campus luck than I do.

  Adding to it, the guys on this fucking team have been cold-shouldering me, slow to open their tightknit circle. I’m not counting my roommates, who are outcasts themselves. Eric Johnson has the shittiest win record on the team, and Gunderson is proving to be the biggest fuckstick on planet Earth.

  Regardless, pretty girls chase after these two. I regard them now from across the table, both moderately good-looking in their own way. Eric has this oddball sense of humor and pervy mannerisms that girls think are funny, and Gunderson is just an idiot.

  Girls come back to the house all the damn time.

  I don’t get it.

  My phone chooses that moment to go off like a bell for a five-alarm fire, and Johnson practically vaults himself over the table, grabbing at my phone, holding it out of my reach.

  “I know you’re holding out on us, dude. Let’s see some of these messages.”

  It takes him a less than a second to access my texts, his eyes growing wide as his finger moves up and down the screen.

  “Holy shit. Gunderson, listen to this one: I’ll blow you if you let me record it.” He looks up from my phone. “Here’s one that just came through—it’s a crotch shot.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been getting lots of those.”

  His fingers scroll over my screen, eyes wide as saucers. “Dude, fuck yeah you have. Look at this girl’s tits! They’re huge!”

  “Are you putting any of those in your spank bank?” Gunderson wants to know. “Please tell me you’re at least yanking it to some of these.”

  Not that I’m going to admit it to them, but yeah, I am.

  I take my phone back just as it pings again.

  And again.

  I look down to see a text from the same girl who’s been texting me for hours.

  Alex: On a scale of one to ten, how bad do you blush when you get a new message?

  Me: 8

  Alex: That’s kind of cute.

  “Who’s texting you and why the fuck are you smiling like that?” Gunderson interrupts with his loud, irritating voice and nosy questions. “It’s weird.”

  Jesus. He’s so fucking annoying.

  “None of your business.”

  “Is it some girl you’re chatting with? Come on, there has to be at least one.” He’s cackling. “Does this mean you’re finally ready to fuck the butt-hurt out of your system?”

  “No.”

  No.

  Maybe.

  My guard is coming down, so I’m not going to stand here and say the idea hasn’t crossed my mind since I started texting Alex. She may have messaged me under false pretenses, but…

  I feel like her intentions might be changing the more we message. She texts cute, sounds sassy. Plus, she already knows what I look like and continues to flirt with me.

  Bonus.

  My phone dings with a new notification and I palm it, walking away from the table, toward my room. I enter and toss myself on the bed, lying on my back, staring at the ceiling.

  .

  Laurel

  “I have yet to meet someone who doesn’t bore me to death,” my roommate Lana announces, popping a pretzel in her mouth.

  It’s movie night at our house—Wednesday—one of the few days of the week none of us has a class, and as luck would have it, tonight, none of us have to work either.

  Well, my roommates don’t have to work tonight, and I don�
�t have my job at the coffee shop anymore because as my parents put it, my new job is to “study and get good grades with the intention of graduating in four years.”

  I have no break in my academic schedule, taking four extra credits and still two classes behind my goal to graduate on time. Playing catch-up with summer classes is going to suck.

  “Tell me about it,” Donovan says, sticking his giant hand into the popcorn bucket perched on my lap, the three of us side by side on the couch, binging on butter popcorn, gossip, and chick flicks. All three of us are single and looking for a serious relationship.

  I’m a junior now.

  I’m done messing around with frat boys and one-night stands. After dating man-children who care only about two things—sex and themselves—I’m ready to find something more meaningful.

  Don’t get me wrong—I love sex, I do, and I love guys; I just haven’t met one who’s wanted more from me. At the end of the day, they’re all just boys, really.

  I’m tired of being used.

  “The guys out there are nothing but fuckboys,” Donovan muses with a pout, popping a kernel and chewing. “You think you girls have it rough? Girl, please, the gay dating struggle is real.”

  I snuggle deeper into his large body. “You’re all the man we need, Donnie.”

  “Donnie.” He snorts, shoving me off him. “God I hate when you call me that. It makes me sound so suburban.”

  I grin knowingly. “I know.”

  We hunker down for the next few minutes, quietly watching the movie, a silly romantic comedy about a girl who writes a how-to column for a magazine and spends the entire movie trying to get the guy she’s fake dating to dump her.

  It’s old, but one of my favorites.

  Lane peels her eyes from the TV. “What’s that cousin of yours up to? Haven’t seen her around lately.”

  I shrug, hug the popcorn bucket, and reach in for a buttery handful. “You know Alex.”

  Lana twists her torso to study my face. “Why are you saying it like that?” Narrows her eyes. “Did she do something?”

  Lana, Donovan, and I met our freshman year, when Alexandra was my roommate and I hid in their dorms as a means of escape when she had guys over, or any of her ridiculously catty friends.

  Over the past few years, through honest late-night life chats and plenty more drunken ones, Lana and I have formed an unbreakable bond. An only child, Donovan and I are the siblings she’s always wanted, and for her part, Lana sometimes knows me better than I know myself. She knows what’s best for me, and I should be listening to her more often, not my damn cousin.

  “She hasn’t done anything.” Not technically.

  “Did you?”

  Shrug. “In a roundabout way.”

  “Stop vaguebooking and spit it out.”

  “Can you actually use that term if you’re not online?” I ask skeptically, evading the subject, tapping my chin because I know it’s cute.

  “Stop stalling and just tell us.”

  I take the braid hanging over my shoulder and pick at the ends, avoiding both their curious glances. “Have either of you seen that flyer around campus? It’s green and has a guy’s face printed on it?”

  “A guy’s face?”

  “Yeah. His face, and his phone number.”

  “Is this going to be a long story? Like, should I pause the movie?” Donovan asks, already pointing the remote at the television. “Tell me now or forever hold your peace.”

  I nod. “Okay, so, there are these athletes playing a prank on one of their teammates. They hung these horrible posters around campus—I’m not sure how many, but there’s a huge caption above the photocopied face that says, Get Rett Laid.” I cringe. “They’re so bad.”

  Lana furrows her brow, repulsed. “It doesn’t surprise me that someone would do that. People are so freaking rude.”

  I ignore the dig. “Like I said, the posters have his phone number on it…” My voice trails off, gets small. I bury my face in the blanket that’s on my lap. “So I texted him.”

  They both stare at me. Blink.

  “What did you just say?” Donovan pokes me. “You’re mumbling.”

  “What do you mean you texted him?” Lana narrows her eyes. Out of the three of us, she’s the only one with a strong moral compass. “Why would you do that, Laurel? It’s mean.”

  I lift my head, continue picking at my braid.

  “What was the point of the posters?”

  Do I seriously have to explain it to her? “To get him laid, just like it says.”

  “You’re not having sex with a stranger! Or did you become a prostitute overnight and didn’t tell us?” Lana fires off without taking a breath. “Why would you do that, Laurel? Why?”

  Donovan holds up his hand to stop us both from talking. “No, no, don’t tell us, let us guess—Alex made you do it. Your cousin and that stupid-ass voodoo ball dared you to text the poor guy.”

  “Something like that.” I laugh into my shoulder. They know her too well.

  Lana nudges me with her pointy elbow. “So? Aren’t you going to tell us what happened?”

  “So I texted him and it was fun.”

  They look disappointed. “That’s it?”

  I shrug.

  “Bullshit!” Lana shouts. “That is such bullshit. You can’t tell me you sent some poor guy a sleazy text message and not give any details. What kind of an asshole are you?”

  “Bore-ring! Boring, that’s what kind of an asshole she is,” Donovan adds, a singsong lilt in his voice. “That story was fucking boring, sorry.”

  “And a total lie—you didn’t bring this up for no reason, Laurel. There’s obviously more to this story, so spill, or I’m going to be horribly disappointed in you.”

  I pull a split end out of my red hair. “Donovan, remember that guy from the parking lot at the Pancake House?”

  “Dine and dash guy?”

  “Yeah.” I lean forward and grab my water bottle, twist the top off and take a swig. “That’s the guy. That’s who I was texting.”

  “Are you fucking with me right now?” Donovan scoots forward on the couch, turning to face me. “Seriously? No bullshitting?”

  I set the water back on the coffee table we all have our feet on. “Nope, no bullshit. His name is Rhett, and his friends hung the posters—the ones who stuck him with the tab.”

  Donovan lets out a puff of air. “Damn, I figured they were hazing him but I was hoping they weren’t. Hot guys are such assholes.” He sighs. “I wish I was dating one.”

  “No you don’t,” Lana scoffs. “God, listen to the two of you. When are you going to learn not to settle for the first selfish dick who pays attention to you?”

  “After I’ve been sexed a few times.” Our big gay roommate leans his head back on the couch. “I wish I was kidding.”

  “I don’t settle.” My face is scrunched up. “I can’t help it if every guy I date ends up being a wanker.”

  Lana sighs. “I love it when you use British slang.”

  Sly grin. “Thanks. So do I.”

  The three of us rest our heads on the back of the couch, eyes focused on the ceiling.

  “So what’s he like?” Lana whispers without turning her head to look at me.

  “Well,” I begin slowly. “It’s hard to tell. Obviously he’s defensive about the whole thing since every skank on campus has texted him, so when I sent him a message, he told me to fuck off—but he’s warmed up a little.” Kind of.

  “Is he cute?”

  I frown. “He’s slightly below average, but fun to talk to.”

  I can hear her eyebrows rise. “And his name is Rhett?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s kind of sexy.” Lana’s voice is wistful. “Like, Gone with the Wind southern plantation shit.”

  “Fiddle dee dee, I do declare,” Donovan sits up, fanning himself and not sounding one bit like Scarlet O’Hara. “I’d like to fuck y’all on the veranda.”

  “Frankly my dear, you can
suck my dick,” Lana says in a false baritone.

  Donovan scowls. “Hey, you stole my line!”

  “Shut up you guys.” I laugh. “You’re the worst.”

  Lana crosses her ankles on the coffee table. “So what do the two of you talk about?”

  “Well, it’s only been a few times. Mostly we spent our time arguing because I wouldn’t leave him alone.”

  “You’re such a clingy bitch,” Donovan snarks.

  “Shut up, Donovan, I am not!” I smack him on the thigh, pout. “I hate being ignored, that’s all.”

  Lana scoots forward, sucking on her diet soda with a noisy slurp. “The guy would jizz his pants if he laid eyes on you.”

  I do a mental hair flip but just shrug; I know I’m pretty—beautiful if we’re being honest. I’ve been hearing it since I was young, flattery from strangers, my parents, family and friends.

  And, of course, guys.

  Guys love me.

  My red silky hair. My slender waist and pouty lips. My fantastic boobs.

  Vanity is one of my flaws, but I’m not going to pretend to be modest, either. That would be worse.

  “Here’s what I want to know,” Lana says slowly, arm on the back of the couch, leaning into me. “Why did you text him…when you can call?”

  I bite my lip. “You think I should call him?”

  Her brows go up. “Why not?”

  Why not indeed.

  Rhett’s phone rings four times before he answers, the rich quality of his voice reminding me of a lumberjack, a rugged outdoorsman. Masculine and heavy.

  Smoky.

  Far deeper and sexier than I was expecting when I dialed his number.

  “Hello?”

  “Rhett?”

  Pause. “Who is this?”

  “It’s Lau—” I stop short, remembering I gave him a fake name. “It’s Alex.”

  Silence.

  “Hello?” I ask because the connection is so quiet. “Are you there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here. I’m tryin’ to figure out why you’re callin’.”

  He’s southern?

  Stop it.

  I don’t know what I thought his voice would sound like, but I sure as heck wasn’t anticipating a slow, lazy drawl with a rich tone. His deep timbre sends a startling shiver running down my spine.