Top Secret

by Sarina Bowen

  Ha. Getting Judd Keller to change his mind about me? I’d have a better chance trying to get cast on a season of Dancing With the Stars.

  An hour later, I’m rummaging around in the kitchen for a snack. Now that I’ve got a wad of cash lining my wallet, I can afford to grab a bag of chips. We have a communal snack pantry that any of us can make use of, provided we contribute to the snack fund. Normally I abstain. Tonight, I toss a ten-dollar bill in the jar, and gorge.

  Fuuuck. I forgot how good chips are. Maybe it’s a good thing I’m usually too broke to snack on carbs. My livelihood depends on making sure my abs remain tight and lickable.

  Nevertheless, I’m elbow deep in the bag and loving every second of it. As I munch, I check my phone. But no message from LobsterShorts. Did I scare him off? I reread our messages, but as far as I can tell, he was with me every step of the way. He was into it.

  My last message to him was bold, though.

  I want you to finish now. And tell me if this helps.

  Maybe he wasn’t into the pic I sent?

  I think it over, then frown. Fuck that. My body is fucking awesome. Of course he was into it.

  Granted, he admitted to never chatting up a guy, or being with one. Maybe the virtual blowjob didn’t do it for him. He tried it out, couldn’t get hard. Or maybe got so hard it freaked him out?

  I can’t deny I’m disappointed at the notion that he might be gone for good. He didn’t unmatch me on Kink, so that’s something. But he’s also not messaging.

  I skim the message thread again, but when footsteps near the doorway, I jam a finger on my phone to close the app.

  “Hey,” I grunt as Keaton Hayworth appears. But he doesn’t even respond.

  My gaze warily tracks Mr. Jockface as he ducks into the pantry. He’s wearing sweatpants and a sleeveless red T-shirt, providing me with front-row seats to the gun show. Dude’s got great arms. Too bad his personality is shit.

  “Yo,” he eventually grunts back, as I shove another chip into my mouth. I crunch loudly, continuing to watch Keaton.

  He emerges from the pantry with a granola bar. One of those bland ones with nuts and stuff.

  Neither of us speaks. Which is normal enough, I guess. Keaton and I have nothing in common, so conversations between the two of us are rare. We have no problem bitching at each other for playing our music too loud, but exchanging actual meaningful words? Not our style.

  And yet I stop him before he can leave the kitchen. “Hey, wait.”

  When he turns, I notice his face is flushed, and he looks a little unsettled. “Need something, Bailey?” he snaps.

  I set down the chip bag. “There was a meeting tonight. For the Pledge Committee?”

  “Sure?” He frowns. “I’m not on that one. So?”

  And here I tread carefully. “I know you’re tight with Judd, and I thought I’d give you a heads-up. Maybe you can have a chat with him when the two of you are in the locker room, slapping each other’s asses with towels.”

  One corner of Keaton’s mouth quirks. “Is that what you think football players do in the locker room?”

  The football players I’ve seen on PornHub do a lot more than smack asses. They fuck ‘em. But I keep that to myself.

  “Judging by the hard-on he got tonight at the thought of watching other guys fuck watermelons, I’d say, yes, it wouldn’t surprise me if Judd was into locker room ass play.”

  Keaton’s eyes widen. “Sorry, what?”

  “Your bro has some messed-up ideas about how to haze our pledges. Figured you could try to nip that in the bud.” I shrug. “Maybe remind him that consent and MeToo applies to men as well as women. I’d rather get through this year’s initiation week without a lawsuit.”

  Seriously, if I wanted legal trouble, I could just live at home.

  Keaton crosses those impressive arms and stares me down. “Are you pulling my chain right now?”

  “What? No! Jesus. Ask him yourself. I’ve got better things to do than invent bad ideas, Hayworth. But we both know Judd listens to just one of us, and it ain’t me.”

  He lifts a hand and runs it through his messy hair. He’s edging toward the doorway, as if he’s dying to leave.

  “I’m serious, Hayworth.”

  “Okay, okay, I’ll bring it up to him.” He stops to glare at me. “But if you’re just trying to make trouble between my teammate and me…”

  “Oh, please,” I sputter. “I’m trying to keep us out of trouble. I don’t give two shits about Hell Week so long as nobody gets sued afterward.”

  “Simmer down,” Hayworth grumbles. “Judd likes to talk. He’s too smart to put us in any real jeopardy.”

  “Smart?” I spit before I can think better of it. “He drove a U-Haul truck into an underground parking garage, peeling the top off like a sardine can. And his ex-girlfriend had to get a new SIM card for her phone because he wouldn’t stop calling her from alternate numbers.”

  My studly neighbor shakes his head. His whiskers are scruffy, which only draws more attention to his good looks. Some people have all the advantages in life.

  Except common sense. “Judd cares about Alpha Delt,” Hayworth says. “I’m sure he’ll keep his head in the game.”

  “Well, I’m not sure,” I say, just to make it clear. “If this turns into a shit show, I’m not taking the fall for it.”

  “It won’t turn into a shit show.” His lips tighten. “Are you done?”

  “Jeez. Someone’s feeling crabby tonight. What’s wrong, Hayworth?” I crack. “You hard up? Your rich girlfriend isn’t sucking your dick often enough?”

  Keaton’s face goes a bit pale, and for a second I feel bad about being such a smart-ass. But my remorse is short-lived, because Hayworth sneers at me and resorts to the most childish of comebacks.

  “At least I have a girlfriend.”

  The smug bastard then wanders out of the room with his granola bar.

  I check out his ass as he goes, just because I can.

  Sea Slug Sex

  Keaton

  “Breakfast tomorrow?” Annika’s voice chirps into my ear as I get ready for bed. It’s just after eleven, but I’ve decided to call it a night. Today was a long-ass day and I barely got anything done.

  “Can’t,” I answer, shifting the phone to my other ear so I can turn down the bedsheets. “I have a six a.m. practice, then a meeting with one of my TAs.”

  “Who cares about a meeting with a TA?” she grumbles. “It’s not like he’s your prof.”

  “No, but it’s still important.” More important than ever, actually. Charlie said he might have news for me tomorrow about an internship he’s setting up.

  Annika doesn’t know about that, though, because I haven’t told a soul. I doubt I’ll get it, anyway. It’s more of a guilty fantasy than a realistic option.

  “Why’s it so important?” she asks.

  And yet despite her interest, which I appreciate, I don’t offer any specifics. In fact, I flat out lie. “He’s helping me with a paper that’s worth fifty percent of the final grade.”

  “Fine. No breakfast, then. Let’s do dinner with Lindy and Max.”

  “I thought we were mad at Lindy.” I strip to my boxers and slide under the covers.

  “We were mad, but now we’re not.”

  I can practically hear her eyes rolling. “Okey dokey. Then I guess we’re double-dating tomorrow night.”

  “I’ll make reservations for eight?”

  “Sounds good, baby.”

  We exchange good nights, and then I hang up and stare up at the ceiling for a moment. Why haven’t I told Annika about the research trip to Chile yet? Initially, I told myself that it was pointless to mention the summer program to her unless it was a done deal, because it really does feel like a foolish dream more than anything.

  But lately I’ve been toying with the idea of applying to graduate school next year. My dad would flip his shit. But it’s my life, right? And my grandfather’s trust fund would cover it, even if
my dad cuts me off.

  And he might very well take the nuclear option if I decide not to work for him. He’s been grooming me to take over the family business since the moment I declared a bio major.

  The thing is? I don’t want his job. I don’t want his life.

  I want to spend three months sailing the coast of Chile, looking for an undocumented breed of orca. It’s the kind of hands-on research program that makes budding marine biologists come in their pants.

  Speaking of which… I never messaged SinnerThree after our little experiment earlier. I just didn’t know what to say.

  To him, or to myself, honestly. It shocked me how turned on I got talking to him. When Annika asked me to make her birthday exciting, I know she wasn’t asking me to explore my sexuality with a stranger over an app.

  So afterward, I needed a minute to cool off and get my head around the whole experience. Hell, I still do.

  I grab my phone from the nightstand and open the app. Sure enough, there’s a message waiting in my inbox. I don’t get notifications from Kink—it’d be way too awkward for those to pop up when I’m with the guys—so I’m not sure how long the message has been sitting there.

  A quick check of the timestamp brings some relief. He sent it only fifteen minutes ago.

  SinnerThree: Please tell me the orgasm didn’t kill ya. I mean, I’ve been told my mouth is dangerous, but never thought it was deadly.

  I cringe. Hey, sorry, I type.

  SinnerThree: He’s alive!

  LobsterShorts: I’m alive! Didn’t mean to leave you hanging. Had to go for dinner, then I was dealing with a couple things, talking to GF, etc etc.

  SinnerThree: I thought maybe I scared you off.

  I hesitate. Do I tell him the truth? I suppose it’s only fair.

  LobsterShorts: I scared myself, maybe.

  There’s a brief delay, followed by: Because…you were bowled over by the power of my hotness? Did you come?

  Heat travels up my spine. Got right down to it, didn’t he? Granted, why shouldn’t he? We’re conversing on an app called Kink, for Pete’s sake.

  LobsterShorts: What do you think? Of course I did.

  SinnerThree: And?

  LobsterShorts: And what?

  SinnerThree: How was it? Life-changing?

  How was it? I can’t even begin to answer that. It was hot, definitely. I enjoyed it, obviously. But if you ask me how I feel about any of that…I’m still unsure. And even though he’s joking, I don’t want it to be life-changing. The point is to have some fun without changing my life.

  LobsterShorts: It was hot.

  SinnerThree: It would be even hotter in person.

  I have a feeling he might be right. And I’m not sure how I feel about that, either. So I don’t answer right away. And yet, somehow, this guy manages to read my mind, even via an app chat.

  SinnerThree: You think so, too.

  I take a breath, then carefully type, Yeah, I think it could be hotter in person.

  SinnerThree: And? You think you want to go there?

  I hesitate for a second. Fuck. I guess…here goes nothing.

  LobsterShorts: I think…yeah. I do.

  Before he can respond, I quickly add another sentence.

  LobsterShorts: I think my gf will be really into watching.

  Almost instantly, confusion ripples through me. I’ve confused myself by bringing up Annika. But the fact that I didn’t think about her once during that sexting sesh still doesn’t sit right with me.

  SinnerThree: Tell me about her.

  Now I’m wary. What do you mean? I ask. What do you want to know exactly?

  SinnerThree: Relax, dude. I’m not asking for her name or social security number. Tell me what she likes in bed. How she likes to be touched, fucked… Or tell me more about lobster sex, if you want. I’m not picky about sex talk as long as someone’s fucking.

  I laugh softly. This guy’s funny, I’ll give him that.

  LobsterShorts: I’m fresh out of lobster sex facts atm. BUT…lemme tell you about sea slugs.

  SinnerThree: Omg yes. I can’t wait for this. Hold on. Let me undo my pants.

  This time I snort out loud. I know he’s kidding, and I play along. Actually, I’ll do that, too. Having both our dicks out for this fun fact is so fitting.

  SinnerThree: Dick’s out. All right. Slug sex. Now, baby.

  LobsterShorts: OK—you ready for this?

  SinnerThree: Hit me. Blow my mind.

  LobsterShorts: Sea slugs have penis fights.

  Dead air follows my revelation.

  I see the three dots appear to indicate he’s typing. Then they disappear. Reappear. Disappear.

  Finally, a message pops up.

  SinnerThree: I don’t even know what to say to that. I guess… Why?? How?? Why???

  I can’t stop chuckling to myself as I type out a response. It’s exactly what it sounds like. Like two swords clanging against each other.

  SinnerThree: CLANGING? Are their penises made of metal??

  LobsterShorts: No lmao. OK, bad analogy. Basically, they fence with their cocks. The contest determines who’s the top and who’s the bottom.

  SinnerThree: OMFG. For real?

  LobsterShorts: I swear. Look up “flatworm penis fencing.” I’ll wait.

  And people wonder why I study animal behavior. It’s endlessly fascinating.

  There’s another long delay before he says something. I hope he’s staring at a photo of sea slug penises right now.

  SinnerThree: You are a fun date, Lobsterman.

  LobsterShorts: I don’t like to brag, but...

  SinnerThree: I was about to suggest we should do that when we finally meet. To decide which one of us gets fucked, but there’s no point.

  My pulse quickens immediately. This topic shouldn’t be half as interesting to me as it is right now.

  LobsterShorts: Why’s that?

  SinnerThree: Because my cock would be in your ass. The end.

  I gulp, realizing I don’t actually hate this idea. Try anything once, right? For science.

  LobsterShorts: Uh-huh, is that how it is? You call all the shots?

  SinnerThree: Most of the shots, yeah.

  Lobster Shorts: And what if I’m not into that?

  SinnerThree: Then we wouldn’t be sexually compatible. But I have a feeling you might be. Into it, that is. Or at least you’re more open to it than a birthday 3-way implies.

  I look down at my crotch, where my boxers are already getting tight. And it’s pretty hard to argue the point. It’s pretty hard, period.

  SinnerThree: Picture this: I’m behind you. My hand is wrapped around your rock-hard dick. And I’m jacking you while I’m drilling you.

  I can’t even swallow anymore—my mouth has gone from dry to completely arid. It feels like it’s been stuffed full of cotton. Every word he’d just written sent a bolt of lust down my body. I can picture it. And he’s right. I think…I think maybe I do want to know what that’s like.

  But that’s not all I want, and although my fingers are trembling as I type, I manage to make my needs clear.

  LobsterShorts: That does sound tempting. But so does the opposite—me drilling you while you come in my hand. So, naturally, my scientific brain kicks into gear and inquires: which option would feel better? My solution is, let’s try both.

  That’s all a hundred percent bravado. I’m pretty far over my skis right now. I don’t proposition men for sex. But I had to try it on. Typing it out makes it seem even more real. It takes me one step closer to the edge. And I wonder if I really have the balls to jump off. Or if I’m all talk.

  God, I like the idea, though. I like it more than I ever let myself like it before. What would Annika think of me right now?

  Annika! The reminder of her is once again jarring. What the hell is happening here? The conversation began with Sinner asking what Annika likes in bed, and somehow turned into the two of us discussing banging each other.

  I draw a deep breath,
trying to digest that, just as a response finally comes through.

  SinnerThree: Since this is probably just a scientific hypothesis, I’ll agree to a deal. First time? I’d get your ass. If there’s a second time? You’d get mine.

  He’s right. This is all just smack talk, anyway. If I ever meet SinnerThree, the night will be all about Annika.

  So why is that so difficult to remember when I’m talking to him?

  My cock is stone-hard in my shorts. I absently pass my hand over it, and my balls begin to throb.

  GTG, I type. It’s getting late.

  SinnerThree: Uh huh. Feel free to review my pics while you’re relieving some tension in a few minutes.

  Christ.

  LobsterShorts: Get out of my head.

  SinnerThree: It’s not your head that I want. Sleep tight and dream of me, baby. Or sea slugs.

  The green dot beside his icon winks off.

  I set down my phone. And then I slip my hand past the elastic of my boxers. And I do the thing that guys do when they need release. And I try not to think too much about why I need it so badly.

  It Gets Messy

  Luke

  It’s another brutal week of school assignments and work. Those extra bartending sessions are killing me. But at least my Dance-off plans are shaping up nicely.

  Unfortunately, the engine on my bike is making a rattling sound whenever I turn at an intersection. It might just be that the chain needs adjusting, but all my tools are in my mother’s garage.

  That’s how I find myself stopping by there on Sunday, the way Mom asked me to. Besides, free food is free food.

  Sitting at our small table beside my brother Joe isn’t easy, though. Did it always feel this crowded in here? And the only one talking is Mom. Joe just shovels in the food and nods whenever he thinks he should.

  It’s not a bad strategy, really.

  Joe leans back in his chair like a king as my mother scoops another portion of homemade mac and cheese onto his plate. “There’s more deviled eggs,” she clucks, offering him that dish, too.

  Swear to God, the whole time Joe was in prison, my mother paced our house, worrying. But she wasn’t asking herself, “Why would my boy turn out to be a criminal?”