“If there’s nothing to hide it shouldn’t matter if I check out your photos, huh?” My lips tightened as I dangled the phone.
She confessed the code. Sure enough she’d taken several selfies of me stone-cold passed out. She’d arranged my hand on her bare boob and snapped pics of her kissing me. She’d pulled down the covers and snapped a pic of me in my black athletic boxers and a pic of her hand wrapped around my cock. I swiped to the last pic, one of her licking the tiger tattoo on my bicep. Fuck.
Nausea simmered under the anger. Shit like this sent me over the edge. If I hadn’t found these, they’d be posted all over social media or possibly sold to some magazine—and my chances at a Heisman would be pulverized.
And wouldn’t Felix just love that?
After deleting the pics and tossing her phone back, I strode to my bedroom door and flung it open. “Time for you to get out.”
“I’ll text you later,” she said as she sat up on the bed to pull on her underwear and pants.
“I won’t respond.”
“I don’t care. I just like knowing you know I’m thinking about you. I picture you seeing my text and smiling. It’ll make your day better. Like a little ray of sunshine.”
Psycho. I gritted my teeth. “Trust me, I don’t think about you. I don’t even know your name.”
“Sierra.”
“Fine, Sierra,” I growled. “Just because you slept in my bed and did a cock selfie with me doesn’t mean jack. I don’t do groupies.”
Her lips curled in a half-smile. “I don’t give up that easily.” With a little wave she stumbled out the door.
Yes! Finally. I slammed it shut behind her, the noise reverberating through the house.
Eminem blared in the background as I flew around the room, getting my ass in gear for my Anatomy and Physiology class with Professor Whitt. I wanted to get an early start today, especially since he was one of the hardest teachers on campus. After taking the fastest shower ever, I threw on loose jeans, a V-neck navy blue Leland shirt, and leather flip-flops. I swept my long hair up in a quick man-bun. I hadn’t cut it since my mom died three years ago.
With a swift gait, I strode in the den and saw my roommate, Tate, standing in plain view of the street from the bay window, his hair a rat’s nest as he scratched his junk in his Union Jack boxers. An overly hairy blond giant originally from London, he was the first string wide receiver and my best friend since freshman year.
I clicked the light on. “Morning,” I called out, biting back a grin as he covered his eyes.
“Bugger off,” he muttered and dropped down to the couch. “Never let me drink tequila again—at least until next weekend.” He leaned his head back, mouth flapping open.
I slapped him on the shoulder. “Last night was our last hurrah, dude. Football has officially begun.” As a senior and the starting quarterback, I was the captain on our team, and it was my job to make sure we all stayed tight. Living and breathing football would be all I’d do for the next few months.
I wandered into the open kitchen area to scrounge for food. It was a small room, but sufficient for two athletes who did the majority of their eating in the athletic cafeteria on campus. We’d just moved out of the dorms and into the rental house this summer, and I dug it. The house itself, like many on the west side of campus, was built in the seventies and needed a shit ton of updates. We’d actually gotten one of the nicer ones thanks to my dad, who knew people.
The Formica countertop was littered with empty pizza boxes and beer cans from our celebration of the scrimmage. I rounded it all up and chunked it in the trash. Tate didn’t care too much about keeping the place clean, but I did. A blueberry muffin that had somehow not been eaten this week caught my eye and I snatched it, devouring it in two bites. I grabbed a protein drink from the fridge and chugged it. I felt wound up. Antsy. Like something was about to happen.
A staccato knock came at the door.
“Bro, can you get that? I’m cleaning up,” I called from the kitchen.
“I’m a fragile flower,” he moaned. “Can we just ignore it?”
Fine by me. I grabbed my backpack, my laptop, and notebooks. Where were those new pens I’d gotten? I scurried around, opening the drawers under the counter until I found the new pack of fine-tips and stuffed them in.
The knock came again, and a chick’s voice came through the wood of the door. “Hello, I know you’re there. I can see both of you through the window.” An exasperated sound came from outside, and I may have heard the creative insult jock-ass.
I cocked my head. Not Sierra’s voice. Thank God. I made a meh noise and opened the fridge to grab a Gatorade. Which one did I want, the blue or the original . . .
A loud plop came from the porch. Was our unwanted visitor stamping her foot? I smirked. She could stamp all she wanted. I was sick to death of girls showing up here expecting to get a signed autograph—or suck me off. I didn’t stick my cock in girls I didn’t know. I wasn’t my father.
A grumble came from behind the door. “I’m calling the cops in five seconds if this door isn’t opened. One, two, three, four—”
Cops?
That got my attention. I slammed the fridge shut. I did not need the cops over here.
If this was another groupie . . .
I went to the door and flung it open.
Chapter Three
Sunny
My alarm blared and I reached over to click it off.
The glare of the sun hitting my blinds woke me. I scrubbed at my face and squinted as I pried my eyes open.
Welcome back to Leland.
I stretched, loosening tight muscles that had washed every dirty crevice in my new rental house the day before. I’d even pulled down the weird mallard duck wallpaper in the den. I felt accomplished and ready to tackle the day, even though I had Professor Whitt this morning and my stupid-jock-ex would be there.
I turned my head to check out the time again and met the beady gaze of a huge brown spider that sat next to my head on the pillow.
My scream pierced the morning silence, the sound ricocheting off the walls and probably waking the old lady who lived down the street. Of course the spider didn’t like this. He skittered off my pillow and down between the cracks of the headboard.
Shuddering in revulsion, I bolted out of bed, stumbled over last night’s shoes, and promptly stubbed my big toe on the wooden dresser. I yelped, fell to the floor, and poked at the red-hot pain that was my appendage. Only me. And only on the first day of class. Ugh.
I eyed my bed accusingly, willing the spider to come out and face what he’d done. Dammit. Now I’d have to sleep on the couch for the rest of the semester.
My phone rang, and I limped over to scoop it up. My bestie Isabella was on the ID.
“Morning, Sugartits!” she sang into my ear.
I winced. “Please. I haven’t had coffee yet.”
“Can’t help it. I had sex last night, and it was phe-nom-e-nal.” She drew the last word out and made a crazy meow sound at the end. I held the phone out from my ear to lessen her sound effects.
“Imagine that,” I said wryly. “Who’s the lucky guy?”
She rattled off some boy from the Tau house she’d met at a back to school party. She described him in vivid detail, right down to the piercing on his privates.
“You think I’m a slut, don’t you?” she asked after a few moments.
“Of course not.” Because that’s what friends say.
She kept chatting, clearly in the mood for socializing, even though I could hear customers in the background of the local Starbucks where she worked. How she didn’t get fired, I had no clue.
“I bet he has a buddy,” she added.
“Don’t they all?”
She harrumphed in disgust. “You need to hop on over and meet that sexy neighbor of yours. Hello, Mr. Quarterback. I bet he’s got some backfield in motion. I bet you could score with him. Heck, I bet he knows how to ball—”
“Stop,” I said.
“I don’t do athletes anymore. It’s a hard rule. And if it had been my choice, I wouldn’t have rented a house across the street from him.”
“Hello, have you seen how wide his shoulders are—without the pads? Day-um.”
I heard a slurping sound and pictured her sucking down a latte or a steaming mug of hot chocolate. “What are you drinking?”
“Caramel Macchiato.”
I cursed. I loved that drink.
“I’m also eating a raspberry white-chocolate muffin. It’s delicious. There’s this amazing cream cheese in the middle of it—”
“I hate you. I really, really do.” Sweets were my thing, and the image of a muffin made my belly grumble. Not surprising since my dinner last night had consisted of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich—’cause it was cheap and pretty much all I’d had in the house.
Padding to the kitchen with the phone pressed to my ear, I came to a dead halt in front of the stained coffee maker I’d inherited from my grandmother Mimi when she’d upgraded. My heart dropped. I’d forgotten my grocery run last night. I wailed.
“What’s wrong?” Isabella asked.
“Dammit. I was so tired last night, I forgot to stop at the market.” I pressed my forehead against the coolness of the fridge and banged it. “I don’t have any coffee, there’s a giant spider under my bed, my ex is going to be in class, and my toe is falling off. I’m gonna die!”
“God, I love the way your voice gets extra Southern when you get upset. Do I need to come over and give you a pep talk?”
“Maybe.”
She cleared her throat. “You’re Sunny freaking Blaine and you always have your shit together. You’ve paid your own way through college. You’re not Italian yet you make the meanest lasagna in the whole state of Georgia—maybe the world. You don’t care what people think, case in point: yoga pants are your dress up clothes. You drink coffee like I shoot tequila. You once stole a car. You are a badass mama jama, and I’d be your lesbian lover in a heartbeat if I went that way—and if you went that way. I’m so jealous of your blond hair that I dream of shaving you bald—”
“Now it’s weird.” I smiled even though she couldn’t see me. “I feel better, though. Lunch at Hotdog Haven soon?”
“Yeah,” she said around her chews. “I’ll tell you about frat boy’s big wiener.”
I groaned. “Thank you for that parting image.”
We said our goodbyes, and I got off the phone and limped to the bathroom. A small room with an antique claw tub, it had a certain eclectic charm with pale blue walls and a myriad of rainbow and unicorn decals leftover from the previous renters. I hadn’t the heart to take them all down. The biggest one, a white unicorn, was stuck right next to the mirror over the sink. With a glittery pink mane and long eyelashes, he was fit for a princess—so unlike my own childhood. Perhaps that’s why I kept him.
I sent him a nod. “Morning, Charlie. Let’s hope this day doesn’t get any worse.”
It did.
After wrapping my toe in a waterproof Hello Kitty Band-Aid, I put my long hair in a bath cap and hopped in the tub, which had been modernized with a shower head on the wall above it and a shower curtain on an oval rod hanging from the ceiling. I turned the water temp to hot and just stood there, gut churning. Today I was facing Bart for the first time since we’d broken up.
Later while I was brushing my teeth, I glanced out the window next to the tub and saw a disheveled brunette bounce out of Mr. Quarterback’s door, stumble off the porch, and fall in the azalea bushes. I snickered. She crawled up, brushed herself off, and weaved along the sidewalk, obviously still trashed as she dug in her purse for what I assumed were her keys. She was the second girl this week who’d done the walk of shame from his house. The brunette finally made it to her BMW, got in, and cranked it up. Gunning the engine, she lost control and sideswiped my poor Camry parked on the street.
My mouth plopped open, and my forgotten toothbrush fell to the floor. I’d just paid the clunker off this summer!
She threw her car in reverse and backed up, scraping along the side of my car, making me cringe at the sound of grinding metal. Then she sped off.
Fuck! I stared up at the dingy popcorn ceiling and blinked my tears away.
And so it begins. The football player and I were finally going to meet.
I was going to murder him.
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BRIARWOOD ACADEMY SERIES:
Very Bad Things
Very Wicked Beginnings
Very Wicked Things
Very Twisted Things
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Ilsa Madden-Mills
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Wall Street Journal best-selling author Ilsa Madden-Mills writes about strong heroines and sexy alpha males that sometimes you just want to slap. She’s addicted to dystopian books and all things fantasy, including unicorns and sword-wielding females. She has a degree in English and a Master’s in Education.
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There are so many fantastic people in the indie world that made this journey possible. Please know that my gratitude in no way lessens as the list continues.
For my husband who has stood by me every step of the way. You and me, babe, against the world.
For Lisa N. Paul—thank you for all the giggles and lunch dates that we’ve never had in person—except for the grits! Thank you for your phone calls and summer visits. Most of all thank, you for being my dear friend and being there every single day.
For Tia Louise, my twin brain, my signing buddy—thank you for the friendship, advice, and encouragement. I can’t imagine a mermaid without thinking of you. Just keep swimming . . .
For Tijan—thank you for knowing when I need encouragement. I adore you.
For Caitlin (C. Marie)—thank you for being sweet and fast with line and copy.
For Jena Camp of Indie Girl Promotions and Lisa N Paul—thank you for the constructive content notes and advice.
For Julie Deaton, Erin Toland, and Stacy Nickelson—thank you for proofreading and helping me polish.
For Christine Borgford of Type A Formatting for doing a phenomenal job with formatting.
For Miranda Arnold of Red Cheeks Reads: my wonderful and talented PA. HOLLA! So happy we connected through our love of Very Bad Things. Thank you for being a go-getter for me. Race to the end, baby!
For the admin girls of Racy Readers: Erin Fisher, Tina Morgan, Elizabeth Thiele, Miranda Arnold, Stacy Nickelson, Heather Wish, Pam Huff, and Suzette Salinas. Thank you for your constant support, ideas, and love.
For Jenn Watson and the ladies at Social Butterfly PR, you are amazing! Thank you for holding my hand.
For my Unicorn Girls: you may be last on this list, but you are the BEST. You picked me up when I got knocked down and made me laugh. Thank you all for every shout out and each review you posted. Thank you for sharing a part of yourself in our group.
&n
bsp;
Spider Page 21
