by Lyla Payne
Poor Matt Samuels. His headshot had looked okay, but I definitely wouldn’t be giving him a callback. A three in the overall experience, and if any future girlfriends checked out my referral, they’d see a resounding but totally honest no.
If I wouldn’t call him drunk and ask him to come over and do me on a rough night, I wouldn’t foist him on another girl, either.
Headshots came with a quick and dirty list of previous theatre directors listed on the back. If a potential employer liked the looks of me and enjoyed my group or callback audition, they queried the people I’d worked with before to find out whether or not I could deliver a performance, and whether or not I was a huge bitch of a diva. Once actors hit the big time there were plenty of directors willing to put up with the second to get the first, but at my level, everyone at least played nice.
The star ratings were inherently subjective, but fewer details meant less chance that anyone would accidentally out themselves and get yelled at by a former beau, and Noah had talked me into erring on the side of caution—an influence I needed in my life, without Emilie around. Details were personal and the point of the website wasn’t to embarrass anyone, or to give girls a place to vent or make up slanderous shit.
I wasn’t trying to ruin anyone’s life here, or end up in court. I wanted to help. If nothing else, maybe the idea of a sexual résumé would make the Whitman guys shape the fuck up.
Ten other users added and rated Whitman guys after their profiles were approved, and given that Chaney had been one of them, Cole Stuart’s name and one-star rating didn’t surprise me. What did give me a start was that he had three one-star, no-referrals. After a couple of hours.
My curiosity piqued. What was his deal?
Michael Lawrence’s new girlfriend had uploaded him, too, and given him five stars and a yes on the referral. Honestly, I’d have given him one, too—he’d been attentive and sweet, and we’d had great times together. More than anything, I remember laughing.
Then he asked me to come home with him for Thanksgiving.
I’d been polite and well-mannered at his parents’ house, putting all of my prep school and cotillion etiquette classes into practice and following the rulebook to the letter.
It didn’t matter. He dumped me the week after we’d gotten back, and even though he gave me some bullshit it’s not you, it’s me excuse, I’d known it was me. Nothing I’d done, but things I couldn’t change that would never be good enough. When I was ten, my father had cashed in with a computer program that filtered spam and prevented hacking. It had eventually been acquired by Microsoft, and even though my family had at least as much, if not more, money than the kids at Whitman, it made no difference to the Lawrences.
The entire experience proved that, while I was good enough to have fun with and sleep with and date for a while, the men at Whitman wouldn’t be investing in me long-term. Acceptance came from more than the number of dollars in my bank account, and to most old families, fewer than four generations of wealth meant a lack of class and breeding.
I shut my laptop. It didn’t matter. I had two more years to build my résumé and make the connections available to me here. Then I’d move to New York, a place where everyone worked for what they got. For the first time since fourth grade, I’d be back on a level playing field.
I got ready for bed early, tired from long rehearsals and trying to be at least marginally responsible, given that classes started tomorrow and Tuesdays and Thursdays were my busiest days this semester. My cell phone buzzed after I’d turned the lights out, and the screen displayed a text from Emilie.
Hope I didn’t wake you! Coffee after Speech tomorrow?
I typed a quick response, glad we’d decided to take our speech requirement together. Stupid liberal arts school—I was a theatre major, so wasting a semester on speech seemed superfluous. Easy A, though.
Yup. See you then.
XOXO
I snorted at Emilie’s trademark signoff, which she refused to lose even when Gossip Girl made it famous, then burrowed back under the covers.
***
Speech was the second class of my Tuesday, a nine-thirty until eleven. The day started with an eight a.m. Shakespeare class, which might have been an error in judgment no matter how much I loved the subject matter. Focus and my brain didn’t mix before noon.
Then again, our brand-new Hollywood actor-turned-college-student Zachary Flynn sat right in front of me, so maybe it had been the best decision ever. People had been gossiping for most of August about his choosing Whitman, and over half the potential pledges coming through Recruitment had mentioned him. Our applications had to be up since he’d announced his intention on Letterman last Christmas.
He was a little too pretty for my taste, I thought, staring at the back of his head. Nice to look at, but my philosophy was always to be the better looking one in a relationship and, empirically speaking, there might not be anyone on earth better looking than Flynn.
My stomach tried to fold in on itself with about ten minutes to go, and since half of the class snoozed, the grumbling noises had been deafening. A bagel stop in the Student Union had been a must on the way to speech, which had necessitated an almost-run to make it on time.
My thin tank top clung to my sweaty back and perspiration chilled me less than five minutes after flopping into an uncomfortable wooden chair Em had saved. First days were uniform and boring. Profs or their TAs handed out a syllabus and then recited the damn thing to us, as though we were four-year-olds who hadn’t learned to read instead of kids who’d managed to gain acceptance to one of the most prestigious private universities in the country.
Instead of paying attention to the semester’s requirements in my blow-off class, I studied the rest of the students. Now that the website was up and running, staring at the guys in my classes and trying to recall their average star rating would kill tons of time.
One guy in particular caught my eye. He sat toward the front, taking notes on the syllabus as though he really cared, even though there was no way he was an underclassman. His short blond hair caught the morning sunlight streaming through the windows and the fingers gripping his old school pencil were strong and lean. From the way his form scrunched into his desk, the guy must be at least six-foot-three and his shoulders were broad, tapering to a trim waist.
How had I missed him around campus?
When he turned a moment later under the pretense of looking out the window, our eyes locked. My cheeks heated; he’d probably felt me staring and swung around to catch the leering creeper in the act. His eyes were light green, like lake water as it shallowed toward the shore.
The face clicked with a name. I hadn’t missed him around campus, but Lambda Phis were the richest snobs in a world of rich snobs, so I avoided them and their parties.
That being said, Cole Stuart hadn’t even had a chance to use his Scottish accent on me and I felt a little short of breath.
Emilie kicked my ankle and I tore my gaze away, hardly aware that Cole and I had both been staring for at least ten seconds. My best friend stifled a giggle when the toe of her ballet flat startled me into dropping my pencil onto the linoleum. I glared at her, not bothering to pick it up, and pretended to not stare at Cole for the remainder of class.
Excellent head shot. Good charisma. Shitty resume and no referrals. Damn. To quote the illustrious Randy Jackson, it was a pass from me. Dawg.
The professor let us go after twenty minutes—another common first day thing that should have been nice, but really made the whole thing feel like an even bigger waste of time. Cole flew out of his chair and held my lost pencil out in his palm before I could move.
“Um, I’ll wait for you outside, Rubes.” Emilie made a quick escape, her short, red vintage dress disappearing into the hallway in the space of about five seconds.
I made a mental note to kill her whether she kept talking about Quinn all the time or not.
Cole still held out my green Whitman U pencil, sharpened past the halfwa
y mark, and waited expectantly. When I sighed and took it, he smiled. The smile, combined with the unexpected spark of electricity that shot up my arm when my fingers brushed his palm, kind of punched me in the gut. He had the most unbelievable pair of deep dimples.
“Thank you,” I managed.
“Cole Stuart.”
The accent.
My drawers turned into water droplets and then disappeared, just like Ginny said.
I took the hand he offered, shaking it firmly and trying not to pant like a dog in heat, and then dropped it as soon as possible. After less than forty-eight hours, he had the lowest ratings on my referral website and something unappealing happened between him and Chaney that had sent her running home barefoot. This was exactly why I’d started the damn site—so I wouldn’t be seduced by accents and green eyes and dimples only to be left feeling disappointed and vaguely hopeless for the survival of the species after consummation.
So Cole was hot. That wouldn’t last forever.
Feeling more in control, I stood up and brushed my ponytail behind my shoulders, then shouldered my bag. “My friend Chaney said your full name is Cole Fucking Stuart. Do you go by that all the time, or only when you’re tossing girls out to walk home alone after midnight?”
A startled expression darkened his eyes but he didn’t look away. His balls, at least in this scenario, kind of impressed me.
“You’re a Delta?”
“Bright, too. How did Whitman manage to wrangle you away from Oxford?”
“Look, I think you’ve gotten the wrong impression of me, which is what happens when you listen to idle gossip.”
Oops. I didn’t want him to think Chaney had come home all crying and upset, especially when she’d been more pissed than anything and had seemed fine since that night. Whatever had happened between them, it hadn’t been a broken heart or even ruptured feelings. “She didn’t say anything about it, to be honest. I surmised based on…visual observations.”
He grimaced. “I can see we got off on the wrong foot….”
The pause was obviously meant to be filled with my name. There was no reason to act the petulant child, especially given that we had class together. “Ruby Cotton.”
“That’s where I know you from! I saw you play Rosalind last summer at Shakespeare in the Park. You were pure dead brilliant!”
It was hard to stay surly in the face of compliments. They were like oxygen to any artist, and a smile spread across my cheeks. The way his lips formed the strange phrase pure dead brilliant didn’t hurt, either. “Thanks. I love Shakespeare.”
“It shows.” He shifted his weight, glancing out the window. “I, um. Well. I admit I came over here to ask if you’d like to grab lunch with me, but given your opinion, I’m guessing that’s a no from you?”
My body begged me to say yes. He was gorgeous, he made me smile, and for everything I’d heard said about him, Cole seemed nice. But I wasn’t looking for nice. Michael had been nice, too. Everything about Cole said he would charm me into bed—shit, I already liked him—then realize I wasn’t a girl he could toss on the back of his white horse and gallop home to his castle.
Besides, the girls of Whitman had spoken.
“I’m having coffee with Em.”
He gave me a small smile, flushing me with strange heat. “Another time, then.”
Cole exited the classroom, leaving me alone with the vague scent of chlorine and sweat that must have been clinging to him this whole time. His ass looked great in a pair of khaki shorts.
Get hold of your libido, Cotton. Looking good in khaki shorts is a frat boy requirement.
“So?” Emilie grinned at me and stood up from where she’d been leaning against the wall in the hallway.
“So, what?”
“Do you have a date with Mr. Star Swimmer Scottish Hottie?”
Swimmer. That explained the chlorine. “No.”
“What? Why not? He had that goofy I’m smitten with gorgeous Ruby look all over him.” Emilie pouted, crossing her arms over her boobs in the way that always filled me with envy.
My arms only smashed my chest flatter. All of the sudden, fatigue from the early morning hit me and a yawn escaped. “Come on, Em. You can grill me over coffee.”
We traipsed the two blocks to The Grind, grabbing a table by the front window that reminded me of the day I’d met Quinn here last semester, when he’d first admitted his feelings for Emilie. I would never, ever have guessed they’d end up hopelessly in love.
Emilie pried the plastic lid off her to-go cup, blowing the steam from her nonfat cappuccino toward me. Her long black hair stuck to her shoulders, sweaty from our short hike, and I felt my shoulders relax. It felt nice, to be hanging out.
She raised her eyebrows. “How much do you hate me for dropping off the face of the earth?”
“Not at all,” I said, without hesitation. “Totally normal. I mean, I miss seeing you every day, but it’s not like we were going to end up like the Golden Girls or anything. It was going to happen eventually.”
“We’re still roommates, Rubes.”
“Em. It’s okay. Yes, you technically still room with me, but you haven’t spent the night there in two weeks. Frankly, I’m not convinced you and Quinn spend more than two consecutive hours out of bed.”
“Don’t be silly. We managed four the other day.” She grinned, her cheeks pink and dark eyes sparkling.
The jealousy that stabbed my heart didn’t have anything to do with my begrudging Emilie this amazing outcome—she deserved every bit of her happiness. It had everything to do with my wanting something amazing of my own and knowing it wasn’t here.
“Remind me to give Quinn a gold star the next time I see him.”
We sipped the blessed caffeine in silence for a few minutes, people watching through the window as kids hustled through the first day of the new semester. It always felt exciting for about a week, until new classes turned into old classes and homework piled up.
“Did you get that e-mail about the sex referral site where girls can rate the Whitman guys? It’s equal parts crazy and brilliant.”
I hid a smile. “You don’t say?”
“Quinn checked every hour waiting to see his five stars start showing up.”
I snorted. Typical Quinn Rowland. “You can tell him to give it a rest. He’s not going to be on the site.”
“What? How do you….” A lightbulb flashed in her eyes and she leaned toward me. “It’s you?” She hissed.
“Yeah.”
“Ruby! How could you not tell me! When did this happen?”
“I swear it was like, twenty-four hours between idea inception and execution. I paid a computer science geek to set it up for me. But I’m filtering Quinn’s referrals.”
“I don’t care about that. Trust me, I don’t need a referral for him. But…tell me how you came up with the idea.”
The mischievous grin on her face delighted me. We’d discovered a shared interest in playing amateur detective shortly after becoming roommates, and neither of us had issues scheming to get our answers. We’d had a ball freshman year figuring out who slept with our philosophy prof and got him fired, who kept leaving nasty used condoms in the showers, and whether or not the girl next door was a lesbian.
The latter had involved both Emilie and I ending up in a rather compromising situation that would probably get us into next month’s Penthouse, if we wrote it up. But we always got our info.
She’d run a brilliant one of her own on Quinn’s half-brother Sebastian last semester.
“The other night, some of the girls were telling horror stories about sex gone wrong. Oh! Plus, I caught Chaney Robbins on a walk of shame, all pissed off and coming from Cole Stuart’s—he’s also got a bunch of low ratings on the site already. After two days. That’s why I said no.”
“Hmm. Good call, then.” She grinned. “I love this so much. Stupid guys always get away with shit like this, judging us for our boobs or whether we gained five pounds over the holida
ys. Why shouldn’t we expect them to at least try? Trust me, after the last—”
“Emilie, stop. Do not finish that sentence, or I’m going to have to kill you.”
“Sorry. What’s going on with Liam? I bet he’s no disappointment.”
“Oh, shit.” I flew out of my chair, checking the time on my phone.
“What?”
“I’ve got to go. I have a costume fitting at one. Totally slipped my mind.”
“Okay, well, see you at the meeting!” Emilie shouted as I raced out the door of The Grind and onto the street.
Chapter 3
My life had been a struggle to fit in since fifth grade, when I’d traded my comfortable, country classroom for the scratchy woolen uniforms of Saint Jude’s Academy, and the friends who ran amok and barefoot for the miniature grownups who didn’t take to newcomers.
My mother had lectured me for seven years that money spent the same no matter how old it was, and by now I should have felt more comfortable among my financial peers. I was smart enough to realize my own discomfort caused at least fifty percent of the issue, but it didn’t stop me from longing to trade the caste system of Whitman—ranked by family and pedigree—for the masses of the New York theatre world. I liked the idea of starting from nothing, clawing my way up, and eventually stepping on the heads of lesser actresses to make a name for myself because of my talent.
I’d done that in the community theatre, and Geoff Parsons, the director for this show, didn’t give a shit who my parents were or weren’t. He cared that I delivered a kickass performance.
There was a good chance he’d invite some of his high-powered friends down for opening night in a month, and a performance that stuck in their minds could mean work after graduation. At the very least it meant being remembered, and that was never a bad thing.
