by Natalie Rios
“Two. Sometimes three.”
I really want to pick up a chair and smash it over someone’s head. Maybe Mitch the Creep for hiring sweet college girls in his seedy club. “Do you take the bus back home?”
She shrugs. “Sometimes. Unless one of the girls can give me a ride.”
She hitches rides from strippers. My jaw is ticking so much, I’m surprised it hasn’t locked on me yet. “What about one of your friends? Can’t they give you a ride?”
“I don’t exactly want to advertise that I work here.”
I study her, wondering if she’s messing with me again.
“You know,” she continues, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, “I’ve never seen you in here before. The football team stops by every Thursday night and I’ve seen Cam and that guy who likes to have sex on tables. But not you.”
Shit. She really does work here. And she’s been working here for a while if she’s seen Schmidty. Cameron Schmidt graduated in May and spent the better part of his senior year making kissy faces at his girlfriend.
“I don’t go to strip clubs.”
“Like, ever? Not even Juicy Lucy’s?”
“Never. My dad’s the governor. If pictures of me at a strip club ever surfaced, the press will print shit. About how he’s a bad father and his kid’s out of control. He doesn’t need the stress. He’s a great father and he worked so hard to get this far. I don’t want to ruin his political career just so I can look at some boobs.”
“That’s...nice of you.”
Nice isn’t normally a word guys want to be called. Nice guys are boring. Uninteresting. Bland. And let’s not forget, nice guys finish last. Yeah, no guy wants to be called nice.
But per usual, Allie manages to make the word sound like a compliment. Nice. Practical. It’s like describing my grandpa. Except coming from her, the words make my heart soar.
“So...what are we doing here then?” Allie asks, jerking a thumb back towards the stage. “Why risk it now?”
“Because...” I sheepishly shuffle my feet. “I thought I was pulling one over on you. This was supposed to be an easy victory.”
Allie crosses her arms. “You thought seeing a stripper’s tit was going to have me running back home so I can douse my eyes with bleach before conceding our bet and kissing you?”
I run a hand through my hair. “Yeah, I’m realizing that was a stupid assumption on my part.” The kind of girl who throws around words like tit and pussy wouldn’t be intimidated by a strip club.
“Well, I’m staying. By the time you drop me off, it will be time for me to catch the bus anyway.” She starts walking back towards the bar and I follow her, taking a seat in the empty bar stool next to her. “What are you doing?”
She doesn’t even try to hide the surprise in her voice and I’m a little insulted. Hell no am I leaving her alone in a place like this. What kind of guy does she take me for? Then again, despite knowing each other for seven years, we don’t really know each other. And what little she does know about me doesn’t do me any favors.
“I drove you here,” I say. “It’s my responsibility to make sure you make it home safe.”
“I thought you said you have a workout or whatever at 5am?”
“I do, but I’m still driving you home.”
She shakes her head. “Seriously, I can take the bus.”
“And seriously, I’m driving you home.” Fuck the bus. A beautiful girl with a smartass mouth on her taking the bus? It’s not safe. Not at all. I don’t care if I’m going to feel like shit in the morning.
She opens her mouth, ready to argue with me, but I change the subject first. “Ironman or Wolverine?”
“Wolverine. We’ve already established I love antiheroes.”
“The darker and twistier the better?”
“Of course.”
“Okay. Aquaman or Ant-Man?”
“Aquaman.”
“What?! No way! Everyone knows Aquaman sucks. He’s useless unless he’s near water. I mean, being able to telepathically communicate with fish is great...if you’re stuck in the middle of the Atlantic. But it’s a completely worthless skill if you’re inland.”
“As opposed to Ant-Man who can communicate with ants?”
I nod, conceding the point. “Touché. But Aquaman? Really?”
“He has excellent breath control. I’m sure you can understand why such a skill would interest me as a woman,” she winks.
I lean across the bar and whisper in her ear. “I’m pretty sure you’d be thrilled with my breath control, too. I’ll devour that pussy all night long.”
“That’s ambitious.”
“It’s the truth.” I brush some hair off her shoulder, grinning when I feel her shiver from the contact. She’s not completely immune to me after all. Maybe there’s hope yet for me to get out of the Fuck Off Zone.
Except...
Instead of flinching or moving away from me, she tilts her head back and smirks. “Cute. Tell me something. Does that actually work?”
I shift away, trying my best not to scowl. “Yes. Usually.”
“Fascinating. Given Carlton’s low acceptance rate, I would have thought the girls on campus would be smarter than that.” Shrugging, she turns and signals for the bartender.
Rejected.
I’ve never been rejected before. Funny thing is, I’m not mad. Confused? Yeah. Intrigued? Absolutely. But the more she resists me, the more determined I become.
“You know, that wasn’t a no. To my offer,” I clarify.
“It wasn’t a yes either. Though it might have been if you had said ravish that pussy instead.”
Christ. This girl. I have to wipe the grin off my face. “Ah, so close. Maybe next time. Why do you work here?”
She doesn’t even blink at my swift change of topic. “The money.”
My brows snap together. “I thought you had a scholarship?”
“Which covers tuition. Books, rent, and groceries are on me. And, of course, med school applications.”
“Can’t you bartend somewhere else? Someplace where women aren’t topless?”
“I have, but the pay’s not as good. What can I say? Drunk, horny men are very generous tippers. Especially when you serve them drinks in your Daisy Dukes.”
Sick fucks. There’s that tick in my jaw again. “What if I up our bet to $3000? Would that get you to quit?”
“Nope, $3000 isn’t enough to cover rent for the rest of the school year. Anyway, I thought you said you had this?”
I ignore that last bit. I don’t give a shit about the bet anymore. I care about her and her safety. “What would it take for you to quit then?”
“Another job where I can work the same hours and make just as much. And trust me when I say such a job doesn’t exist. I’ve looked.”
I shake my head. There has to be another way. “You don’t belong here.”
Her dark chocolate eyes lock on mine. “Neither do you.”
Good point.
“Seriously, you can leave,” she adds and for the first time, I notice the two new glasses of water she’s holding.
Taking an icy glass, I let it land on the counter in front of me with thud. “Seriously, I’m not going anywhere.
10
Allie
“HEY.”
I don’t even bother looking up, but I do remove one of my earbuds. “Is this a thing now? Us studying together?”
Theo settles into the chair across from me. “Yup. Get used to it.”
“Remember when we didn’t talk for three years? Because I do. Fondly.”
“Ouch. I’m wounded.”
“Slap a Band-Aid on and suck it up, buttercup.”
“What are you always listening to?” I glance up to find him tapping his ear. “Your headphones.”
“Drake, Queen, and the Chainsmokers.”
He lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Drake? Seriously?”
“What’s wrong with Drake?”
“Queen, I’ll give y
ou, because Freddie Mercury is the shit. And the Chainsmokers are okay. But Drake? Why are girls so obsessed with Drake?”
I hold up a hand and tick the reasons off on my fingers. “One, he’s ridiculously good looking. Two, he’s the sensitive and sweet rapper. Three, he totally knows how to rock a dinner sweater. And four, his songs are awesome.”
He frowns. “You find Drake attractive?”
I sit up straighter in my chair. “Uh, yeah. Especially now that he’s been hitting the gym. Champagne Papi is ripped.”
“Champagne Papi?”
“That’s his username on Instagram,” I explain. “I follow him for his workout pics.”
He groans. “Jesus, it’s like an affliction.”
“You asked.”
“Does it even matter that his music is garbage?”
Annoyed, I tap my pen against the edge of the table. “And what do you listen to, Mr. Music Snob?”
“Pink Floyd.”
“Pink Floyd? Ha! Good one.”
“No, seriously. Pink Floyd is my favorite band,” he insists. And I’m still skeptical. Theo doesn’t strike me as the Pink Floyd type.
“All right then. What’s your favorite Pink Floyd song and why?”
“Wish You Were Here because it’s a song about longing. For better days, for the way things used to be. Missing a friend who chose a different path. That entire album is about Syd Barret, his departure from the band and his breakdown.”
Holy shit. Theo Montgomery listens to Pink Floyd. “Mine is Comfortably Numb.”
“I’m shocked a girl that worships a man who goes by Champagne Papi because he wears dinner sweaters would even know that song.”
“It’s not just because he wears them, it’s because he wears them. No man can rock a sweater quite like Drake can. What?” I ask when he just stares at me.
“I’m trying to figure out if you’re being cute or infuriating,” he muses.
I shrug. “Both. Though that’s not really an insult, more of a smart observation on your part.”
He leans back in his chair and gives me a leisurely once-over. My heart races just a little bit, the dum-dum-dum sound drowning out the house music coming from my other earbud. And then he gives me a slow, easy smile. The kind that his secret dimple winking at me. I forgot how charming he can be. So charming and boyish at times. With a smile that hints of mischief and pleasure, flirting and sex. Ignoring his words is easy, but that smile?
Gets me every time.
“So you’re saying,” Theo cuts in, “all I have to do is wear a dinner sweater and you’ll let me ravish that pussy?”
I peel my eyes away from his mouth. “Glad you’re finally getting with the program on the terminology, Theodore.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
I’m sure Theo would look fantastic in a dinner sweater. The guy looks fantastic now, wearing a plain black t-shirt that shows off his large biceps. And I’m sure he looks great in his football uniform. I mean, have you seen the pants those guys have to wear? Talk about tight.
And now, for the first time in the seven years I’ve known him, I find myself imagining what Theo looks like in his uniform. Bubble butt. It has to be bubble butt, right? No way he skimps on leg day.
“Perez?”
Shaking my head, I snap out of it. “Sorry. Hearing the word sweater just had me thinking of Champagne Papi.”
“Not this again,” he mutters.
“Sweaters are kind of his thing, you know? Anyway, how was your football practice or whatever this morning?”
He grimaces and I immediately feel sorry for asking. “The workout was okay, but practice this afternoon was terrible. My timing was off on the one-on-one passing drills and then the 7-on-7 was a nightmare. Coach said he’s seen pewee quarterbacks who can make more passes than I did today.”
I feel awful. He spent the entire night with me at the club, only leaving my side when I went to use the restroom. But other than that, he stayed within arm’s reach, peppering me with this or that super hero questions. It was actually kind of...nice? Fun, even. He’s easy to talk to and I kind of enjoy his company.
“I told you not to stay,” I say.
“And I told you I didn’t give a shit,” he scowls. “It’s my own damn fault for thinking you would be scandalized by some boobs.”
My lips curve into a wide smile. “Yeah, what were you thinking?”
“That your near-virgin eyes couldn’t handle nudity?”
I roll my eyes. “I’ve already seen your cock.”
“Yeah, and you were pretty scandalized then. I’ve ruined you, haven’t I? You’ll never be able to have high quality relationship sex again because no cock will measure up to mine. All nine inches of it. And I know exactly how to work it, too.” He flashes me a crooked smile, looking all smug and satisfied with himself.
“No guy is as big as he claims to be.”
“You’ve already seen it, baby. Though if you need a reminder...” He gets up and moves one hand to the button of his jeans. “Break out your ruler. I’m happy to let you do a thorough inspection.”
My eyes zero in on his crotch and, yup, I remember exactly what his dick looks like: long, thick, and hard. I don’t need a ruler to tell me it’s enormous. He’s definitely not lying about how big it is. And he probably isn’t lying about knowing how to work it either. The thought alone has heat pooling between my legs.
And now Theo looks smug for a different reason. Because thanks to my heated cheeks, he knows I’ve been thinking about his dick.
“Two things,” I hiss, more irritated with myself than with him. “One, if you ever call me baby again you’ll become well-acquainted with the back of my hand.”
“A backhand slap? What are you, a pimp?”
“No, but you can call me Serena Williams because my backhand game is fierce. And two,” I continue over his laugh, “you standing there with your pants down isn’t going to make me jump on your cock.”
“What will then?”
I pause, pretending to give his question serious consideration. “Champagne Papi-”
“Fuck me,” he sighs, taking his seat again.
“Wearing a cable knit sweater,” I continue, “serenading me with the Jackson 5. I’m not even picky, anything by the Jackson 5 will do.”
“I’m serious, Allie.” His words are earnest and I find him staring at me expectantly. Like he’s truly waiting for me to answer.
“Is this why us studying together is a thing now? Because you see me as some sort of challenge?”
“No, not really.” He leans forward, keeping his voice low. And he’s too close like this. Close enough that I can’t help watching his lips while he speaks. “Honestly? You’re the first girl I actually enjoy talking to. When you talk, I listen. Because I like what you have to say. I like the sound of your voice. Sometimes when I get frustrated during practice, I replay some of our conversations just to get myself smiling again.”
My cheeks flush. I definitely wasn’t expecting that answer. But I can’t take anything he says seriously because he says the same stuff to every girl. This how he hooks them, with his smooth lines uttered in that low, buttery voice that makes everything sound like sex.
Clearing my throat, I slide back into my seat, giving myself some much-needed distance. “Nice line.”
“It’s not a line.” He looks annoyed enough to be telling the truth. “I’m not feeding you bullshit to try to get in your pants. When you come around and finally realize you want to fuck me, all you have to do is say the word. Tell me how badly you want me. How you’ve been touching yourself and pretending it was my cock inside of you. And when I pull off your panties and slide my fingers between your legs, you’re going to be soaked. Slick and wet and begging me to fill you with my come.”
Holy shit, I think I’m soaked right now. Did I say his words don’t affect me? Then I’m a dirty rotten liar because my cheeks are flushed, my eyes are wide, and I have a strong urge to fan myself.
And what does that say about me, that I prefer crude and raw over smooth and polished?
Wait a minute.
“Did you just say when I come around?” His only response is a smirk. “What makes you think – ugh! You’re so arrogant!”
“You love me.”
“It’s more like you love you.”
“Of course I do. I mean, have you seen me?” He actually kisses his bicep. Seriously flexes it and plants a kiss right at the center.
I roll my eyes. “As a matter of fact, I’ve seen too much of you.”
“Not enough of me,” he corrects. “You wouldn’t be so snarky if you had an up-close encounter with my cock.”
“Yes, it’s hard to talk when you’re busy gagging.”
“I’m glad you realize it’s large enough for gagging to be a distinct possibility. Better to know what you’re getting yourself into beforehand, right?”
I ignore that last comment. “I thought you said you enjoy talking to me? Snarky is practically my default setting.”
“I do enjoy talking to you. I’ve discovered I appreciate a little spunk in a woman. The feistier the better.” His tongue flicks out, slowly licking across his bottom lip. My traitorous eyes can’t seem to look away. He shouldn’t be affecting me this way.
He shouldn’t be affecting me at all.
I'm not looking for any type of relationship, casual or otherwise. But if I were, it definitely wouldn't be with Theo. He’s a domineering jerk with an ego the size of Texas. He uses his good looks and charm to bang his way across campus. Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer to be with a guy I know I can trust. One who won't leave me the second he spots a girl with a bigger chest.
Sucking in a breath, I try to compose myself. “Simmer down, Casanova. I haven’t asked for your hot beef injection. So either shut up so I can get some work done or I’ll break out my ruler and spank you.”
“Don’t make promises you don’t intend to keep, Perez,” he slyly winks. “Though you should know, I’m usually the one who does the spanking.”
