by Penny Reid
The Cad and the Co-Ed
L.H. Cosway
Penny Reid
Cipher-Naught
Contents
The Cad and the Co-Ed
~Dedication~
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
About the Authors
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The Cad and the Co-Ed
by L.H. Cosway
www.lhcoswayauthor.com
& Penny Reid
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Caped Publishing
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, rants, facts, contrivances, and incidents are either the product of the author’s questionable imagination or are used factitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or undead, events, locales is entirely coincidental if not somewhat disturbing/concerning.
Copyright © 2017 by Penny Reid; All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, photographed, instagrammed, tweeted, twittered, twatted, tumbled, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without explicit written permission from the author.
Caped Publishing
Made in the United States of America
First Edition: January 2017
ISBN- 978-1-942874-29-4
EBOOK EDITION
Created with Vellum
~Dedication~
In no particular order: bird watching, femurs, and the sharing of embarrassing stories.
And to the city of Seattle, where one author dared another author to write “a secret baby book.”
1
@ECassChoosesPikachu: Dear losers who stole my PM card: you may take my EX but you’ll never take my FREEDOM!
@SeanCassinova to @ECassChoosesPikachu: What does PM stand for? Prime Minister?
@ECassChoosesPikachu to @SeanCassinova: Pokémon of course
@SeanCassinova to @ECassChoosesPikachu: How old are you? 10?
*Eilish*
I’m a smart girl.
If you'd asked me prior to last night whether I believed in love at first sight, I would’ve replied with an emphatic no.
Maybe even a hell no.
I was not immune to the male form, or drooling over the male form, or even fantasizing about the male form. I’d had celebrity crushes over the years, posters of hot guys hanging on my wall. I may have recorded men’s swimming during the Summer Olympics so I could ogle big-shouldered, thick-thighed specimens of fineness.
But I was not and never had been a romantic sort with stars in my eyes and a happily ever after on my mind. The term life partner sounded like a life sentence. Perhaps it was due to my time at an all-female Catholic boarding school. My two best friends saw a cute boy and would lose their minds.
Whereas all boys I’d met reminded me of my brothers. And my brothers were all stuffy arseholes who’d married for money and stature. For that matter, so were my brothers-in-law.
With the exception of my one cousin who I considered more of a brother than any of my own, I’d never met a man under sixty who I truly respected. Especially not one worthy of the giggling, swooning ridiculousness my classmates and girlfriends back at school bestowed on these creatures. I wasn’t asexual. It’s just that no opportunity—or drool-worthy man—had ever presented himself.
That was before last night.
Before I’d met Bryan Leech, in person. His poster had graced my walls since I was thirteen. Adolescent admiration for his form and skill had transformed into womanly appreciation for his . . . form and skill. It had happened sometime over the last six years. I’d been excited to meet him, because he was a brilliant rugby player and also—just being honest here—extremely hot. I hadn’t thought in a million years he’d be interested in me.
But he was.
He was interested.
And his interest went straight to my head.
I’d even giggled at one point . . . the horror!
And then I’d danced with his thick thighs and his big shoulders under the influence of candlelight and champagne. He’d compared me to a rose and gazed at me as though I was flawless. He’d kissed me dizzy in the gardens. He’d spread my legs and worshipped me with his lips and tongue, seducing me beneath a blanket of stars. He’d taken me to his suite and made love to me.
And I’d lost my virginity.
No. I didn’t lose it. I gave it to him.
But now it was the next morning, after the most wonderful, most meaningful, most amazing night of my life, and I was completely and helplessly in love.
I awoke with a start, disoriented at first, wondering if it had been a dream. But then I saw Bryan and felt a twinge of soreness between my legs. My heart slowed, then skipped, relief and wistful warmth spreading through my veins and limbs. He was still asleep, his long body curled around a pillow.
I couldn’t help it. I exhaled a dreamy sigh and smiled, suppressing my desire to reach out and smooth his tousled hair. He looked so perfect bathed in the soft light of morning.
God! He was so gorgeous. It wasn’t just his perfect athletic body, or the strong line of his jaw, or the mesmerizing jade green of his eyes. It was everything. He was everything.
I’d become what I’d scorned in the past. But now I got it. Oh boy, did I get it.
How he looked at me like I was the only woman in the world. How he’d asked me questions and listened—really listened—to me.
I’d tried to pretend I was sophisticated, telling him, Don’t be afraid to be rough. I’m tougher than I look. But he saw through the act. How he touched me and watched my response with bated breath, like he couldn’t get enough. How patient he’d been the night before, how skilled and tender. How he’d made my first time perfect.
How he’d kissed and held me after, told me he loved me, told me I was flawless.
How could I resist?
I was having the oddest, most fanciful notions. His soul was my missing piece. Our hearts found a home in each other. He was my other half. He was meant for me.
Clearly, one night together had sent me on a careening spiral of ridiculous romanticism. I could admit that, but I loved how alive I’d felt in his arms. Who knew a man’s touch and attentions could make the world a brighter, better place?
Suddenly, I couldn’t wait for him to wake up. I wanted to see myself reflected in his eyes, see a mirror of the love I could barely contain.
I rested my hand on his shoulder and smoothed it down the length of his impressive bicep. He was so strong. Touching him made me shiver, made my happy heart do a little dance.
Bryan flinched, inhaling a deep breath, then blinked his eyes open.
I grinned. “Good morning.”
My smile widened at the sound of my words, this being the first time I’d greeted a lover. I sounded husky. I sounded older, more like a woman. At nineteen, I knew I’d already been a woman before the events of the prior evening. But I liked the way sex sounded
in my voice.
Out of everything that happened last night, sex had been the most surprising. All of my girlfriends who’d lost their virginity said it hurt like hell the first time. But it hadn’t hurt for me. It had been wonderful.
Maybe Bryan had a magic penis. And how lucky was I? Finding a bloke with an enchanted penis for my first time. Maybe he had a purse around here someplace with endless money, or a goose that shit golden eggs. I wouldn’t be surprised if he did.
His handsome eyebrows did a little dance on his forehead as he struggled to lift his eyelids, finally managing to crack just one eye open and then immediately closing it. “Christ! It’s bright in here. Do me a favor, love, and close the curtains. I’ve got a splitting headache.”
I felt my smile falter, but said, “Uh, okay.”
I moved to stand, but then remembered my nakedness, so I hesitated. I’d been shy, which Bryan had told me was normal. He’d made me feel so beautiful that by the end of the night I hadn’t cared.
But now I was feeling self-conscious all over again.
“Hello? Are you still there?” he asked, covering his head with a pillow. “Are you closing the curtains, or what?”
“Sorry.” The word slipped out automatically due to habit, even though I wasn’t sorry. Not really. I just needed a minute to get my bearings. Rather than dither any longer, I decided to take the bed sheet with me and wrap it around myself.
I tugged the sheet, eliciting a short huff from Bryan, but he let it go. Disoriented and suddenly clumsy, it took me a moment to find the cord to pull the curtains closed.
“Done?”
“Um, yes.” I stared at the bed, uncertain what to do.
He sounded different this morning.
Or maybe I was being silly and insecure.
Either way, I wanted to snuggle next to him—of course—but decided I needed some sign from him first.
He lifted the pillow and peeked at me. Or maybe he peeked at the room to make sure I’d closed the curtains. Either way, he seemed relieved by what he saw and removed the pillow from his face. He folded it and placed it behind his head, the definition of his muscles caught by the hazy, shadowy light filtering in beneath the curtains.
“Hello,” he said, giving me a small smile, his eyes moving down my body.
“Hi.” I waved and then fiddled with the sheet where I clutched it to my chest, feeling puerile but unable to pinpoint precisely why.
“You have red hair.” His smile grew but his eyes narrowed.
I tucked my hair behind my ear reflexively, my heart fluttering happily because he’d said the same thing last night. He’d told me it was the color of lust and passion.
And then the happy flutters petered out, because telling me my hair was the color of lust and passion sounded really cheesy in the light of day. Really cheesy and really trite.
“Yes, it’s the same color as lust and passion,” I deadpanned, deciding that recycling his words as a joke would make us both feel better about how silly they sounded now.
He made a face, his nose wrinkling like I was strange or smelled bad. His reaction made the moment untenably awkward, heightening my insecurity tenfold. I wondered for a moment if he’d forgotten saying the words, then dismissed the thought. More likely I’d offended him by making the statement a joke.
I had the urge to apologize again.
“Anyway . . .” His stare lingered on me for a few seconds, and then he pressed the base of his palms into his eye sockets and sighed. “Bloody hell, my head is splitting.”
I frowned, worried. “Are you all right? Should I call a doctor?”
He chuckled, squinting at me briefly and then replacing his palms. “Nah. I’ll be right as rain soon as I have a drink, just to take the edge off. Don’t worry about me.”
My frown deepened. I was still standing dumbly at the side of the bed, endeavoring to make sense of his words.
He doesn’t mean alcohol, does he? He wasn’t drunk last night.
“I can grab some water and I have a Solpadeine in my purse,” I offered, taking a step toward the bathroom.
“I’ll take the Solpadeine, but look for the minibar. Vodka will do the trick.”
I gaped at him, unsure what to do or say, because unless he woke up in the middle of the night and drank a half bottle of liquor, there was no reason he should have been hung over this morning. He was completely sober last night. The entire time we were together he’d only had three—no, four—drinks. Four drinks over four hours was perfectly acceptable.
“Um, I don’t think you should m-mix alcohol and pain m-meds.”
“Who are you? My mam?” he spat, squinting at me again. “If you’re bent on nagging you can leave now.”
I gasped. “Bryan—”
“Quit saying my name. I know what my goddamn name is. What’s your name?”
I gasped again, stumbling back a step. “W-what?”
“You heard me, or are you daft too?” he growled, pressing his palms against his forehead. “Shite that hurts.”
“You d-d-don’t know m-m-my n-n-n-n—” I stuttered, then clamped my mouth shut, not wanting to embarrass myself further.
What is happening? How—
I stared at him, wondering maybe if he was joking. Was this a joke? Best-case scenario this was his idea of a joke. Otherwise . . .
Otherwise it was one of two things: either Bryan Leech, professional athlete, had a brain injury that caused short-term memory loss. Or Bryan Leech had no idea who I was because he’d been drunk last night—pissed—and I’d had no idea.
He exhaled loudly, sounding frustrated. And when he spoke it sounded like he was trying to be gentle, instead the words were patronizing and dismissive. “Listen, sorry for snapping. I just . . . my head is bleedin’ killing me. I’m sure you’re a lovely girl, and I assume you had a good time last night?”
This can’t be happening.
I covered my mouth with my hand. I wasn’t going to be able to speak without either crying or stuttering, so I kept my mouth shut.
Apparently, he didn’t require an answer. “It’s pretty late and I want to catch a nap before heading out, so maybe just,” he waved toward the bedroom door as he turned away from me, curling on his side, “go get a massage or something at the spa. You can charge it to the room. My treat.”
I couldn’t move.
I was rooted in place, my mind complete chaos. It was like one of those horrible movies or television shows where the woman wakes up and she’s in an alternate reality.
Maybe I’d been drugged?
But no, I hadn’t been drugged. I remembered each detail perfectly. Every look, every touch, every word, every wonderful moment.
My stomach pitched. An intense wave of nausea rocked through me. I was going to be sick. Running for the bathroom, I slammed the door shut behind me. I had just enough time to lift the toilet lid before emptying the contents of my stomach into the bowl.
As I flushed the toilet I heard Bryan’s voice call from the other room, “Jesus fecking Christ, tell me you didn’t vomit all over the floor. Just . . . just get the feck out of here, whatever your name is.”
~Three Months Later~: I’m a stupid girl.
A stupid, stupid, stupid—
“Eilish? Hey, let me in. Is it time yet? What does it say?”
I covered my mouth to suffocate the errant sob, squeezing my eyes shut, and hoping when I opened them it would be three months ago, the night of Ronan and Annie’s wedding. The night I’d fucked up so royally that I’d apparently acquired the superpower of changing the color of HCG strips with my pee.
WITH MY PEE!
Which meant I had a new human inside me.
Which explained all my other superpowers, like being a raging bitch all the time, and crying at nothing, and throwing up twice every day.
I’d totally fucked up, and now I was totally fucked.
“What am I going to do?” I whispered to no one, every nerve ending burning with panic.
Wait, that’s not true. I wasn’t alone in the bathroom. There were two of us in here. Granted, one of us was the size of a peanut—or maybe a lemon by now—and was swimming in amniotic fluid.
INSIDE MY UTERUS!
Why all my thoughts were in capital letters, I had no idea. Plus, every thought was followed by dun, dun, DUN!
“I don’t want to rush you, darling. But you’re making me nervous,” my cousin Sean’s voice called from the other side of the door.
Sweet Sean. Nice Sean. Wonderful Sean.
THANK GOD FOR SEAN!
. . . dun dun DUN!
A burst of hysterical laughter escaped my fingers. This wasn’t happening, not to me. My friend Josey was the one who gave her heart too freely, not me. Never me.
Nadia was all business with confidence for miles, Josey was the romantic, and I was the subversive one, the smart-arse. Josey cried on our shoulders, not the other way around.
You won’t cry on their shoulders because you can’t tell them.
I opened my eyes. I looked at the white stick and the two pink lines staring back at me. It hadn’t been a dream. This was real. And this was a complete nightmare.
“I’m p-p-p-pregnant.”
He didn’t say anything for a long moment, so long I wondered if he’d heard me or if I’d spoken at all.
I was just about to repeat myself when Sean said, “Open the door, my darling girl. Let me in.”
