"Toodles. Peace out. Au revoir." I throw out a plethora of goodbyes, none of which are reciprocated.
A confused frown settles on my lips as I observe them.
I mean, is this seriously a thing? Is there some science-based study proving this phenomenon? Am I the only one who's never experienced temporary hearing loss due to surging hormones?
I decide to test if they truly can't hear me, or if this is just a strategic move to get me out of the apartment faster.
"Hey, Rayne? I ate the rest of your Bluebell ice cream this afternoon. If you forgive me, don't respond."
Her mouth is still vacuum-sealed to Vaughn's. After a few beats with no acknowledgment, I take that as a firm 'no response'.
Sweet.
I'm forgiven.
I try again, upping the ante.
"And I really need to borrow your camera," I say, naming one of her most prized possessions. We're both fairly lenient when it comes to sharing our stuff, but her expensive DSLR is off-limits. Usually. "I'll need it for like, oh, I dunno, two weeks? If that's cool, don't say a word."
The two sink into the couch, never turning my way. I hear a few muffled moans, a couple heavy breaths, but definitely no words.
Fancy camera, come to Mama!
"Thanks, R." I smile as I open the front door. "You're the best."
I think I'm gonna enjoy taking advantage of this newfound power.
2
"Oh. My. God," Kylie moans out as she rolls off of me. Morning sunlight streams in through the blinds, striping my gray sheets as she attempts to catch her breath. "That was amazing."
"Damn right it was." I shoot her an incredulous look. "What? You were expecting something less?"
"From you?" She tilts her head, big brown eyes beaming up at me. "Never."
A cocksure grin involuntarily spreads across my face. I'm accustomed to the bedroom compliments from women, but I don't think my ego will ever tire of being stroked.
And neither will my dick.
I've been back on campus for less than twenty-four hours, and I'm already partaking in my usual activity of choice.
When I got back to Windhaven last night, a few of my soccer teammates and I headed downtown to Dublin Drive for some rowdy bar-hopping. What was initially intended to be a boys' night quickly turned into me getting buzzed, then horny as hell as I realized I hadn't been laid in almost a fucking month—the longest dry spell I've had since I was freakin' sixteen.
Winter Break got off to a shitty start when I discovered none of my old high school flings were around for the holidays. After my preferred girls started falling through, I had to break out my Senior yearbook to expand my options.
Not a single one was in town.
Some were staying at college, others were visiting family out of state, and a few were hitting the Caribbean to escape the cold.
Blah fucking blah.
They all had their excuses for leaving me hanging in our small-ass hometown that has depressingly little to offer in terms of attractive chicks my age.
When my very last hope told me she was building a school abroad with her church, I realized I was shit outta luck.
I mean, good on her for the altruistic crap, but her youth group has like seven hundred people in it.
Do seven hundred people need five entire weeks to build a small schoolhouse?
Hell no.
After that disappointing revelation, I packed up all my shit, ready to drive back to Windhaven where the girls are in high-supply and I'm in high-demand.
I was stuffing my suitcase in my trunk when my mom came up to me. Told me she was really happy I was home.
That she'd love if I would stay.
And fuck, when the woman who gave birth to you asks if you'll keep her company during the holidays, you don't ditch and disappoint her.
You just don't.
Although my middle-aged mom wasn't exactly the female companionship I had in mind for the break, she's actually really cool.
The two of us have always been tight. And when my parents split up eight years ago, my dad and my brother moving out in the process, that bond only grew stronger.
My mom's been the sole occupant of the house since I left for college. She's chill with it most of the time, but I don't think anybody wants to spend Christmas alone.
We went overboard decorating the house and front yard, watched at least a dozen Bowl Games, and played so much ping-pong we could go pro at this point.
In the end, the break wasn't so bad.
Kinda fun, honestly.
Getting reacquainted with my left hand for the past month, however, was anything but fun. I barely managed an hour back on campus before hitting up the wildest chick I know.
Kylie's at the top of my go-to list when it comes to hook-ups 'cause the girl is always down for a good time. She also never pushes for anything more than a casual fling—huge fucking bonus.
We do the deed, she tells me I'm a damn sex god, and then she disappears.
Just like it should be.
My musings are interrupted when she abruptly lays an arm over my chest. I assume she's reaching across me for her phone on the nightstand, but when her small hand settles on my pec, I frown.
And when she scoots closer, molding her soft curves against me in an obvious attempt to cuddle, I realize I might've just jinxed myself with those last thoughts.
My body goes tense at her touch.
I love women.
I love sex.
But post-coitus snuggling?
Hard pass from me.
I clear my throat and immediately remove her hand.
"Alright, babe. Time for you to go."
Yeah, I'm being blunt.
But it's fucking necessary with most of these girls.
I used to implement a more tactful technique to get hook-ups to leave, dropping a subtle "I've got practice" or the ever-insistent "Lots of studying to do", but none of them could take a damn hint.
Once during my first semester, I went to a full day of classes and soccer training and when I came back to my dorm room eight hours later, the redhead from the night before was still in my bed.
That's when I started taking a more straight-forward approach.
"Wow, Weston." Kylie pushes out her bottom lip and sits up, dark hair falling over her bare chest. "You really know how to make a girl feel good, don't you?"
"Is that a trick question?" I arch a brow. "Pretty sure I was making you feel really good a few minutes ago."
She giggles and rolls her eyes.
I snatch her black tank from the floor and toss it at her. "Seriously. I've got shit to do."
She slides the lace fabric over her head, muttering something incoherent as the shirt covers her face.
"Hmm?" I mumble, half-listening as I grab my phone and scroll through my texts.
"I said," she repeats as her face comes back into view, "you should come with me to my sorority social next weekend. As my date."
Oh, for fuck's sake.
First the cuddling attempt, and now this?
What the hell is up with her today?
I drop my cell and snap my eyes to hers, not bothering to hide the annoyance in my expression.
"Damn it, Kylie," I grumble as I drag a hand through my hair. "Why are you asking me that shit? You know what this is. I've been clear as day from the start."
She pouts again. "I know, I know. I just thought..." Her voice trails off and an exasperated breath escapes her. "I don't know. What would it take to get commitment out of you?" With every word, her voice gets progressively whinier.
"I dunno, a Bugatti? Maybe a Lambo? Aston Martin? Buy me one of those and I'd consider putting a ring on your finger."
She frowns and bats my arm, not amused with my joke. "You're so unfair."
I shrug nonchalantly. "Sorry, sweetheart. Commitment's not my thing."
"At least promise me you'll think about it?" She hops off the bed and picks up her bag from the floor.
"Sure, yeah, whatever. I'll think real hard," I mumble as a way to get her to drop it. This convo was laughable at first, but now she's really starting to get on my nerves. "See you later."
I tip my chin expectantly towards the bedroom door.
"You're the worst," she groans.
As she turns to go, I spot something bright blue sticking out of her purse.
"Hey. Wait up," I say, reaching out and wrapping my fingers around her forearm.
She whirls around, eyes wide like she thinks I'm about to accept her date invitation.
My pupils flit from the blue fabric to her face accusingly. When she realizes she's been caught, that hopeful expression goes guilty.
"Hand it over."
She sighs, reluctantly retrieving my practice jersey from the massive bag and shoving it in my open palm with a scowl.
That's another one of my rules when it comes to hook-ups—no souvenirs. Especially my fucking clothes.
Swear to God, these freakin' girls cleaned out my closet Freshman year. No joke, I had to lock up my soccer jerseys for a while because they were such a hot commodity.
Need a shirt? I'll give you five bucks for one at Walmart.
Don't steal my shit.
Kylie's the worst offender, too. There's a damn good reason my roommates refer to her as Sticky Fingers.
I twist up the jersey and smack her ass with it.
"Leave."
After I yank off my bed sheets and take a quick shower, I head out into the living room. I do a double-take when I spot a brunette sitting at the kitchen table, worried for a sec that Kylie decided to overstay her welcome.
The tension in my shoulders dissipates when I realize it's not a girl at all; it's just Ellie Landry.
Okay, technically speaking, yeah, I guess she's a chick. But to me she's always been just Ellie—one of the only women on this campus I like spending time with in a strictly platonic way.
With her clear blue eyes and long chestnut hair, there's no denying she's conventionally hot—I'm not blind—but there's no attraction between us. Not even a smidge of it.
We've got a brother-sister relationship going on.
Bicker like it, that's for damn sure.
She scolds me for leaving shit around the house. I bitch at her for the insane amount of throw pillows she keeps putting on our fucking couch. But at the end of the day, we enjoy one another's company.
Thank God for that because she's been dating my roommate, Liam Wright, for the past two years, so she's around constantly. Swear I see her more than Liam some days.
"Damn, El," I say as I take a seat across from her. "Semester hasn't even started and you're already mooching off of us? Where's the rent check?"
"Good morning to you, too, West." She glares as she pushes a steaming mug of coffee in my direction. "And please. If anything, y'all should be paying me to hang around here considering everything I do for you hooligans."
I've got no snarky comeback for that one 'cause it's true.
She really is a godsend when it comes to helping out around the place. And it's not just Liam and me who live here, either. There are six Windhaven soccer players on the property.
Yup.
Six college dudes who bring in dirt-covered shin-guards and cleats by day, broken beer bottles and red cups by night. Without Ellie and her borderline obsessive desire for cleanliness, we'd be living in a hazardous waste disposal plant by now.
I take a sip of the hot liquid and glance at her. "How was your break?"
"So nice. Liam and I had Christmas and New Year's with my family in Georgia, then spent the rest of the time visiting his friends in London."
"When did you get back?"
"About thirty minutes ago."
"Didn't hear you come in."
"I'm not surprised." She huffs. "You wouldn't be able to hear the dang smoke alarm over Kylie's shrieks and screams. Seriously, she's a safety risk. Tell her to take it down a few notches."
"I'll relay the request, but you can't blame the girl." I flash a bright smile. "I've got skills, El."
"Ick. I really don't wanna hear about your so-called 'skills', Weston." She crinkles her nose in disgust. "Oh, and another thing? In addition to bringing home quieter girls, could you find some with a few manners?! I've introduced myself to Kylie at least a dozen times, and she still can't get my name right. Last semester, she flip-flopped between Samantha and Brittany before settling on Annabelle towards the end of the year. Annabelle? Where the heck did that come from?"
"It's your southern accent," I speculate. "Annabelle suits you."
"It's a cow's name, Weston. For real. My grandma has a cow named Annabelle!" She chuckles and shakes her head. "Whatever. Today Kylie called me Emily, so I suppose I should be happy she got the first letter correct."
I tip my cup of coffee at her. "Progress."
Suddenly, the door to Liam's room swings open and he steps out. His normally reddish-blonde hair is dark, wet from a shower. As he moves closer, I notice the purple bags under his bloodshot eyes.
"You look like shit," I point out as he slowly drags himself into the small kitchen.
He comes up behind Ellie, leaning down and resting his chin on her shoulder. "I feel like shit. I'm knackered. We stayed out all night before our morning flight...stupid idea. We haven't slept in—" he lifts a hand and squints at his watch "—going on thirty-three hours now."
"Damn."
He wraps his arms around Ellie's waist and squeezes. "And this one won't let me sleep until tonight."
"Fight the jet-lag, babe. Otherwise we're not gonna be able to wake up for class tomorrow." She jabs a thumb to her left. "I made you tea—heavily caffeinated. Get to chuggin'."
He sighs in relief. "This is why I love you, Peaches."
I watch as he shuffles to the counter and picks up the mug. "You should've slept on the plane."
"Two words, mate. Twin. Babies." He shudders.
"Sucks, man. Crying babies are the worst."
"Crying? No, these kids weren't crying." Liam shakes his head. "They were fucking wailing. Never heard anything like it in my life. My ears are still ringing."
"They were adorable, Liam," Ellie insists. "Loud, yes, but absolutely adorable. Oh my gosh, I just freaking love twins! And triplets! Any kind of multiples, really, and..."
She begins to blabber on and on as I catch Liam's gaze and lift a brow in question.
He mouths 'baby rabies' with a slightly frightened shrug.
Ellie props her head up on her hands, eyes staring dreamily at the ceiling.
"When I see a baby, I get all warm and fuzzy inside. They're sooo cute, I just want to squeeze them and pinch their chubby little cheeks. But you can't really do that to someone else's baby, right? That would be weird. Restraining-order weird, actually..."
"El," Liam butts in when she finally stops for air. "You should tell Weston about London."
She perks up, forgetting all about her infant fascination for the time being. "It was incredible. Even better than the last time we were there."
"It was brilliant," Liam agrees before they launch into an enthusiastic description of their vacation.
I'm half-listening, mumbling "cool" and "nice" when necessary. It's not that I'm not interested, it's just that I've heard this shit ten thousand times from Liam over the years. After every visit overseas, he comes back and talks about London nonstop for weeks on end. Dude spent the first eighteen years of his life there—you'd think he'd be immune to its wonders by now.
After five minutes of nonstop chatter and me thinking Ellie's incessant baby crap might've been more entertaining than this, an uncharacteristic silence fills the room.
I glance up to see Liam taking a sip of his tea, his eyes meeting his girlfriend's as they exchange an uncomfortable look.
"What?" I question.
"So, er, we went to an Arsenal game," he begins cautiously, but I already know what's coming next. Another reason I don't like to get on the subject of London with him.
Because it always, always leads to the same freakin' topic of conversation.
"We ran into Rhett afterward. He played a fantastic match. Scored twice, in fact, but Manchester City's too damn good and managed the win. Anyway, we got to chatting about football and me possibly playing for the Academy after university." He rubs the back of his neck as he goes on. "And then he started asking about you. I know you two don't get on so well, but he brought it up, not me. He said to tell you—"
"Dude." I hold up a hand to stop him, the other massaging my temple. Just hearing the name Rhett is bringing on a damn migraine. "I don't wanna know what he said. It's way too early in the fucking morning to be talking about him."
Okay, it's pushing 11:00 a.m., so it's really not that early.
But truth be told?
No time is a good time to talk about my older brother, Rhett, a.k.a. the superstar striker for Arsenal.
Ellie chews on her lip nervously. "Well, we also talked to your dad, and—"
"Jesus, Ellie. Drop it," I say sternly.
She looks down at her coffee and mutters an apology.
I feel like an ass for being harsh with her, but shit.
Talking about my dad might be even worse.
As if being the younger sibling to an international soccer star isn't bad enough, my dad is also the fucking manager for the team.
And after the conversation we had a few weeks ago, I'm sure he has a helluva lot to say to me.
Before any more can come from that unwanted convo, Liam's phone pings. He grabs it from his pocket, peering down at the screen.
"Diego's cooking up brunch in the Main House."
His phone chirps again and his green eyes roll.
"He says, and I quote, 'Get your asses up here. T-minus five minutes before I inhale this whole feast myself'."
"You know he's not joking, either," Ellie says as she pops off the barstool. "Let's go. I'm starving."
3
The three of us yank on sweatshirts and throw on some shoes before heading outside into the cold air. Liam closes the door behind us, frowning as he examines it.
"Damn," he mumbles, pointing at the faded red paint. "We need to touch this up again. It's looking quite pink."
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