She swivels to face me, features twisted into a you-better-shut-your-mouth-right-now glare.
I wish Beth a Happy Birthday before waving goodbye to the two of them.
"I'm not much of a cake person, anyway," I hear Beth tell Chelsea as I exit the lounge, their voices carrying into the hall.
"Would you mind if I had a slice then? It tastes, er, I mean, it looks fantastic."
Oscar-worthy performance from that one.
"Go ahead," Beth encourages. "Have as much as you want. You are eating for two, after all."
"Very true," Chelsea agrees. "I like the way you think, Beth. You and I are gonna get along just fine."
I stifle a laugh as I walk towards the elevator.
Baby Banks strikes again.
Twenty minutes later, I walk inside my apartment and flip on the light. I'm instantly hit with the savory scent of honey garlic chicken that's been stewing in the Crock Pot for the past eight hours.
I poke my head through Rayne's partially opened door. "Yoo-hoo! Have you eaten dinner yet?"
She's sprawled out on her bed, partaking in her usual Sunday night routine: cozied up in one of Vaughn's sweatshirts, assignments scattered all over her comforter, and some sports station blaring from the television.
She peers up, about to answer when I cut her off.
"Actually, I don't care if you did or not—you're eating this with me. Come on."
I spin around, Rayne on my heels as we head to the kitchen.
"I've been waiting for you to get home for two hours so we could eat." She opens the cupboard and pulls out two ceramic bowls. "The frozen meal I was planning for dinner wasn't gonna cut it when I got a whiff of what you were cooking."
I serve us two hearty helpings and we take a seat at the table.
"Holy yum!" Rayne exclaims after swallowing a huge bite. "This might be my fav meal you've ever made in that thing."
"Glad you think so," I begin, "because we're going to be eating it as leftovers for the rest of the week—breakfast, lunch, and dinner. This recipe serves twelve people."
"That is perfectly fine with me." She moans as she shoves another forkful in her mouth. "I wish I could cook."
"You could totally make this, Rayne. It's super freaking easy."
She frowns, unconvinced. "I don't know about that. I'd find a way to ruin it for sure."
"It's so simple a ten-year-old could do it. Seriously. It's three basic steps." I hold up three fingers. "Step 1: Throw in chicken and sauce. Step 2: Close lid and turn on Crock Pot. Step 3: Come home after a long day at school and dinner's ready and waiting. Easy!"
Rayne shakes her head. "'Kay, here's my version. Step 1: Throw in chicken and sauce. Step 2: Close lid and turn on Crock Pot. Step 3: Come home after a long day at school to multiple fire trucks, a burned-down apartment, and a roommate who's really regretting letting me use her slow cooker."
"Oh my God, R!" I ball up my napkin and hurl it at her head. It bounces off her nose as I let out a cackle. "You're not gonna burn down the freakin' place."
"What? I might!" She shrugs. "You know it's true. You've got the cooking skills, not me."
I shake my head and take a sip of my water.
Truth is, I am not an exceptional cook. I'm an average-at-best cook, but in Rayne's world, anyone who can manage to make a meal without charring something is a damn master chef.
We continue with our dinner, and it takes me less than five minutes to gobble down the food. Rayne looks surprised when I stand up and take my empty dish to the sink.
"That was fast. What's your rush?"
"Homework time," I answer with a groan.
She sighs in commiseration. "Same. I was gonna head into the living room to work after this. Care to join?"
"Definitely." I nod. "I'm gonna shower and change first, but I'll be out in a bit. We can suffer together."
I head into my room and hop under the steady spray of warm water, taking my sweet time washing the hospital off of me.
After a thorough cleaning, I brush out my hair and change into my comfiest study-at-home outfit: joggers, a cotton tank, and my favorite pair of worn-down bunny slippers that Rayne absolutely despises. She says they "give her nightmares", but I think the missing eyes and misshapen ears give them character.
I'm swiping on some chapstick when I hear a familiar *ding* from my computer, the one indicating a new email has arrived. I skip over to my laptop, an unread message with the subject "Lab Shit" at the top of my inbox.
Classy.
And it's a full 25 minutes late.
But if I'm being honest, that's a lot better than I expected from Weston. I figured getting him to do his part would be akin to pulling teeth.
I am positive he was the kid in elementary school who claimed his dog ate his homework every night.
And we all know what kind of college students those kids grew up to be—the ones with an endless supply of near-death relatives who just happen to kick the dust whenever a big assignment is due.
The fact that he sent me actual work, not an email saying he was too overcome with grief from his uncle's hairdresser's funeral to finish the lab?
Now that's a miracle in and of itself.
But when I open the document and start skimming his answers, I realize I'm speaking way too soon.
As each second passes and I scroll further through his work, the anger inside me swells. I can't even make it to the last question before I'm fuming with frustration.
Because his subject line was completely accurate; this is a load of shit.
Running on boiled blood, I carelessly toss my school books and laptop into a bag. I tug on an oversized sweatshirt and stomp into the living room.
Rayne's already sitting on the couch, a pen between her lips as she types on her keyboard.
She pauses when she notices me. Confusion flits across her face as she removes the writing utensil from her mouth.
"Uh, Lexie?"
"Mmhm?" I mumble as I search the coffee table for my car keys. I find them under her planner and snatch them up. "Here they are."
"I thought you were staying in for the night? Getting your work done?"
"Change of plans. I have something I need to take care of." I throw open the front door and take a step into the hallway.
"Where are you going?"
"The Treehouse."
9
Getting The Treehouse to yourself is a rarity.
So rare, in fact, I can count on one hand how many times I've been alone in this place.
There's usually an Xbox tournament going on in the living room, someone fumbling around in the fridge for food, or a bunch of assholes rolling joints on the back deck.
But not tonight.
Tonight I've got the house all to myself, and you can bet your ass I'm taking advantage of it.
It's the perfect situation to finally bag this chick, Natasha, from Ellie's sorority. She's got that good-girl persona going on—not exactly the type to hop right into bed with you. Definitely one of those girls who needs the mood set just right, and the Main House is the ideal location for that.
A crackling fire is going strong in the stone fireplace, warming the room to a cozy temp. The smell of vanilla-scented candles fills the space as the familiar beats from my "DTF" playlist surround us.
Real talk—if you don't feel like fucking when you've got The Weeknd and Marvin Gaye serenading you in the background, you need to get your freakin' ears checked. Or your genitals.
Probably both to be safe.
Add in the LED rope lights framing the crown molding and basking the living room in a hazy purple glow, and the atmosphere is on point.
Honestly, it would be impossible for me not to get laid with the set-up in the room.
I could seduce a fucking nun wearing a chastity belt in here.
Natasha's not a nun, but it takes a good fifteen minutes of small talk and hardcore flirting before she finally eases up and scoots closer to me.
Her hand grips
my thigh, her teeth tug at her bottom lip, and it's all systems go as I lean in for the kiss.
Just before our mouths meet, the abrupt sound of a shout from the front yard pierces the air.
Natasha instinctively jerks backwards. "What was that?"
"Don't know," I mutter as I cup my hand around the back of her neck, my one-track mind eclipsing the distraction. "Don't care."
She shrugs, inching closer once more when the shout comes again, this time loudly enough I can make out the words.
"Weston! Weston Paine!"
Jesus Christ.
Could the timing be any shittier?
Natasha pulls her head back again, mouth pinched into a frown. "I think you should go out there."
Another yell penetrates the walls.
I can tell it's a girl from the voice, and I can tell she's pissed from the tone, so I'm sure this is gonna be a real pleasant conversation.
Angry women showing up on our lawn to bitch me out aren't exactly an everyday occurrence, but I'd be lying if I said it hasn't happened a few times before.
"Yeah, shit. Okay." I emit a frustrated breath. "Be right back."
I force myself to stand, annoyed as hell at the interruption.
Moment fucking ruined because some chick needs to yell at me in person about God knows what.
Seriously, can't she act like a normal college-aged female and send a novel's worth of texts telling me how much she hates me instead?
I open the front door, gazing over the railing to see who's causing the ruckus. When I spot the culprit, my annoyance turns to surprise.
It's Lexie.
I'm not even sure who I was expecting, but it's definitely not the angry blonde banging on the Redhouse door.
"'Sup Barbie?" I call down. Her head whips towards my voice and she quickly jogs over. I casually lean against the side of the house and cock my head. "You need something?"
"Yeah, I do." She stops at the bottom of the staircase and glares up at me. "I'm here about our lab report!"
"Already sent it to you." I raise my arms in confusion. "Check your email."
She yells out a response, but a blast of music from Sigma Pi drowns our her answer.
I point to my ear and shake my head. "Can't hear you."
She tries again, but the music's deafening.
"Yeah, still can't hear a damn thing." I reluctantly motion her up the stairs. "Get your ass up here."
As she takes the steps two at a time, I give her a once-over—giant sweatshirt that hits just above her knees, damp hair piled up in a huge bun on top of her head, and some freakish zombie-bunny slippers on her feet.
Looks like she just crawled out of bed.
I arch a brow at the get-up. "You sleepwalk here or what?"
She responds with an eyeroll before brushing past me into the house.
"Sure, come on in," I mutter sarcastically. "Make yourself at home."
I turn around, ready to tell her she has a total of two minutes to explain what the issue is before it's time to leave.
But when I follow her inside, she's already removing her slippers and tossing her backpack to the floor, acting like she owns the damn place.
"Hold up, Barbie," I say as she kicks the mutated bunnies to the side of the foyer. "Don't get comfortable. I'm kinda in the middle of something."
She crouches down and pulls her laptop and books from her bag, obviously not listening to a fucking word I'm saying.
"Yo, Lex." I try again, voice firmer than before. "I said I'm busy, babe. I have plans."
"Well, cancel your plans," she demands as she rises. "We have a lab analysis to do."
With that declaration, she turns and starts down the hallway.
"'The hell are you talking about?" I question as I jog up behind her. "I already did my part. I'm not helping you with yours."
That causes her to whirl around, disbelief clouding her expression. "I sincerely hope you're joking. Those 'answers' you sent me were pathetic. No, beyond pathetic."
"You're too fucking picky," I argue. "They're fine."
"Fine?" A condescending laugh escapes her. "Fine?"
With the stability of a circus performer, she tucks her textbooks under an arm, balances her laptop on one hand, and starts typing with the other. After finding what she's looking for, she begins reading off the screen.
"Question One: Describe Slide #10 using both quantitative and qualitative observations. Your answer: Appears blob-like."
"Yeah?" I jut my head forward. "Problem?"
Green eyes level mine with a menacing stare. "Blob-like, Weston? Seriously?"
"What?" My shoulders raise nonchalantly as I defend my shitty answer. "It said describe what you saw. That's what I saw."
"Describe what you saw in scientific terms, like measurements and stuff. You can't just write down 'blob-like' and think that's going to cut it."
"Alright, so I probably could've tried harder on that one," I concede. "But if that's the only question, you should've just freaking texted me."
She scoffs. "Yeah, no. That is not the only question. All of them suck. Take this one, for example."
She flips the computer around, tapping a finger to the screen where I spot the one answer I actually put some effort into.
"Nah, Lex. No way. That one's good."
Her head tilts to the side as she studies me. "Are you a politician?"
"No?"
"Really? Because this answer sure could've fooled me. You wrote an entire paragraph of pointless drivel, but never actually answered the damn question!"
She scrolls down to the graph I made for Question Four and her anger intensifies. "And holy shit, Weston. You mixed up the X and Y axes!"
I grab her laptop and hold it sideways. "There. Looks perfect. Just draw an arrow or something so the professor knows how to read it. Problem solved. We done now?"
She yanks the computer from my grasp, the bulging vein in her forehead serving as a warning for the ass chewing she's about to give me.
"Weston?" Natasha's meek voice saves me from Lexie's wrath. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah. Gimme a sec," I answer as Lexie peers towards the living room, brows pinched in thought.
"Oh my God," she mumbles, turning back with a knowing look. "I get it now."
"Get what?"
"Let me just recap the last hour for you. First, you didn't even bother to look at our lab report until 7:00—a.k.a. the time it should've been finished and in my inbox."
"What?" I make a Pssh sound. "No."
Yes.
"Then you glanced at the questions for a grand total of five minutes before getting bored," she accuses.
"Not true."
Totally true.
"Then you started sexting your latest conquest until you lured her over for a hook-up. She said she'd be here in twenty, you bullshitted the analysis as fast as humanly possible, and then you hit send right before she rang the bell."
She slams her computer shut and narrows her eyes, daring me to deny it.
I attempt a baffled expression, but it's really difficult because damn.
She's right on the money.
We've got a fucking psychic in the house.
"Okay," I admit with a sigh. "Maybe that's how it went down, but so what? Can't you just fucking fix it for me?"
"Not a chance. Look, I don't mind editing your answers, polishing up a few sentences here and there, but you need to give me something to work with first." She jerks a thumb behind her. "Now go tell your guest you're gonna have to reschedule."
I shake my head. "Better idea. You start working on the report, I'll take her back to my room, and we can start this shit in thirty minutes. Deal?"
"Nice try, but no." A little simper appears on her face. "And thirty minutes? Don't you mean three?"
"I mean thirty friggin' minutes, baby." My eyes graze down her body and up again, settling on her pouty lips. Lips I wouldn't mind getting acquainted with. "New proposition for you. You join us, and I'll show you exac
tly how long I can—"
She interrupts with a loud snort and spins around. I reach for her shoulder, trying to prevent her from going further into the house, but she ducks out of my grasp.
Because I have no other choice, I shove my hands in my pockets and follow her into the living room.
"Hi!" Lexie walks up to Natasha and holds a hand out in introduction. "I'm Lexie. How are you?"
"Um, hey?" Natasha gives her hand a quick shake, looking understandably confused with the situation. "I'm good."
"I'm Weston's lab partner. I hate to break this up, but we have a report due in the morning and we really need to work on it."
"Of course." Natasha nods energetically as she stands. "School comes first."
"What?" I walk up behind the couch and frown. "No it doesn't. School can wait."
"Your opinion on this isn't necessary," Lexie hisses between closed teeth. She swivels her head back to Natasha, her angry glare transitioning into a friendly simper much too fast for a normal person. "Thanks for understanding."
"Not a problem. Good luck with the report." Natasha grabs her purse from the coffee table. As she ambles past, she offers a regretful smile. "I'll see you some other time, Weston."
I lift a hand in acknowledgment before jumping over the back of the couch. With a groan, I sprawl out on the large sectional.
And this is exactly why I don't go for the good girls. Their moral compasses point way too far north for me.
School comes first?
What kind of shitty mantra is that?
Here's a better one: You come first. I come next. Then school.
The front door closes and Lexie slowly shakes her head. "That girl is too sweet to be hanging out with you."
"Let's get this shit over with." I sit up and pat the couch cushion beside me. "Have a seat."
Her features contort with disgust. "We are not studying in this sex dungeon."
"Sex dungeon?" I bark out a laugh. "Do you see any whips? Handcuffs? If this is a sex dungeon, it's the world's shittiest."
"Okay, maybe not a sex dungeon, but definitely a honeymoon suite with the whole vibe you guys have going on. Fire, candles, neons...how much mood lighting does one room need? I'm not sitting in here with you."
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