Filthy Vows (Filthy Vows #1)(6)

He made a face and lifted his cup, draining the contents, his eyes staying on me. The baseball hat was still present, but turned around, tufts of hair sticking out from its clip, his light blue eyes on full display. “I know why you laughed!” he called as I went to escape, my flip flops clipping toward the door.

I glanced back and paused.

He lifted the empty cup and crooked his top finger, beckoning me closer. Such a player. So much confidence in that cocky smile. He knew I’d come. Knew I’d let him lean in and whisper whatever bullshit he was about to say. He knew that no girl could resist those bedroom eyes and perfect build.

By some Herculean feat of will, I turned and left, squeezing through the crowd, my hand tightening on my cup as some of the warm Coors Light splashed out. I left and, sadly enough, Easton North didn’t follow.





The library. My pencil jittered along the page, 10mg of Adderall doing their job as I scribbled notes at a furious pace. The chair next to me creaked into motion, its feet wheezing along the carpet as someone pulled it out.

I finished the section and set down my pencil, reading over my notes and attempting to memorize the rules of binomial distribution. Closing my eyes, I moved through the steps in my mind, trying to picture each line in the textbook.

Something light tapped at my pinky fingers, and I opened my eyes and stared down at my hand.

It was a ripped piece of paper, folded in half. A note. I glanced to my right and saw him there, a worn green Jansport beside an open composition pad, his eyes crinkled at the edges with humor. His gaze dropped to the note and mine followed suit. I unfolded the paper and squinted at the cramped but neat handwriting in blue ink.

Tell me why you laughed and I’ll leave you alone.

There was a line drawn below the promise, a blank waiting to be filled. I let out a dramatic and exasperated sigh and leaned forward, using my pencil to fill in the blank.

I thought you knew.

I pushed it toward him, face up on the table. He leaned over, read the response, and the faint scent of soap wafted over. His hair was wet and thick, shaggy over his forehead, and I wondered where his baseball cap was.

His gaze flicked to me and the corner of his mouth twitched. Chelsea once told me that his mouth was magic. She hadn’t been talking about a kiss. She’d described, in enough explicit detail to fill a Penthouse Forum, exactly how Easton North had gone down on her. I’d tried not to think about those details for the last four weeks. Tried, while watching a slow smile tug across his lips, to not let my mind wander back through her story.

He hunched over the pad and wrote something else, then carefully bent the page and tore it in half, folding it into quarters and sliding it across the worn wooden surface toward me. It came to a stop six inches from my hand which, according to legend, was three inches shorter than his dick.

I made a big show of glancing at my watch and then, in a bored and annoyed fashion, picked up the note and spread it out on the table. I think my mouth cheated. I could feel the smile tugging at my cheeks in anticipation of what it would say.

You know I don’t know.

My pencil moved on its own accord.

It was about your dick.

I stared at the line, unsure if I actually wanted to light this fire. I couldn’t just say that and leave. There would be another conversation. He’d chase. Ask questions. It would be an intentional act to pull him toward me.

I balled the note into the tiniest piece I could manage and set it on the desk. Forming a circle with my thumb and my forefinger, I flicked the edge of it and watched it sail through the air and land on the other side of the room, behind two rows of tables. He stared in the direction it had disappeared, then looked back at me. I stretched, letting my back bend over the lip of the chair, then stood, gathering my books.

“Have a good night,” I whispered and gave him an innocent smile. Taking my time, I meandered slowly around the edge of the bookshelves. As soon as I cleared the corner and out of his sight, I started to run away.





The club. The guy before me was straight South Florida, all spiked gel hair and that hey mama game that worked great on Delta Gammas but fell flat on me. I glanced over his shoulder, searching the crowd for Lizzy, who was my summer stand-in for Chelsea. A little taller, a lot sweeter, but without the crude honesty I’d grown to love in my slutty best friend.

“It’s fate, us meeting again.” The Miami boy leaned against the high top, his pelvis trapping me against my stool. “The gym and now here?”

That wasn’t fate. This club was the only place to be on a Tuesday night, and half the campus had a workout addiction. I could turn in a circle and point out ten people I’d seen in the gym in the last week. The only person I hadn’t seen—not that I’d been looking—was Easton, thanks to the private gym that campus athletes used. Either way, I was two weeks out from our late-night library encounter and had avoided him thus far.

“I know,” I managed a smile. “Crazy.”

“What’s your major?” His eyes bored into mine, and it wasn’t terrible to have the attention, even if it was unoriginal in nature. If what’s your sign? was the pickup line of the 90’s, what’s your major was the standard go-to when two students had shit in common.

“Philosophy.”

He nodded as if my response meant something. Hell, I was three years in, and I didn’t really know what a degree in Philosophy prepared anyone for. It didn’t matter. Undergrad was a skipping stone I had to jump in order to get to law school, and communications, according to my advisor, was my best shot at a class rank and GPA that would impress the law school admissions board.