The Play (Briar U, #3)(28)

I’m starting to get genuinely concerned for my sanity.

Loud pounding rattles the doorframe.

Startled, I almost wipe out in the tub.

“Hunter!” Rupi shrieks. “Get out of there already. You’ll use up all the hot water and I want to shower before bed!”

A groan lodges in my throat, which feels raw and achy from all the heavy panting I just did. I’m still gripping my dick, but it’s rapidly softening because that’s what Rupi’s voice does to penises.

“Go away,” I growl at the door, but there’s no negotiating with terrorists. If I don’t submit to her demands, she’ll probably go find a YouTube video on lock-picking, bust open the door, and forcibly pull me out of the shower.

I hate my roommates.





10





Demi





I don’t have class on Wednesdays, so I spend the morning studying for a bio test and completing a math assignment. This semester’s workload is nearly double the previous year’s, so I’m now waking up an hour earlier every day in the hopes that it’ll help me stay on top of my classes.

And if I’m not already stressed enough, my father has decided that I should get a head start on studying for the MCAT exam. Last night he even sent a text offering to hire me a tutor. I told him I’d think about it.

Really, though, I just need to think of a diplomatic way to say, Please, for the love of God, don’t make me study for med school yet or I’ll never survive junior year.

In the afternoon, I hang out with Corinne at her new apartment in Hastings, helping her organize her closet. At my house in Boston, I have a sweet walk-in that’s categorized by both color and style. My levels of anxiety reduce drastically when everything is neat and tidy.

“Thanks so much for doing this,” Corinne says, a bit shyly.

I slide a heavy cable-knit sweater onto a hanger. “Of course. You know this kind of stuff is my jam. Plus we’re friends. Friends don’t let friends clean closets alone.”

Her answering smile is brimming with gratitude.

Corinne’s a tough nut to crack sometimes. She’s very pretty, and there’s a constant stream of guys chasing after her, but she’s selective about who she dates. She’s antisocial, quiet at times, but her sarcasm is top-notch and when she relaxes her guard she’s a lot of fun.

“This apartment is super cute,” I tell her. “I love how massive the bedroom is.” It’s almost as big as my room at the sorority house, and I lucked out in the random draw and snagged the master.

My phone buzzes on Corinne’s double bed. I grab it and discover a message from Hunter.

HUNTER: Did you watch the Bruins game last night??





In one of our previous text exchanges, he’d been raving about some game on TV, and I’d mentioned I’d be sure to start watching hockey. I don’t think he picked up on the sarcasm.

ME: Oh ya! It was INTENSE! I can’t believe that player scored nineteen points!!!





HIM: You didn’t watch it, did you?





ME: No. Sorry. Told you, I don’t care for hockey.





HIM: I expected more from my therapist. Goodbye.





There’s a long pause.

HUNTER: Fuck, wait, I texted for a reason. We still holding our session at the gym today?





ME: Yep. After I’m done with dinner. So around 8? Oh, and make sure you’re wearing tight spandex pants so I can objectify you.





HIM: Obvs.





I grin at the screen.

“The hockey player again?” Corinne asks.

“Yeah.” Chuckling, I shake my head indulgently. “He’s so full of himself. But really hot. I’d set you up with him, but he doesn’t have sex.”

“Wait, what?”

“He’s practicing abstinence for a while.” I hope it’s not a secret, but just in case, I don’t offer any further details. “Hey, what’s your Wi-Fi network? I’m trying to join it.”

“Oh, I haven’t set up the Wi-Fi yet. They’re coming on Friday to do it.”

I’m about to put my phone away when another message comes in.

TJ: Are we still on for dinner?





ME: Oh yeah. Sushi baby!!!!





I punctuate that with three fish emojis. TJ counters with a couple of shrimp, and then we’re sending each other random sea-life emojis that make me giggle.

ME: Did you realize there’s no lobster emoji?? WTH!





TJ doesn’t respond, so I set the phone down and begin folding the pile of T-shirts on Corinne’s mattress. “I feel like these should all go in your dresser,” I suggest. “Hanging T-shirts is a waste of hangers.”

“Agreed. Let’s hang the stuff that might wrinkle, and then dresses, skirts—”

My phone buzzes again. TJ just sent a picture of a cartoon lobster with hearts in his eyes, and a speech bubble above his head that reads: “I WANT TO GET MY CLAWS INTO YOU!”

I burst out laughing. “Sorry,” I tell Corinne. “TJ is sending memes.”