Fair Game (The Rules #1)(8)

“I do?” She leans her head down and sniffs at the neckline of her shirt. “I can smell Dane’s cologne, but that’s it.”

God. Her sexual afterglow is kind of annoying. More like it makes me jealous. With Joel…I shouldn’t fault him. He was eager. He always wanted to please me. And I appreciated that but…okay fine, the problem was me. I had the hang ups. I couldn’t let go. I get too nervous during sex. I worry about how I look, how I’m touching him, how he’s touching me, do I smell, do I look fat, can he see the cellulite on my butt, oh my God did I just fart?

Do I give good blowjobs or bad? Ugh, does he want to lick me down there? Gross, don’t do it. I won’t come anyway. I’m sweaty. I’m smelly. I’m tired. My jaw hurts. Can’t he just come already and get it over with?

Yeah. I have serious self-esteem issues when it comes to sex. I wish I could just relax and let loose and be free. Like Kelli, or like the rest of the girls on campus who are getting some on a regular basis. Performance anxiety really stresses me out. Sex is supposed to be fun, right? I feel like it’s a job. Or worse, I feel like it’s a test.

Yes, a giant, everything depends on this moment epic test and I am always, always going to fail. I’ve gotten quite good at pretending. Faking orgasm. Faking interest. Faking everything.

Maybe I should’ve become a nun. Bad thing is, I’m not Catholic.

“While I’m taking a shower, you need to do your hair. Curl it like you do sometimes. It’s pretty like that.” Kelli waves a hand at the bright yellow, very expensive curling iron my mom had shipped to me for my birthday from Sephora. The thing works like magic. Considering its price tag, it should.

Not sure where Mom got the money for it since we are most assuredly middle class, but I do know she’s been dating a new guy lately who I think she’s getting to foot all the bills. She says she’s been remodeling the house lately too, which is kind of strange but hey, he must really like her. And she’s a pretty awesome lady, I must say. So if her boyfriend Dex is funding the remodel, then good for her. Good for us. I should reap the benefits of this too since I’m coming home for the summer.

At least there’s something to look forward to.

“And wear that cute pale blue top. You know, the one that’s sleeveless and has the crisscross in the back?”

“Kell. That shirt shows practically all my goods.” I bought it because Joel encouraged me to. I’ve worn it exactly once and felt so self-conscious the entire night I deemed it unwearable forevermore. “In fact, it’s yours now. You’re an owner.”

“No way. I bought one just like it but in a different print. You are so wearing it tonight.” Kelli grins. “And you’re wearing it because it shows off all your goods. You have a hot bod, friend! Such a tiny waist and those boobs! Women pay good money for boobs like those.”

I glance down at my chest. “You’re crazy.”

“No, you’re crazy for not showing those ta-tas off more! You’re gonna curl your hair, I’m gonna do your makeup, you’ll wear that shirt that shows off your goods and we’re gonna get wasted, baby. We’re going to have the night of our lives!” Kelli dances out of our dorm room, slamming the door behind her.

I stare at the door for a moment too long before I finally heave myself off the bed with a big sigh and go over to the makeshift vanity Kelli and I turned our one lone desk into and plug in the curling iron. Flopping into the chair, I settle in and flick on the lights of the three-way mirror Kelli brought with her from home, making a face at my reflection.

I look crazy. Hair is whack since I let it dry naturally so it’s sort of all over the place. My skin looks pale, the freckles stark and too obvious for my liking. My brows need plucking and…I lean in closer, turn my chin to the right. Great. A pimple. I run my finger over the blemish right on my jawline, knowing that with a few dabs of foundation and one of those magic brushes Kelli’s always wielding, she can make it disappear.

Thank God for friends. And moms that splurge on too expensive curling irons.

Amen.

“A frat party? That’s so déclassé.” I’m lounging outside by the pool, soaking up the spring-but-it-almost-feels-like-summer heat. California is suffering a major drought, which means hot women in string bikinis hanging out by the pool comes that much earlier. I should have a poolside party tomorrow afternoon…

“Quit with your bullshit fancy words and just agree to go with me,” Gabe gripes good naturedly, like he’s wont to do. Because nothing ever gets this * down, his life is perfect. Gabriel Walker should be one of those models in a Ralph Lauren ad, where they’re all beautiful, wearing perfect clothing and riding horses through a lush green field and laughing with children and a gorgeous woman is clinging to his side.

Good thing he’s my best friend or I’d hate his guts.

“And why are we going to a frat house again?” I sound bored because I am. I’ve been to enough frat parties to last a lifetime. I’m also frustrated. Last night had been…insane. I went from the incredible high of winning that crazy hand and getting the girl to having said girl slap me across the face in front of everyone.

Everyone.

Reaching up, I touch my face, wincing at the hint of pain when I probe my cheekbone. Bitch Face Jade has a solid swing. I’ll give her that.