Four Years Later (One Week Girlfriend #4)(24)

That shift sucks. It’s not safe for a girl to be out that late, especially a sweet, innocent one like Chelsea. “How about earlier? We can … have pizza. Or whatever you like.”

This sounds like a f**king study date. And I don’t do study dates. I don’t date period. I wonder if she’s caught on to what’s happening yet.

“And I’ll help you catch up. Before I go to work.” She sounds wary, like she doesn’t trust me.

“Yeah. That sounds good. What do you say?” I feel hopeful. I sound hopeful.

“How about I come to your place around five?” she suggests.

She can come all she wants, whenever she wants. As long as she’s coming with me.

Shit.

“Sounds good.” I go for my usual, casual tone. I wonder if she’s falling for it.

I wonder if she thinks I’m a complete dick. I would if I were her.

She smiles, her eyes soft. “Yes. Sounds good,” she repeats. Chelsea’s looking at me like she doesn’t think I’m a dick at all. More like she’s looking at me as if she could actually … like me.

That thought carries me all the way home.

CHAPTER 7

Study Date #1

Owen

Wade is gone. The house is kind of clean. As clean as it can get the day after a spontaneous party and with three dirty guys living there. Well, two live here and the other crashes on our couch all the time. I made those two ass**les I call friends clean it, then I went behind them and picked up, wiped down, or threw away what they missed.

Des left hours ago. The guy has his own place, but he’s always with us. It used to not bother me, but lately I’ve been getting sick of it. He’s dealing out of my house and that sucks. Fable would flip the f**k out if she knew.

So I don’t tell her.

Wade’s at work—he’s an associate at your local discount mega-store, ringing up customers and wishing he were anywhere else. Poor Wade. Poor Des.

Lucky me.

Tonight, it’s just gonna be me and Chelsea and my homework assignments. Oh, and a pizza I’ll order when she gets here and a six-pack of Coke I picked up at the liquor store on the corner. I probably should have got diet, since that’s what girls usually prefer. Empty calories and all that bullshit—I’ve heard Fable say it before.

I really wanted some beer, but that shit is all gone from the house. Not a drop of liquor survived last night’s so-called get-together. Besides, I know Chelsea wouldn’t like that. She doesn’t approve of my extracurricular activities. I don’t have to ask her to know that’s the case. Not that she judges. She’s just not comfortable with it.

She’s innocent. Sort of naïve. I get this feeling she’s been pretty sheltered so far, and I think back on what I said to her last night.

Maybe I can corrupt you.

I want to corrupt her so bad it’s killing me. I saw the way her eyes darkened when I said it. Her lips parted, her tongue darting out for a quick lick. I’d remained neutral, but deep inside I’d gone all hot and sweaty and lusted for her. It would be my absolute f**king pleasure to corrupt her. Show her what she’s been missing. Touch her here, there, and everywhere. Kiss her until we both can’t breathe.

I’m getting hard just thinking about it.

So I stop thinking about it. At least, I try. Glancing around the house, I check out the overstuffed dark brown leather couch and notice a new, jagged scratch on one of the cushions, the coffee table with fresh scratches on the surface, and the missing lamp on the end table since some jackass broke it last night.

Hell. Despite all the cleaning, this place still looks like a dump.

There’s a knock at the door and I go answer it, trying my best not to look too eager. Chelsea must be early and I’m excited, like a little kid about to go on his first play date. Wiping my sweaty palms on the front of my jeans, I take a deep breath and throw open the door.

To find my mom standing on my front porch with an expectant look on her haggard face.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“What do you want?” I ask, pissed that she’s here, pissed that I’m rude to her.

She rolls her eyes and barges inside, pushing past me so I have no choice but to step back and let her in. “I need money.”

No hi, how are you—none of that shit anymore. She at least used to play at acting as if she cared. “You already spent what I gave you?” I glance outside, hoping I’ll spot Chelsea, but I don’t see her. Besides, it’s too early. She still has at least fifteen minutes, and I have a feeling she’ll show up right on the dot. She’s punctual like that.

“Yeah, I did. It wasn’t enough,” Mom answers, her voice shaky, a little loud.

It’s never enough, what I give her. Money, attention, weed, whatever—it’s never, ever enough. She’s greedy as hell and doesn’t care who knows it.

“I don’t have any more to give you,” I lie, because I flat-out don’t want to dip into the secret stash hidden away in my closet. That’s for emergencies only. Definitely not for my mom’s drug and booze habit.

“You’re a goddamn liar.” She rounds on me, her mouth like a thin slash across her face, her dull green eyes narrowed slits. “Call your sister. Get some money from her and that rich shit she married.”

“I’m not calling Fable,” I say, my voice tight, my blood boiling. “If you want something from her, you call her.”