The Deal (Off-Campus, #1)(21)

I park my borrowed car in the driveway behind Garrett’s Jeep and next to a shiny black pick-up, but I leave the engine running. I keep wondering what my old therapist would think if she knew about the deal I’d struck with Garrett. I want to say she’d be against it, but Carole was all about empowerment. She always encouraged me to take control of my life and grab hold of any opportunity that allows me to put the attack behind me.

So here’s what I know: I’ve dated two guys since the rape. I slept with both of them. And neither of them made me feel as hot and achy as Justin Kohl does with one heavy-lidded look.

Carole would tell me that’s an opportunity worth exploring.

Garrett’s townhouse is two stories tall, with a white stucco exterior, a stoop instead of a porch, and a front lawn that’s surprisingly tidy. Despite my reluctance, I force myself to get out of the car and walk to the door. Rock music blares inside the house. A part of me hopes that nobody hears me ring the bell, but muffled footsteps echo behind the door and then it swings open and I find myself looking at a tall guy with spiky blond hair and a chiseled face right off the cover of GQ.

“Why, hello there,” he drawls as he looks me up and down. “My birthday’s not until next week, but if this is an early b-day gift, I sure ain’t complaining, baby doll.”

Of course. I should have known Garrett would be rooming with someone as obnoxious as he is.

I curl my fingers over the strap of my oversized messenger bag, wondering if I can make it back to my car before Garrett knows I’m here, but my dastardly plan is foiled when he appears in the doorway. He’s barefoot, clad in faded jeans and a threadbare gray T-shirt, and his hair is damp as if he’s just come out of the shower.

“Hey, Wellsy,” he says breezily. “You’re late.”

“I said eight-fifteen. It’s eight-fifteen.” I stare coldly at Mr. GQ. “And if you were implying that I was a hooker, then call me insulted.”

“You thought she was a hooker?” Garrett turns to glare at his friend. “That’s my tutor, bro. Show some respect.”

“I didn’t think she was a hooker—I thought she was a stripper,” the blond retorts, as if that makes it better. “She’s wearing a costume, for f*ck’s sake.”

He does have a point. My waitress uniform isn’t exactly subtle.

“PS, I want a stripper for my birthday,” GQ announces. “Just decided now. Get on it.”

“I’ll make a couple calls,” Garrett promises, but the second his friend wanders off, he confides, “He’s not getting a stripper. We all chipped in to get him a new iPod. He dropped his in the koi pond behind Hartford House.”

When I snicker, Garrett pounces like a mountain lion. “Holy shit. Was that a laugh? I didn’t think you were capable of showing amusement. Can you do it again and let me film it?”

“I laugh all the time.” I pause. “Mostly at you, though.”

He grabs his chest in mock pain as if I’ve shot him. “You’re terrible for a guy’s ego, y’know that?”

I roll my eyes and shut the door behind me.

“Let’s go up to my room,” he says.

Shit. He wants to study in his bedroom? While I’m sure that’s probably a wet dream for every girl at this school, I’m apprehensive about being alone with him.

“G, is that the tutor?” a male voice shouts as we pass what I deduce is the living room. “Hey, tutor, get in here! We need to have a little chat.”

My alarmed gaze flies to Garrett, but he just grins and guides me to the doorway. The living room just screams bachelor pad with its two leather couches set up in an L-shape, a complicated-looking entertainment system, and a coffee table littered with beer bottles. A dark-haired guy with vivid blue eyes rises from the couch. He’s as handsome as Garrett and GQ, and from the way his long body saunters my way, he’s fully aware of his appeal.

“So listen,” Blue Eyes announces in a stern voice. “My boy needs to ace this test. You better make that happen.”

My lips twitch. “Or what?”

“Or I’ll be very, very upset.” His sultry gaze does a slow and deliberate sweep of my body, lingering on my chest before traveling back up. “You don’t want to upset me, do you, gorgeous?”

Garrett snorts. “Don’t waste your time, man. She’s immune to flirting. Trust me, I’ve tried.” He turns to me. “This is Logan. Logan, Wellsy.”

“Hannah,” I correct.

Logan thinks it over before shaking his head. “Naah. I like Wellsy.”

“You met Dean in the hall, and that’s Tucker,” Garrett adds, pointing to the auburn-haired guy on the couch, who—surprise, surprise—is as good-looking as the rest of them.

I wonder if “sexy as f*ck” is a requirement for living in this house.

Not that I’d ever ask Garrett. His ego is big enough as it is.

“’Sup, Wellsy,” Tucker calls out.

I smother a sigh. Wonderful. I guess I’m Wellsy now.

“Wellsy is the star of the Christmas recital,” Garrett tells his friends.

“Winter showcase,” I grumble.

“Isn’t that what I said?” He waves a dismissive hand. “Okay, let’s do this shit. Later, boys.”