The Score (Off-Campus #3)(9)
I snicker.
“It’ll be fun. Sex is always fun.”
“Pass.”
“Okay, no sex. How about just oral?”
I pretend to think it over. “Am I giving or receiving?”
“Receiving. And then giving. Because that’s how it goes.” He smiles broadly. “You know, the circle of life and all that.”
I can’t help but laugh. Say what you want about this guy, but at least he’s entertaining. “Pass,” I say again.
“Wanna make out?” he asks hopefully.
“Nope.”
“I’m a really good kisser…” He leaves that hanging as if to entice me.
“Ha. That just means you’re not. Every time a guy says he’s a good kisser, he sucks.”
“Yeah? You got any empirical evidence to back that up?”
“Of course.” I really don’t. And Dean knows the word empirical? Wow, maybe there is more than air inside that pretty head of his.
He looks ready to argue with me, but we’re interrupted by a loud burst of music from his phone. I scowl when I recognize the tune.
Men. They can’t take one second to put the toilet seat down, but they have the time to program the ESPN theme song as their ringtone?
Dean’s expression brightens when he sees who’s calling. He answers without delay. “Maxwell! What’s shaking?” He listens, then shoots me a hopeful look. “Wanna go to a party?”
I shake my head.
The person on the other end of the line is forced to endure Dean’s overly dramatic sigh. “Sorry, man. I can’t. I’m babysitting—”
I smack him on the arm.
“—and she doesn’t want to go,” he finishes as he glares at me. He pauses again. “No, she’s fully grown.”
What?
“I’m babysitting an adult, dude. G’s girlfriend’s friend.” Dean rambles on as if I’m not even in the room. “We’re watching this movie about a lady with cancer and it sucks…well yeah, cancer sucks in general. I mean, all my sympathies for people who have it, but this movie is god-awful. Yeah…no, game’s on Tuesday…truth…yeah, definitely. We can hit up Malone’s. Later, bro.”
He hangs up and turns to scowl at me. “I could be at a party right now.”
“Nobody’s forcing you to hang out with me,” I point out.
“I’m trying to be nice to you, on account of your poor broken heart and all. But is there any gratitude on your part? Nope. You won’t even kiss me.”
I lean in and pat him on the shoulder. “Aw, honey-pie. I’m sure any girl in your phone’s contact list would be happy to come over and stick her tongue in your mouth. I, on the other hand, have standards.”
“What, I’m not good enough for you?” He lifts his eyebrows. “I’ll have you know, your friend Wellsy loved kissing me.”
I snort. “Oh, you mean that peck she gave you so Garrett wouldn’t know how much she liked kissing him? Yeah, I know all about it, sweetie. That was a desperation kiss.” Though it still boggles my mind that Hannah actually kissed this guy. Dean is so not her type.
Then again, I never thought hockey superstar Garrett Graham was her type either, and look at them now. Soulmates.
“That wasn’t a desperation kiss,” Dean argues.
“Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that.”
He looks at the screen. The main character is preparing food again. Dinner, this time, and there are far too many unnecessary close-ups of the potatoes she’s peeling. She eats a lot in this movie.
“God, just kill me already.” He leans back and runs both his hands through his hair until it’s tousled to shit. “I can’t watch another second of this.”
Me neither, but I made this bed and now I’m forced to lie in it.
“You know what?” he announces. “Forget the weed. Only one thing is gonna make this piece-of-shit movie tolerable.”
“Yeah, what’s that?”
Rather than answer, he hops off the couch and disappears into the kitchen. Wary, I listen to the sounds of cupboards opening and closing, glasses clinking together, and then he’s back, holding a bottle in one hand and two shot glasses in the other.
Dean flashes a grin and says, “Tequila.”
3
Allie
Someone is pounding my head with a mallet. Like one of those comically huge mallets you see cartoon characters whacking each other with. It’s horrible. It’s loud.
Oh God. I’m so hung-over.
Even the barely audible groan that escapes my lips is enough to bring a shock of agony to my temples. And the act of shifting in bed evokes a wave of nausea that tightens my throat and makes my eyes water. I breathe through it. Inhale. Exhale. I just need to control the queasiness long enough to make it to the bathroom so I don’t hurl all over Garrett Graham’s clean sheets—
I’m not in Garrett’s bed.
The realization hits me at the same time I register the sound of breathing. Not the shallow, I-drank-too-much-tequila breaths that are leaving my throat, but the soft, even breathing of the guy beside me.
This time when I groan, it comes from deep in my soul.