Undecided(8)

“Well,” I begin, ready to make my escape and hopefully not embarrass myself by drooling.

“What’d you say you were studying?” Kellan asks, boosting himself onto the counter and settling in.

Is this happening? Are we…talking? Just me and Kellan McVey?

“I’m undecided,” I hear myself say, my voice blessedly normal. “I’ve got a bit of everything this year. You’re doing sociology, right?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs carelessly. “It seems like a safe bet. A good base. You can go a lot of ways with it.”

“Sure.” I take a sip of water and try not to look like I’m loitering in my own home. I want to have a conversation with Kellan. I want this to be a thing we do. I tossed the cardigan into the back of my closet the second I unpacked, and though the corsets and leather mini-skirts are stuffed back there too, I don’t want him to see me as the uptight budding librarian he met at our first meeting.

In deference to the rainy weather, I’m wearing jeans and a turquoise flannel shirt, which fits well and shows off my figure, not that he seems to notice. After a lengthy moment of awkward silence, I sigh and turn to go.

“Hey,” he says.

I stop. “Yeah?”

“You pass the Frat Farm when you go into town, right? For work?”

I pretend I have to think about it, that I haven’t spent a lot of time at the Frat Farm. “I guess so.”

“Any chance I can get you to drop off something for Crosbie? He needs it first thing tomorrow, but I’m not heading there today.”

It’s like, fifteen minutes from here to the Frat Farm, but whatever. It’s on my way. “Sure,” I say. “But you’ll have to give me the address.” This part is true—I know Crosbie lives in a frat house, but not which one. They’re all the same in the dark.

“Thanks.” He hops off the counter and jogs into his room as I try not to ogle the shifting muscles in his back. He returns a second later carrying a box with a familiar shoe company logo. “Sneakers,” he explains. “Special order. A guy I know works at the store and Crosbie’s been waiting for these forever.”

“A shoe guy,” I say, studying the box. “Who knew?” When I think of Crosbie Lucas—and to be fair, it’s not often that I do—I think of three things: loud, muscles, and Crosbabes. Only one of those things floats my boat, and it’s not enough to make up for the other two.

Kellan shakes his head. “Don’t get him talking about shoes, he’ll never stop. And no matter what, don’t let him convince you to participate in any magic tricks. You’ll never get out alive.”

Illusions, I think. Don’t participate in any illusions. “Duly noted,” I say. Then, for some reason, I salute.

Kellan stares at me for a second, then wrinkles up his nose and lets loose with a heartfelt belly laugh. And by belly laugh, I mean six-pack laugh, because that thing ripples and shifts in a way that does something to my own stomach and a certain spot beneath it.



*



Twenty minutes later I’m leaning my bike against the front stoop of the Alpha Sigma Phi frat house. It’s a peeling green Victorian on a shady, tree-lined street of similar houses painted in muted and respectable earth tones. Because it’s the day before classes start, things on the Frat Farm are relatively tame—guys are moving in, there are several parents hanging around, and everyone’s still on their best behavior.

Alpha Sigma Phi is quiet, the front door closed, a large potted plant blooming cheerfully beneath the mailbox. It’s the kind of plant that says “Trust us, mom—your son’s in good hands!” The kind of plant that’ll be dead a week from now.

I ring the bell and hear it chime inside, and a few seconds later the door opens to reveal a tall, thin black guy wearing a suit and tie and a nametag that says “My name is Dane.” He does a double take when he sees me, and I realize they’re expecting new roommates and are hoping to make a good impression on the parents. This is positive news for me—Alpha Sigma Phi is aptly named. The guys are all athletes and take the “Alpha” part of their title very seriously, each one determined to be the man of the house. If they’re still in “impress mom” mode, I’m unlikely to stumble into an orgy.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey.” He glances at the box in my hand.

“Does Crosbie Lucas live here?”

“Oh.” Dane smiles and nods knowingly. “Yeah, yeah. He lives here. Right up there.” He steps aside to reveal a large staircase leading to the second floor. “Go ahead. Do your thing.”

I blink. Flannel, jeans, and one o’clock on a Monday? There’s nothing sexy or suggestive about me. “I don’t need to go upstairs,” I say, suddenly a little less confident I won’t see anything I can’t unsee. The last thing I need is to walk in on Crosbie and his newest Crosbabe. I thrust the paper bag holding the shoebox toward Dane. “Could you just give him this? It’s from—”

“Tell him yourself,” he says. “I’m not going to be responsible for whatever ‘gift’ you brought for the guy.”

“It’s not a gift—”

But Dane’s already walking away. So much for best behavior.

I consider just leaving the bag inside the door and asking Kellan to call Crosbie and tell him it’s there, but I think about how irresponsible frat houses are and figure I’ll just hurry upstairs, find his room, cover my eyes and knock on the door. No chance for any sort of miscommunication or awkward encounter.