The Score (Off-Campus #3)(61)

“Hey, Ira,” I say when he picks up. “It’s Allie. I wanted to check if you had any news about the Brett Cavanaugh play.”

“Actually, I do.”

Then why didn’t you call me?

“The production process has definitely started. I know one of the producers, so I reached out to her.” He pauses. “It’s not good news.”

My heart drops to the pit of my stomach. “Oh. What did she say?”

“It’s an all-male cast. Bold move, huh?”

Very bold. Not to mention devastating. I suddenly find myself desperately wishing for a penis.

“Unfortunately, that means there isn’t a role in it for you—” No kidding. I’m penis-less! “But I told Nancy you’re interested in working with Brett again. She promised to pass that along, so who knows? Maybe he’ll give you a ring when he has something else brewing.”

That cheers me up. A little. I’m still mega-bummed by the news.

I send Dean a message on my way out of the building.

Me: Such a crappy day! Might vent to u later. How was the game?

He doesn’t message back. Granted, it’s only been three seconds, but he’s usually pretty quick to reply.

Five minutes into my walk to Bristol House, and there’s still no answer. His game would be over by now. Hannah said it started at six. It’s nearly ten.

Five more minutes pass. I’m almost at the dorm. Why isn’t he answering?

It’s been ten minutes, crazy pants. Relax.

Instead of relaxing, I grow even more distressed because something troubling has just dawned on me.

I didn’t contact Dean because I wanted sex.

I wanted to vent about my day.

Oh shit. Hannah is absolutely right—the word “casual” doesn’t exist in my vocabulary. I had a crappy rehearsal, and my first instinct was to reach out to the guy I’m sleeping with and tell him all about it. Have him listen to me and comfort me and tell me it’s all going to be okay.

Repeat after yourself, Allison Jane. He. Is. Not. Your. Boyfriend.

“He is not my boyfriend,” I say firmly.

“What?” A tall guy in a parka slows his gait and glances over at me.

I jerk in surprise. “Oh, I wasn’t talking to you.”

His gaze rests on my ear, and I realize he’s searching for a Bluetooth. When he doesn’t find one, he gives me a strange look and keeps walking.

“Talking to yourself doesn’t make you a crazy person,” I call out after him. Well, unless you’re the homeless guy I used to see around Brooklyn, who would scream about government conspiracies and how aliens are stealing our brain cells via our phones.

Then again, who’s to say Lou isn’t perfectly sane? Maybe aliens are doing that. I can’t prove otherwise.

I trudge the rest of the way home and let myself into the darkened suite. Hannah isn’t home yet. I know she went to the hockey game tonight, so I give her a call to find out what she’s up to now.

“Hey!” Wherever she is, it’s loud. I hear a cacophony of voices in the background, and a pounding bass line that thuds in my ear. “I’m at the bar. You want to join us?”

I put on a casual voice. “Who’s there? Garrett and the guys?” And Dean?

I stop myself before the question pops out. Damn it, I’m acting like a girlfriend again. An incredibly nauseating girlfriend to boot, the kind who checks up on her man when he isn’t with her.

“Yup. Most of the team is here. We won tonight, so everyone’s celebrating.” Another wave of music swells over the line. “Garrett keeps trying to challenge me to a shot contest.”

“What are the others up to?” I ask with feigned nonchalance. “Logan…Tuck…Dean…?”

I hate myself right now. I really, really do.

“Tuck isn’t here. Logan’s playing pool. And some girl is trying to eat Dean’s face off.”

My entire body goes cold.

Um…excuse me?

“Anyway, I can barely hear you,” Hannah says. “Text me if you’re coming.”

My hand trembles as I put down the phone. Dean is at the bar making out with someone else?

Two days after we talked about being exclusive?

Oh hell no.





18




Allie


My mother was a beautiful woman. I’m not saying this because I’m her daughter and therefore saw her through rose-colored lenses. I’m saying it because it’s true—Eva Hayes was a beautiful, stunning, exquisite woman. She modeled when she was in her twenties, and though she wasn’t tall enough for runway work, she was a high commodity in the print market. I still have every catalogue and magazine spread she ever did in a scrapbook I keep on my bookshelf.

I inherited her blond hair and blue eyes, but my features aren’t flawless like hers. Mom had one of those classically beautiful faces that would make men, women and children stop and stare whenever she walked by.

Me, I’m more cute than beautiful.

But I’ve learned that the right makeup and the right clothes can transform any girl from cute to sex bomb.

I don’t know what my plan is. Dean and I aren’t dating, first off. And since I don’t want anyone to know we’re fooling around, I can’t storm into Malone’s and dump a pitcher of beer over his head.