Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98909 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98909 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
But the problem with hitting Send is, the other person still gets the message, because you fucking hit Send.
LobsterShorts: Is that a dare, Bailey?
Oooh boy. He used my name. Shit just got real.
SinnerThree: I’m just saying, if hooking up with a woman tonight is just going to remind you of Annika, maybe do it with someone who can’t remind you of her.
LobsterShorts: Someone with a penis?
SinnerThree: Why not?
LobsterShorts: Someone like you?
I stare at the screen for so long that I draw the attention of my booth mates. “Bailey! Yo!” Hoffman calls. “Paxton paid good money for this round of beers. If you’re not gonna drink yours, pass it over.”
Paxton balks. “Hey! If he doesn’t want it, why do you get it? I paid for the fucking thing!”
I absentmindedly slide my pint glass toward Paxton. “Have at it. I’ll be right back.”
Ignoring Jako’s curious gaze, I hop out of the booth and amble toward a quiet spot at the end of the bar. My heart is beating faster than normal, and there’s a stirring in my groin that’s making it hard to concentrate. I reread Keaton’s last message, mulling over how to answer.
A good minute passes before I force myself to admit the truth, but once I do…there’s no debate about what to write back.
SinnerThree: The house is empty right now. I dare you to meet me there in 15.
I’m on pins and needles now. My pulse races, blood drums in my ears. My body feels hot and tight, and there’s no way I can just go back to the table and drink another beer.
I power down my phone, so I won’t be tempted to stare at the screen.
And I slip out and head home.
Gold
Keaton
I glance around the party and see all the usual mating rituals. Judd is refilling his red plastic cup while telling jokes to a sorority woman in a see-through nightgown. She laughs, and he reaches over to touch her elbow.
Seriously, the dung beetle mating ritual—where the male rolls a turd to impress his lady friends—is less predictable than this party.
I can’t even carry on a conversation, because I just keep thinking about Luke-fucking-Bailey, and wondering if his dare was just bluster, or if he really went home like he said he did.
If I show up at the house right now, will he be waiting for me? Or did he pocket his phone and order another beer, saying to himself, That will show the asshole.
He logged off the app, too. There’s no green dot by his name. He dared me and then disappeared before I could say anything. He got the last word. I hate that fucking guy.
I hate him, and I also want him to blow me.
On that thought, I set down my own red cup and break for the door. I don’t even glance at Judd, because I sure as hell don’t want him to ask me where I’m going.
It’s about a three-minute walk to the Alpha Delt house, and I force myself to walk slowly. I’m not in a hurry to look like an ass if he’s not really there.
What am I even after? I blow out a hot breath, and it appears before me like smoke in the cold January air. I’m unmoored tonight. I keep reaching for my phone to text Annika, and then realize we’re not together anymore. And the text I got from my father is no consolation. He congratulated me on my presidency. He didn’t even ask if I’d won. He’d just assumed.
The frat house is dark as I approach. I unlock the front door and step inside to dead quiet. When I close the door behind me, the sound echoes.
Shit.
I head for the stairs, because I have to know. There isn’t a soul in evidence on the first or second floors.
But then I hear music.
My pulse jumps as I climb the last flight. And sure enough, Bailey is home. He’s got some kind of house music coming out of his cheap speakers, a groove that’s somewhere between R&B and electronica.
Whatever it is, it’s just loud enough that he doesn’t hear me approach. So I have a private view of him as he perches on the edge of the bed, raising and lowering his legs while balancing a dumbbell across his ankles to up the ante on the workout.
He’s shirtless, and his cheeks are stained with the effort of using every core muscle he’s got to lift that weight. His bare abs tremble as he does another rep while the music thumps sexily in the background.
For a long minute I just lurk there like a creeper and watch. And I like what I see, damn it. Maybe it’s a side effect of the complete destruction of my life, but I am attracted to Luke-fucking-Bailey.
Those abs, though. And that sinuous torso. Not an ounce of fat on him anywhere.