Jolie

“Yo, JoJo. Your ass is on wingman duty tonight.” A steaming Starbucks mug slides across the shiny chrome desk he bought for me last Christmas. I lift my head, skeptically examining him through my hazel eyes.

Sage Poirier. My best friend. Louisiana’s finest college quarterback. The man who put the ‘ho’ in manwhore. My forever crush. The list goes on, but I’m sure you get the point. I rearrange the golden neckline of my sensible powder blue blouse, tossing my strawberry blonde tresses (heavy on the strawberry) across my shoulder.

“I have an English lit exam tomorrow.” I yawn, my hand already hovering over the keyboard of my MacBook. The bribe—pumpkin spice latte with marshmallows, not technically on the menu, but the barista would throw in her own kidney to get Sage to smile at her—is appreciated, albeit pointless. With the amount of homework I have, I’m not going to budge from my seat tonight. Sage grabs the chair opposite to me and plops on a heavy sigh, his arms bracing its back. He is wearing his black New Orleans Saints cap backwards, his Wayfarers hanging under the brim of his hat from behind. It’s the indisputable, international I’m-a-douchebag badge, and it occurs to me, for the hundredth time since we moved in together freshman year of college, that if I hadn’t known him since age ten, I would probably find him as sexually attractive as a gassy rat.

“You’re no fun.” He leans forward and flicks his thumb and finger on the tip of my nose. His mischievous, dimpled smile widens when I swat his hand away.

“I have grades to keep,” I retort.

“Hmm. So do I.”

I snort a laugh on an eye roll. “You’re one of the most sought-after quarterbacks in Louisiana. Going pro next year. At this point, you can flake your way to being a brain surgeon if you’d like. Every professor in this college would kiss the earth you walk upon if they didn’t fear you’d file a restraining order against them.”

Am I exaggerating here? Nope. Not even a little. Don’t get me wrong—I’m thrilled for my best friend. He deserves everything he’s achieved, which is a lot. At twenty-one, he has his own shiny, burgundy truck, a brand new apartment he rents all by himself (I pay the bills in exchange for my room), and three NFL teams courting him like he is a damsel in a Disney movie. Despite all his success, he’s never once been uppity or conceited to me about it. Instead, he gives me access to his new place, new truck, and new life. He is still the good Southern mama’s boy who takes off his hat whenever he visits the small farm we lived on. The only downside to being Sage’s best friend is, well…

“Question is—do you want to kiss the ground I walk on, or better yet, me?” His elbows are on the desk now, his head cocked to the side attentively. “Because, Jolie, baby, you’re the only person I’m looking to impress. Ideally between the sheets.” He winks.

Insert an emoji of moi gagging uncontrollably at his tackiness.

This is not the first time Sage has made a move on me, and I bet it won’t be the last time I shut him down.

Recap: A month ago, Sage and I accidentally bumped into each other in the hallway while I was butt naked after a shower (forgot the towel in my room). He was on his way to pee, sporting impressive morning wood through his Orgasm Donor boxers. I was looking down, head hanging in shame as I hurried to my room. He was looking down, rearranging his junk. That’s how we ended up colliding, limbs tangling together, with me tumbling down and him reaching for my ass to make sure I didn’t fall. What a gentleman, right?

From that point forward, Sage has been adamant that we need to hook up. Emphasis on the word ‘need’ and not ‘should’.

And, Lord, forgive me. If he were any other guy, I’d be all over him like a rash after a torrid Vegas vacation. The man looks like the love child of Matthew Noszka and James Dean. The fact that he is six feet four inches of tight abs and only five percent body fat does not—I repeat, does not—make it easier for me to constantly reject him. But you know what makes it really easy for me to say no? The notion that Sage, whom I grew up with and know better than anyone else, is going to break my heart into a trillion pieces, smash it to dust, then skip over all the leftovers on his way to the next pink sheet-covered bed.

Because. My. Best. Friend. Is. A. Whore!

I love him, but he is a manwhore who can’t keep his dick in his pants for longer than twenty-four hours. I’m pretty sure this fact could be backed up scientifically, if someone put effort into researching the subject. Anyway, I’m too attached to Sage—and to my heart—to mess with either of them so recklessly.

“It’s a no from me,” I say in an exaggerated English accent, folding my arms and feigning boredom, doing my best Simon Cowell impression. We’ve been bingeing on the British version of X Factor lately and Sage makes me do an impression of the British judge every commercial break. If I refuse, he tackles me to the floor and tickles the shit out of me. I thrash and try to worm my way out from between his steel arms, only to be pinned tightly onto the floor, his hard body over my soft one. He is so aggressive and dedicated, ninety percent of the time I cave simply because I’m too scared I’ll accidentally come (it’s been a while, please don’t judge).

“I’ll turn it into a ‘yes’ before the end of the semester.” He stands up, curling his fists as he stretches and yawns. His black shirt rides up and the prominent V leading to his crotch is on full display. In a last-ditch effort to save my already-damp panties, I avert my gaze, my eyes hard on the MacBook screen, and furrow my brows as the words in my lit essay slip from my vision. I decided to major in English lit because I’m good with words, but whenever he’s around, I’m nothing but a blubbery mess. Sage continues, “No girl has ever said no to me yet, and I’ll be damned if the one who does is the chick I care about the most.”

“But that’s exactly why I’m saying no,” I snap, my head shooting up from the essay. I can’t fathom why he cannot see this. Sleeping together would ruin everything.

“Why?”

Why? “Why?” I look up, huffing. Yep, I’m actually huffing. And huffers are my pet peeve, but boy, does Sage make me want to huff lately. “Do you really want to throw away ten years of friendship for a quick lay?”

He smirks. “First of all, it’s not going to be quick. I know what I’m doing in the sack. We’re talking a minimum of twenty-five minutes, lady, and I’m being humble here, because I might be a little on the excited side when I finally roll you between my sheets.” He cups his groin and winks, and I would roll my eyes if it weren’t for the fact that his room is down the hall, and the thin walls confirm his statement. All the girls he brings home (roughly twenty percent of the US female population) do moan and scream for an average of forty minutes. “And second of all, I will not be ruining anything. You have one-night stands. I have one-night stands. We can have them together and still keep our friendship intact. We’re not fucking twelve, dude.”

I guess I can kill this conversation by pointing out that (A) twelve-year-olds don’t usually have sexual intercourse, and (B) I’m not a dude. But there’s something else I need to make clear.

“I don’t engage in one-night stands.” I pick up a pen and choke it to death to keep myself from punching Sage’s gorgeous, cocky face. I know my fist is going to hurt more than his nose. The guy is seemingly built of steel, bronze, and copper.

“Of course you do. What about that Brandon dude?”

“That Brandon dude was my boyfriend for seven months,” I deadpan. Funny he should mention it, since Brandon and I broke up last year because the latter was adamant that there was something going on between Sage and me. Which was insane, inaccurate, and incredibly irritating. But what was even more disheartening was the fact that Sage did everything he could to nurture this false assumption by constantly touching and calling me whenever I hung out with Brandon like he was trying to sabotage our relationship. I swear, Sage was only a few weeks short of pissing on my leg to claim his ownership, which was kind of rich, considering how Sage’s dick has been passed around like community property. I’m surprised he’s not partly funded by the government.

“That douche was never your boyfriend, JoJo,” he shakes his head, sighing, like I’m an adorable puppy.

“Sorry to disappoint, but he really was.”

You will not punch your best friend. You will not punch your best friend. You will no…

“Well, now I want to kick that guy’s ass even more.”

“What? Why?”

“Because—sorry to disappoint,” he mimics my tone, and pretty accurately, too (the bastard), “but he was banging a Kappa Alpha Slutta whatever chick named Nadia. I saw them hanging out at parties at least twice while you were so-called ‘dating’, but I thought you’d never seriously dated the dickbag.” He runs his huge palm over his sandy blond hair and messes it to tousled perfection. I swallow, feeling my nostrils flare. Goddamn Brandon. “So I never thought I should mention it to you. You know I always got your back.”

I smile tightly, stand up, and walk to the kitchen with Sage following behind me. I want him gone, so I can cry myself to sleep, or call my bestie, Chelsea, to talk so much shit about Brandon his ears catch on fire and burn down his whole apartment block. I feel played, and stupid, and about as desirable as a bowl of stale broccoli. True, it’s been months, but it still stings. What is it about me that attracts douchebags? I mean, I do occasionally wear Taylor Swift’s perfume…

“Come with me,” Sage coaxes again, his husky voice bleeding into my body and melting my lady parts into warm goo. I shouldn’t be so turned-on by him, especially as I know him. Truly know him. All the bad and unflattering parts of him. Countless times I watched him go home with other girls, puking in national parks, and experiencing meltdowns. Crying happily when his parents got divorced, weeping sadly when his father died of liver failure after years of alcohol abuse, and roaring triumphantly when he got a full scholarship for college.

“I have an exam, remember?” I open the fridge and take out a carton of OJ. I slam the door and when I turn around, he is caging me in, bracing the counter from each side of my waist, his mouth so close to mine I can see the dimple in the center of his full lower lip. He stares me down predatorily.

My heart is in my throat.

My soul is most probably in my eyes.

And I am scared. Completely, utterly, and desperately frightened of what he can do to me if I let my guard down. If I let him in.

“Wasn’t talking about the party, Jo. Let’s go to my room. Forget about Brandon. About people. About all the bullshit. I want to make you feel good.”

“Sage,” I hiss, narrowing my eyes. “Please don’t make this an issue. I’d hate to move to another apartment, but I will, if that’s what it takes to save our friendship.”

And my heart.

He throws his head back, staring at the ceiling, exasperated. Then he pushes off the counter and I’m left to stand here, watching his tight ass walking toward the hallway. What’s with this dude? Did he actually not know I had lady bits before he saw me naked? I refuse to sacrifice our friendship because he suddenly sees me as the convenient booty-call-from-across-the-hall.

I swear, he’s been acting so strange lately.

I watch his back, knowing the knot in my stomach—the one I’d formed when I was ten and he moved next door—is going to tighten. As if on cue, it does. Blinking, I pour myself a glass of orange juice, spilling some on the countertop, knowing the rest of my night is a bust.

Twenty minutes later, he walks through the door clad in a navy varsity jacket, dark distressed jeans, and his I-just-fucked perfect hair, looking like the perfect sin.

Forty minutes later, Chelsea appears at my door armed with Halo Top ice cream. (I liked Brandon, but not enough to waste my Pilates body on real ice cream because of him.)

An hour later, I get a stream of text messages.