Rhett
Girls.
They’re everywhere.
Pretty girls.
Unattractive girls.
Tall girls and short girls.
So fucking many of them I don’t know which direction to look first. When my eyes settle on a short blonde with big boobs, I shift uncomfortably on the balls of my feet, letting my back hit the wall behind me to study her from the outskirts of the room.
When she saunters past, my thirsty eyes drink her in from head to toe; with her long wavy hair and petite frame, I appreciate the view from the top of my beer bottle. The cut of her tight shirt. The smile plastered on her heavily made-up face as she settles into her girl pack of friends, draping a bare arm over a brunette with legs a mile long and a skirt twice as short.
Coyly glances over her shoulder.
Catches my eye.
Winks.
I straighten my spine when she does a body scan slowly up and down my physique. Takes in the wide berth of my shoulders, the firm pecs beneath my tight gray shirt. My thick neck. The bridge of my nose that’s been broken twice.
Bruised left eye.
Stitched-up eyebrow.
Then…
The light in her eyes dims, interest fading as quickly as it came. I don’t bother smiling at her; what would be the point? Instead, I cast my gaze elsewhere before she further dismisses me by turning away.
No big deal; I’m used to it.
The fact that I’m not good-looking is hardly a secret.
It hardly matters to these girls that I’m in the best shape of my life; that I’m toned and cut. That I train relentlessly and am in peak physical condition.
That I’m a really nice fucking guy.
That I’m not a douchebag.
That I could fuck all night given the chance. Given the right girl.
They don’t care about any of it; they want someone who looks like they just stepped off the cover of a magazine—someone like Sebastian Osborne or Zeke Daniels, two prize douchebags chicks go fucking wild over. Oz Osborne with his pretty face and perverted mouth, and Zeke Daniels with his dark, moody stare.
Stand me next to them in a lineup? I’m the last guy women notice.
The only thing remotely attractive about me is my teeth; my mom calls it my million-dollar smile because I’ve had so much dental work due to having so many teeth knocked out by a quick knee to the face or an errant elbow while wrestling.
Sucks to be me.
I haven’t gotten laid in ages, and the last thing I want is some drunken pity fuck, a castoff from a triad or the undesirable DUFF.
Gunderson sidles up beside me, shoving another beer into my empty hand. He clinks his amber bottleneck against mine, nudging me with his shoulder. “New Guy, you getting loose tonight?”
Getting loose? What the hell does that mean?
“Please stop calling me New Guy.”
“But that’s your name.”
“No, it’s not. Knock it off.”
“Well, I’m not calling you Rabideaux.”
I laugh when he scoffs out my last name. Rex Gunderson, the team’s manager and glorified water boy, is a couyon—a moron—with balls big enough to tell me my last name is dumb.
I bite at his bait. “Why won’t you call me Rabideaux?”
“Because holy formal. It sounds like a fucking butler’s name, and Rhett is worse. Makes you sound like you’re auditioning for some plantation, Civil War-level bullshit.”
He’s right, it does. Rhett Rabideaux—the whole name is a travesty.
“Thanks for mocking my name, asshole.”
“Admit it, it sounds douchey.”
“I’ll let Mama know you hate it next time I see her, thanks.”
“I didn’t say I hated it, just that it makes you sound like a puss.” He takes a swig of beer, eyeballing a group of girls huddled nearby, one of them surreptitiously glancing over her shoulder at him. “So you gonna let loose tonight or what? We only have one night out this week; you should spend it getting laid.”
Gunderson might be a fucking pain in everyone’s ass, but girls seem to love him. They eat up his pickup lines like filet mignon. The cocky attitude. The stupid expressions. The arrogance and bravado. They love it.
I take a drag of beer. “We went out Friday, remember? You know we’re in fuck tons of trouble if anyone posts anything online.”
He rolls his eyes. “You’ve got to start meeting people, dude. You can’t keep hanging out with just us. Put yourself out there, New Guy. Go see how friendly the girls in Iowa can be.” He lifts his bottle. “Those girls right there—the ones that keep looking over here—go say hi.”
I roll my eyes. “They’re not lookin’ at me; they’re lookin’ at you.”
Much as I hate to admit it, Gunderson is right; I haven’t put myself out there. I stay in my room all the fucking time, sticking to myself, here for one thing and one thing only:
Pin.
Win.
Graduate.
Fine, that’s three things. Anyway, it helps that Iowa is nothing but corn, fields, cornfields, and highway. Makes the ‘get in and get out’ that much easier. No attachments. No commitments here. Nothing but all work and no play—I haven’t even allowed myself friends from the wrestling team.
“New Guy.” Rex nudges me back to life. “If you’re going to get laid, you have to be more fucking assertive. You can’t be lazy.”
“Nah, I’m good standin’ right where I am.” Against tacky wallpaper in the back room of a crowded party.
Rex leans against it too, turning to face me. “If you’re going to insist on being a little bitch every time we go out, let me give you a little word of advice: stay away from Oz and Zeke.”
“Why?”
“Dude, they are way too good-looking. Trust me, no girl is going to give you the time of day if you’re standing next to either one of them.”
“I thought they had girlfriends?”
“They do. Actually, I think it only makes them more appealing to chicks.”
“Why is that bad?”
“Do you want girls to bang you or them?”
“I’m not having this conversation with you right now.”
“What’s wrong with you? Are you gay?”
“No.”
“You can tell me if you are.” He holds up his palms. “No judgments.”
“I don’t feel comfortable hitting on women all the time, is all. No big deal.”
“Why?”
“Why?”
“Yeah, why aren’t you comfortable hitting on women? What’s the deal? I know you’re not shy—I’ve seen you have conversations with the trainers and PTs.”
A few of whom are women…attractive women.
“I don’t want to bone every woman that talks to me, Gunderson.”
“I do.”
He says it with such a straight face that I bust out laughing.
The music blasting from the speakers makes it almost impossible for me to hear him ask, “Seriously though, you want my help or not?”
“God no!” I laugh again, slapping him on the back. “The last thing I need is your brand of help. Sorry Gunderson.”
“Come on man, think about it. I could be like your pimp, except without the exchange of money.”
Jesus Christ, that sounds horrifying.
“Do me a favor Rex.” He leans in with raised brows, interested, nice and close so he can hear me loud and clear. “Stay out of my personal business and stick to handing me clean towels.”
“Fuck you,” he sneers. “Besides, I don’t know if I can do that. I’m too deep in it.”
“Try harder.”
He emits a juvenile giggle. “You said harder.”
“What are you, five?”
“Sometimes.”
I prod the beer in his hand. “How many beers have you had tonight?”
He holds it in the air, squinting at it with one eye closed. “I don’t know, five? Six? Plus two Jägerbombs.”
“What the fuck, Gunderson? We have to be in the gym at five in the morning!”
“No, you have to be in the gym at five in the morning. I’m just there to hand you clean towels.” He holds up a palm to stop me from speaking. “Don’t worry about me, Dad. I’ve got it covered; I bought a gallon of chocolate milk to help the hangover, so I should be good to go.”
“Do me a favor and stay away from my room. I don’t need you puking outside my door.”
Again.
Rex did not make it to the weight room the next morning for practice.
I guess I could have yanked him out of bed when he failed to make an appearance in the kitchen for our morning run, but I’m still reeling from being stiffed at the restaurant—though after four, five, six beers last night, both roommates gladly agreed to split my share of the rent for the month.
The nice thing for me to do would have been to wake him up knowing he was going to miss practice and most likely, his first class.
But I didn’t.
I grin, cutting across a patch of freshly mowed grass to the sidewalk that’s a direct path to my study group. Bookbag slung over my left shoulder, I emit a soft, relaxed whistle, glancing into the windows of the university’s student union coffee shop as I meander toward it.
Kick a stone into the freshly cut lawn.
I’m on my way to spend a few frustrating hours with two girls from my Political Strategies class who know less about fair trade agreements than I do. Best course of action and a minor consolation for this pounding headache? Chugging down a cup of the free coffee offered in the student union to clear my foggy head.
Monica and Kristy do little to get rid of the lingering aftereffects of my late night, asking question after question about foreign policy instead of searching for the answers themselves. It’s two hours spent explaining and re-explaining the logistics of agreements between a manufacturer and retailer on products trademarked outside the country.
Giving them one example after another, I eventually drew Monica a damn diagram of how the whole system works.
They just weren’t getting it, and I left feeling more like their tutor than their classmate.
Pulling the hood of my black Louisiana sweatshirt over my head, I sling my bag down my bicep, preparing to pull back the door to the corner coffee shop—more free caffeine before heading home because the cup I had before wasn’t strong enough to cure this headache, these throbbing temples.
Not even close.
Not after the three weird texts messages I’ve gotten this morning, all within the past forty-five minutes that have my mind reeling.
Hey hottie. I hear you need to get laid. Call me.
You mite not be hot, but I’d do you anyway.
How do you feel about threesums? My rommates and I would pop your cherry
Two of the three are from people who can’t even spell—not even with autocorrect. I delete them, wondering why the fuck they were sent to me in the first place.
My eyes cast a cursory glance at the pile of newspapers by the register, the stainless-steel garbage can in the corner as my hand tugs on the door handle.
Above that? A giant corkboard full of advertisements. Student club signups. Meetings. Tickets to on-campus attractions. Campus ministries. Roommate ads. Furniture and textbooks for sale.
In the center?
A light green sheet of paper, flopping haphazardly, held up by one staple.
I squint, zeroing in on the black and green photocopied face staring back at me.
Me.
My face.
Mine.
My fucking face, photocopied onto a dull green sheet of paper with the words GET RETT LAID in a dark, bold scrawl across the top.
Beneath my picture, in Rex’s sloppy chicken scratch—the same sloppy writing he uses to sign his rent checks—are the words:
Are you the lucky lady who is going to
break our roommate’s cherry?
Him: socially awkward man with
average-sized penis
looking for willing sexual partner.
You: must have a pulse.
He will reciprakate with oral sex.
Text him at: 555-254-5551
I read the caption, then read it four more times, eyes frantically scanning the page, barely registering what they’re fucking seeing.
Socially awkward man with average-sized penis…
You: must have a pulse…
“What the actual fuckkk?” I utter in a horrified whisper, grabbing it with trembling fingers and ripping it from the bulletin board.
Jesus. The idiots didn’t even spell my damn name right.
“I am gonna kill those assholes,” I say as I exhale harshly. “Fuckin’ kill them all.”
My gaze scans the perimeter of the board for more sheets of green paper, and when I don’t find any, I backtrack away from the building, eyes searching for any and all within walking distance.
I stalk down the narrow sidewalk in the direction of our house, halt when I hit the corner crosswalk, smashing the walk button with a closed first.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
“Come the fuck on,” I growl. “Hurry up.”
After two endless seconds, I can’t stand waiting anymore.
“Fuck it.”
I look left, look right. Bolt into the street, jaywalking, barely dodging a gray minivan full of teenagers. Flip them the bird when they honk.
Little pricks.
Easing into a light jog, I pant in and out to control my breathing.
Calm myself.
Four minutes later, I dump my backpack on the kitchen table and storm to the living room, knowing I’m about to find them both lying casually like cockroaches on our huge couches.
I fill the doorway, clenching my fists, clenching the wadded-up sheet of green paper in my hand, staring down at them both.
“What the hell is this?” I hold up the flyer. “Have y’all gone bat-shit crazy?”
Rex yawns loudly, stretching to his full length, arms above his head. His eyes stay glued to the TV. “Dude, why didn’t you wake us up? We missed conditioning this morning.”
I ignore him. “First tell me what the fuck this is.” I toss the ball of paper onto his chest.
Rex smirks, snuggling deeper into a black, fuzzy Iowa blanket. “Only the best idea we’ve ever had.”
In my pocket, my phone vibrates with one notification, then another—no doubt more girls wanting to fuck me.
“When did you have time to do this?” My teeth are clenched and my jaw feels like it’s about to crack.
“Last night?” He coughs then sighs. “Man, we were so shitfaced.”
“Dude,” Johnson agrees.
“You did this last night? We were together all night—when the fuck did you do this?”
“After you passed out. Remember how we got to talking about how you could use a good fuck? You’ve been really edgy lately.”
“I didn’t fuckin’ say that.”
“Yes you did. You were telling us it’s been so long since you’ve gotten laid that you can’t remember how a pussy feels.”
“Shut up, Gunderson.”
“I’m not making it up.” He nuzzles the blanket. “You said you’ve only had sex once.”
Shit. Maybe I did tell them that, ’cause how the fuck else would they know I’ve only done it once?
“I’ve only lived here for three months.” I unclench my fist and point to the unfurled piece of paper in the palm of Rex’s hand. “How could you have been sober enough to use a copy machine?”
“Man, it was hilarious. Johnson went all idiot savant. We went to the dorms and he bribed the RA at the desk to let us use the copier—you know the one with the big rack?”
I do.
“What time was it?”
“I don’t know man, one-thirty, maybe?”
Eric rolls over on the couch to point the remote at the TV, flipping through all the goddamn channels while I stand there, outraged. He turns the volume up three octaves while prattling on with the story.
“Fucking Gunderson sits on the printer when the RA walks out and made a print of his ass. I thought the whole machine was going to bust in half. Hilarious, man. You should have seen it.”
Rex yawns again. “You were the one tripping over your pants on the south lawn when you stopped to take a piss. I had to help you up.”
Jesus Christ, these two.
“Did anyone see you?”
“No.” Eric scrolls through the channels absentmindedly. “Well, yeah. Some drunk chicks saw us hanging up a black and white of Gunderson’s balls and wanted a copy.”
My phone vibrates in my pocket. “Unfuckingbelievable.”
“It’s not a big deal. He has really nice balls.”
Rex nods. “I manscape.”
My eyes narrow. “What were you idiots thinkin’ hangin’ pictures of me? Seriously, what the fuck?”
“You need to get laid, bro. We’re trying to help.”
“I’m not fucking desperate! My goddamn face is on those!”
Rex hiccups. “Have you seen yourself lately? You’re not winning any beauty pageants, sorry to tell you.”
Why am I arguing with these two idiots?
Johnson chimes in. “Dude, the only way you’re getting any tail is giving it away for free.”
“You need all the help you can get.” Rex’s voice turns soothing. “Buck up, New Guy—be glad we didn’t hang all forty-five.” He laughs at my horrified expression. “Johnson printed off forty-five! The printer just kept going and going, it was so fucking funny.”
“Oh, well in that case, I feel so lucky!”
This has him scowling. “Don’t get your tampon in a twist, Rabideaux. Have you checked your phone? I bet you have fifty text messages by now.”
As if on command, my cell vibrates again, making my butt cheeks clench with irritation.
“Focus Gunderson. How many flyers did you hang?” I need to find them and yank them all down.
“It was only like…” Rex glances at Eric for help. “How many was it?”
Johnson squints at the ceiling, counting them on his fingers. “One, two, seven…fourteen? No, fifteen.”
Rex laughs, throwing his hands up. “There, see? It was only fifteen. It’s not like we hung hundreds of them.”
“Where are they? How far did you go?”
“I don’t know dude, who cares?”
“I fucking care!”
“We were drunk.” He twists his body, angling for the orange juice sitting on the coffee table. “Around campus. The quad. Freshman housing. I don’t freaking know, we were drunk!”
Johnson laughs. “We are so fucking brilliant—so goddamn brilliant I’m kind of jealous of ourselves.”
Three more text notifications go off in my pocket. I want to take the phone out and hurl it through the fucking living room window. It spurs me into an angry tirade I didn’t know was brewing inside me. “I don’t believe the bullshit I’m hearin’. Why the hell would you do this? It’s an invasion of my fuckin’ privacy!”
“New Guy, I said chill. We thought this whole thing through—we have a plan! First, in addition to the text messages, we’re going to create a SnapChat account for you. Then, we’re going to—”
“Stop fuckin’ calling me New Guy!” I snatch the paper out of Rex’s hand and thrust it back at him, flapping it in his face. “This has my fuckin’ face on it, dickhead! And you didn’t even spell my name right. What the actual fuck?”
“Whoa. Calm your tits. If I’d have known you were going to get so upset about this, I would have gone with our earlier idea to place a Facebook status on the Campus Love Connection page.”
I can’t decide which is worse: having my cell phone number plastered around campus for anyone who wants to text me or having these two morons trying to find me hookups by trolling every social media platform.
Thousands of students creep the CLC page looking for missed connections and hookups, relationships and meaningless sex, crushes and shitty dates with other students at Iowa.
“This is such bullshit—I cannot believe you did this.” I ball up the green sheet of paper and throw it onto the floor. “Where are they hung? Y’all are coming with me to take them down.”
My roommates glance at each other.
“He said hung,” Johnson whispers into the uncomfortable silence.
They both laugh.
“It’s fifteen posters; why are you pissed? You need to meet people. You need to get laid, and you’re not going to do it sitting around the house.” He pulls his phone out from under his blanket, sliding the screen open, and clicks on a familiar app icon. “You really should check your messages. I bet you have shit tons.”
“Just tell me where they are so I can go rip them down.”
I should have listened when our team captain, Sebastian “Oz” Osborne, tried steering me away from living with these two: “Rabideaux, do yourself a favor and find someone else to live with. These two are going to drive you fucking crazy.”
Everyone warned me, but I didn’t know anyone before transferring—not a soul—and had a short amount of time to find a place if I didn’t want to live in the dorms, figured I could stick it out.
I knew they would be annoying, I just didn’t think they would be complete douchebags.
I was wrong.
My phone rattles twice before I hit the front door, letting it slam behind me. I check my rapidly growing list of messages.
I’m going to suck your dick [attachment: shot of random girl’s small tits]
Hi there, I don’t normally do thing like this, but you look cute…
Dude, I’m not a chick but you’re a fucking god. Wanna be my wingman? You take all the new numbers from your phone and pass them on to me…
Rett COME GET LAID. Room 314, Wimbly Hall