Rhett
Laurel’s wide eyes are the oddest shade of blue I’ve ever seen up close. Dark, with a little bit of brown around the edges.
Blue with a heavy liner running the ridge on top, sweeping out at the corner. Her skin is clean and clear, unblemished.
A ginger with no freckles, cheeks a bright pink, lips full and glossy.
Beautiful doesn’t begin to describe Laurel Bishop.
She fiddles with her notebook, picking at the end of the metal spiral, lithe fingers fidgeting, bright blue nail polish shining.
“I feel really bad.” Her voice is a whisper. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
“You didn’t. It’s fine.”
“Please don’t act like it’s fine.”
I consider this. She’s right; I shouldn’t act like what she did was fine when it’s clearly not. She didn’t hurt my feelings, but I can’t lie—it was fucking humiliating.
What she did was shallow and thoughtless and shitty.
“All right, fair enough. I won’t.”
She nods with authority, bun flopping atop her head, the massive nest of red hair lolling to one side. Fucking adorable.
“Good.”
My mouth forms a lopsided grin. “Good.”
Laurel’s blue gaze drifts down my face, staring at my mouth, then the cleft in my chin, before averting her eyes. Her cheeks turn a delicate shade of pink.
What’s that about?
My stomach chooses that moment to growl, a reminder that I haven’t eaten in—I check my phone for the time—two hours. Considering I’m on a nutrition schedule that has me eating every forty-five minutes to two hours, I’m due for a snack—and by snack, I mean carbs, maybe some protein so I’m not hungry again later.
“Was that your stomach?” Laurel giggles.
“Yeah, sorry. I’m gettin’ kind of hungry.”
Laurel sets her pen down. “Then let’s go get something to eat.”
Let’s? As in, together? Is she serious?
“Pretty sure the sandwich shop in the union closed at ten.”
Which was an hour ago.
Laurel rolls her eyes. “I know. I meant pizza or something. I think Luigi’s is open until one.” She checks the time. “We have tons of time.”
“You want to get pizza?” With me?
“Unless you’re not that hungry? I think I have a granola bar stashed in my bag somewhere if you want it.” Laurel leans, making a show of unzipping her floral backpack and sticking her hand inside. “Or maybe an apple?”
“I could do pizza,” I say it slowly, weighing my words.
I’m going to regret it later because binging on pizza is a terrible idea with a weigh-in looming; I have to make my weight class or I’m fucked, but if this girl had suggested we eat a steaming pile of dog shit, I’d have gone along and eaten it without protest.
Fuck it. I’ll eat the goddamn pizza.
Her eyes light up. “Really?”
“Yeah. Let’s go.”
When she stands, arching her back to slide into her jacket, there’s no stopping my eyes from straying to the thin fabric of her shirt, roaming across her breasts. They linger on the nipples showing through her bra.
My throat tightens and I swallow, glancing away guiltily. Pack up my shit alongside her, hoist my backpack. Instinctively place my hand near the small of her back, guiding her toward the heavy set of exit doors.
“My car is outside if you’d rather drive?” I point in the direction of my vehicle—the black Jeep Wrangler I’ve had since I turned sixteen, the one that’s seen even less action than me.
“Want to walk?” Laurel stalls on the sidewalk. “It’s so nice out.”
Walking feels intimate, especially in the dark, so I waver. “Uh, sure.”
“Let’s at least put our bags in your car though—I don’t feel like hauling my backpack four blocks. I’m not nearly strong as you.”
She smiles serenely over her shoulder, and I wonder what it would be like to have a pretty girl like her smiling at me like that for real, like she meant it.
Like she was attracted to me, even for a short time.
“Good idea.” I walk around her, reach for the handle of my Jeep, unlock it with the key. “Here, let me get the door. Hand me your bag.”
“Thank you.”
Our fingers brush when she hands me her backpack by the shoulder straps. I ignore the spark, tossing her bag in the front seat, followed closely by mine. I grab a baseball cap off the dashboard, fitting it to my head backward.
We start through campus, our destination straight on the other side, four blocks away.
It’s dark and dimly lit despite all the prospective student information bullshit they give you about blue panic lights and security. It’s not entirely safe—not if you’re female. The wide center quad is hazy, a grassy knoll dissected by four merging sidewalks, fountain in the center.
Laurel stays close, hands at her sides, shifting as we walk, hips swaying, occasionally bumping into me, so close I can smell her.
We walk in companionable silence, mostly because I have no fucking clue what to say to her. None at all. Do I talk about the damn weather? I don’t want to bring up my friends—or hers, for that matter, because they seem like little bitches. School? Hobbies?
Shit.
“So what do you do besides wrestle?” Her soft question breaks the silence as we cut across the lawn, hanging a left at the poli-sci building that’s been under construction all semester.
“Good question. I…” I pause.
I almost tell her there isn’t anything besides wrestling, but I stop myself. Think. Rack my brain, trying to come up with other shit I enjoy doing so I won’t sound like a pathetic loser who does nothing but go to the gym every day with nothing else to fill my time. Workout. Watch every fat calorie and carb that hits my lips so it doesn’t impact my weight class.
I can’t tell her I sit home on the weekends because it’s too expensive to fly or drive home to visit my family. I don’t go out and party often because I don’t drink much—too many wasted calories.
“Do you like movies?” she supplies, glancing over in the dark. The sound of leaves crunching under our shoes accompanies us on our walk.
We have two blocks to go.
I can already see Luigi’s lit-up sign glowing in the night; my stomach senses it, too, because it growls.
“Yeah, I like movies. What about you?”
“I love movies. I love going to the movies.” Laurel clears her throat. “It’s been forever since I’ve been to one.”
More silence as she waits out my reply, but I don’t know what she wants me to say, or if she’s hinting at something.
I feel like a freaking idiot.
“What’s the last book you read?” I finally ask when we hit a crosswalk, looking both ways before stepping down into the road, crossing to the next city block.
“A romance novel. It took me two weeks because, well, studying and stuff got in the way.” She hops down beside me, keeping stride, her elbow brushing my arm. “What about you? Do you like to read?”
“The last book I read was a mystery. I…”
I hesitate, not wanting to sound lame.
“You what?”
“I, uh, spend a lot of time at the public library.”
“The public library?”
“You know, the city library, where they have more fiction than at school. I study there, too. Mostly on the weekends.”
Laurel makes a little humming sound. “I never thought of studying there—maybe I should come with you next time, if you don’t mind the company.” She’s teasing me again, giving me a little bump with her hip.
Mine singes from the contact.
“It’s quiet. I can hear myself think.”
“Do you miss your friends from Louisiana?”
I shrug. “I don’t think it’s the same for guys as it is for girls. Most of my friends were teammates, and they were pissed I left the team. Haven’t talked to most of them in a while.”
“I bet.”
We arrive at Luigi’s. I get the door, hold it open so she can enter first.
When Laurel brushes past me, I catch another whiff of her. Whatever she’s sprayed on herself or in her hair, it smells fucking fantastic.
She steps up, over the threshold, shooting me a look over her slim shoulder.
“Should we sit there, by the window so we can people watch?”
“Sure. We can watch the drunks heading to the bars.”
“That’ll be fun. I’ll sit while you grab a menu?”
I grab one, head back to the table.
Her eyes rake me up and down, crinkled at the corners, watching. Always smiling at me like she has a naughty little secret, looking me up and down as I move across the room. I fight my initial instinct to look away.
Chin in her hands, Laurel’s intense gaze starts at the tips of my black tennis shoes. Lands and holds steady on my crotch. Roams up my chest, my shoulders, the pleasant smile never leaving her face.
Mischievous.
Playful.
Sexy, even with her flaming red hair piled on top of her head like a rat’s nest. She has a cute silver headband in her hair, too.
I join her at the table and watch as she reveals a tube of strawberry lip balm, coats her top lip, then her bottom. Smacks them both together, puckering before tucking the tube away, satisfied.
Rubs them together again as she watches me.
When I clear my throat, her eyes flicker to my neck.
“What are you in the mood for?” I ask.
Laurel hums, a little smile playing at her lips as she picks at the corner of the menu. “What am I in the mood for? Good question.” Pauses. “Extra cheese? And whatever else you want?” Her smile, by all accounts, is perfectly innocent. “I love pizza—I could eat it every day.”
She hands the menu back across the table.
I unfold it, pretending to study the damn thing but mentally calculating the money inside my wallet. I think there’s a twenty tucked away somewhere, possibly a ten and a few singles to cover a large?
One thing is for sure: I cannot charge this meal on my credit card, although it’s possible dinner with a pretty girl would constitute an emergency charge, at least to my mother.
“Let’s do a large supreme? With everything?”
“Don’t forget the extra cheese.” Laurel beams, her straight white teeth twinkling at me.
Jesus. I’ve never been in such close proximity to anyone so fucking beautiful in my entire, depressing life—it’s so unsettling that I shake my head to stop from gawking at her.
A waiter comes over to take our order: large pie with everything, extra cheese, two waters. He takes our menu before walking off, shooting a double-take over his shoulder in Laurel’s direction, bumping into a table on his way back to the kitchen.
He returns with our waters a few seconds later.
“When is your next wrestling meet?” She sips her water through the straw, pink lips puckered.
“Weigh-in is early Friday morning.”
“Weigh-in, does that mean you have a meet soon?”
“Day after next.”
Those clear eyes widen. “When do you leave?”
“Bus pulls out first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Where are you going?”
“Ohio State.”
“Ohio State,” she repeats, an awestruck lilt to her tone. “Wow. How many times have you played them? Is that the right word? Played? I have no idea what they call it in wrestling.” She’s kind of babbling, her laugh light and playful.
“I get what you’re askin’. Yeah, I’ve had matches against them before.”
“Wait, if you weigh-in on Friday, isn’t eating pizza right now a bad idea?”
Yeah, it really fucking is—it’s horrible, as a matter of fact, but I don’t say the words out loud because I don’t want her to feel bad for bringing me here. Instead, I go with a non-committal shrug.
“Hey!” Laurel perks up. “How do you say pizza in French?”
“Pizza.”
“Oh.” She looks adorably disappointed. “What about this?”
She’s holding up a fork.
“Fourchette.”
“How do you say…” Her eyes scan the room looking for more objects for me to translate. Cup. Table. Bathroom.
“Tell me how to say, ‘I hate this red hair.’”
“Tes cheveux roux sont beau.” Your red hair is beautiful, I say with a straight face. “Tu es belle.” You’re beautiful.
Laurel squints her weirdly hued blue eyes at me. “That was an awful lot of words for ‘I hate this red hair.’”
I laugh. Shrug. “I don’t make the rules.”
When she crosses her arms, her breasts push up. “Were you making fun of me? Be honest.”
“Are you for real? No, I wasn’t makin’ fun of you. Why would I do that?”
“Hmmm.” She eyeballs me. “Just making sure.”
“Are all girls like this?”
“Like what?”
“Suspicious.”
Her laugh is a gentle lilt across the table. “Probably. I’ll try not to sound so needy.”
The pizza arrives—steaming cheese and toppings set in the center of our table on a metal rack. Cheese oozes off the top when I lift off a piece, and I can’t help but mentally tabulate the calories I’m going to have to jog off from each slice.
Probably a few laps around the block tonight, and a few miles at first light, just in case.
Fuck.
Each bite goes down easy, warm and cheesy, and I close my eyes, moaning. Chew. Swallow.
“God this is good.” I emit a long groan, cracking my lids. “Christ Almighty, it’s been so long.”
Laurel gapes blankly at me from across the table, lips parted, eyes wide, entire face flushed. She croaks, “Has it?”
Why is she staring at me like that?
“Shit, yeah. It’s been forever since I’ve had pizza. Definitely not during the season.”
“Right.” Slowly, she lifts her own slice, nipping off one bite then another, chewing thoughtfully. “How long will it take to burn that off?”
I bite down again. Moan. Swallow. “You don’t want to know.”
“Are you going home to do sit-ups?” she teases.
“No. I’ll probably go for a run.”
Her pizza halts halfway to her mouth. “Seriously? But it’s dark outside.”
“Is it?” I tease.
Her brows scowl. “That’s not exactly safe.”
She really is fucking adorable.
“No one is goin’ to jump me if that’s what you’re worried about.” I laugh. “I run at night all the time.”
Her blue eyes start an appraisal of my upper torso, raking up and down and across my chest. My shoulders. Land on my biceps.
Stay there. “That’s probably true—I know I wouldn’t want to mess with you.”
“Have you ever taken self-defense classes?”
“No.”
“Do you have mace? Pepper spray?”
“No.” She nips at her pizza with a smile, amused.
“You really should, especially if you’re going to be walkin’ around at night by yourself.”
“Could you teach me self-defense?”
“Wrestling isn’t the same as self-defense, but I could probably teach you a few tricks.”
“Oh really?”
I gulp down some water. “Yeah, but you and your friends should probably take a class. They’re usually free or really cheap at most rec departments.”
“Hmm, what if I just call you to be my escort instead?” She wiggles her eyebrows, blue eyes sparkling, alive with interest.
I lean against the wooden chair back, crossing my arms with a firm nod. “You should take a class.”
Laurel
Rhett’s arms are crossed and my brain automatically does that thing it naturally wants to do: checks out his muscles. His dense, smooth biceps and strong arms are overlapping, thumbs tucked under his pits.
He’s huge.
My mouth goes dry, the urge to lick my lips strong. I reach for my glass and take a drink of water instead, swallowing down the first real stirring of lust.
Jeez he has a great body.
I snuck peeks at it our entire walk to Luigi’s. Rhett’s height has him standing over me by a good six inches, and there’s no doubt he’s packing a serious physique under all those clothes. Hat twisted, brim to the back, his brown hair sticks out from beneath the cap in wispy curls. Broad shoulders, each straining muscle visible under that stretched purple shirt.
Rhett’s neck cords with each swallow of hot, gooey pizza.
His dark brown eyes regard me, not a single flash of desire reflected there, although they do keep flickering to the mop of flaming red hair piled atop my head, to my lips.
I toy with a piece of cheese dangling from my next slice. “You’re probably right. I think it would be smart to take a class. It’s something I’ve wanted to do forever.”
I can’t help letting my mind wander to what it would be like if he gave me a lesson or two—that big, strapping body flipping me to the ground, hovering over me, panting.
I shiver.
Guh.
Down hormones. Down girls.
Yes, I’ve dated insanely attractive guys, guys that are hotter than even I am, with amazing bodies and better stamina. Athletes with pedigree, gorgeous faces, and…no personality.
Those guys didn’t give a shit about my safety, and they certainly weren’t trying to talk me into taking self-defense classes with my girlfriends.
Now, I’m sitting here with Rhett, a nice guy who hasn’t objectified me once—not even when we were sexting the other night, no matter how hard I tried to make him take the bait.
I wonder about his track record with women. When’s the last time he had sex? What turns him on? Physically, what’s his type?
I stifle the thoughts when the bill comes, pull some cash out of my back pocket, slip a ten onto the table.
“I’ve got it.” Rhett shakes his head, pushing the money back toward me in protest. I’ve gawt it.
My chest swells.
He’s so polite.
“Rhett, you just had to charge four hundred dollars on your credit card. You don’t have to pay for the pizza,” I argue feebly. Something about the set of his jaw has me hesitating to push the issue.
He shakes his head. “It’ll be fine; my parents will understand the reasons behind it.”
“When are you going to tell them?”
“I plan to do it after I win at Penn. They’ll watch it on TV, and then I’ll call while my old man is high off my victory.”
I return the money to my pocket. Stand. Shrug into my jacket.
Rhett waits by the door, holding it open for me like a gentleman so I can step out into the dark night. We walk in silence for the first block while I wrack my brain for something to say, growing more aware of his body heat the farther into the dark we stroll.
“Sorry you have to go jogging tonight.”
“Don’t worry about it—I’m used to it.”
“Want me to come with you?”
He stops in his tracks. “You’re a runner?”
I’m thankful for the dim streetlights when my face heats up. “Well…no.”
“Oh.” He starts walking again, stuffing his hands inside his pockets. “I keep a brisk pace that would probably kill you.” He shoots me a sidelong glance. “Do you play any sports?”
“I do. I played volleyball here freshman and sophomore year.”
“Why’d you quit?”
Shrugging, I kick at the pavement beneath my feet. “I hate to call it quitting—I’d rather call it burnout. I had no life and got sick of it. Plus, the drama from my teammates and practicing non-stop was exhausting. So one day I just…”
I risk a glance in his direction, wondering if I’ll see disappointment etched across his expression.
Athletes don’t usually identify with quitters, and if I’m being honest, I fall into that category.
“What did your parents say?” he asks into the night.
“They were relieved. I think they were sick of getting crying phone calls from me every week. Plus, I was a walk-on, not a scholarship athlete, so there was no free ride for tuition. My grades were suffering, and I can’t afford to be here five years.”
Unlike Rhett, who was courted and recruited by not one, but multiple top-tier universities. I wonder how good he actually is, making a mental note to Google his stats when I get home.
We walk the remaining three blocks, hands brushing a few times in the dark, neither of us choosing to break the distance by stepping away.
We arrive at his Jeep.
“Need a lift home?” His deep voice is a rumble in the night.
My eyes flicker briefly to my SUV parked three spaces down. I clamp my lips shut.
“Sure. That would be great.”
Rhett hits his key fob, unlocking the doors. Pulls the passenger side open and holds it. “Hop in.”
I get all melty at his chivalry, brush against him when I scoot past to scramble inside, settling into the cab of his Jeep with a sigh. Setting my backpack in my lap, I glance around curiously while he jogs around the front.
He waves to someone coming down the sidewalk from the library. Throws them a smile.
Yanks open his door and climbs up.
“Which way we headed?”
“I’m three blocks in the other direction, over near Kinsey. Know where that is?”
“Huh,” he says, putting the Jeep in reverse. “That’s where I’m at.”
“On Kinsey?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m one over—technically I’m at the crossroad, McClintock, but everyone knows Kinsey so I just say that.”
“Got it.”
I study his profile, the bump in his nose. The strong set of his jaw. The stubble on his neck and chin. The reflection from the rearview mirror like a mask across his dark brown eyes.
Surprisingly, the cab of the Jeep smells clean but masculine. Musky, like cologne, and not old gym socks.
I’m tempted to scoot closer for a covert whiff of him but think better of it because, Jesus, I must be losing my damn mind. I can’t be attracted to him.
Can I?
Shit, what if I am?
It takes a measly three minutes to reach my street, the glowing windows of our little college rental a small beacon at the end of the road, ramshackle but quaint.
“I’m that one.” I point to the tiny white house on the corner, the one with dilapidated siding and a broken screen door. Our landlord hasn’t cut the grass or fixed the cracked window above our kitchen sink, but you can’t see any of those imperfections in the dark.
Donovan and Lana’s cars are both gone.
They must be at work.
Still, the little light above our stove glows, dim but warm.
“This one?” Rhett slows to a stop in front of my house, shifting the Jeep into park. His arm goes across the seat back, body arching to look out the windshield behind us. “See that house over there? The blue one?”
I crane my neck, cheek brushing his hand. “Where?”
I’m such a damn liar—I can totally see which house is his, the blue one with black trim. When his hand inadvertently brushes against the back of my neck, tickling the loose hairs…
I shiver.
“That one there. It’s…” He counts the houses between his house and mine. “Nine houses over.” He tips his chin down so he’s looking into my eyes. “What are the odds?”
“What are the odds?” I repeat, whispering into the dark, staring at his profile when he glances out the driver-side window. I stare at his full lips.
Rhett pulls away. “Where’s your car?”
“Uh…my roommate has it. She must be working.”
“You goin’ to be okay by yourself?”
“I’m here alone all the time,” I remind him, in no rush to climb out.
“Duh. Right.” He nods. Clears his throat. “Right.”
Rhyt.
“Thanks for the ride.”
“No problem.” When he smiles, jeez, it changes his whole face. His straight white teeth shining in the dim light, the small cleft visible in the center of his chin. I want to press my finger there just to see his reaction.
“Good night, Rhett.”
“À la prochaine, Laurel,” his mouth whispers, and holy mother my ovaries can’t take it. My crotch actually tingles.
“Um, maybe don’t do that.”
“Don’t what?”
“Speak French. Around me, specifically.”
One brow rises. “All right…I won’t?”
“Good.” My hand reaches reluctantly for the door handle. Grips it. “Okay. I should go inside, I guess.”
“Night.”
“See you around.”
“Au revoir.”
I narrow my eyes; he did that on purpose. “Bye.”
“Laurel, do you need help getting out?”
“No, I’m good.” I heft my backpack. “On second thought, this backpack is really heavy.”
The poor boy looks so confused. “You need me to carry it?”
“Would you?”
“Uh…sure.”
I wait for him to come around to the passenger side, open the door, remove the backpack from my very capable hands.
Then I stand next to the Jeep, imagination getting the best of me, wanting him to try to kiss me against the cold, steel door of his car. Wanting him to put his hands on my body, slide them under my jacket. Drop my bag and press his lean hips into mine. Run his giant wrestler hands up my ribcage, under my shirt.
I imagine all this while he stands waiting for me, imagine what it would be like if he touched me.
He doesn’t.
Of course he wouldn’t—why would he?
He’s a freaking gentleman.
I sigh, following him to my door.
I’m quickly learning that Rhett Rabideaux isn’t most guys.
Tres inconvenient.
Rhett
Laurel: I know I already mentioned it, but thank you for dinner tonight
Me: You’re welcome.
Laurel: And thanks for bringing me home. It wasn’t necessary.
Me: No problem.
Laurel: You’re a really nice guy, do you know that?
Me: So I’ve been told.
Laurel: What do you have going on this weekend?
Me: Meet Friday. Back Saturday.
Laurel: Oh that’s right, Ohio State. Do you think you’ll go out this weekend when you get back?
Me: Probably not. I usually spend the weekend after a meet icing my body.
Laurel: Do tell.
Me: Ha ha.
Laurel: Sigh. You are a tough crowd, Rhett Rabideaux.
Me: Hey, can I ask you something?
Laurel: Sure!
Me: I was telling my roommates I drove you home tonight, and after I mentioned where you live and pointed out your house, one of them said they always see three cars parked in front of your house?
Laurel: Ummmm.
Me: Did your roommate borrow your car, or did something happen to it? Or…
Laurel: No.
Me: You can tell me if something happened to it, Laurel.
Laurel: Promise you won’t get mad?
Me: Sure?
Laurel: My car is… God, I don’t know how to tell you this without sounding like a horrible person.
Me: Jeez, just tell me where your car is. Did it get towed?
Laurel: My car is parked in front of the library.
Me: What do you mean?
Laurel: I mean, my car was three spots down from your Jeep. It’s still sitting on campus—is that what you want me to say?
Me: I don’t get it.
Laurel: What don’t you get?
Me: Why would you accept a ride home when your car was literally RIGHT there? Now you have to go back and get it.
Laurel: Why don’t I let you figure that one out for yourself? Or if you really can’t figure it out, ask one of your more experienced roommates.
The last text comes through and I shake my head, baffled. Why would she have had me take her home if her car was parked right there?
It makes no goddamn sense.
Fresh from the shower, I toss the towel I used to dry my hair onto the bathroom floor then walk into the front room. My roommates are both spread out on the couch, watching some dude on a home improvement show saw a piece of wood in half and nail it to a wall.
I clear my throat. “Hey. Question.”
“Shoot.” Neither takes their eyes off the giant screen.
“So, remember how I told y’all I drove Laurel home, and then you said you always see three cars in her driveway? I messaged her about it.”
“Yeah?” Gunderson’s ears perk up at the mention of a girl’s name, his eyes fastened to the TV.
“She had her car at the library.”
Eric points the remote at the TV, hits pause. “Your cars were both at the library?”
“Right.”
“But she had you give her a ride home.”
“Yeah.”
He points the remote, hits play. “Uh, yeah—she wants to bone you.”
I laugh, crossing my arms.
Johnson shakes his head, disgusted, and sneers. “The chick obviously wanted you to give her a ride home, fuckwit, and there’s only one reason why. How goddamn dumb are you?”
“Fuck you, Johnson.”
“No, fuck you, Rabideaux. That chick wants you to fuck her.”
I stand there, holding my towel closed.
“Honestly New Guy, if you can’t figure out what it means when a chick tries to be alone with you, your chances of getting laid at this point are slim to none.”
“Agreed,” Gunderson chimes in. “She either has horribly bad taste in guys or is mentally unstable. Are you sure she’s hot?”
“Yes.”
“Can I interject again?” Eric interjects. “Members of the jury, I’d like to point out that this chick has been dicking you around for days, and you’re letting her lead you around by the balls. You need to either fuck her already or tell her to stop messaging you.”
“Yes! Thank you!” Gunderson shouts, banging on the coffee table. “Exhibit A: first she lies to you about who she is. Exhibit B: she lied about her car and faked needing a ride.”
My roommates are on a roll now. “New Guy, I don’t give a shit how hot this chick is, you need to dump her.”
Gunderson nods enthusiastically “You cannot let bitches treat you that way, dude.”
I listen to them rambling on and on as if I’m not standing here, wondering what the fuck is wrong with these two? Seriously, they’re so fucking ridiculous. And the way they talk about women? Not cool.
No wonder they’re both single.
Not that I have any room to talk, but still…
“Can you not refer to her that way, please? Laurel isn’t a bitch.”
“Maybe not, but she sounds calculating.”
“Well, it’s your fault I’m in this mess to begin with, isn’t it? The whole thing with those damn flyers is the reason she and I are talking in the first place.”
“But you admit she’s been lying from the beginning.”
“Are you pre-law and didn’t tell anyone about it?” I ask him, narrowing my eyes at his cross-examination.
He ignores me, ticking off Laurel’s offenses on his fingers. “And she’s a cock tease.”
“How is she a cock tease?” These guys really are aggravating. “I’m not trying to sleep with her.”
“Fine. I’ll give you that one concession—she’s not the cock tease, you are. Look, all we know is that this chick likes you for some ungodly fucking reason—she must to be panting around after you like this.”
I sigh. Why did I bother asking these two for their opinion?
“That is not what’s happenin’ here, not at all. We’re friends—she wouldn’t date a guy like me.”
“That’s probably true—you are pretty ugly.”
“Fuck you, Gunderson.”