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“What part of ‘she’s mine’ did you not get?” I snarl in his face, nailing him to the ground. Well, this escalated quickly. Can’t help it, though. The more I think about how much of a dickbag this dude is for even suggesting he’d date my best friend, the more I want to punch him into unconsciousness. Luckily, Jolie and I have this kind of relationship where we don’t even have to fully explain ourselves to each other and she’d agreed to “date” me.
Just like I’d agreed to take care of her friend’s pet ferret for a month junior year because her grandmama was allergic and she couldn’t do it herself. We’re there for each other in big ways and little ones. Always.
“I’m not looking at Jolie, dickwad! I’m looking at Chelsea. I asked her out yesterday.” Mark pushes me off of him, and I roll on the hot, damp grass, laughing to the bright blue sky. It unburdens me from weight I didn’t know I had on my heart. Ever since I graduated from high school, I’ve always had it easy—easy with girls, easy with grades, and easy with football. The rest I didn’t really care about, frankly. And maybe that’s why I’ve never had something I was in danger of losing. I do now, and hell if it’s not a bitch to keep it from slipping between my fingers.
“Chelsea, huh? You move fast,” I note, standing to my feet and wobbling between Michael and Elliott, who are stretching on the ground.
“Said the guy who dicked the girl I wanted to date just so I couldn’t have her.” Mark picks his gear up from the grass and stomps toward the dressing room behind me. He catches up to me, and I rein in the urge to steal a glance at my fake girlfriend, who really doesn’t feel that fake at all.
“Don’t talk about her like that.” I scowl.
“Why? You talk about girls like that all the time.” He laughs.
Because she’s not a fucking girl; she’s my best friend, I’m tempted to yell, but I’m not five, nor a pussy, so I bite my lip and change the subject.
“You inviting Chelsea to that charity thing in New York?” I jerk my chin in the girls’ direction. One of my sponsors is flying me out with a plus one. I can’t wait to see Jolie in a red dress—that’s the dress code for the female attendees—and seeing everyone’s faces when this Southern belle is on my arm alone could make me shoot my load all over my tux.
“Why? Are you asking Jolie?”
“Of course, I fucking am. She’s my girl. So?” I don’t know why I’m pushing this. Maybe because I really want to hear that he’s over JoJo.
“Fuck knows, man. We haven’t even gone on one date. What’s it to you?” He frowns and stops by our blue lockers. I shrug. I know that Mark and Jolie don’t speak to each other. I’d just like to keep it that way for the remainder of our last year of college. If she finds out I cockblocked her out of this potential relationship, she is going to jerk me off with a Brillo pad.
“Just curious.”
“Hey, man, don’t take this the wrong way, but it looks like something’s eating you,” Mark says carefully, peeling his shirt off and throwing it on a bench behind us. “Is everything okay?”
Everything is not okay. I made a horrible mistake with a girl, and even though it made me realize that there’s another girl I deeply want and love, I hurt someone. A lot. But I just smile. “Couldn’t be more perfect.”
“Good.” He strokes his chin. “Good.”
I take my clothes off and step into the shower, letting the scorching hot water punish me for what I did.
I’ll fix it all.
Fix it all with Jolie.
The day drags.
By the time I stumble through my front door, it’s already ten at night.
Between my shift at the Happy Bunny—a diner off of Bordeaux Street—and a library session with Chelsea and Penny, I’m thoroughly spent. Too exhausted to even grab myself a bite. The minute I get into the apartment, I head straight to the shower, scrub off the day’s dirt, slip into my pajamas (conveniently located on a hanger in the bathroom right next to my towel to avoid any more embarrassing hallway encounters with Sage) and slide under my blanket without even turning on the lamp next to my bed. I scoot to the edge of my bed and close my eyes.
Mmm, this is nice.
So relaxing.
I can just drift and clear my mind and not think about…
Okay, something is poking my ass.
Correction: an erection is poking my ass.
Double correction: a bare erection is. Poking. My. Ass. Mothertrucker!
“Sage!” I jolt, partly pissed, but—let’s admit it—mostly turned on. It’s like Sage has the manual to my body and knows how to work it better than I do. Which is weird. We still haven’t spoken about the sudden escalation in our relationship, but since it’s already happened—what’s crossing another line, right?
