Page 47 of Fake Crown

She’s still pressed against me, whispering a torrent of dirty things in my ear, when the car pulls up to the corner I’ve managed to hobble us toward. The good thing about living near campus is that someone’s side hustle, day or night, is as a driver. The wait is never long for a pickup.

When the guy rolls down the passenger window and asks if she’s Val, she punches my chest. “You called me a fucking Uber?”

“You’re welcome,” I say. “I have plans, and you’re not in them.” I shove my hands in my pockets and haul ass toward Posey’s apartment.

Hopefully Val will make the right choice and take the pre-paid ride. If I wait around, she’ll never get in, and there’s somewhere else I’d much rather be.

Posey

My phone is linked to the buzzer downstairs, and when a notification pops up on my home screen, I go to the door to check the security camera. One of the things we liked most about this building, besides its proximity to campus, is its advanced security measures. No one gets into the building without being caught on camera at least once. Before I let Brent into the foyer, I take a minute to gaze at him in the monitor. When I think about it too much, it’s unreal he’s my fake boyfriend. That the guy I was drooling over a week ago is outside my apartment building.

Destiny is on the couch, and a mix of male and female basketball players are sprawled across our furniture and on pillows on the floor. Tonight’s NBA game is on commercial break, and each of them are shouting opinions about the plays or players as though it’s possible to drown each other out.

“Are you going to let him in or just gaze adoringly at the monitor?” Destiny’s attention is glued to the TV as the game returns from commercial, but she thinks she’s nailed me.

“There’s nothing adoring about my gaze.” I hit the button to let him in, and a burst of annoyance zings through me. There might be a weird gratitude lodged in the vicinity of my heart, but it’s normal to be grateful when good things happen. Amazing sex shouldn’t be dismissed. I’ve had a lot of sub-par sexual experiences, so to have a partner who is already so tuned into me is a gift. I’m in awe that his prowess isn’t only in the pool but also in the bedroom.

Something happens on the TV, and the room bursts to life with groans, shouts, and expletives. It’s so loud, I would have missed the knock on the door if I wasn’t already standing next to it. When I swing it back, Brent peers around me.

“Party on a Tuesday?”

“Party every day, Faulkner,” Destiny says from the couch.

“Sounds like you picked the right roommates,” he says, and with his hands braced on the door frame, he kisses my temple. “We partying or...?”

He smells like chlorine, which I never would have considered a turn-on before. “I’m partying in my room alone,” I say. “Too much jock energy out here.” I step aside to let him enter with a bag in his hand. “You packed a bag?”

He glances at me over his shoulder as he heads toward the hallway where the bedrooms are located. “I’m moving in. Fake boyfriend has become fake roommate. Jock energy all over your bedroom.”

I shove him in the back, and he turns to loop his arm around my shoulders, drawing me into his side. He plants another kiss on top of my head.

“That’s not funny,” I say. “I’ll break out in commitment hives.”

He holds my arm while he examines my pale skin. “Not even one.” With raised eyebrows he peers down the hall. “Which room?”

I direct him into the middle bedroom, and he whistles. “What?” I ask.

“Great use of space,” he says.

As a challenge, I took the smallest bedroom, and my double bed is raised off the floor high enough for me to get my desk under it. The walls are neutral, but I incorporated dashes of color in the bedding, accessories, and pictures on the wall.

“Kind of beachy,” he says as he gazes around.

All right. He’s got me. My pops of color tend toward an ocean vibe. “Stop psychoanalyzing me.”

He drops his bag by the door. “How was your afternoon?” Without asking for permission, he steps up my wooden boxes and climbs into my bed.

I shut my laptop, and I follow him. He’s sprawled out, and I’ll have no choice but to cuddle next to him if I want to lie down. Instead of seizing the opportunity, I stare at him with crossed arms. “I don’t normally have men in my bed.”

He props himself onto one elbow. “No? Where do all these non-romantic trysts happen then?”

“Somewhere else.” I crawl across the bed to squeeze in beside him.

“Your day?” he asks again.

“Uneventful. Apart from the lattes and orgasms, of course.”

“Of course.”