Page 70 of Fake Crown

People are fucking stupid.

Out of curiosity, I click on the video and watch it through. Then I watch it again. God, I could stare at her all day. Makes me think I should definitely be taking more videos of my girlfriend. Or pictures. Or both. When she eventually lands that TV deal, she’s going to be dynamite on camera.

“How are you this whipped after a couple weeks?” Jaxon asks.

“What?” I close my phone and stare at him.

“That goofy grin on your face. Some sappy shit. I’m assuming you’re watching the two of you all loved up on video?”

A few times, but he’s not getting any more out of me in regard to Posey. He loves making me feel like an idiot for becoming obsessed with the girl who was meant to be my rebound. Not my fault that Posey Jensen turned out to be fucking amazing. When you win the lottery, you don’t return the winning ticket, even if other people might begrudge you.

In the kitchen, I dump coffee grounds into a filter, fill the machine, and flick it on.

“She took a bus to Chicago to watch you swim?” Jaxon asks, sitting up. “The video is from this weekend, isn’t it?”

“She took a midnight bus to Chicago on Saturday night.” I leave out the part where she was drunk. Laid bare, this version of the truth makes me feel pretty damn good. She missed me so much she took a midnight bus...while drunk. Probably not the safest, now that I think about it.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” A slow smile spreads across Jaxon’s face. “You’re not the only one who’s whipped. Fucking miracles do happen. You need to buy a lottery ticket, man.”

The coffee trickles into the pot behind me. “Don’t say a word to Posey about any of this.”

“You mean about how the two of you are more whipped than the cream you stole out of the fridge last week when she was over?”

“Did you really want me to put it back after?”

“You owe me. I bought that can for my blow job cocktails.”

If Posey was here, she’d have a field day with that comment. Jaxon drinking blow job cocktails, the fact we used the whipped cream for a literal blow job. No question over what the better use was. The coffee finishes dripping into the pot, and I hold it toward him. “Want some?”

“I’m good,” he says. “Why can’t I tease Posey about being whipped?”

“’Cause I think she’d rather literally be whipped,” I say while I stir cream into my coffee. “She’s a wild animal. Can’t spook her.”

“You don’t think a viral social media post might have already done that?” Jaxon flops back onto the couch and picks up the remote. “The two of you look very comfortable together.”

She should have been home hours ago, but she has class this afternoon, and she still had to put the finishing touches on her project. Not hearing from her doesn’t mean she’s spooked. Making a big deal about this temporary spike in our visibility around campus is unnecessary and likely harmful for both of us. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from all the times I’ve gotten unwanted attention, it’s that if you lay low, people stop caring. At some point, the fervor dies down. Don’t fan the flames. Easy.

Evening practice is shorter than normal as recovery from the swim meet, and when I still haven’t heard from Posey after I leave the locker room, I grab a latte on my way to her apartment. Coffee is always a good excuse to show up uninvited. At least I know she’ll let me in the door if I’ve got a latte in my hand—or at least someone will. I’ve proven that much in the last few weeks.

After I ring the buzzer for their apartment, I shift on my feet and try not to let Jaxon’s words about spooking Posey with a viral social media post get to me. She came to Chicago. She asked whether I’d treated Val the same way I treat her. What I told her was true. I never treated Val the way I’ve treated Posey—never wanted to.

With Posey, I’m all in. Whether I’ve never let myself feel this way or I’ve been waiting for someone like her to wake me up, I’ve realized Deacon’s analogy is correct. I can have more than one glass ball. Swimming is one, but Posey is my other. He was also right that Posey is worth the effort to take down her walls. This past weekend was proof of both those theories.

Now all I have to do is not fuck it up.

Instead of the buzzer sounding to let me up, the receiver on the wall rings. I pick it up, and I frown at the camera on the ceiling.

“Hey, Brent,” Posey says. “I’m pretty tired from the weekend. I think I’ll get an early night. I can catch up with you tomorrow.”

Her tone is too breezy to be real. She never talks like this when she actually means something. Up go the fucking walls. I hold the latte toward the camera. “I brought you a Jack Frost. They just started serving them today.” It’s my ace in the hole. When I arrived at the coffee shop and saw the latte Posey mentioned last night in bed, it felt like a sign that coming here was the right idea.

“A Jack Frost?”

The hopeful wariness is cute. She wants this latte, even if she doesn’t want to let me upstairs. I take a big sniff from the top of the cup. “White chocolate. Vanilla bean. Peppermint. I mean, if you don’t want it, I could probably drink it for you.” But I won’t. Coffee keeps me awake, but Posey can drink one and fall asleep within an hour. It’s a sorcery I do not understand.

“Dammit, Brent.”

The buzzer sounds, and I do a fist pump into the air before I tug open the unlocked door. If the latte hadn’t worked, I would have detailed how I’d score the orgasm of her choice. I’m not afraid to play dirty.