AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Unlike Skylar, this woman doesn’t like me very much, and the feeling is mutual, though we haven’t exchanged a word before this moment.
I bristle and straighten up. "Studying."
That's not even close to the truth, but she's a complete stranger. Why would she care what I'm into?
The truth is, I don't have a thing. I spent most of my life in survival mode, doing my best to just feed and house my sister and myself. The last few months, I’ve had less worry, more freedom, but neither the time nor resources to find something to do for enjoyment. Rollerblading was fun, but it fell on my lap because Pauline owned some. It's not really mine. I'm not sure I want to buy myself a new pair, even after my ribs get better.
How sad is that? I bet Skylar and the pretty Barbie have a ready list of "things" they’re into.
"Speaking of, I'd better get to it."
I practically run on my feet, putting as much distance as possible between me and the group of jocks and cheerleaders.
ChapterFifty-Five
The rest of the week unfolds like the first day, but for a few minute variations. I attend class. I see Camden, generally surrounded by his group of beautiful, well-dressed, popular sycophants, more often than not including the stunningly perfect tanned Barbie who never leaves his side.
I try not to look, but I fail. Every day, she touches him with familiarity—taking his hand, his arm, touching his face. He doesn't initiate contact, but he still lets her subtly claim him with her relentless pawing, and it makes me want to vomit.
Are they a thing? Have I entered into this deal with a guy who has agirlfriend? I should have asked him whether he was single before agreeing to anything. It doesn't sit well with me at all. I knew from the start that our thing was far from exclusive, but that's something else. There’s a difference between fucking a guy who happens to sleep with other people too, and having sex with someone else’s man. I’m not that person. I’m not the other woman. At least, I don’t want to be.
Presumably, so long as the girlfriend also agreed to sharing, he hasn’t deceived anyone. But I hate the idea all the same. What's more, I don't understand why someone with such a gorgeous partner would bother to chase me so relentlessly.
I itch to text him about it, asking who she is to him, demand why he never said a word about her, but I'm just sane enough to stop myself. I’d come off as jealous and far more interested than I want him to believe I am if I did. Just because he fucks me once a week shouldn't mean I care about what he does with the rest of his time or who he does it with.
The blank screen of my phone stares back at me every time I look at it, more and more frustrated. The problem isn't just the other woman—or the fact thatIcould be the other woman. Camden hasn't even messaged me since Saturday, in stark contrast from when he used to stalk me back in LA. Maybe now that he officially has me once a week, he doesn't feel the need to make an effort.
I hate it. I hate myself for even noticing, let alone caring.
Camden’s aunt calls on Tuesday with a list of options available for birth control that she believes will agree with me. I opt to be fitted with an implant, rather than relying on remembering to take daily pills or come back for shots. She heartily approves, and invites me to her clinic to get it done. I take an Uber right after my classes to get it over with as soon as possible. The last thing I need is to get knocked up because I dragged my feet.
I see Damian in the café on Wednesday. He’s surrounded by a boisterous group of bulky guys—his hockey friends—and a gargle of puck bunnies, more pathetic than any cheerleaders. I roll my eyes at him, though I’m happy to see him. I don’t expect we’ll cross paths often. He’s in his second year, and his priority is hockey. Still, it’s nice to reminded that I have at least a friend here.
On Thursday, I drop an application by the university café, eager to get a way of making a little money again.
The short, slender guy who takes it eyes me dubiously. "You're sure? The pay's not high."
He's noting my new, well-tailored clothes and shoes, and assuming I have as much money as the majority of the students here.
I can't blame him. I don't really look like myself in soft three figure jeans and the fancy red leather jacket I've taken to wearing now that the air's getting chilly. But the way I look doesn't change the fact that I don't have any income coming in.
"I'm definitely sure I'd like to apply," I tell him.
"Then I'll give it to my boss. You should hear back by the weekend."
"Thank you…" I glance at his name tag. "Evan."
"Nah, thankyou,"he counters. "We can certainly use the extra hands."
I'd noticed the staff was generally serving nonstop every time I walked past, hence why I thought to check on whether they needed help. Even now, as we chat on the side, he's filling four orders and there's a small queue waiting for more. "How come? It's such a convenient job, you'd think students would beg to work here."
The barista snorts. "Right. People pay hundreds of thousands to attend this place. They don't need to work."
That doesn't make sense. "There are scholarship students, too."
"Sure, but not many—and most of us need to work our asses off to keep our grades up." He shrugs. "I only qualify for another year of aid if I make it to the top percentile."
I wince in sympathy, glad I don't have that stress on my shoulders. "That sucks. I'd better let you get back to it."
