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On Wednesday, I showed up at ten pm on the dot. Patrick didn’t say a word. He shut the door, dragged me to the bed, and pulled down my panties and leggings in a single tug. Unzipping his fly with one hand, he felt between my legs with the other. When his fingers met my slickness, he put on a condom and sank into me.
My coat was still on and zipped up. My gloves were still on. I could barely move, my leggings around my ankles, on my back with my feet slung over his shoulder. His body was a heavy weight, his cock opening me, the one part of him that was bare.
I’d felt so naked, those first two times with Patrick. But fucking fully dressed, our most intimate parts the only skin touching, shockingly hot and wet as I stared into his freezing gaze, was an entirely different kind of naked. It was humiliating, it freaked me out, and his total silence — not even a fucking groan — forced me into silence too. I bit back my moans, trembling underneath him.
At least breakfast was good.
I pictured Patrick sitting in his Econ classes, making a list in that inhumanly precise handwriting:Games to play with Christina.
The only constants for each visit, besides breakfast and sex, were the two bros who hung around the back door of Kappa Sig like rogue security guards. They were there on Wednesday and back the following Monday. At least they took Fridays off. Rufus always ignored me, and Chase, always tried to chat me up. He called me Cookie Girl.
In Victorian Lit, we were talking about poverty in 19thcentury novels, and how the writers’ living conditions affected their art. I didn’t speak up, but I stayed awake and listened, slipping a hand in my purse to touch the bills I earned.
I needed Patrick’s money. I wasn’t poor or anything. My utilities weren’t in danger of being turned off again, but I had a long way to go toward independence. I was trying to be more careful: groceries instead of eating out, free events at night, letting go of Cookie Girl and Pizza Girl, saying no to all the random crap I used to buy.
I kept tucking money in my heart-shaped box, determined to save a few thousand by the end of the semester.
I was going to pay my bills on time.
I was going to show my parents they couldn’t control my life through money.
And I was going to throw Alexis the best fucking bachelorette party the world had ever seen.
But the money seemed to disappear. Most went to expenses, but some went to the health clinic where I got tested. I walked into Patrick’s room with the paper clutched in my hand, and we traded our clean resultsin silence.
The bills, on the other hand, were there, and so were my grades. My shitty grades from last semester.
Two professors, in the courses where I’d gotten D’s, were allowing me to redo my final projects. I had my current classes to keep up. I was sinking fast in Victorian Lit. There was Student Senate. The three nights a week in Patrick’s room.
All this meant one thing: I needed uppers.
Marcus looked startled when I caught up with him after Victorian Lit. “Back so soon?”
I waited until we turned into the narrow space between buildings that gave us privacy. “I need more.”
“That was fast.” He whipped out his phone and held the calendar front of my face. “I sold to you during finals in mid-December. It’s now Monday, January 28th— a mere six weeks, including winter break.”
“Put that away.” I blocked the calendar with my hand. “Don’t tell me you’re tracking when we talk.”
He slid the phone into his pocket. “Point is, I didn’t expect you for at least two months, Lady Christina. More like three, based on the past. What happened to the occasional use for midterms? Exams? Parties where you want to be even bubblier?”
“Do you get judgy with all your customers, or just me?”
“I’m not giving you a handout on credit again.”
“It wasn’t a handout,” I snapped. “I paid you. I have money now.”
“New job?” He took off his knitted hat and twirled it lazily around his fingers. Snowflakes drifted onto his curls. “Inheritance from an eccentric great-aunt? Trust fund?”
I folded my arms over my chest. “You don’t need to worry about where it’s coming from.”
Marcus stopped twirling his hat. “You can still clean my place if you need cash,” he said after an awkward pause. “Standing offer.”
“That’s really okay.”
He shrugged. “Stop by after eleven tonight and I might have something for you.”
“Not tonight,” I said quickly.
