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I’m barely passing the class with a C that will sink like the Titanic with tomorrow’s test.
“You’re kidding, right?” I ask, checking our surroundings to see if someone is recording this joke. Because it has to be that. There’s no other way that this is happening.
Stanley follows my gaze, completely lost.
“Do I look like I’m joking?” His answer is what I was expecting.
I clench my jaw, my blood boiling inside my veins. I can’t believe that he dares to do this and think that I will simply let him do whatever he wants. It’s unbelievable. What’s up with these rich kids thinking that they can bat their eyes and think that the world is going to bow before them?Fuck. Them.
“I don’t know. You’ve always looked like a clown to me,” I say, forcing a smile. His expression turns into a hurt one, but I couldn’t care less. “Excellent talk, buddy. I hope we don’t repeat it.”
I pat his shoulder twice and bypass him. Finally, resuming my quest for Ash. I have to push some people out of the way before I can touch her shoulder.
“Bree, you came!” Ash exclaims, delighted by my presence.
She won’t be too happy when she discovers the reason I’m here.
Raising the phone, I show her the string of missed calls that I have from her mother. Her blue eyes widen, and she grabs it. Her lips quiver, and she digs her teeth on the bottom one. She’s nervous.
Stacy Moore is not bad; she’s strict. She’d do anything to keep her daughter’s doll face intact. Ash has to be in perfect condition in case a photographer calls her for a photo shoot. Her modeling career blew up after turning eighteen a year ago, and the shootings got more provocative and riskier. Her mother’s persistence has brought her to be the face of multiple famous magazines.
“Can you finish the game for me?” Ash asks, forgetting about the rules. She’s focused on creating a convincing lie for her mother.
I glance at her opponent—now mine—and my breath stops… or I gasp. I’m not entirely sure which one. I’m stuck processing the fact that Iknowthis guy. Though I’ve never had a real conversation with him, I’ve seen him around. He’s popularanda jock.
Physically, he’s so white that I’m not sure he has ever seen the sunlight. His creamy skin on his arms is adorned with black ink; a diversity of tattoos is modeling in them, making an invitation to explore the dark lines. His face is always furrowed, and his sharp jaw clenched, looking like he’s frustrated with life or trying to annihilate you with his somber eyes.
I’ve had a small crush on him since the introduction week when we shared the same group during orientations. I’ve never done anything about it because it’d be pointless. His reputation with women precedes him. Getting into that would be messy. So, I watch him from afar, appreciating his panty-snatching looks. However, not everything about him is drool-worthy; his name.
JohnfuckingCarter.
Of all of the names in the world, his parents had to choose the most used one. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve met a John in my life. It doesn’t matter how hot he is, I don’t think that I could date someone with that name. Hell, not even a hookup. I can’t picture myself moaning that name.
He’s as basic as his name too. John fits the bad boy cliché like a glove. Typical fuckboy who never dates the same girl twice and wears his reputation on his sleeve. He always has chicks on his side, and no one has seen him show a trace of emotion other than anger on the field.
Yeah, I don’t want to get into that mess. Not for real anyway. Plus, he’s also Asshole Stanley’s roommate. The last thing that I want to do is stumble upon that guy again.
“Where did your friend go?”
Well, fuck. I might reconsider my decision after hearing his voice.
Slightly hoarse and deep enough to send shivers through my spine. He can melt my underwear with it, and I’d thank him. I go mute for a second, taking me by surprise because I never shut up. My other two housemates, Cora and Karma, notice my state and come to the rescue.
“She had to make a call, but our girl here will replace her,” says Cora, elbowing me gently. “Who knows, maybe you stand a chance of winning after all.”
As if he stood a chance.
I choke back a chuckle.
He missed that train four cups ago. It’ll be fun to watch him try. No matter how hot he is, my competitive side is bigger than anything else. I’m probably worse than any jock, and I’m not ashamed of it. My brother is the one to blame for my behavior.
John doesn’t mind. He probably thinks that he can recover his dignity.Poor guy.He makes his remaining shot, and it proves that he has no chance of winning this. He’s drunk and his aim is off; not even the fact that his position in the team consists of throwing a ball across a field will help him now. Oh, the irony.
I smile, watching him drink while I grab a clean ball. Closing one eye to sharpen my aim on one of the cups left, I throw it. The sphere enters the cup, making a splash as it falls on the beer.
John’s lips curl in disgust. He grabs the plastic glass to empty it, while his eyes glare at me.
I throw again, and the ball dunks into the other cup.
