I turn to the bartender and throw down three thousand dollars, wink, then follow after him with my drink in hand.
Up ahead, he stops and talks to Coach Nieminen, so I hang back. Coach Fuckhead will start lecturing me about drinking. Like that’s the worst thing I’ve done. Bet most of his gray hairs are from me and my friends.
Although, there’s that dark streak that runs through him too.
We suspected it at first, but when he helped drug Coach Buckland after he beat the shit out of Jackson we knew. Like it was no sweat off his back.
What did he say? Oh, yeah.“He’s no more valuable than the bag of trash I throw out every Sunday.”
I chuckle, a bit too loudly, then duck behind a group of old geezers to stay hidden.
They talk for a while, and it occurs to me my new toy didn’t sneak onto the mega-yacht. He was invited. But it’s obvious he doesn’t want to be here.
Too bad.
His loss is my dick’s gain.
Eventually, he makes his way to the bathroom, and taking a page out of Alexei’s book, I follow a few minutes later. While I might be unhinged, I draw the line at flirting with guys as they take a leak.
Only because I did it once, and the fucker must’ve eaten asparagus or some shit because his piss stank. Gave me the instant ick.
I look at my Audemars Piguet. Five minutes should be long enough to have finished. I saunter down the hallway, then into the expansive marble bathroom.
Crestwood University spares no expense when it comes to the athletics fundraiser. Then again, they have no choice. No one would come if they got some ratty-ass party boat.
“And there he is, the man of the hour.” I walk over, sip my drink, then place the glass down.
He stares at me by way of the mirror as he washes his hands.
I flash a grin, flipping my wavy blond hair from my eyes. “Oh, come on now. I know you love my sunny disposition.”
He just shakes his head, still indifferent.
I sigh dramatically. “Let me guess, you’re straight.”
“What I am is of no concern to you.”
Some other guest comes out of the stall and washes his hands. I quirk a brow and the fucker snickers. But I catch the way this jackass casually splays his fingers and graze’s my toy’s ass on his way out.
Wrong move, fuckface.
When the idiot gets closer, I grab his hair and smash his face into the wall. Well, more accurately, the full-length mirror attached to the wall. “Didn’t they teach you in school to keep your hands to yourself?”
He yelps as blood runs down his nose, covering his lips and chin.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
I ignore my toy and shove the perv toward the door. “Say you fell. Otherwise, you’ll be swimming back to shore—if you even make it.”
The man grabs a shit ton of paper towels, then runs out. I turn back to my toy, pick up my glass, then hold it up and give an air-cheer. “You’re welcome.”
“You’re insane.”
I sip my whiskey, then place the glass back down. “Yeah, but I am your knight in shining armor.”
He keeps that indifferent expression as he tries to step around me, but I move in front of him. “You’re really not going to say thank you?”
“For what?”
