Cooper turns to me, eyes wide in mock surprise. “You still here, Lynne?”
The jab stings, and I glare at him for all I’m worth.
“Come on, I’ll walk you out,” Cooper says, gesturing for me to follow.
“You’re not the boss of me.” I cross my arms over my chest, realizing too late I sound like Veruca Salt. “I’m a grown ass woman, and I can have sex with whoever I want.”
“Not in this house you can’t.” He smirks and takes a step toward me, crossing his much larger arms over his chest. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Your choice.”
I lift my chin and stare up at him resolutely. He may be the big man on campus, and I may be a quintessential disaster, but it’ll be a cold day in hell before I let Cooper DeLaurentis—or any man—push me around.
He shrugs, the corner of his mouth hitching up in a crooked grin. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“What are you—”
He bends down and hooks his arm around the back of my knees, slinging me over his shoulder. I squeal in protest as he strides out the door and into the hall, carrying me like a bag of dirty laundry.
“Put me down right now!” I thump him on the back as he lumbers down the rear staircase. “This isn’t dignified.”
“Neither is the clap,” he shoots back, an edge of amusement in his voice. “You’re welcome.”
4
COOPER
Turns out,carrying a chick down the stairs when she’s spitting mad isn’t as easy as it looks in the movies, but I manage well enough because Quinn’s a tiny little thing. I’ve got nearly a foot on her, which should put me at an advantage, but her fury has a life of its own.
The kind fueled by sharp elbows and four-letter words.
Whatever. It’s nothing I haven’t heard before.
“Put me down, you cockwaffle!”
I stand corrected. That’s definitely a new one.
Still, it beats the hell out of the alternative.
I shrug off the insult and carry Quinn out the back door and around to the front of the house. The party’s spilled outside and red plastic cups decorate the handrail on the porch, but no one pays us any attention as I deposit her on the lawn.
Is it even a party if there aren’t drunk couples arguing out front?
“Who the hell do you think you are?” she demands, planting a hand on her hip and glaring up at me. I smirk and glare right back. Quinn might be pissed now, but she’ll thank me in the morning. I open my mouth to say as much, but she cuts me off, slicing her free hand through the air. “That was a rhetorical question.” She huffs out a breath, nostrils flaring. “Honestly, who’d have thought Cooper DeLaurentis would be a slut-shaming hypocrite?”
“Excuse me?” Indignation flares in my gut. I step forward, closing the gap between us, and get right up in her personal space. “That’s not what’s happening here.”
“Whatever.” She rolls her eyes, completely unfazed by my advance. “If the rumors are true, you’ve screwed half the student body, so where do you get off cockblocking me?”
Is this girl for real?
This whole scene is killing my buzz. It’s hot as hell and the humidity has my shirt clinging to my skin. The rush of today’s game has worn off, and the shots of whiskey I threw back earlier are a distant memory.
The smart thing to do would be to walk away. Go find my teammates and get blitzed. Nothing good ever comes from arguing with drunk coeds.
Then again, no one’s ever accused me of making good life choices.
Least of all when it comes to the opposite sex.
“Look, sweetheart, I’m all for free love, but that guy’s a douche.” I curl my lip, not caring if I sound like an asshole. The way she’s throwing around phrases like slut-shaming and hypocrite, it’s clear she’s already made up her mind about me. “I did you a favor.”
