CHAPTER 7
Neta / Absolute
1. (adj, literal) - clear, pure, absolute, final, net (calculation)
2. (noun, slang) - truth, the real deal, the best
"Shh!"
Dylan blinked at the sound, the pencil he'd been tapping against the table frozen in his fingers. He looked for the source of the noise, finding an entire study group glaring at him from where they were clustered around a trio of computers tucked into the back of the lab.
Heat rising in his cheeks, he hunched over his psychology textbook he'd been trying — and failing miserably — to read for the last half hour.
God above, but he wasBORED.
He glanced at his phone to check the time. And his ManyFanz stats. And his email. And...
Oh.
Staring up at him from his unread messages was a sulky "Me" from one 'Ashton Navarro', sent when he and Ashton had grudgingly swapped numbers to work on theirEthics in Mass Communicationsterm project.
We should probably get started on that at some point.
He sure hadn't been sulky the other week at the party when he'd been inhaling Dylan's face with the fervor of the famished. But Dylan supposed that was how it was when you were some rich little strawberry fool and still too deep in the closet, metaphorically and in actuality, to bother texting the guy who sucked your brains out of your dick the other night.
Whatever. Straight, questioning, or on the verge; Dylan should've known better than to get mixed up in Ashton's mess beyond their simple hookup.
He edited Ashton's name in his contacts before setting his phone down on its face so he wouldn't have to think about it anymore.
Hit it and quit it. That's all it needs to be.
No more, no less. Dylan didn't have time to waste on some idiot who couldn't get his own head out of his ass long enough to figure out what he wanted.
Not that he couldn't have some fun with it though, right? So what if that fool hadn't texted Dylan? Why washewaiting around like some princess in a tower?
U up?
And hey, who knows? Maybe he'd luck out and Ashton would be up for a little — Dylan squinted at the time — midnight bootycall...
Sadly, his phone remained silent. Dylan sighed, reluctantly turning back towards his assigned reading.
Blooop, went his phone.
[ Bobo Fresa ]:
No
Oh, ho! His strawberry foolwasup. And maybe willing to play?
With a grin, Dylan settled his elbows on the desk counter, fingers flying over his phone's keyboard.
No?
U sleep texting?
[ Bobo Fresa ]:
I'm at a party
