I watch him, curious. For a second, I wonder what it would be like with Jake—if the rumors are true, then he’s a god in bed.
But for now, I just sip my coffee, basking in the new, raw, wicked version of myself, and wait for the next chance to rewrite the rules.
Our post-brunch exodusis a slow-motion stampede, each of us clutching bags, books, and coffee cups, buzzing from the fallout of my “anal adventure.” Kayleigh can’t stop humming the word “buttslut” under her breath, while Stella keeps asking for more details about the mystery man’s hands—was he rough, or gentle, or both? Mary Kate, for her part, is already texting updates to her mysterious “date,” whom she’s hoping to win the contest with.
We’re halfway to the double doors when someone shouts across the cafeteria: “Andie!”
The syllables ricochet off the cinderblock walls, bounce around inside my skull. I know that voice: it’s Jake Namors, Big Man on Campus, heartthrob, hockey god, and most-wanted MVP by the ladies on campus.
He’s holding court at the corner table, surrounded by half the starting lineup. Jake’s got a jawline you could sharpen knives on, hair that’s always artfully messy, and the kind of shoulders that look like a brick. His smile, aimed directly at me, is all slow confidence and practiced mischief.
Kayleigh’s elbow is in my ribs immediately. “Go, bitch,” she hisses, not even subtle.
I want to say no. I want to say I’m immune, that last night’s encounter rewired my DNA and made me impervious to these dumb college games, but the truth is, I don’t feel like I have a choice. Everyone will think I’m strange if I don’t respond to Jake Namors. As a result, my feet are already moving. I cross the floor, aware of every eye that follows—Jake’s friends, the bored cafeteria staff, half the girls from my chem class.
He stands as I approach, unfolding to his full six four like a transformer. “Hey,” he says, voice low and gravelly. “You running somewhere, Goldilocks?”
I smile, hoping it looks real. “Just escaping before the lunch mob.”
His blue eyes flick to my lips, then back. “Heard you’re a runner,” he says, and I know he’s referencing the 5k charity race I bailed on two months ago. I didn’t think he remembered.
I want to say something clever, but my brain is two beats behind. “Maybe I just like the chase,” I reply, softer than I intend.
Jake grins, a wolf baring its teeth. “Gotta watch out for the wolves, then.”
We stand there, looking at each other. I feel stupid, to be honest. I’m expecting him to come in with some dumb line, but instead he just looks at me, really looks, and says, “You look different today. Something new about you.”
My cheeks go warm. “Maybe I changed my hair?” I joke, tucking a strand behind my ear.
Jake shakes his head. “No, not that. You just seem more dangerous.” He says it like it’s a compliment, but also a challenge as his blue eyes squint.
The girls are watching from the safety of the vending machines. Kayleigh is pretending not to stare. Mary Kate is full-on waving, her hand flapping like a signal flag.
Jake leans closer, his arm grazing my shoulder. The smell of him—clean sweat, Axe body spray, a hint of lingering cigarette smoke—makes me lean back just so subtly. “Can I get your number?” he says, all at once. “In case I need to call for backup next time.”
I don’t want to do this. I really don’t want to give my number to this oaf of a boy who thinks he’s god’s gift to women. But in a wooden voice, I recite my digits, a little stunned by how normal this feels. He enters it into his phone with one thumb, then looks back at me, cocky and unhurried. “Maybe I’ll take you somewhere less cafeteria-chic next time.”
I laugh, but it’s reflex, not real. “Sure. Let me know if you can keep up.”
He puts his hand on my upper arm, and it’s supposed to be chivalrous or whatever, but his thumb lands high enough to brush the curve of my breast, just for a second. It’s subtle, but I notice. He notices that I notice, and grins wider.
My skin goes cold, then hot. Not with desire, though—I realize it’s disgust. I pull my arm back, polite, and give him a half-wave. “See you around, Jake.”
He winks. “Count on it.”
I walk away, pretending I don’t feel every pair of eyes in the room. The girls are waiting, already whispering and snickering.
Kayleigh is first: “Did he ask for your number?”
Stella is second: “Did he touch your boob?”
Mary Kate is third: “Was it electric?”
I shrug, playing it cool. “He’s just a guy, you guys. And no, he didn’t touch my boob, it’s just the angle.”
But as we spill back into the hallway, chattering and pretending to be shocked at my own audacity, I realize something fundamental has shifted. Jake Namors is the same as ever—beautiful, hungry, preening. But compared to the man who bent me over a wall and made me see God in a patch of dead grass, Jake is a puppy. A kid in a borrowed suit. All bark, no bite.
The realization is sharp enough to sting. The old me would have been thrilled, would have spent all week replaying every word Jake said. Now, I just want more of the real thing. The thing with teeth that makes me forget my own name while gaping my asshole with his huge, veiny cock.
