Page 44
Chapter Twelve
A few hours earlier /// Cal
Drew has been in my apartment for six hours. In that time, he’s taken possession of my couch, demolished most of my food, and conducted a ruthless assessment of my life.
“This is depressing,” he announces.
“You begged to come.”
“I begged to experience college.” He gestures around the living room. “This is a coffee table, one textbook, and feels like the home of a recently divorced accountant.”
“I have a guitar.”
“Exactly. It’s your only friend.” He picks it up, strums one terrible chord and puts it down again. “Where are the parties? Where are the girls? Where is literally anything?”
“Look, I’ve toned down that shit since LA.” I shrug. I do engage in college life a little here, but I don’t throw myself into it as much as I would if I was actually at college, and intending to stay. I’ve met a few decent guys, like Oliver, but honestly, I don’t see myself getting too involved in UMS shit when I’m leaving after this semester.
I’m deciding which of his insecurities to target when my phone buzzes on the kitchen counter.
Bea.
A Friday-night message from my relentlessly responsible tutor.
For one optimistic second, my mind goes straight to booty call.
Unlikely. But the image arrives anyway—Bea in my doorway, hair down, telling me she’s reconsidered the boundaries of our academic arrangement.
My dick strongly supports this imaginary development.
I open the message.
Bea
Hey it’s my roommate’s birthday and we’re throwing her a party.
You can come if you want to.
Cal
What’s the address?
Drew materializes at my shoulder and tries to read the screen.
I plant one hand against his face and push him back.
“Who is it?” he demands.
“Someone who understands the concept of personal fucking space.”
“A girl, then.” His grin spreads. “Is she hot? Is she a cheerleader? Did you know there’s a rumor you’re sleeping with the entire UMS cheer team?”
“Entire team seems ambitious.”
“Exactly. Like you’ve got that kind of game.”
I look him over. “Careful. Your housing arrangements for the weekend remain entirely at my discretion.”
The rumor doesn’t surprise me. Since Atlas Falling took off, strangers have maintained a detailed and mostly fictional record of our sex lives.
