Page 9 of The Girlfriend Agreement (Conwick U #1)

Cada quien cosecha lo que siembra - Each person harvests what they sow

Translation: What goes around comes around. Okay, I might have deserved that.

“Fuck.” I suck in a sharp breath through my teeth as a shudder rockets through my body—not so much from the pain, but from the cold of the ice pressed to my crotch.

My fingers curl around the plastic bag, but I don’t move it away despite my discomfort.

As if being hungover wasn’t bad enough, now I have to deal with the relentless ache of taking a knee to the prized family jewels.

Irritation courses through me. Sure, I might’ve been a bit of a dick to that girl, but my asshole behavior in no way warranted that reaction.

It’s not like I forced her to have sex with me.

We might have both been drunk, but even Drunk Me knows to ask for consent, and call me old-fashioned, but I like my sexual partners to be willing participants.

Therefore, our anonymous encounter was as much on her as it was on me.

It’s not my fault she regretted it after…

though, to be fair, I’m definitely regretting it, too.

In my defense, if I had realized who I was taking home, I would’ve run in the opposite direction with my dick tucked firmly between my legs.

Closing my eyes, I push out a strained breath. This shit is exactly why I avoid Repeats.

The most annoying part is, even if I had been at least partially sober last night, I’m not sure I would’ve known who Blondie was.

I certainly didn’t this morning. It’s weird.

Usually, I’m a pro at committing all my hook-ups to memory, providing an endless stream of fresh material for the ol’ spank bank on the rare occasion I need it.

But for some reason—and despite being super hot—I didn’t recognize her at all.

She looked different than how I remember.

Was it the hair? Hers was curly if I’m recalling correctly, but I don’t think that’s entirely it.

I snap my fingers and let out a loud “A-ha!” in triumph.

Glasses! Yeah, that’s it—she was wearing glasses when we hooked up last school year.

Shit . I slump back in my chair, mortified.

Am I really that blind? Wait…is she blind?

She didn’t have her glasses on last night or this morning…

Could she even see me clearly? Suddenly, her bumping into the door frame and fumbling on her way out of my dorm room makes a lot more sense.

It also explains why on earth she would sleep with me again given our less-than-savory history.

As for me, I don’t have any excuse except that I’m obviously as dumb as all the fictional people of Metropolis who can’t tell the difference between Clark Kent and Superman.

Because Blondie Superman’d me hard . Shit, if she hadn’t mentioned the bucket list, I still probably wouldn’t have a single fucking clue who she is.

I mean, yeah, now I remember her—thanks hindsight, you bitch—but that doesn’t help Damian from half an hour ago or my still throbbing cock, which can’t seem to decide whether it wants to be erect or limp, caught somewhere in-between in my pain.

Grimacing, I shift the bag of ice, and pull at the waistband of my shorts, peeking down at my sad-looking semi.

You deserve this, my conscience whispers.

I release a loud, aggravated huff. Shut up, you.

A knock at the door draws my gaze over my shoulder, but before I can tell whoever’s there to go the hell away, it creaks open and a familiar voice calls out, “Yo, Navarro.”

Ugh. I am so not in the mood for visitors right now. Especially when that visitor is Mason.

Suppressing a groan, I call back, “In here,” not daring to move from my seat at the table, partially out of fear of unsettling my half-hard cock, but also because I might puke from the pain if I attempt to stand up.

I meet Mason’s gaze as he steps into the kitchen.

“Whoa.” He stops short, his pale eyes widening at the sight of me in all my pathetic post-coital glory, my normally bronze skin tinged an unappealing gray from the nausea.

I must be a real striking vision right now.

His eyes dip to the pack of ice balanced on my crotch.

“What happened to you? You’re not jerking off, are you? ”

I scoff. “The better question would be who happened…and no, I don’t typically jerk off at the kitchen table using a bag of frozen water.” Obviously. As if the bag on my dick wasn’t a clear enough indicator of what the fuck I’m doing. I hiss again when the ice shifts a little. “Shit, that hurts.”

Mason arches a thick brunette brow at me. “They have medication for that, you know. I don’t think ice will help.”

“It’s not an STI, you dumbass.”

“You certain about that, D?” Mason counters. “You’ve been balls deep in a lot of pussy. You can’t always be sure what you’re taking home.”

Well, he’s right about that last part at least.

He shoots me a doubtful look, but I don’t have the strength or patience needed to argue with him.

Drunk or not, I wrap my tool. The used condom in the trash beside my bed is proof enough that Drunk Damian always uses the head on his shoulders before charging in with the head in his pants.

If only I’d had the same foresight to stop and think for a second about who I was fucking.

A headache forms behind my eyes, and wincing, I dig my fingers into my temples, hoping the pressure will counterbalance the pain.

Mason pulls out the chair next to mine and spins it around, straddling the seat and clapping me hard on the shoulder.

The impact seems to jostle my brain, making me want to throttle him.

“Not up for round two tonight, then, I take it?”

I press the heels of my hands into my eye sockets, then drop one hand and peek open one lid just enough to glare at his smug, punchable face.

I’d like to see if he still has any desire to party after taking a knee to the junk.

Luckily for him, I’m in too much pain to move, so I just scowl at him like he’s an idiot. Which he is.

Unfortunately, I don’t think he gets the message.

“After last night? Yeah, that’s a hard pass.” I don’t bother mentioning that I can only handle so many consecutive nights of Mason’s douchey frat brothers. Or of Mason, for that matter.

He holds up his hands. “Your loss, man.”

Pushing to his feet, he claps me again on the shoulder and offers me a pitying smile before turning to leave.

“Hey, you know the bet we made last year?” I blurt out against my better judgment.

I don’t know why I’m bringing this up. I want nothing more than to forget the embarrassment of this morning, but I just can’t seem to let it go.

Blondie has haunted every moment of my day, her presence lingering like a damn poltergeist.

Mason pauses with one foot in the hallway and spins around, inching back into the kitchen, crossing his lanky arms over his chest, which makes him look about as tough as a Twizzler.

“Oh, you mean the one where I said I would give you my Maserati if you completed a sex bucket list of my choosing?” The grin slips from his face, and he glares at me.

“Yes, I know the one. The video did go viral after all.”

The video. As if I needed reminding of that.

Our bet was definitely not the most mature move on my end, but we had agreed to keep it between us.

Sure, that was mainly to avoid skewing the results in either of our favors, but still, it was meant to stay on the down-low.

That was until Mason—possessing a whopping two brain cells—decided to post a livestream on social media of him handing over his Maserati when I won.

A video in which he divulged exactly why he was giving me his car because the part of him that wasn’t livid he lost the bet thought the whole thing was funny.

To say the video unleashed pure chaos on my life would be an understatement.

“I still miss that fucking car,” Mason whines. “You better be treating her well.”

I shrug. “You shouldn’t have bet against me.”

A skeptical look creases his features as he plops back down on the chair beside mine, staring at me like my face is one of those crowded pictures in a Where’s Waldo?

book. “What made you bring that up? I thought you said, ‘We need to forget this ever happened,’” he says in a poor imitation of my voice, hooking his fingers into air quotes.

Ugh. Doomsday. Time to be judged.

“I accidentally brought home a Repeat last night.”

“ Dude .” Mason reels back, wrinkling his thin, pointed nose. “Rookie mistake.”

My lips twist into a grimace as I glance down at my shorts. Yeah, tell that to my bruised dick and balls.

A hollow laugh fills the silence between us, and I internally chastise myself for divulging this information to anyone, especially Mason of all people.

I’ve known the guy for seven years—we went to the same private high school and now attend the same prestigious university, mostly because our daddies were rich enough to buy our admission—but I’d hardly call him my best friend.

I’d barely even call him a friend. He lives for the drama and is about as loyal as Judas.

Still, I don’t really trust anyone else at this college either, leaving me with few other options when it comes to venting my frustrations.

A less wealthy person wouldn’t hesitate to sell my secrets to TMZ, and after the fallout from the video last spring, I have to believe Mason will think twice before doing something so stupid again.

Or at least he’ll have the sense to ask me first. I hope.