Page 19 of Want Me
“Fuck,” I rasped out, the word garbled by his fingers against my lips.
“One.”
The sound of the hallway door opening reported like a gunshot. Once again, like some fucking ninja, Eric was suddenly three feet away, yanking the front door open and pushing me through it while my eyes flew wide, my bewildered dick throbbing and leaking, so damn confused and pissed off.
“Fuck, you’re cute,” he whispered, squeezing a handful of my ass before shutting the door behind me.
I clenched my fingers at empty air and growled in frustration, then tripped down the stairs, glancing over my shoulder expectantly, though there was no way he’d come after me. What the hell had just happened? Actually, I knew what had happened. Eric had played me like a goddamn fiddle. Again. Gotten me all worked up and left me to weave down the front walk like a drunken sailor, balls painfully heavy and aching.
God, fuck that dude. Just fuck him.
I foundMarty at the fraternity house, sweeping the front porch and bagging trash, and got him to drive me to the venue at the gardens.
As we rode, I rested my head against the coolness of the passenger-side window and closed my eyes, content with the silence until he spoke up. “You were dating Ashley, right?”
“Yeah, a couple months back. Why?” I didn’t bother opening my eyes.
“She was at the house last night, asking if you were there.”
“Would've depended on the time. She has my number. She could’ve texted or called.”
“Oh yeah, sure.”
He didn’t sound like he was finished, though, so I cracked an eye and tilted my head a little, studying him. He was a good-looking freshman dude. Tall and gangly with light brown hair that did this little swoop thing over the front that girls loved to play with at parties. He could drink like a fish, too. “You interested in her?”
“Nah.” He shook his head a little too quickly.
“You’re a terrible liar, dude.”
He chuckled. “That’s against bro code, right? So no.”
“Psht.” I scoffed. “I guess technically, but we didn’t end on bad terms or anything, we just…” I’d gotten bored, but I wasn’t going to tell him that. Ashley was cool. “It just didn’t work. How about this: feel free to move in. She’ll be there tonight.” I rubbed the aching spot between my eyes, giving Ashley some thought. “She’s pretty low-maintenance. Crazy aboutHouse of Spades.”
“The TV show?”
“Yeah. Get her started on that and she’ll probably love you immediately and talk to you all night about it.”
Marty drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, then nodded.
“Okay. Thanks dude. Are you sure? She’s so hot.”
“One hundred percent. Go for it.” Was I sure? I could have laughed; I hadn’t thought of Ashley or a pussy in weeks. My channel was stuck on an extended episode of dick, and Eric appeared to be the one with the remote in his hands.
* * *
We didn’t finish gettingeverything set up until almost five, which meant Mark and I had to rush back home to get showered and suited up in order to be back at six. No pre-partying for us tonight, which was fine with me; it’d taken hours for my hangover to dissipate.
When we walked inside, it was a hive of activity. Ansel and some of his track buddies were hanging out in the kitchen. Jesse had a couple of people over I vaguely recognized, and they’d parked in front of the living room TV playing some video game.
Mark opened the fridge and glanced back at me, asking, “Shower beer?”
“Hit me.” I held up my hand, and he tossed me a cold one. One of life’s underrated pleasures: a hot shower and a cold beer. I cracked it and was on my way out when Ansel called out my name. “Grab that box on the counter and drop it off in Eric’s room on your way? He said he needed some cufflinks.”
I nodded, looking around until I found the small black box sitting on the edge of the counter and took it with me upstairs.
Eric’s door was open, and I could hear the shower going in the hall bath, so I stepped inside and inhaled his scent. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been in his room, and I meant to just set the box on the desk beside the door and jet, but a few pieces on top of a dresser shoved under the window caught my eye. Bridges. One meticulously constructed of toothpicks, striking in the detailing. I didn’t know the names for all the components, but it was like art.
The other looked as if it was made of balsa wood or some other kind of thin, pliable veneer, and it too was carefully rendered. He must have put hours upon hours into them, and I moved closer, flicking on a nearby lamp so I could study them. Bending down, I craned my neck to see the underside and found the detailing continued there. Tiny support beams and crossbeams held the sucker up, not even a fucking glue drip to be seen. I didn’t know why I was so surprised except that our trysts—or whatever the hell they were—were marked by what I thought was a certain carelessness on Eric’s part; he didn’t give a shit about getting down and dirty, and he sure as hell didn’t give a shit about getting me dirty.