It works. Spencer bites out, “Fine.”
“Great,” I chirp in an equally acerbic tone. “How about tomorrow morning, after my Busy Beans shift?”
He grunts, pushing past me. And I stand there, with no idea if that’s a confirmation.
5
Spencer
I catch Hart and his girlfriend going at it again Wednesday between classes. Not in the shower this time, but in the same chair Rowe had been wary of since the start of this term. So when Thursday morning rolls around, I kick Hart out of bed at six. He’s alone, for once. Still irritatingly naked, meaning that’s three times this week I saw his ass. I don’t feel an ounce of guilt for dragging him to the campus gym. He bitches until I tell him we’re getting coffee afterward.
When we arrive at Busy Beans Coffee, the line’s almost out the door. Hart and I wait in the back. It’s the tail end of a rush, and no one else comes behind us as the line dwindles and customers leave. Rylie’s at the register when we step up, and Hart leans over it to kiss her.
I grunt when they linger too long.
“Don’t mind Spence,” Hart says to her, finally tearing himself away. “Child of divorce. He doesn’t know what a healthy relationship looks like.”
My teeth clench. “I know I’ll break your face if you suck hers again.”
Rylie grins, puckering up, but Hart blocks her with a hand. “Woman, you heard the man. How will you ever love me without a face?”
“Eh, I’m only with you for your body,” she deadpans.
“Fair enough. I’m with you for your boobs.” And then, because they can’t keep their fucking hands off each other, he kisses her. Fast. So I don’t have time to raise my fist and beat him with it.
Kennedy walks out of the backroom, arms loaded with a tray of baked goods. I jab a finger in her direction, ignoring our respective roommates. “You. Coffee. Now.”
Her eyes narrow, and she sets the tray on the counter to restock the glass cabinet of donuts and scones. “You. Interview. Tuesday.”
“Get me a damn coffee, princess, and I’ll answer all your damn questions.”
“‘Rules of social conduct as shown in prevalent customs’,” she says, her scowl matching mine.
“What?”
“Manners. Use them.”
Rylie clucks her tongue. “Uh-oh, you made Kennedy go all Merriam-Webster.”
“Is that a bad thing?” Hart asks.
“She only does that when she’s really annoyed. Natalie got a definition for ‘higgedly-piggedly’ when she mislabeled the food in our pantry. She hasn’t forgotten to write her name on the flour since.”
“That’s not a real word.”
Kennedy gives me one last withering glare, then tells Hart, “It means ‘in a confused, disordered, or random manner’. All of which describe Natalie’s complete lack of cabinetry organization.”
“Sounds like hogwash, if you ask me.”
“No one did,” I grit. I knock a fist on the counter. “Look, can I get a fucking coffee? Please.”
When she turns back to glare at me, red ponytail swishing over her shoulder, I smirk. How’s that for social conduct?
I prep myself for another definition, maybe one for rude. Or asshole. Instead, she shines a sickly sweet smile at me and says, “One coffee, coming up.”
I pay for my drink, say goodbye to Hart since he has class, and head to the table Kennedy points me to sit at. While I wait for her to go on break, I scroll through my phone. There’s an unread message from a football groupie I fooled around with one night during the season. It never went further than her hand on my cock, since we’d been interrupted by her roommates coming home. She wants to finish what we started. I delete the text.
I don’t do do-overs. I don’t do repeats. One chance is all I give. If they blow it, that’s on them.
Because if you give in, if you let them have more than one chance, that opens a world of fucking stupid. It gives them hope for more. For a relationship. Which I don’t do, period. Relationships lead to break ups. Which leads to your psycho ex calling you in the middle of the night to tell you there’s another man inside her and he knows what a G-spot is.
Ask just about any girl on campus. She’ll tell you I know where her fucking G-spot is.
A hand places a paper coffee cup in front of me. Kennedy pulls up a chair, setting a laptop and her own drink on the table.
“I have fifteen minutes. It’s five simple questions, so it should take about that long,” she says, opening her computer like some sort of protective barrier between us. She taps out her phone passcode, pulls up a voice-recording app, and sets it back on the table. For a moment, I catch a glimpse of her background photo, one of those vomit-inducing cutesy couple bullshit selfies of her and Ashton Keeland.
See, Kennedy is another prime example why it’s best to stay the fuck away from relationships. Get too wrapped up in them, and then you find yourself moping over khaki-wearing weasels who never deserved your devotion in the first place.
Because Keeland is fucking slime. The little asswipe released the truth about Hart’s sex tape fiasco last semester, without regard to how it would affect him, the football team, or even me, since it had been my ex-girlfriend in the video with my best friend.
An all too familiar restlessness creeps in my gut. I breathe in, breathe out. Pick up my coffee to distract myself from the memory of Hart’s body over Meegan’s.
One sip. And I’m hit with a bitter, grassy jolt. I sour at a candy-sweet aftertaste.
The fuck?
I pop off the lid. It’s brown. Like normal coffee.
When I glare at Kennedy, she’s watching me. Stone-faced and eyes blinking innocently.
Did she fucking poison my drink?
“How is it?” she asks. The only evidence I have she’s messed
