“You fucking listening in on that?” he asks, washing his hands. He jerks his head towards the bedroom, not that I’m looking at him.
“That was you?” I sniff. “I thought someone was watching a nature documentary.”
“That what does it for you?” He runs water over his face, through his short hair. “Animals humping? I thought for sure you needed a trust fund and boat shoes.”
The twitch returns. I press a finger to my temple.
“But fuck, if all I need is to turn on Planet Earth instead of buying a shitty promise ring, I’ll get a Netflix subscription right now.”
I snap the mascara cap close. My shaking fingers slip attempting to jerk my purse shut.
“That what that prick Keeland used to do? Set up the Discovery channel and go fucking nuts?”
I wheel on him, face red. From fury. “Might I suggest a stop by a neurologist’s office? Obviously, you’ve been hit upside the head with too many footballs lately, because I cannot possibly fathom the delusion that could ever convince you I have any interest whatsoever in sleeping with you, you vacant-brained meatball.”
His nostrils flare, his chest rises, and he scowls. But he says nothing. We glare at each other, silence falling over us.
Spencer Armstrong is a nasty piece of work. And he brings out the most shameful parts of me. If that’s not enough to teach me to keep my distance, then I don’t know what is.
I grab my purse and leave the door I came in. My time’s up. I’m going home.
3
Spencer
She slams the door behind her. Good fucking riddance. I lean against the sink. Inhaling, exhaling. Counting slowly in my head like Morris tells me to do when I want to punch something. The closest breakable object is the mirror, and as much as the smash will calm me, I know I’ll regret it after. Glass shards in your knuckles are a bitch.
Like her.
I turn around, brace myself on the sink counter, press my forehead into the mirror. Close my eyes and focus on breathing. Because what I really want to do—charge out that door after her—is not the best course of action. No, that way only leads to trouble with a capital K, F, and W.
Kennedy Fucking Walsh. The motherfucking ice princess herself.
Her words flood through me, and my knuckles turn white gripping the sink. I restart my count, steady my harsh breath. It’s nothing less than what I should have expected from her, especially since I practically steamrolled her into it.
A little voice tells me I crossed a line. A louder voice tells me she fucking started it first. Brushing me off with that apathetic stare of hers. Face blank and unfeeling. Casually dismissing me with a haughty tilt of her chin.
Like she’s better than me.
So I took the bait. When I know damn well to leave it alone. I let my annoyance and anger get the best of me, and I bulldozed right over that line. Spoke out of turn. Goaded her into responding, to acknowledging she can’t ignore me, no matter how hard she tries.
Because she won’t let me ignore her.
Not when she glides over those pink lips with a darker, tantalizing shade of red. Or fluffs that red hair in its swinging ponytail. She struts around this campus, never a hair out of place or clothing in disarray, like a picture fucking perfect fairy tale princess.
What I’d fucking give to mess up all that pristine perfection.
I snort, running more water over my face to cool myself down. Like I’d ever get the opportunity. Girls like Kennedy? And guys like me? We mix as well together as a long motorcycle ride through a raging blizzard. As in, we just fucking don’t.
Kennedy is one of those girls with ‘relationship material’ written all over her. And I stay the fuck away from those. One girl. One night. Who needs all that personal bullshit when I can get in, get out, and move on to the next? It’s not like they’re complaining, either. Everyone leaves my bed happy. Drained. Disheveled. Damn fucking satisfied. Something I’m sure Kennedy, with all that copper hair severely tied back, has probably never felt.
My groin tenses. Shit. I’m ready to go again, even though I’d just rolled around with a very enthusiastic theatre major. One who hadn’t looked at me like I’m scum of the earth.
And all over again, I’m remembering her. Those scathing comments—vacant-brained meatball? Who the fuck says shit like that? Kennedy Fucking Walsh, that’s who.
I finish washing up in the sink. Blood rushes through me, a vein twitching in my neck. No one gets under my skin like she does. Breathing exercises won’t help me. I leave the bathroom, make my way downstairs. The only thing that will get me out of this irritable mood is a fight. Though Morris would kill me if I sought one out.
I hit the last step, my eyes meeting a blond’s across the room. She sips from her drink as she eyes me up and down. With appreciation. Like any other normal fucking girl on this campus. Not like a frigid, prickly redhead.
The blond smiles. Curls her finger to invite me over.
I smirk.
The only thing to get me out of this irritable mood is a fight…
…or a fuck.
* * *
I wake to the distant sound of running water. Hart must be in the shower, and for a moment, I panic, thinking I’m late to practice, that Coach will kick my ass for missing that morning’s drills.
Then I remember, it’s the middle of fucking winter, and the season’s over. And while I like to keep up my football training regime in the off-season, it’s Sunday, I drank a shit ton last night, I’m exhausted from the theatre major and then the blond, and I have nowhere to
