It worked.
Spencer banged out my ex.
I’m completely over Ashton. Hopelessly in love with Spencer.
And I realize—I can’t.
I can’t tell Spencer anything about Ashton. Because while we’d never set a time limit on this, on us, we did have one stipulation. This started because I needed his help to get over Ashton. When that works, it means Spencer and I are over. And I’m… I’m not ready to give him up.
But what if… What if he’s not ready to give me up, either?
I asked him for trust. And I owe him trust in return. I know Spencer. I’ve never known anyone as well as I know him. Even if I’m not sure of his truest, deepest feelings, I can grant him trust with mine. And if he does want more, if he does want to continue this relationship—outside of sex and getting over exes and bets—maybe he’ll even want to try carrying it on even longer. For months. Years.
Maybe a lifetime.
I avoid those dark eyes, feeling suddenly shy as I trace the ‘S’ in my dad’s name again. With a smile, the words come again. I’m close, so close to releasing them. To telling him everything. I’m standing on a precipice, waiting for him to catch me.
I glide my fingertip over that swooping signature, the letters looping together…
And I gasp again. Push off him and speak in a rush. “Spencer, you—Thank you—You’re amazing!”
“Kennedy?” he asks with concern when I grab my bag and shove on my shoes.
“I have to go, lock up behind me,” I tell him, since I need to sprint across campus.
Because I know who vandalized Prescott Hall.
35
Spencer
Kennedy rushes out the door while I sit on the couch, holding out a football and wondering what all that was about. I have no idea where Kennedy just went or when she might be coming back. I might as well go home rather than wait.
With a dazed snort, I reach to place the football on the coffee table… then realize I don’t want Kennedy’s roommates asking about it. So with a sigh, I grab my backpack and hike up the stairs to her room.
Opening her door, I smile. I recognize this room now. The neatly made bed. Folded clothes. The strict organization of every little thing. Immediately, I flip up the corner of the shit she calls a duvet—though it looks like any other blanket to me. Because that sign does ask me to disturb, after all.
I set the football on the desk, front and center, so she’ll see it when she comes home. Right after she exasperatedly rolls her eyes at the ruffled bedspread.
I’m about to turn and leave when I spot the notebook. Tilted at an angle, so out of place compared to every other office supply lined straightly on the desk. It’s open to a page, one that reads You’ve got this… because you’re Spencer Fucking Armstrong.
The words grip something in my chest. After counting and breathing and snapping her hair tie on my wrist—and realizing none of that helped my bunching muscles relax or made me want to calm down from racing after the scout to point out I hadn’t fought in months, that I barely drink or party anymore—I’d turned to Kennedy’s silly video message.
I can’t count the number of times I watched it after that fucking awful conversation. Something about seeing her, so encouraging and happy—for me—made the anger and disappointment in me dissipate. Because as long as Kennedy Fucking Walsh sees potential in me, as long as she thinks I’m going places… then who gives a fuck what anyone else thinks.
Grinning, I find a pen and grab the notebook. Kennedy likes lists. Why not write her one to show my appreciation for this one? And maybe punish her a bit for running out on me when our calendar specifically states we have two whole hours blocked off together. Flipping to a blank page, I debate titles. Five Ways To Use The Word Fuck. Places Where We Haven’t Done It Yet. Top Reasons Kennedy Shouldn’t Have Left Spencer With A Stiff Cock.
I almost miss a page, until my name stands out to me. I flip back to read it.
REASONS FOR/AGAINST SEX WITH SPENCER ARMSTRONG
She made a list. Of course she made a fucking list. I laugh out loud, picturing Kennedy at this same desk, carefully penning each tiny bullet, making a case for either side. I read the first item under Pros.
He’s supposedly very good at it.
No shit. Nothing ‘supposedly’ about it.
I drag my finger across the page, to the Con column.
I don’t like him.
Well, that… That had been true, at whatever time she’d written this list. It’s not true now. Not after all the time we’ve spent together, the things we’d talked about, the kisses we’d shared.
I want to believe it’s not fucking true now.
Shaking off the spike in my chest, I turn back to the first column.
He’ll probably make me orgasm.
Again, with the lack of confidence. I’d be insulted if I didn’t know her only basis of comparison is a selfish jackass too focused on his own pleasure to realize how fucking hot it is to have a woman scream fuck at the top of her lungs while her pussy squeezes your cock. How satisfying it is, the knowledge you do that to her. Make her lose all inhibitions.
Thank fuck she came to me that night. Not any of the other guys she’d been seeing. Stuck-up losers like her ex, who would have left her unfulfilled, never realizing the capacity for heat and passion and sensuality hidden below her icy exterior. She could have chosen any of them to help her get over Keeland.
I close my eyes, hitting out that terrible thought. Of Kennedy with other men. Of them over her naked body. Of them hearing how loudly and sweetly she comes. I switch to better thoughts of her. Cheering me on. Knees
