Teddy
This is the third weekend in a row we’ve been at the rugby house, and I don’t have any solid proof, but I’m almost positive Mariah is hooking up with one of them. She hasn’t said anything to me about it, but why else would we keep coming back? She either likes someone here or she’s already sleeping with them.
I fiddle with the cup in my hand, conscious of the fact that once again, I’ve been left alone to fend for myself while my childhood friend works the room, having ditched me within minutes of our arrival.
It stings a little, if I’m being honest.
I wouldn’t have come tonight if I had known she was going to once again leave me hanging.
She never used to be like this; in high school, we were inseparable. When we began applying to colleges, against her parents’ and my mom’s better judgment, we applied to all the same schools. Lived together in the dorms our freshmen and sophomore years. Now, it’s our junior year.
We used to be attached at the hip, and now it seems I’ve become a second thought where Mariah is concerned.
In any case, I’m not going to get stuck standing by the keg tonight and risk the chance of being caught by that…that…
Guy.
He weirds me out, not because he’s creepy or perverted, but because he’s way too honest, and it makes me uncomfortable. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t need to have things sugarcoated, but he did bring up a subject that’s been on my mind a lot lately and that I’ve been a bit salty about.
Mariah taking advantage of our friendship. Of me.
The fact that a complete stranger picked up on it is embarrassing. I’d like to avoid him if humanly possible. Tonight, I want to have fun, not have it thrown in my face that my friends keep throwing me over for boys.
I move along the perimeter of the room, putting up the pretense that I’m not scanning the room for him.
Him.
That guy—whatever his name is.
I wonder about that as I grip the cold red cup in my hand. Try to picture what a guy like that could possibly be named.
What would I name a lumberjack baby if I had one?
Billy Ray. John Boy? Duane.
Cooter—that one makes me laugh, and I choke on the foam rimming my cup. The name Woody makes me laugh too, and by the time I look up and meet his eyes, I’m almost stupid giddy.
He’s scowling at me, of course, and wearing a plaid flannel shirt, sleeves rolled and pushed to the elbow.
His hair is up, twisted into a messy mop, long strands escaping at his temples, curling up and around his ears. It’s a gorgeous dirty blond, naturally streaked from the sun, a hue any girl would kill for and few could recreate.
Skin tan, high cheekbones pink. Not ruddy, but close.
The beard still long, although from here, it does look like he might have cleaned it up a bit? I have no interest in finding out—the last thing I want is for him to come over.
God no.
I rotate my body, presenting him with my back, and come face to face with the keg.
Dammit.
Move to the side a few feet, creating more distance between us, not sure what to do with myself because once again, I’m standing in the middle of a party alone.
I should be pissed at my friends, but the truth is, I’m relieved; standing with them is too much pressure. Too many people coming up to chat, too many guys coming up to flirt. Drunk guys make me nervous. Guys who are hitting on us make me nervous.
Drunk guys who are hitting on us make me nervous.
Unfortunately, that’s what I’m surrounded by, and unfortunately, I’ve been left to fend for myself.
The party is packed—third weekend in a row. I make a silent vow not to return for a fourth, not if I can help it. I’m bored and, stifling a yawn, take a drag of my beer for lack of anything better to do.
Stop watching me, I implore the hairy guy, still feeling his eyes on the back of my head.
The skin on my neck prickles.
Stop it. I’m not turning around.
My nose twitches despite itself, my head gives a little shake.
No.
Jeez. Doesn’t he have anything better to do other than stand there and creep on people who want to be left alone? I mean, not that I’m alone, alone. We are, after all, in a room full of people.
My gaze wanders.
Is he still looking? I’m dying to look over my shoulder but square them instead, standing taller on the heels of my tall, brown boots. Tap a toe impatiently, craning my head to survey the room.
If I tilt it just so, maybe I can catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye without actually having to turn my head? I test the theory, adding a hand to the column of my neck, faux-massaging it, lifting my cup to my lips.
So smooth.
Shift my eyes to the right.
Heart plummeting to my stomach because those sullen brown eyes of his are indeed locked on my short frame. I’m not facing him, but they’re so bright and striking I can make them out nonetheless. Even shrouded amongst all that hair.
Is he judging me? He must be—why else would he be attempting to telekinetically drill holes into the back of my skull? No doubt he thinks I’m a loser with no friends.
No—he thinks I’m a loser with shitty friends.
Big difference.
He doesn’t like them and doesn’t even know them. Or me, for that matter.
Judgy, arrogant asshole.
My throat hmphs indignantly.
A noise from the kitchen has my head jerking in that general direction. Two huge guys spill through the narrow door and into the living room. It looks like they’re fighting—or wrestling?
I recognize one of the moves as a half nelson, and the entire scene suddenly escalates when one of the guys maneuvers his meaty right arm, hooks it around the others guy’s neck, and pulls the guy down. Down onto the dirty, disgusting shag carpet.
Gross.
They’re both grunting, feet smashing into end tables. The wall.
One booted foot kicks. Entire body thrashes.
The guy on the bottom is unsuccessfully trying to untangle himself from whatever hold he’s in now, floundering like a fish out of water. Flopping, too drunk to remove himself but giving it the old college try.
Face bright red, he’s sputtering, getting pissed.
Steam practically rolls out of his nostrils as he throws his head back, trying to knock it against his opponent’s sweaty forehead.
No luck.
“Fuck you, Kissinger,” he slurs. “Let me the fuck up.”
Kissinger laughs, squeezing his arms like a python, wrapping them tighter.
The crowd shifts, girls gasping, people calling out. Cheering. Stumbling around, trying to make room as the boys tussle.
An elbow is released, nailing Kissinger in the gut. It’s not a taut stomach; he clearly hasn’t missed a kegger in months, beer belly pronounced.
A punch.
Someone gets kicked and falls over as blood gushes from his nose.
Girls scream—so dramatic—and a few guys on the perimeter of the room start shoving people forward, toward the fight. Why? I have no idea, but it creates chaos and more fists are thrown, this time from spectators, not the two dudes still on the floor.
The person closest to me stumbles backward, and I take a step back to prevent myself from getting jostled. Another and another and my back is almost pressed firmly against the wall, eyes bugging out when half the room erupts into right hooks and punches.
“Oh my god,” I say breathlessly as I exhale, the scene playing out in front of me a far cry from how the evening began.
I measure the distance to the front door, the bodies in my way. The noise. The chanting and cheering from the idiots watching instead of breaking up the brawls.
A large hand cuffs my arm and I barely have time to look down before I’m being ushered toward the exit, full cup of beer still clutched in my hand.
When that warm hand leaves my bicep and juts out, clearing the way, I have time to glance over my shoulder for a look at my rescuer.
The hairy guy whose name I haven’t figured out yet.
Roy?
Paul Bunyan without the ox. Without the axe.
Rescuing me.
But why?
I whip around, an errant elbow slamming into my body, sending me lurching forward—backward? I don’t know. I can’t stand straight and would have hit the wall if not for…
My beer cup goes soaring; his does too, splashing down the front of my dress. His chest. Cold and wet.
Soaking us both.
“Jesus H. Christ.” He sighs loudly enough for me to hear over the racket. The ruckus. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
A giant paw is at the small of my back, his mammoth body shielding mine as he shoves through the people standing in our way. Like a linebacker on the football field—or, a rugby player, I guess? Whatever position blocks people on the rugby field.
I’ve never seen it, so I have no clue.
The air outside is cold, or maybe it just feels like it because I’m drenched in alcohol, the yellow stain on my pretty dress running the entire length of the now sheer cotton.
The best part? I’m not wearing a bra.
Shit.
“I should text my friends to let them know I’m outside.”
A curt nod. “You do what you gotta do.”
Me: Outside
A few minutes slowly tick by before Mariah replies: Outside where?
Me: The party.
Mariah: I left.
What does she mean, she left? Without telling me?
Me: Where are you?
Mariah: I left like, an hour ago?
Me: Why didn’t you tell me???
Mariah: You were busy filling beer cups and stuff.
Me: No, I wasn’t. I’ve been waiting for you all night. I didn’t even want to be here.
Mariah: Whatever. The point is, I’ll be home in 20. Right now we’re at some guy Lance’s house and then I’m bringing him home.
Me: What am I supposed to do while you have some guy in our apartment?
Mariah and I share a room because we pay our own rent, live in a one-bedroom, and can’t afford anything bigger. It sucks, but at least we have our own place and don’t have to live in the traditional dorms—or one of those horrible off-campus rental houses infested with bats and outdated everything.
I grew up living like that; I’m not doing it anymore.
Mariah: It’s not a big deal, Teddy—just stay out on the couch.
Me: And listen to sex noises all night?
Mariah: I mean…don’t you have those noise-canceling headphones?
Mariah: Shit, GTG. See you in like, half hour. K bye.
There is no way I can spend the night at home if she has a guy there! No freaking way do I want to listen to them banging all night—Mariah is stupidly loud when she has sex, I don’t think I could stand her bringing someone home tonight. She thinks being loud is a huge turn-on for guys, but really it sounds fake and porny, and I can’t believe she’d bring someone home without discussing it with me first.
That’s always been our rule: before bringing home guests, male or female, give the other roomie a heads-up first.
My brows furrow, dipping deep, creasing my forehead.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I spit it out in the way girls do when they’re pissed but don’t want to admit it.
A snort. “Is it really nothing? Or are you doing that thing girls do where they say it’s nothing when it’s actually something, and deep down inside you’re pissed off and want to explode?”
I can’t help it—I laugh because he’s right. It is something, and I am kind of pissed.
“My roommate left an hour ago, went to a guy’s house, and didn’t tell me.” I give him the abbreviated version. He doesn’t need to know there is going to be a dude in my room having sex with my roommate in less than an hour.
“Well let’s get you home then.”
I wave him off with a sigh. “I can’t go home. She’s bringing the guy back to our place.”
He glances toward the rugby house, gives his beard a few strokes. “So?”
“She and I…share a bedroom.”
“Well shit.” His drawl drags out, and this time he does sound like a hillbilly. It sounds like he’s saying whale sheet. “That ain’t cool.”
No, it’s really not. Mariah knows I won’t want to be in the apartment with a strange guy there. She knows this and yet she’s doing it anyway instead of staying at his place. Or asking me first.
“It’s fine. I’ll sleep on the floor in the hall outside our apartment.”
Fluorescent lights. A stiff couch thousands of people have sat on. Probably a student or two or fifty will see me sleeping there and think I’m a loser.
Awesome.
The guy’s chuckle is deep, vibrating deep in his broad chest. He’s thoroughly amused. “You’re not sleeping in the GD hallway.”
“The GD what?”
“God damn.”
The amused look on his bushy face turns to unexpected irritation, making me laugh despite myself and the circumstances, one of my shoulders shrugging. Pulling at the wet dress plastered to my chest, sending a cool shiver down my spine.
I hug myself, rubbing at my upper arms. Shiver. “It’s not like I’ve never done it before. It’s only one night, and I can take a nap tomorrow.”
“No. Fuck that.” He runs a hand through his hair, fiddling with the rubber band holding it back. Yanks it out, pulling it loose and shaking out his hair.
It’s a lion’s mane, hitting just below his shoulders, wild and tangled and beautiful. A beautiful mess.
With two hands, he scoops it back up, twisting it into a knot, the black rubber band looping around the strands as he mumbles, “Your friends are assholes, I swear to fucking God. Why do you put up with their shit?”
I allow my mouth to fall open, because honestly? This night has gone to complete shit.
“Please don’t start with that again. You don’t know them—or me.”
“I know enough. They’ve ditched you three weekends in a row. If those were my friends, I would have told them to fuck off by now.”
“Just like that?”
“Yup.” His nod is terse. “Just like that.”
“I’m not you—I’m not a barbarian, I can’t just…” I wave my hand in the air aimlessly, searching for words. “I can’t.”
He turns his broad back, starting toward the stairs leading down into the yard, long strides taking them one at a time. When he glances back at me, he says, “Are you coming with me or not?” I hesitate, one foot inching forward. “Yes or no?”
Seconds pass and I bite down on my bottom lip. Where is he going?
It’s dark out, obviously, and the only thing in the yard is him, some trash, and a few cars parked along the curb.
Still, I haven’t gotten any creeper vibes from him; if anything, he’s been strangely…protective? Considering we don’t know each other whatsoever, it’s strange that the way my friends have been treating me lately seems to annoy him to no end.
So weird.
So…intriguing.
I hustle down the steps after him, trying not to trip and kill myself once I hit the bottom, my shoe catching on the lip of the concrete slab anyway. Thankfully, I keep my balance.
Look up, watching as he cuts across the grass, hands reaching for the hem of his black T-shirt, pulling the fabric up and over his long torso, presenting me with his bare back.
His toned, ripped back.
Muscles defined, his lattisimus dorsi is…
Is…
Um.
I try not to stare even though he can’t see me, afraid that when he does finally whip around, he’ll find my eyes molesting his front side the way they’re molesting his rhomboid and trapezius, and holy shit, I can’t believe I know what these muscles are actually called.
I also can’t believe how incredible his body is.
It flexes when he balls up his shirt, walking to a shiny, black, luxury SUV parked at the curb. Its headlights flash brightly when he hits the remote to unlock it, cab illuminating as his voice calls out, “Get in.”
Wow he’s bossy.
And yet, before I know it, I’m inside the lavish vehicle, buckling the seat belt over my soaking wet dress, eyes fixed straight ahead out the window, carefully avoiding the naked upper torso he’s strapped in on the driver’s side.
The engine roars to life, purring. “Where are we going?” I ask quickly.
A long stretch of silence follows as he hits his turn signal and eases into the street. “My place.”
What? No!
“To do what exactly?”
“Sleep?”
“No! No, it’s fine, really. Just take me to the dorms—I’m in the upperclassman apartments on McClintock.”
“I have a really nice place. You can crash with me. I really don’t give a shit.”
“I-I can’t do that. I thought maybe we were going for cheeseburgers or something.” God I’m an idiot.
“Why?” His face is contorted. “All we’re going to do is sleep.”
In the dark, I raise my brows. Yeah right, they say.
I’m almost insulted by his belted-out laughter. His cackle.
I cross my arms over my chest defensively. “What’s so funny?”
“You thinking I want to sleep with you.”
“I do not think that!” We both know I’m lying.
Another laugh. “Yes you do.” Pause. “Look, it’s fine—I’m not going to assault you or take advantage of you, trust me. I have zero interest in women, so your virtue is safe with me.”
“Oh,” I mutter. Then, “Ooohhhhhh!!!”
He gives me a sidelong glance and rolls his brown eyes, which are brightened by the street lights. “I’m not gay.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t sound so disappointed.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Well then don’t announce it like that. Being gay isn’t a big deal—I wouldn’t care, and it wouldn’t surprise me if you were.”
“I know it’s not a big deal—but I’m not,” he grinds out through perfect teeth. “But I knew that was what you were thinking.”
“Fine. That’s totally what I was thinking.”
His grunt comes out of the dark, blinker for a right-hand turn ticking against the sudden quietness of the cab.
“How could you tell?”
“By the way you went Oohhh!!!” He mimics a high-pitched female voice so well my mouth curves into an amused grin. “All relieved and shit, like you just solved the freaking Pythagorean theorem.”
I shoot him an agitated look.
“It’s a math theory…”
“I know what the Pythagorean theorem is, thanks.”
You don’t earn a scholarship for engineering without adding numbers and knowing some basic geometry.
I might hate math, but I’m good at it, even though I still occasionally use fingers to do addition. Who doesn’t? I have zero shame, unless I’m sitting in front of my geometry professor. “Just so you know what you’re dealing with here. Don’t ever expect me to add my way out of a dangerous situation without a scientific calculator. We will both lose in a big way.”
“Seriously? Math is so easy, I can do that shit in my head. And all the Pythagorean theorem does is state that the square of the hypotenuse is equal to the sum of the squares of the other two sides and—”
“I know all this, jockstrap.” I hold a hand up. “Please just stop.”
I’ve had a few beers and don’t want to talk about classes right now, especially mathematics.
Quick, what’s fourteen plus thirty-seven? Answer: I have no damn idea, leave me alone.
“Do you want to stop by your place real quick and grab a change of clothes?”
I do a quick calculation of the odds I’ll run into Mariah and whoever it is she’s bringing home, figure it’ll be safe to dash in if I make it quick, and nod my head.
“Yes, please. I live in Dautry.”
“Got it.”
“Thanks.”
It takes me less than five minutes to race down the hall to our place (we live on the first floor), grab a tank top, shorts, and underwear out of my dresser, and run back out to the waiting SUV.
It idles in the still of night, a lone figure looming inside the cab patiently, his profile hairy and bearded, the outline of his topknot silhouetted in the dark.
I hide a smile.
“Thanks,” I repeat once I climb back in, and I get a chin tilt in return.
Respecting that he’s not in the mood for chatter, we don’t speak again until we’re finally on the outskirts of campus and out of town, turning into a residential area, the kind with families and professors, not students and party houses.
At the end of a driveway, he pulls into the garage of a red brick Tudor that looks like it came out of the pages of storybook.
“Uhhhh…” I drag the word out because I just cannot help myself. “This is your house? Do you live with your parents?”
I tug at my hemline, dragging it down over my knees. Shit, am I about to meet his mom? What is she going to think when she sees me? I look like a waterlogged Labrador, and I can’t imagine what my makeup looks like.
Perfect. Just perfect.
“No.” He pulls the keys from the ignition and hits the button to shut garage door, closing us in. “I live here alone.”
“You live here. Alone.” In this house, which is a thousand times nicer than the one I grew up in.
He doesn’t look at me, instead pushing on the driver’s side door and hopping out. “Are you coming in, or are you gonna ask me thirty more questions?”
I roll my eyes and grab my purse. “That was only like, three questions.” Hop out of the car. “Why are you being weird?”
But he’s already opening a door, light streaming from a small room at the side of the garage.
It’s a laundry room—he has an actual laundry room!—shoes lined up by the door, a few sets of shirts and pants neatly folded and stacked in tidy piles atop the washer.
I am so confused.
Bending to unzip the booties I’m wearing, I slide them off, placing them by the door. Next to his giant ones. Smoothing my hands down the front of my dress, cringing when I hit the wet spot, I gingerly follow him across the tile floor and into a well-lit kitchen.
Onto the polished hardwood floor.
The kitchen looks state-of-the-art and updated, almost like a showroom, and I rest my hands on the cold counter, clasping my fingers to give them something to do.
I am so out of my element. I wasn’t raised in a place like this, let alone live in one at age twenty-one.
Who is this guy and where does he come from?
Not the backwoods of Arkansas, that’s for damn sure.
I bite my tongue to stop the steady stream of questions in my brain from vomiting out of my mouth.
Why does he live here? Who pays for it? Is he selling drugs on the side to pay for all this? Is he a trust fund baby? Who owns this joint? Why doesn’t he have roommates? Does he have a job?
“Want something to drink?” he wants to know, standing at the sink, running the tap. Filling a glass and lifting it to his lips.
“Uh, surrre.”
His long arm reaches over, retrieving another glass from the cabinet made of rich wood. Fills it and slides it slowly across the center island.
I cradle it between my hands, thumbs stroking the cool, smooth glass. Fidgeting, unable to keep still.
This whole thing is so bizarre.
***
KIP
Me: On a scale of 1 to fucking terrible, how bad of an idea was it to bring a girl back to my place?
Ronnie: Depends on the girl
Me: Hey big sister, I’m shocked you’re awake! What the hell are you doing up?
Ronnie: The text notification woke me up, asshole!
Me: Liar
Ronnie: You’re right—your brother-in-law just got done doing nasty, unspeakable things to me. Oh, sorry, was that TMI?
Me: Jesus Christ Veronica, I didn’t need to know you were just having sex
Ronnie: Who said anything about sex?
Me: ANYWAYYYYYYYYY—about this girl…
Ronnie: Right, well, if she’s already at your place, not much you can do about it, yeah?
Me: Gee, thanks
Ronnie: It’s true. Besides, if you brought her home, she must not be terrible—we all know what you’re like
Me: What am I like?
Ronnie: A complete freak?? I mean, look at what you did to your beautiful face just so girls would leave you alone. Now you’re bringing them home? You must be hard up
“Um…so, you live here alone?” The girl’s sweet but incredulous voice carries through my kitchen, her finger sliding along the edge of the cold, hard granite countertop.
“Yeah.” I can’t look at her as I dump my keys and phone onto the built-in desk next to the double ovens where I store all my crap, the texts from my older sister, Veronica, already forgotten. Everything glistens and shines because the cleaning lady was here yesterday morning picking up my shit, washing my clothes, folding them, and dusting what little putzy stuff I have set out.
Not my choice—she was hired by my mother—and Christ, if anyone found out I had a cleaning lady, I’d never live it down.
“Where did you find this place? Jesus, it’s so nice.”
“The landlord takes great care of the place,” I joke, because I’m the landlord—but she doesn’t need to know that.
She scoffs. “Who the heck are you renting from? No one who owns anything around campus, that’s for sure. None of those guys give a shit—those houses are complete dumps.”
She’s correct; most of the houses are total shitholes, which is why I don’t rent. I own this place—well, my parents do, but that’s always been their thing: buying whatever house my sister and I happen to be living in at the time so we don’t have to deal with rent and landlords.
“Who do you rent from? It can’t be DuRand—his places might be nice, but they’re not this nice, and not in this neighborhood. What’d you do, rob a bank?”
“Yeah, it’s not DuRand.”
I feel her staring at my back—my bare back because I still haven’t put a clean shirt on—the wheels in her brain turning.
“You don’t own this place, do you?” She pauses, eyes getting a bit narrower. “It’s not a crime if you do, stranger person, I’m just curious. I’m not judging you for having a nice place to live in.”
Stranger person? Is she talking about me?
I finally turn to look at her. “Stranger person?”
She plucks a grape out of the bowl sitting on my sleek center island. “I have no idea what your name is.”
“It’s Sasquatch.”
“Stop it.” She snorts. “I’m not calling you that—it’s the dumbest name ever. What’s your real name?”
God, I hate when people ask that.
She rolls those pretty eyes at me. “Just tell me. Stop being a baby about it.”
“Kip.” I push the word out grudgingly, squeezing it through the thin line of my lips.
“What!”
“Yup.”
“Kip?”
“Yes,” I grind out, nostrils flaring.
“Stop it,” she repeats, wide eyed. “You’re making that up. That is not your name.”
“If I was going to give you a fake name, trust me, that wouldn’t be it.”
“Wow. Kip. Not at all what I pictured. I’ve been calling you Paul Bunyan in my head, sometimes Roy—you know, super redneck names.”
What the fuck? “I do not look like a redneck.”
“Yes you do.” She tinkles out a laugh.
“No I don’t.” Do I? “Paul Bunyan has black hair, and his hair and beard are short.”
“How would you know?”
“Haven’t you ever been to Paul Bunyan’s? The restaurant? There’s a giant picture of him on the sign out front. It’s like two stories high.” Duh.
One of her brown eyebrows rises. “Can’t say that I have.”
“He has short hair.” Why the hell am I repeating myself? Defending myself?
Christ.
She’s eyeing me up and down—she’s done it a few times tonight, always covertly, thinking I don’t notice.
I do.
“No man bun.”
I jerk my head and tug at my hair. “Nope.”
“Well then. Kip.” Her pert little mouth pulls into a smirk. “How very preppy of you.”
“Shut up.”
“Come on, it’s super Vacationing on Nantucket—admit it.” She’s thinking again. “What is it short for?”
“Are you ready for it? Because your next laugh is on me.” I sigh, long and loud. Rip off the proverbial bandage and wince. “It’s short for Kipling.”
She’s holding back a smile, biting down on her bottom lip—so fucking cute—crossing her arms over her beer-soaked dress when my eyes roam down the front. Over her high, round breasts and slim waist.
“Kipling. That’s a pretty fancy name, you know.”
“I know.”
“I wasn’t sure that you did, Kipling.”
“Stop.”
“It’s also the name of a poet, Kipling,” she informs me, as if I didn’t already fucking know. “Rudyard Kipling—yikes, that’s a mouthful.”
“Can you not keep using it in sentences?”
Her brows go up, animated. “But it’s so, so good.”
“It’s really not though.”
“If you were wearing a polo shirt and khakis right now, it would make so much more sense to me, and maybe I’d lay off, but you’re not—you were in construction boots tonight, and you’re wearing a torn up T-shirt.” Her eyes roam across my chest. “And brown cargo shorts.”
When she averts her gaze, I’m surprisingly disappointed.
“I’m comfortable.”
“Oh, I have no doubt about that.” She snickers, looking me up and down, pops another grape into her mouth and chews. Swallows. “You don’t mind that I’m stealing these, do you?”
I gesture widely. “By all means…” In goes another one, and I lean a hip against the counter, studying her. “Since we’re sharing, what’s your name?”
“Teddy.”
“Like—the bear?” I can’t help goading.
Teddy lets out a soft, lilting laugh. “Yeah, I guess. It’s short for Theodora, my grandmother’s name.”
Theodora.
Romantic and pretty—kind of like her.
She has on a dress tonight, this one a little more daring than last week’s cheerfully prim yellow one. It’s baby blue, the thin material now plastered to her skin, with one of those necklines that goes over the shoulders and ties around the neck. I don’t know what it’s fucking called—halter or some shit.
Whatever. It’s blue and short, and has matching ribbons in the back tied into a delicate bow, making the entire outfit way too feminine had it not been for the brown boots. I noticed them before she took them off in the laundry room. They’re cute.
Way too cute for the rugby house.
Way too cute to be soaked in cheap beer.
Goddammit.
I run a hand down my face—down my beard—to prevent myself from totally checking her out. Or looking too long and hard at her tits.
“You want to shower while you’re here, Theodora?”
“Teddy,” she corrects good-naturedly.
“Right, like I’m not going to latch onto that one.” I laugh. “Nice try.”
“For real, call me Teddy.”
“Only if you never call me Kipling ever again. Kip I can handle, but Kipling? Fuck that. No. Or just call me Sasquatch like everyone else does.”
“I will not be calling you by that hideous nickname, no matter how much it suits you, but I’ll call you Kip if you call me Teddy.”
A groan escapes my throat. “Fine.”
“Good.” My eyes shoot to the crown of her head as she nods curtly. “Then we agree.”
“Shake on it?” When I stick out my callused hand, she draws hers back.
Pushes an errant hair behind her ear, glancing down at her feet. “We’re good.”
She’s not scared of me, is she? I shove my hands inside the pockets of my cargo shorts.
“Shower?”
“I…yeah. I want to say no, because this whole thing is just so awkward for me, but since I’m starting to stink like a distillery, I probably should.”
“You already stank in the car.” My lips twitch at her shocked expression.
Her nose wrinkles. “Gee, thanks.”
“I’m just fucking with you.”
“Okay, well…” She hoists her clean clothes in the air. “Lead the way, I guess.”
I don’t. Instead, I point toward the staircase and flick my finger in that general direction. “Up the stairs, first door on the right. Root around for towels—I think there are some in there.”
There should be, because my mom and sister came one weekend and didn’t leave until the place was stocked and spotless. I had everything I needed when I moved in, like the pampered son of a billionaire would.
God I hope Teddy doesn’t get all weird on me after she spends the night.
I listen to her softly padding away, her bare feet climbing to the second story then the door to the guest bathroom clicking closed.
The sound of the lock being turned.
I grin at that—her caution—leaning back against the counter, scratching at my stomach. Rise to my full height and stretch. Make my own way up the stairs to the master bedroom, intent on washing the filth off myself.
Which I’m used to—I’ve never left a house party without being covered in something disgusting, just like I’ve never left the rugby field without being caked in mud, grass stains, and dirt.
The hot water sluices off my body, my mind wandering to the girl in the shower down the hallway. She’s not overtly sexy in any way, but I’ve never had a girl in my house, so naturally my hand strays south of the border.
I don’t purposely picture her curvy hips in my mind, or the shape of her breasts pressed against the pale, thin fabric of her cheaply made dress.
It just…happens.
It also just so happens that I haven’t had sex in—Jesus, I don’t even know how long. Since sophomore year, if I had to guestimate. The year I decided I didn’t want to be fucked simply because of my face or my last name, the year I grew the beard and let my hair get long and developed a chip on my shoulder because of the fairer sex.
It’s not their fault—it’s mine for believing a few of them actually gave a shit about me.
The boner grows between my legs when I stroke it slowly, water lubricating—wet and warm—my eyes sliding closed as my fingers grip the base of my shaft.
For a tall guy, it’s average as far as cocks go, but it’s thick and always ready for a pull.
An arm goes up against the tile wall, empty hand bracing my body as the other one strokes. Glides up and down, up and down.
I moan, picturing Teddy in my shower, naked skin, tits and ass. Wondering if her pussy is shaved, waxed, or natural. Picturing her nipples in my mind, the color of her areolas. Their size. Whether she gets off on having them sucked…
I moan.
Mouth falls open, obviously, because it feels fucking great pumping away at my own cock. Yeah, I feel like kind of a pervert, but it’s not my fault I’m suddenly having fantasies about her—I’m a warm-blooded, hormone-filled male, and there is a naked female in my house that I cannot—and will not—ever fuck.
Plus, I’m horny.
A hand is one thing, a pussy another entirely, and I haven’t banged one in so long. Too long.
I barely remember what it feels like to sink inside one, so there is no reason I should be hard over Teddy…whatever her last name is.
She’s cute, but not gorgeous. Wholesome, like the girl next door. Studious. Hardworking, if I have her pegged right—probably here on a scholarship.
I know her type.
Cheap clothes. Cheap jewelry. No car.
Worried about what her friends think and too afraid to tell them to fuck off.
I’m surprised she doesn’t have more of a backbone, honestly. Her type usually does—the ones who have to fend for themselves, have to make their way in the world without the help of their parents.
My head dips, bowing, shoulders hunched as I stroke my slippery dick, tongue darting out to run along my bottom lip. Teeth biting down.
Eyes still squeezed shut.
Teddy filling the void behind my lids.
My cock filling the void in my cupped hand.
It’s not enough, and I stroke harder. Rough. The grunt from my throat is low, echoing off the tiles in my shower, and I refuse to say the name tripping off the tip of my tongue.
Don’t say it.
Don’t you dare fucking say it.
I don’t—but it’s close—and when I come, it’s hotter than the water that washes it down the drain.
I don’t know how long I stand under the shower spray before rinsing the rest of my body, but it’s long enough that Teddy is dressed and downstairs, curled up on the living room sofa when I finish and find her.
Nothing has been turned on, not the television or radio, and she’s not playing on her phone. There’s just the light from the kitchen streaming into the room casting a glow. Knees drawn to her chest, Teddy has a blanket in her lap, pulled to her chin, shoulders bare except for the straps of what must be a white tank top.
“Hey.” She looks up when I enter the room, snuggling deeper into the blanket.
“Hey.” I plop down in a leather chair across from her, propping my feet up on the wooden coffee table. Spreading my legs, I lace my fingers behind my neck—a better position to observe her in.
She eyes me up in the dark, but not in a calculating way. It’s more like she’s trying to decide if I’m going to pounce on her or whatever—if she should get the fuck out of the room or stay put.
I want to laugh at her aversion to me, and at the same time, I want to push her buttons.
It’s late and dark, and I’m fucking beat, but I can’t just leave her sitting here, alone.
Today ended up being shit, and it looks like that’s how it’s going to end. I have a strange girl in my house—the house that is my sanctuary—and I pray to God she can’t remember how to get here. The last thing I fucking need is her dropping by unexpectedly, expecting something…
Then I’d have to be a complete dick, which would make me feel like an asshole. And I hate when I have to be an asshole.
Actually, that’s a lie—I fucking love it.
But looking at her? I’d hate to be an ass to Teddy. She looks so sweet, curled up on my couch, snuggling in my blankets and Jesus H. Christ, what the fuck am I saying?
“Tired?” she asks softly.
“Yeah.”
“You should go to bed.”
“You trying to get rid of me?”
“No.” She laughs. “Besides, it’s your house. You probably want to get rid of me. I’m the one invading your space.”
That’s true.
“Nah. It’s cool.” I glance toward the staircase—the dark cherry balustrade, polished to a shine along with the counters, cabinets, and whatever else Barb scrubs when she’s here. It leads to the second level, to the two guest bedrooms. “Take whichever room you want. They’re both on the same side of the hallway as the bathroom.”
“Thank you.” She pauses, and I can hear her thinking. “I’ll be gone first thing in the morning, promise.”
“Whatever, it’s not a big deal.” I cross my legs at the ankles. “I’ll probably be gone anyway—I run every morning.”
“Oh? What time?”
“I generally hit the pavement by six.”
“Wow, even on the weekends?”
“Yeah. We usually have matches on the weekends, so gotta stay conditioned.”
“Matches? For what?”
“Rugby.”
“You’re a player?”
The way she says player gives me pause, and I search for a hidden meaning on her expression. When I don’t find one, I give my head a terse nod.
“Yup.”
There’s a short hesitation before, “Wait, is the rugby thing intramural, or is it an actual university-sanctioned sport?”
“It’s a sport.”
“So do you travel?”
“Yes.”
“Like…where to?”
“Same places the football and baseball teams travel to, if they have rugby.”
Teddy wrinkles her nose. “I don’t know where those places are.”
“You’re not a sports fan?”
“Nope. I mean, it’s fine, but I don’t, like, go to football games or anything.”
“Why?” You can bet your sweet little ass her jock-chasing friends do.
“I just don’t.”
“Not even with your friends?”
“No. Those sports passes are really expensive.”
Hmm.
“Maybe you’d like rugby better than those other sports anyway.”
“And why is that?”
“Those other sports? The guys are all a bunch of pussies.”
This gets me a laugh, deep and throaty and sexy. Teddy covers her mouth with a hand, stifling a snort.
My brows shoot up. “Did you just snort?”
She groans, drops her hand. “Ugh, you heard that?”
“I mean, yes? It was an audible snort.”
And it was so fucking adorable.
“I hate when I do that.”
“So you’re a snorter?”
“Could you not call it that?”
“Snorter? Do you have a better word for it?”
“Not giving it a word is a better word for it. And not bringing it up again would be fantastic.”
“But it’s kind of cute.”
“Stop.”
I oink like a pig.
“Oh my god.”
I oink again.
“Kipling.”
No she did not just call me that. “Hey, we had a deal about the names.”
“Then stop oinking!”
“That was a snort.” I’m tempted to do it again. “Not to be confused with a fart. Two opposites ends.”
Teddy sits up, indignant, blanket falling away and revealing her crisp white tank top. The shadow of her nipples beneath, chest rising and falling. “I do not sound like a pig when I snort!”
My shoulders give a shrug. “Tomayto, tomahto.”
“Shut up!” But she’s giggling when she says it.
“Fine, I won’t make fun of you anymore.”
“Good, because I hate it.”
“Why do you get made fun of?” I’m teasing, but the silence that follows is enough to answer my question, and my brows furrow. “Who makes fun of you?” Teddy is the sweetest fucking girl I’ve met at this school—I mean, I’ve only known her for all of three seconds, but I doubt she’d intentionally hurt anyone’s feelings. “Let me guess—your roommate and those other friends of yours.”
More silence. “No. It’s not my other friends.”
“So just your bitchy roommate.”
“Could you not call her tha—look, she’s not bitchy, okay? She’s just…” A diminutive shrug of her delicate shoulders.
“Do not—do not tell me she’s misunderstood.”
“She is who she is, I guess.”
“And what is that?” A cock-blocker.
Jock chaser?
Selfish?
“We’ve always been opposites. Friends don’t have to match. Friendships aren’t perfect—you should know that.”
“No, but guys are different. We don’t have feelings, and if one of my friends treated me like shit, he wouldn’t be my friend anymore.”
Teddy rolls her eyes so far back, they’re likely to get stuck in the back of her head. “Mariah doesn’t treat me like shit.”
Mariah.
Even the name sounds like a Mean Girl name.
Mariah: almost rhymes with piranha.
“Doesn’t treat you like shit, you say? This from the girl sitting in some strange guy’s living room, miles from campus, on God knows what street in the middle of the night because you couldn’t go home, because she is banging some dude in your one-bedroom room apartment and she doesn’t give a shit that you’re not home safe.”
Damn. That came out sounding way harsh, didn’t it?
Still, it’s the fucking truth.
“I-I…” Teddy stutters, and for a brief moment, I feel terrible.
Meh, kind of.
Fine, not really. I don’t know her, I don’t know her roommate—but I do know she needs to buck up and grow a pair of balls.
“Face it, Teddy, you need lessons on how to be a bigger bitch.”
“Are you insane? The last thing I want to do is become a bitch on purpose.”
“A badass then.”
“A badass?” Her brows are up in her hairline. “Even that’s a stretch for me.”
“Fine. You need to grow a backbone.”
“I have one! It’s just…I’d rather choose what battles I want to fight.”
“And how many fights have you ever been in?”
“None?”
“Arguments?”
“Er…”
“How many times has your good buddy Mariah swept in and ‘stolen’ a guy you’re talking to?” I use air quotes, and Teddy flinches.
“I don’t know.”
“More than one but less than five?” Jesus, why do I keep pushing this?
She shrugs.
“More than five but less than ten?”
“Kip! Who cares? If a guy doesn’t like me for me and lets a girl like Mariah swoop in and ‘steal’ him, I don’t want him anyway!” Her voice is raised and she uses air quotes too, imitating me before crossing her arms over her chest defensively.
“If he doesn’t like you for you? Is that the kind of bullshit girls tell themselves when they get rejected?”
From across the room, I see her mouth fall open.
Oops. Was it something I said? It looks like I kicked her puppy.
“So that’s a yes.”
Her mouth sets into a thin line, lips pursed.
“Teddy, there are rules, you know, and your friend breaks almost all of them.”
“What rules?”
“Girl code and shit. I don’t know—you should know more about this than I do. How to be a wingman and not a cock-blocker, how to date an athlete—shit like that.”
“Come on, now you’re just making stuff up.”
“Rule number two: care less about what people think and more about doing what makes you happy.”
“That’s not a rule—that’s an inspirational quote. Also, what was the first rule?”
“Don’t be a pussy.” I can tell she’s barely containing her impatience and cock my head to one side. “Why are you being like this?”
Her answer is to laugh again. “Because you’re kind of a weirdo.”
I wonder if she’d call me a weirdo—to my face—if my face wasn’t covered with enough hair to keep me warm through a blizzard on a mountaintop. What would she say if she knew I was so ridiculously good-looking beneath this beard that modeling agencies would be knocking on my door wanting to blast my picture through every major sports magazine?
But that’s just my humble opinion.
“I’m serious, Teddy—you’re not going to find a boyfriend if you keep doing the shit you’re doing at house parties.”
“Who said anything about me wanting a boyfriend?”
“So you don’t want one?”
“I mean…” She falters so long I know what her answer is going to be. “Yes, but there’s no rush.”
“Well that’s a good, because it’s certainly going to take you fucking forever to find one at the rate you’re going.”
I can’t tell in this light, but I swear she draws back. “Kip, that’s a shitty thing to say.”
“But true,” I persist, trying to put what I’m about to say next delicately. Or not. “You’re not going to get a boyfriend playing bartender at the keg every weekend or holding your friend’s beer while she’s upstairs fucking random dudes.”
“That’s not what she’s doing!” Teddy gasps.
I smirk knowingly. “It’s not?”
“No!”
How so very wrong sweet, young Teddy is. “How would you know? Did she tell you that?”
“No.”
“Peter Newton. Kyle Remington. Archer Eisenhower.” I tick the names off on my fingers, satisfaction curving my mouth into a smile. “She might not have told you, but they told me.”
“What are those, the names of future presidents?” Teddy jokes naïvely.
“No, Theodora. Those are the dudes your roommate has fucked the past three weekends while you were downstairs being all nicey nicey.” If I had a beer, this would be the time I’d take a sip of it for dramatic effect. I unclasp my fingers, uncross my legs, and lean back in the leather chair. Exhale, loud and pleased. Ahhh.
“What?”
“Peter Newton. Kyle—”
“I heard you just fine. I just… There is no way. Mariah isn’t like that.”
“Okay. Whatever you say.”
“Is she?” The question comes out slowly. Unsure.
One nod. “Yup.”
I don’t need to flip on the light to know Teddy is blushing.
“I just can’t imagine her having sex with a guy named Archer Eisenhower,” she grumbles.
“In his defense, he’s not bad to look at.”
She shoots me the stink eye. “Why do you even care, Kip?”
“I don’t.” Which must be a goddamn lie, because here I am, pressing the issue. This little slumber party of ours is turning into a goddamn therapy session, and it’s my own fucking fault for inviting her here in the first place.
I should have—could have—left her to sleep in the hallway of her building.
“When is the last time your buddy Mariah helped you out? Or told you about her sex life when she wasn’t bringing a guy home? Or waited around the house so you could get ready?”
Most guys wouldn’t notice Teddy wasn’t wearing any makeup the first night she appeared at the rugby house, but I did. And I bet the five thousand dollars cash I have stashed upstairs in a shoe box she had no time to get ready herself, because they weren’t willing to wait.
I’m one of those guys—freakishly observant.
“I can help you.” God, what am I saying? Shut the fuck up, Carmichael, or I’ll punch you in your own goddamn face.
Skepticism is etched all over her pretty face, but she sits up taller. “Help me how?”
“Well.” I settle deep into the chair, get good and comfortable. “For starters, I notice you hang back a lot. You shouldn’t be doing that—join the conversations, man.”
“You notice I hang back a lot…” She has an odd look on her face now as she tilts her chin to the side, her sentence trailing off.
“Yeah. So like, instead of talking to the dudes walking up to the keg, you’re way too shy. You should be making jokes and shit. Even lame ones are better than going full-on mute—and why are you even standing by the keg to begin with? What the fuck is that about, Teddy?”
“Uh, I don’t know,” she says miserably.
“Right. Step away from the freaking keg and join the damn party.”
“All right.” She looks so confused, but I’m not even close to being done. “How?”
I.
Am.
On.
A.
Roll.
“Do you need a goddamn puppeteer to help you figure out what to do with yourself? Someone to tell you what to say and do?”
“You’re being dramatic. I’m not that bad.”
“Yeah you are. You need a…” I search for the word. Snap my fingers in the silence. “Hairy godmother.”
“A what?”
I’m a fucking genius is what I am. “Hairy godmother. Like a fairy godmother, but a guy.”
Honest to God, I just made that shit up, right now, on the spot.
Clever asshole that I am.
“Are you high right now?” Teddy isn’t speechless, but she’s pretty damn close. “You sound drunk.”
“Sober as you are. Okay, that’s not true—I had three beers tonight, so maybe not completely dry, but close enough.” I am six foot four, after all; it takes a lot of fucking alcohol to get me drunk—like, a lot. Plus, I never would have driven her anywhere had I been drunk. Never. “My point is, you need help—mine, specifically.”
“I’m not sure I need your brand of help—no offense, Kip.” God that name…makes me cringe every time she says it. Can’t she call me Sasquatch like the rest of them? “No offense, but what do you know about relationships?”
Oh, now she wants to get sassy?
Fine.
“For your information, I’ve been in a few relationships.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah.” With girls named Mitsy and Tiffany and Caroline. Waspy, pure-bred socialites pushed at me by my well-meaning but interfering family.
I throw up in my mouth a little.
“When?” Teddy is impatient.
“I mean, if you want to get technical, high school. And freshman year.”
“Your freshman year of high school? Are you serious?”
“College too, smartass—and it might have only been a few relationships, but I learned a lot from them.”
“Like what?”
Like the fact that I never want to be in another relationship. And girls named Mitsy might sound fun and cutesy in theory, but they’re actually pint-sized tyrannical Nazis, drunk on the idea of spending days dating me, lounging at the country club my parents belong to.
I shudder at the memory of her bubblegum pink, coffin-shaped nails.
“Listen Teddy, with guys, you have to come out and say what you want. No gray area—guys don’t get it. And don’t fucking lie or beat around the bush.”
Teddy rolls her eyes. “Give me a break. How is that going to help me at a party?”
“I’m giving you pearls of wisdom here—would you listen? So what if it doesn’t help at your bartending job?”
“Shut up.” She laughs, though reluctantly.
“What I can tell you is what guys want, so don’t go to a party and start pouring their damn beer. Everyone will take advantage. Do you want to be known as the girl who hands out red cups?”
“No.”
“Do you want to be the girl who pumps the beer tap all night?”
“No.”
“Do you want to be the girl who stands in the corner talking to the social outcast?”
“The social outcast?”
“Yeah—me.” How was that not obvious? Duh.
But Teddy’s laugh is light and amused, which tells me she disagrees. “You’re hardly a social outcast.”
Maybe not, but only because everyone is afraid to piss me off. I might be an okay guy, but I look like the occasional street beggar more often than not, and that makes people uncomfortable.
Although, oddly enough, girls do hit on me often enough to confuse me.
I’m not going to argue those points with Teddy, though. She wouldn’t get why I do the things I do.
So few people do, because no one knows my secrets.
“Next weekend when you come to the house, I’ll give you some pointers.”
“Oh jeez.” Her blanket rustles. “Maybe I should just stay home.”
“Give up, you mean?”“No, I mean—maybe flirting isn’t my strong suit, especially at a house party. I’m way out of my league and we both know it. I should stick to libraries and coffee shops.”
“You’re not out of your league though.” Any one of those idiots would be lucky to hook up with a girl like Teddy—but that’s not what she wants, is it? To hook up?
Nope. Teddy is a relationship kind of girl, and that’s what makes her so damn different. Even I know she’s long-term relationship material.
She a wifer.
“Teddy, you’re kind of being a pussy about this whole thing.”
“You cannot keep calling me that.”
“Calling you what?” I know she’s not going to say the word that flows so freely off my tongue.
“A…you know.” I swear, she lowers her voice as if just the thought of the word makes her squirmy and uncomfortable.
“I have no idea what I always call you.” My eyes widen, lending an innocent air to my expression, which she’s probably hard-pressed to see in the dim light.
“You’re so full of shit, Kip.”
“For real though, enlighten me. I call people all sorts of things. Shitface, doofus, fucker.”
“The P word.”
“The P word, the P word…” I scratch my beard. “Pussy? When else have I called you that?”
“Uh—the first night we met? Like, four times?”
Did I? Huh. “Really, four times? That sounds so unlike me.”
Actually it isn’t unlike me, because I really do love that word. What guy doesn’t?
Pussy, noun: a wimp or someone who’s a total chickenshit. Won’t take risks, overthinks everything. Scared of their own shadow.
Pussy, noun: a cat. Furry kitty. Pet-able. Purrs when I stroke it—if I ever wanted to stroke a pussycat, which I don’t.
Which brings me to…
Pussy, noun: female genitals. Vagina. A place I haven’t sunk myself into in far too long, and now that I’m thinking about it, the dick in my pants gets stiff.
I’m uncomfortable in these thin, mesh gym shorts, which, in hindsight, were probably a bad idea—though it’s not like I planned to get a woody after I already jerked off once tonight.
Get your damn head out of the gutter, Sasquatch—the last thing you need is sex on the brain.
And sex with Teddy? Out of the question, even though I’d fuck her any day of the week if the circumstances were different.
But they’re not, and I’m going to graduate and be out of here, and then I’ll never see this place again because I’ll be working in corporate America and probably miserable.
And clean shaven.
Yay me.
“My services are available if you want them. No pressure.”
“What services. Are you a tutor now too?”
“No—the hairy godmother thing. Those parties are boring as fuck, and helping you would give me something to do.”
“I…I’ll think about it.” She laughs, pulling her hair into a ponytail and securing it with the rubber band wrapped around her slender wrist. Glancing over her shoulder occasionally, worrying her bottom lip, eyes darting to the kitchen and up the stairs. Almost agitated.
Strange.
“Uh, are you looking for something?”
She jerks her head away from the entry of the hallway, startled. “I’m sorry, I just keep expecting your parents to walk in. It’s making me nervous.”
“They aren’t here.”
“I know, you said that—I just think it’s odd that you live here. Alone. In this gorgeous house. Alone. What are you, twenty-one?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Still not normal.”
No, it’s not her normal, but it’s mine—and it’s pretty fucking hard to explain to people, which is the exact reason I never bring anyone here, guys or girls. It’s just not worth the long, inevitable, drawn-out explanation. Plus, I don’t owe it to anyone; it’s my business, and I like keeping it that way.
“Is it making you uncomfortable being here alone with me? ’Cause I can go lock myself in the bedroom.”
“Oddly enough, no—you don’t make me uncomfortable.”
“Why is that odd?”’
“Because…look at you. You’re huge and hairy, and I don’t even think I’d recognize you if you shaved all that”—she gestures in the general direction of my face—“off.”
She sure as shit wouldn’t recognize me, which is the reason I grew this beard and keep my hair long.
“Do you ever…?”
I need more prompting. “Do I ever what?”
“Shave.”
Obviously. If I didn’t, I’d look like a ZZ Top reject. “Yes, I shave. I shaved this morning.” I run a hand down the length of my beard, satisfied with the wiry hair that took me two years to grow this long.
“No, I mean, like—off. Do you ever shave that off?”
“What’s wrong with it?” I stroke it again for good measure.
“Nothing is wrong with it, Kip. I’m just asking if it’s ever not there.”
“No.”
“Oh.” Pause. “How come?”
“Because I like it?”
“Fair enough.” Her lips purse. “It’s just…you’re a bit young for the Grizzly Adams look.”
“Who the fuck is Grizzly Adams?”
“A mountain man who wrastles grizzlies…basically.”
“Anyway.” I give my eyes a heavy roll to end the conversation, and she follows me up the stairs. I point to a closed door on my left. “Spare room here, bathroom there, but you already know this. Obviously no need to lock the door behind you.”
“Doors got deadbolts?”
I feel myself grinning. “Nope.”
“Well, I’m not worried. I’m less your type than you are mine, I think.”
That’s where she’s wrong—I’m warming to Teddy in ways I shouldn’t be. I’ll be thinking about her long and hard after we’re both locked in our bedrooms tonight.
“Not worried? You’re such a damn liar.”
“How can you tell?”
A scoff leaves my throat. “Because you keep looking for the nearest possible exit.”
“So I shouldn’t climb out a window because we’re on the second story? Got a ladder I can prop against the house?”
“Jesus Christ, don’t even joke about going out a window. Use the damn door if you’re going to escape.”
“But do you blame me? You’re kind of…” She waves a hand around in front of my torso.
“Abnormally large and hairy? Yeah, yeah, I get that a lot.”
“No, I was going to say it’s probably not the smartest idea to be in a strange house, far from campus and my apartment, with a strange guy I just met, especially since we’ve both been drinking and I don’t know anything about you.”
That’s where she’s right. This is a terrible idea.
But here we are.
My lips twitch beneath my scruff. “Just try to get some sleep, Theodora.”
Her soft laugh fades as the guest room door inches closed.
“You too, Kipling.”
Brat.
***
My phone pings in the dark.
Ronnie: Are you still alive?
Me: Go to bed, Veronica.
Ronnie: Ahhh, good. So she hasn’t murdered you. Yet.
Me: This girl is harmless.
Ronnie: What the hell possessed you to bring her home?
Me: Her friends are assholes and ditched her at the house.
Ronnie: So? Why do you even care?
Me: I have no fucking idea. But…
Ronnie: Don’t leave me hanging—it’s two in the morning here and if you’re going to keep me up, make it good. Your niece will be up in three hours and I’m going to look like complete shit tomorrow.
Me: I—Jesus, I can’t believe I’m saying this.
Ronnie: Oh damn, this is going to be good, I can feel it.
Me: You can’t say anything to Mom and Dad. Vault
Ronnie: **rolls eyes** Do I ever tell them anything???
Me: Yes, last year you told them about the public indecency citation.
Ronnie: That wasn’t to get you in trouble! That was to shock them because I wanted to see the look on Mom’s botoxed face! I JUST WANTED TO SEE IF HER FOREHEAD WOULD CREASE WHEN SHE GOT MAD!
Ronnie: It didn’t by the way. So. Hilarious.
Me: Goddammit Veronica…
Ronnie: Okay, okay, I’m listening. Go.
Me: This girl—her name is Teddy
Ronnie: That sounds soooo East Coast, pleated skirt, cardigan-y of her.
Me: Stop.
Ronnie: **zips lip**
Me: She’s been coming to the rugby house every weekend with these bitchy friends of hers, and they keep ditching her, and tonight she didn’t have a place to sleep. Like, I wasn’t going to let her sleep in the hallway of her apartment.
Ronnie: How uncharacteristically chivalrous of you.
Me: So I brought her home and we started talking, and the next thing I fucking knew, I was volunteering to help her out.
Ronnie: Help her out with WHAT??? God, do I even want to know?
Ronnie: Yes, yes I do.
Ronnie: And for the record, I just sat up in bed and turned on the light, and now Stuart is awake and he wants to hear the end of this story too.
Ronnie: BTW, since I woke him up, I owe him a BJ. So he says thanks.
Me: Jesus Christ.
Ronnie: GET ON WITH THE STORY, MY GAWD KIPLING. What are you helping this Teddy person with?
Me: How to date. I told her I’d be her hairy godmother.
Ronnie: You’re kidding me right?
Me: No
[five minutes later]
Me: Are you still there?
Ronnie: I’m sorry, hold on. Stuart and I are laughing so hard we have tears coming out of our eyes.
Ronnie: Hairy godmother? Oh my god, Kip, where do you come up with this shit? Mom would DIE.
Me: You said you weren’t going to say anything!
Ronnie: I know, I know, but…
Me: I swear to God Veronica.
Ronnie: RELAX, bro—relax.
Ronnie: Hairy godmother—what the hell even is that?
Me: I told her I’d teach her to be more assertive. She’s way too nice.
Ronnie: Omg. Do you LIKE HER?
Me: Yeah, she’s nice.
Ronnie: “Nice.” No. I mean—do you LIKE her, like her?
Me: No. She’s just a friend.
Ronnie: Kip, do you know how many great love stories start that way? “She’s just a friend.”
Ronnie: Yeah—a friend you want to bang.
Me: Don’t start with me. I do not want to bang her.
Ronnie: Yet.
Me: She’s just a friend. Barely even a friend.
Ronnie: Mark my words, Kipling: this isn’t going to have the ending you think it will…
***
TEDDY
I can’t sleep—no surprise—for several reasons:
It’s a strange house I’ve never been in, full of noises I don’t normally have to listen to while I’m trying to fall asleep.
It’s massive and I’m slightly intimidated.
There’s a huge dude down the hallway.
There’s a lock on my door, but he and I are alone, so this was probably one of the worst decisions I’ve made this semester besides living with Mariah.
Mariah.
What am I going to do about her? Do I have to do anything? I know she loves me—and the way she behaves? I’ve said it a hundred times (because lately, I’m always defending her) that’s just how she is, how she has always been, really. Since we were young, she’s always been hypercompetitive, and not just with me—with everyone.
I’ve learned that I just…have to stay out of her way. Stand back, let her do her thing, whatever that “thing” happens to be at the time.
Sports. Extracurriculars.
Boys.
Deep down, Mariah is sweet and giving and kind. Not everyone knows her the way I do, especially guys, because she never acts like herself when she’s around them.
No. When she’s around guys, she tends to laugh too loud, talk too loud, wear too much makeup, and dumb herself down. I don’t know why—I’ve never asked—but I’ve learned to accept it. If that’s how she wants to behave, who am I to tell her what to say and how loud?
Not that it would matter since she hardly listens to me anyway.
I roll toward the window in the dark guest bedroom then when the street light hits my eyes in the wrong spot, roll away, toward the door.
Stare at it.
I locked it, right?
I’m tempted to throw back the covers, hop out, and double-check, but I know I’m just being paranoid.
Besides, Kip? Grouchy, rude, crass Kip? Oddly, I feel like I can trust him.
Stupid, I know, but there you have it.
He brought me home because he was worried, not so he could assault me.
And, even with the beard and the hair and the huge body, I can tell it would still be easy for him to pick up women. Even with the beard and the hair and the huge body, he’s still easy on the eyes.
My eyes, anyway.
I roll to my back, staring up at the ceiling, thinking about the guy a few doors down the hall.
What is he doing in a house like this? Who owns it? Why are all the rooms professionally decorated? Did his parents die and leave him tons of money? Is he spending it wisely or blowing it all on stupid crap—like that expensive SUV of his?
I wonder how they died. Was it in a fiery crash or something worse, like an illness or disease?
That has to be the explanation—his parents died. Nothing else makes sense.
God, that poor thing!
Alone in the world and alone in this big house! No wonder he doesn’t want to talk about his parents; their loss must have been tragic.
You know what else I wonder? If he’s lying in his giant bed, thinking about me too. I know it’s a giant bed because I snuck a peek of his bedroom when I was walking to mine, the large four-poster placed strategically between two large windows in the center of the room.
No.
He’s not thinking about me—no doubt he’s already passed out.
A guy like that wouldn’t give me a second thought.
A guy like that would have his pick of girls on campus, long hair and unruly beard or not—that shit is so trendy right now. As I flop to my side, I wonder if he realizes that. He seems to think it’s incredibly off-putting, when in reality…
It’s growing on me.