Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 122030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
“You didn’t even tell me how it went with the headmaster earlier,” I prompt. “Other than to say it’s only a suspension.”
“That’s all there was to it,” he answers without meeting my eyes.
“Okay. And I assume you haven’t told Casey about Gabe yet?” I put on a pair of jeans and then run a brush through my hair while Fenn continues to avert his gaze.
“You assume right.”
I scrutinize him, wishing I could figure out what’s so off about him, or that I currently had the time to give him my undivided attention. But I can’t focus on Fenn’s issues right now. I’ve got to get my head on right for this party if I’m going to get Sloane what she needs. I’ll be damned if I come out of there empty-handed.
“All right, I’m bouncing. Night, bro.”
“Night,” he mumbles and rolls onto his side.
Sloane’s waiting in her car for me downstairs. She smirks at my shirt when I hop in the passenger seat.
“I don’t know how I feel about that,” she says.
“Jealous?”
It’s a cute look on her.
“Not even a little,” she insists. “More betrayed, maybe? Don’t spill anything on it.”
“You might have to help me get the lipstick stains out.”
“Watch it.” She shoves my shoulder before pulling out of the gates and onto the road away from Sandover. “I sent you a picture of Mila to refresh your memory. Wouldn’t want you spending all night flirting with the wrong chick.”
“That’s why you’re the brains of the operation.”
In theory, this might look like a choice assignment. Permission to hit on a hot girl with no repercussions. Except I haven’t been the least bit enthusiastic since Sloane concocted this scheme. Not just because I know she isn’t nearly as dispassionate about the idea as she’d like to pretend. Whether or not I get information out of Mila, this’ll eat her up for a good while. But also, I’m entirely turned off by the idea of cozying up to someone who isn’t Sloane. I don’t know what’s happened to me since we met, but it’s like she’s burnt my tongue and I can’t taste anything else. Nothing gets me excited the way she does. Monogamy has gotten its talons into my flesh and it’s holding on tight.
When we get to Ballard, Sloane pulls up to what looks like a dorm under renovation. There’s scaffolding around the facade and building materials scattered around the lawn. Tarps hang over windows on the second floor, and I spot piles of shingles stacked on the roof.
“This used to be the girls’ scholarship dorm,” she explains. “There was always a bedbug outbreak or rats chewing through the wiring. I think a bat infestation in the attic finally created enough complaints from parents they had to condemn it and move everyone into the regular dorms.”
“Fucking rich people,” I mutter to myself.
“I’m going to wait out here,” Sloane says. She turns in her seat to run her fingers through my hair, messing it up after I’d tried to tame it into shape. “I like it better that way.”
“Should we have a code? Some kind of signal if things go south?”
She gives a slightly violent smile. “If you’re still in there after two hours, I’m pulling a fire alarm.”
“Fair.”
She brushes a speck of lint off my shoulder and gives me a little smack on the cheek for good measure. “Go get ’em, tiger.”
My dick twitches. “Okay, yeah. I think I like that.”
“Behave yourself and you’ll get a BJ for a job well done.”
I throw open the car door. “Done deal.”
It’s mostly dark inside, oddly vacant when I first enter. Everywhere I look, there’s evidence of construction underway. Doors off their hinges. Old drywall in crumpled heaps. Upstairs, however, music rattles sawdust through the floorboards and the weak glow of lantern light suggests the party starts on the second floor.
I follow the stench of weed past a pair of feet in the air, belonging to the chick doing a keg stand while a circle of guys hold the spout to her lips. They chant as beer trickles down her chin. Beyond them is a hotly contested game of beer pong. Beyond that, a table lined with flip cup participants. One team is already stripped down to their underwear, the girl in the Sponge Bob thong probably regretting several life choices.
Suddenly a small, localized quake rumbles down the hall, accompanied by a deep, guttural roar. The noise, drawing closer, becomes angry barking. A line of guys in Ballard body paint—and not a stitch more—gallop past me like a pack of angry mutts.
“Ballard Bulldogs rule,” a coy voice whispers at my ear.
I look over my shoulder to realize Mila’s saved me the trouble of sniffing her out. Last time I saw her, she was in her cheerleader uniform, which is always a solid choice of hot-girl outfit but no match for how good she looks tonight. She’s paired a white crop top with a gray body-con skirt that reaches her ankles, and something about the long skirt/tiny top combo really works for her. Also doesn’t hurt that I can see her nipples through her shirt.