Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 108049 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 540(@200wpm)___ 432(@250wpm)___ 360(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108049 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 540(@200wpm)___ 432(@250wpm)___ 360(@300wpm)
If there’s one thing I’m good at, though, it’s playing the boy toy.
I’ll say this much for these bunch of goons, we sure clean up nice. The team came looking sharp in our best attire on Saturday afternoon. Beards trimmed. Hair gelled. Bucky even plucked his nose hairs, as he made sure to inform us all.
The alumni luncheon is being held in Woolsey Hall on campus. So far, it’s consisted of listening to a bunch of people get up and talk about how Briar made them the men and women they are today, giving back, school spirit, blah, blah, blah. The assigned seating cards have split up the athletics department, along with representatives of the Greeks, student government, and a handful of other notable student organizations, among the many tables with the alumni guests. Mostly it’s been smile, nod, laugh at their bad jokes, and tell them, yes sir, we’re taking the championship this year.
It’s not all bad, though. The food’s decent and there’s plenty of free booze. So at least I’ve got a little buzz going.
No matter how good I look in a suit, though, I still feel like they can smell it on me. The stench of poverty. The hospital stink of new money. All these rich assholes who probably spent most of their college years snorting coke through hundred-dollar bills from trust funds that have been earning interest since their ancestors were involved in the slave trade.
Seven months ago I showed up at Briar a punk-ass kid from LA. Exactly the type the good folks of Ivy institutions prefer to have mopping their floors rather than attending classes. A stepfather with deep pockets, however, does wonders for one’s image in the eyes of the admissions board.
Yeah, I clean up nice, but shit like this reminds me I’m not one of them. I’ll never be one of them.
“Mr. Edwards.” The older woman seated next to me has what looks like the entirety of the Queen’s jewels hanging off her neck. She slides one boney hand over my thigh and leans into me. “Would you be a dear and see if you can rustle a lady up a gin and tonic? Wine gives me a headache.” She smells like cigarettes, peppermint gum, and expensive perfume.
“Sure thing.” Hoping she can’t pick up on my relief, I excuse myself from the table, thankful to break away for a bit.
Outside the main ballroom I find Hunter, Foster, and Bucky at the cocktail bar, where the catering staff is packing up after the hors d’oeuvre reception.
“Can I bother you for a gin and tonic?” I ask the bartender.
“Yeah, no problem.” He starts pouring the drink. “More bottles I empty, less I have to carry out of here.”
“Gin and tonic? Bro, when did you become my grandmother?” Bucky jokes.
“It’s not for me. It’s for my cougar.”
Hunter snorts and sips his beer.
“Please don’t laugh. A couple more gin and tonics and she’ll legit be trying to hop on my dick.” I nod at the bartender for permission, then steal one of the Stellas he’s got sitting in a box on the floor.
“From what I hear,” Foster says, “your dick’s been pretty busy this week.”
I pop the cap on my beer with the ring I wear on my right middle finger. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Way I hear it, you spent the night with a Kappa last Friday and jumped right into bed with a Tri-Delt on Thursday.”
It sounds crass when he says it that way. But yeah, I suppose that’s how it looks. He doesn’t know, of course, that Taylor and I shared a lovely platonic evening of conversation. And I can’t defend her honor without also blowing her cover. I trust these guys, but it’s inevitable that anything I say gets back to their girls and, well, people talk.
“Who told you about the Delta hookup?” I ask curiously, because Natalie’d snuck me into the sorority house after midnight. Apparently the Delta house has some ridiculous rule about dudes sleeping over.
“She did,” Foster answers, snickering.
I furrow my brow. “Huh?”
Bucky slides his phone from his pocket. “Oh yeah, we all saw that pic. Hold on.” He taps the screen a few times. “Yeah, here it is.”
I peer at Bucky’s Instagram feed. And yup, there’s Natalie in a selfie giving the camera a thumbs-up while I’m in the lower corner of the frame, sound asleep. Below it, the caption reads, Look who scored. #Briarhockeyhottie #StickIt #BuzzerBeater #Goooaaalll
Real nice.
“I give it high marks for lighting and composition,” Foster says, laughing. Jackass.
“Hashtag puckbunny,” Bucky adds. “Hashtag—”
I take the gin and tonic from the bartender and head back inside to deliver it, shooting a middle finger at the guys as I leave.
It’s not the ribbing that bothers me. Or even the picture, really. I just feel kind of…cheap. Someone’s fuck for likes. I might be a little promiscuous, but I don’t treat women like conquests. A simple exchange of physical pleasure, where everyone gets what they want and no lies are told, is perfectly healthy. Why go and make the other person feel like a piece of meat?