Gretchen’s expression darkens but she nods. I’m not quite sure she believes me, but I don’t care.
Hurrying, I make it up the stairs in time to see Alex and the girl disappear into a bedroom. My heart hammers out a painful rhythm. This isn’t how I wanted tonight to go.
The door doesn’t close all the way like I expect it to, and my feet stop moving, stuck here in the center of the hallway. I don’t dare move because I’m certain the creaky wooden floorboards will give me away. The music from downstairs is only a distant thumping sound up here, which means I can hear the faint rustling of clothes.
“Jesus,” Alex grunts.
I hate myself for it a little, but I dare to take one cautious step closer, then another, until I can see through the crack in the door.
The sight isn’t one I expected. I thought there would be a passionate display of groping each other, arms wrapped around bodies, and kisses so hot you could feel them deep down in your soul. That’s the kind of kisses I’ve fantasized about sharing with him all week long.
Instead, Alex stands like a statue carved from stone, muscular and unmoving except for his chest, which hitches with quick, shallow breaths. His gaze is downcast, —captured by the girl perched on her knees between his parted feet. Her hands work furiously at undoing his belt buckle. I hear the clank of metal, and my heart squeezes.
I can’t see it from this vantage point, but it’s obvious the second she gets his cock free. Because her head bobs, and he releases a strangled sound.
“Fuck.” He groans, squeezing his eyes closed and fisting her hair.
I force a breath into my lungs and stagger one step back.
“Spying?”
The deep rasp of a masculine voice startles me and I whirl around, my heart in my throat.
“No.” The word leaves my mouth at the same moment I register who’s joined me in the hallway.
Holt Rossi.
If Alex is the golden jock, then Holt is the brooding loner. He’s imposing and powerful, and standing here before him, I feel a little unsteady. He’s huge, with a broad chest. Wide shoulders. Chiseled jaw. And he looks ticked off.
“I was looking for something else to drink. The beer is awful.” It’s not a complete lie.
He nods. “Come on.”
For reasons unknown, I follow him down the hall. Maybe it’s because he believes my lie. Maybe it’s because I really don’t want to listen to my crush getting a blow job.
Holt and I had English composition together freshman year, and two classes together sophomore year. In one of them, we were assigned partners for a semester-long project. Then he declared his major—criminal justice—and our shared classes stopped. This year I’ve only seen him a handful of times. His hair is longer, and he looks like he forgot how to shave, but his eyes are still the same dark gray, expressive with a hidden depth I’ve never quite understood.
He unlocks a door, and I follow him inside.
It takes me a minute to realize we’re inside his bedroom. It’s a small room in what appears to be a converted attic, with wood-paneled walls and a sloping ceiling that makes him duck as we enter.
“You live here?”
He nods. “Moved in last semester. Free rent.”
“Why would Theta give you free rent?”
I know he’s not in the fraternity. I’m pretty sure he’s against what all fraternities stand for—fun, camaraderie, and brotherhood. Holt Rossi doesn’t like relying on anyone but himself.
“Because I tutor the underclassmen, and I also do all the grounds maintenance. Lawn care, snow removal, et cetera.”
I nod. “Gotcha.”
Holt grabs a silver flask from his dresser and holds it out to me.
I certainly don’t want whatever mystery liquor is inside. I’ve never been a big drinker, but since I lied and told him I was up here searching for something to drink, I don’t want to blow my cover.
I accept the flask and take a small sip. It’s surprisingly smooth, but the burn of whiskey lingers on my tongue.
When I pass the flask back to him, Holt brings it to his mouth, placing his lips where mine were a second ago as he takes a long pull. The thought of it sends a small flash of something foreign racing through me, and I look away.
His bedroom is sparely decorated with a twin-size bed on a metal frame, no headboard, and a single pillow. I sleep with at least six pillows. Excessive? Yes, but I like what I like.
His dresser is tall and narrow. One of the drawers sags like it’s been pulled from its frame and never quite settled back in the same way again. A desk sits under the small round window, piled under the weight of textbooks and an ancient-looking laptop.
For the first time, I wonder about Holt, about his history, about what kind of things he likes to do, what type of girls he dates.
If I’m the well-bred society type that people assume me to be, then Holt Rossi is the opposite. From a working-class family, and here on a merit scholarship.
It’s only natural that I should wonder about him. Right?
“You’re not his type.” Holt’s deep voice pulls me from my thoughts again.
“Huh?”
“Braun.”
I lift one shoulder, trying to look disinterested, but his words slice straight through me, stealing the air from my lungs for a moment.
When Holt passes me the flask again, this time I accept it eagerly, grateful for the distraction. I take a longer sip, letting the whiskey warm a path inside me.
“Why wouldn’t I be his type?” I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
“Because.” Holt shrugs, taking the flask back and draining it. “You’re a good girl. You give off girlfriend vibes. And I’m pretty sure Braun is allergic to monogamy.”
His words sting, but maybe . . . somewhere deep inside, they make sense. If it’s true that Alex will be entering the NHL draft next year, why would he want to be saddled with a college girlfriend?
Holt pulls out the chair that’s tucked neatly into the space in front of the desk and offers it to me. I lower myself onto it while he takes a seat on the end of his bed.
Whereas Alex is athletically handsome in a rugged, hockey player kind of way with his thick thighs, bulky forearms, and messy hair, Holt gives off a hot bad boy vibe. He’s tall, even bigger than Alex, and judging by the rough stubble on his jaw, his face hasn’t seen a razor in weeks. But his eyes are kind, warm like melted honey. I’ve always liked his eyes.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say at last, realizing Holt’s still watching me like a butterfly captured in a net. “It won’t be happening. Not now.” I look across the room to the door where only a few paces away, Alex Braun is probably fucking some poor girl’s throat.
Holt’s tone softens. “He doesn’t deserve it, you know that, right?”
I can’t figure out how he’s so perceptive. How he seems to know what I’ve been planning with Alex tonight. Not that I’d ever admit it to him.
“It?” It is a crass way to refer to someone’s virginity, and my tone more than hints at my annoyance.
“Your devotion,” Holt says to clarify, one dark eyebrow raised in my direction.
I straighten my shoulders. “Oh. Right.”
Holt clears his throat and looks away. I’m not sure if he’s embarrassed for me or simply giving me a moment. I release a slow exhale and try to collect myself. My hands are still shaking.