“Fuck!” And … another paper cut. My hands are covered in them.
“Wow.” He whistles, which only seems to make my throbbing fingers sting more. “I thought we were friends from now on. Is that any way to greet me when I track you down to offer you my services? You’re in a bad mood, even for you when I’m involved. Does someone need a good dicking? Is the celibacy of camp frying your brain?”
Is he jumping right in with his plan and offering to give me a dicking, or is he still finding it difficult not to be a dick in general? It doesn’t surprise me he mistakes making someone fall in love with him for having sex.
“I had sex with myself this morning, thank you very much, so no. Lack of orgasms isn’t an affliction I suffer from.”
How much sex does this dude have to equate two days of band camp with a dry spell? It’s only Tuesday.
“Masturbation is always a great stress reliever, true, but no. I don’t think it’s working for you. You can’t have sex with yourself. You’re not getting the full benefits, going it alone.”
Okay, so … he’s actually offering. Not surprised. I also don’t want it to go that far between us, no matter how much I want to beat him at his own game.
“Actually, sex with myself is way more relaxing than sex with someone else. I don’t have to perform or worry about anyone’s enjoyment but mine, and I also don’t have the added anxiety of someone thinking he’s fucking a miniature cow.”
He’s silent so long that I’m worried he’s already figured out what’s really going on. Damn.
“Sophie. Has that happened to you?”
“No,” I snap, unable to give him the satisfaction of thinking for a second that I haven’t had great sex since him. “It’s just that I’m realistic enough to be aware that I’m not a supermodel, and the guy obviously knows it, too.”
He shakes his head and clucks his tongue, back to his egomaniacal self as quickly as if someone had waved a magic wand. “See, I was raised to appreciate and say thank you when a friend lets me play with them.”
Sure. Like he thanked me. By ghosting then pretending not to know me when we saw each other again. Maybe he’s just testing out my offer to forget the past. To pretend nothing ever happened between us. Fine. I can run that route.
“I don’t know what your parents taught you, but I’m sure Alex gave you all sorts of lessons about appreciating women. You’ve been his one-night stand protégé since freshman year.”
See? Perfect. As if we never knew each other before then.
“Do you have a thing for Alex?”
The question, the tone of his voice, and the abject hatred in his eyes throw me for a loop. He’s put me through the wringer before, but this is a hell of a test to determine if I meant it about forgetting the past and being friends. “Eww, what? No! Why would you even ask me that?”
“You bring him up a lot. Admit it., This is one of those friend’s older-brother crushes, isn’t it?”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to fire back that we’re not friends, and yep, he’s definitely riling me up to get to the truth of the matter. Deep breath. “You’re actually the one who brings up your brother all the time, not me. You’ve been bragging about him ever since rookie band camp.”
He leans forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped together tightly. He looks exactly the same as he did last night when he first gave voice to his vile plan. Except … less vague through a decorative window. “I have never once said my brother’s name in the entire three years I’ve attended State until now.”
“Yes, you have,” I automatically argue. There’s testing me, then there’s rewriting history. I told him I’d forget the past between us, but that doesn’t mean forgetting the past completely.
“I haven’t,” he insists, shaking his head for emphasis. “Everyone who finds out my last name is Fossoway has. You included.”
I stare at him like he’s having a mental breakdown, but maybe that’s just projection because I’m desperately combing through the files in my brain to prove him wrong.
“Don’t bother denying it,” he spits. “The second the directors announced who I was—who my brother was—everyone looked at me differently. They treated me differently.”
I squint my eyes, trying to see into the past with a different perspective. It’s no good. All I see is James glaring at me. Maybe he’s trying to make me have sympathy for him as a ploy to thaw my icy heart before he makes his move. That’s totally something I was going to do. Damn him.
So much for playing the part of the woman who hasn’t had a date in a year and anything other than self-love for longer than that.
“If you dislike being associated with your brother so much, why come to State at all?”
Oh, my college memories would be so different if I’d never seen his face again.
He looks at me like I’m crazy. “I got a full ride here. Why would I go anywhere else?”
So, he doesn’t really dislike being associated with his famous brother. As I already knew. He just wants me to think it bothers him.
“Okay then,” I acquiesce. This whole conversation rattles me. It’s muddling up my focus.
He jumps up from his seat like it electrocuted him, placing his hands up in a defensive position. “Sorry. Sorry. I didn’t mean to accuse you of anything. We’re supposed to be friends now, right?”
I squint at him. If this keeps up, I’m going to have a permanent eye tic.
“Don’t look at me like that.” He laughs as he approaches me, but there’s a nervous edge to the sound. “I am actually capable of apologizing when I’m wrong, you know.”
No, I wouldn’t know. I’ve been seriously wronged by this guy, and the least of what he’s given me is an apology. I erase those thoughts from my mental whiteboard. “You have nothing to apologize for. Everyone is entitled to their feelings.”
“And what are your feelings, huh?” In a blink, he’s at my side, head tipped down again into my personal bubble, murmured words a warm caress on my cheek. “You’re entitled, too.”
I do not miss that he’s basically insulted me in the same beat as finally making a rather suave move on me, I must admit. He can’t quite throw off his hatred, even in the heat of pursuit.
That’s fine. Just one more way I can be better than him. Maybe. If I try really hard. Which I’m going to do. Starting right now.
I’m feeling like I want you to throw me down on this floor and take me right now.
Nope. Too strong right out of the gate. Not believable at all.
I’m feeling like I might swoon just from the masculine scent of your body so close to mine.
Swoon? Masculine scent? No one talks like that anymore. He’ll know I’m quoting a book instead of actually telling him something honest.
I’m feeling, I’m feeling, I’m feeling …
My brain computer hits backspace on words quicker than I can think up new ones.
I’m feeling like I could wrap my hands around your throat and squeeze until your head pops like a balloon filled with Jell-O.
Now, that is genuine. Too bad I can’t say anything at all.