90s Playlist
Amy Jo Cousins, Audra North, Brighton Walsh, Jennifer Blackwood, Lorelie Brown, Rebecca Grace Allen
Genres: New Adult, Romance
Six stories of sex, love, and being young in the ‘90s, inspired by songs of the decade…
My Strongest Weakness by Brighton Walsh
It was supposed to be a one-time thing. No one would find out; no one would have to know. And then once turned into twice, and twice turned into several times a week, and now pierced, punk-loving, rebellious Tia Lanning is banging Mason Brooks, the big man on campus and Mr. All American. But banging him isn’t the problem. Falling for him is. Especially when he’s content to let her remain his dirty little secret.Excerpt:
This
is so not my scene. It’s not that I hate parties…just
these parties. Snooty sorority girls with their Heathers
cliques, whispering and pointing at anyone who looks different from
them. Jocks who are obnoxious and irritating, doing keg stands or
groping chicks in the corners or on the couches. I’d rather be just
about anywhere. But when Stacy, my roommate from Freshman year,
cornered me in the quad after my foreign film class and begged me to
come along, saying all her other friends bailed on her and the guy
she was trying to catch the eye of was going to be here, I figured
why the hell not?
Plus, I thought
it would be a good opportunity to fuck with him.
Him being
Mason Brooks. Starting quarterback, a legacy and vice president of
Zeta Alpha Tau, and Mister All-American. He’s perfection
personified. Perfect hair, perfect body…straight white teeth
anchoring the perfect smile. Perfect clothes. Perfect life. His
parents, both lawyers, are still married. They attend every football
game, or so I’ve heard, and live about an hour upstate in a suburb
I can’t even afford to drive through, let alone live in. Perfect.
We’re like
water and oil, never mixing well. As different as night and day. I
hate him on principle alone.
A game of
Quarters is going on in the corner, and he’s there, standing almost
a head taller than everyone else he’s with. He looks stupid in his
backward baseball cap, No Fear shirt, and jeans, just a lemming
talking to his lemmings. Everything about him should turn me off,
from his neatly cropped hair, to his cocky stance, to his booming
voice, to all those muscles hidden beneath his clothes.
Sadly, it
doesn’t, which is what got me into this situation in the first
place.
He’s talking
with some guys I’ve seen him with around campus. Two girls hang off
each of his arms—one of whom I overheard in the dining hall say she
was going to hook up with him tonight. Since overhearing that,
there’s been a fissure of…something…that started low in
my belly and worked its way up, and now it’s nearly overwhelming.
Must be anticipation. Excitement at the shit that’s about to hit
the fan. Mason hasn’t noticed me yet, and I’m kind of looking
forward to when he does. The Fourth of July will have nothing on the
fireworks between us when he sees I’ve broken our code and shown up
on his home turf.
There aren’t a
lot of rules between us. In fact, there are only three: No
interacting in public, no unscheduled hookups, and no home turf
invasions.
I’m planning to
break all three tonight, just for the hell of it.
“Tia!” Stacy
grabs my arm and spins me around, pointing toward the far end of the
house. “I see Brad over there, so I’m gonna try and catch his
eye. You okay?”
“Yeah, yeah,”
I say, waving her off. “I’ll find you when I want to leave.”
“Okay, an hour,
tops!”
Without another
word, she takes off in that direction, her long hair flying behind
her, and I’m left without a buffer. There’s no denying Stacy fits
in here with the rest of the crowd in the house. She’s everything
I’m not. Styled blonde hair and trendy clothes, bubble gum
personality to my black licorice. When we were assigned the same dorm
Freshman year, I thought it’d be a disaster. Turned out we clicked
despite our differences and managed to keep in touch even when we
moved on to other living arrangements.
Head held high, I
ignore the thinly veiled looks of judgment tossed in my direction as
I make my way through the crowd. God forbid I not be here in a
schoolgirl skirt and a baby tee clinging to my tits, all my goodies
on display for everyone to see. The chains of my necklace jangle as I
walk through the party, not really sure where I’m going. But moving
is better than standing still, waiting for the vultures to strike.
Even though I’m
on my third year here, I’ve managed to make it my entire college
career thus far having yet to actually step foot into a frat house.
Until tonight. It’s bigger than I thought it would be. Cleaner,
too, even with all the people around. I was picturing a slum,
basically. Bug infested, maybe, with garbage lying all over the
place, beer-stained carpets and cigarette burns on the couches. How
could it not be, with a horde of guys living under the same roof and
multiple parties here every week? They must have someone in to clean,
because there’s no way any males from the ages of eighteen to
twenty-two could keep this shit up.
There’s a wall
to my right showcasing dozens and dozens of photographs. I don’t
know a lot about fraternities, but I know enough to realize they’re
pictures of members of Zeta Alpha Tau, going back several years.
Mason is in those photos, somewhere, though I don’t allow myself to
stop and look.
I’m on a
mission, and reminding Mason our agreement is tenuous is priority
number one.
Worthwhile by Audra North
Jill didn’t expect her semester in Leeds to start with getting dumped by her boyfriend. Especially since she only came to England to be with him. Two weeks in, all she wants to do is go home. Finding love with someone new is definitely not an option. But when she literally stumbles into grad student Stuart’s arms, her experience abroad becomes a lot more worthwhile.Excerpt:
How
could he?
I
couldn’t stop thinking those words, over and over, as I ran down
the stairs, face hot with humiliation and anger and the effect of too
many alcopops. I didn’t care that I could barely see through my
tears. I was too desperate to get away from what I’d just seen. So
I kept one hand on the wall as I stumbled my way downward, trying
hard to ignore how the curving descent wasn’t helping my stomach
much. After a week of barely eating, all the alcohol I’d had in the
past two hours was already burning in my gut, and the winding
staircase only added to the roiling discontent.
Not
to mention that the high collar of my jacket was already soggy. Ugh.
My face must be a mess. A watery, crumpled, heartbroken mess. I just
had to get out of here. Out into the cool night air, and then
I’d be fine. Shae would probably figure out that I’d left at some
point, especially if she saw what I’d just seen.
Who
was I kidding? The whole party had probably seen it already.
I
didn’t want to stop running until I was back at my dorm. Then I
could call my parents to let them know that I wanted to come home.
Which was going to suck, because I’d begged them to let me
do this program in the first place, and I hadn’t even managed to
last two weeks in my semester abroad.
The
humiliation of it only made me cry harder, and I stumbled with the
force of my sobbing, missing the last step. I pitched forward, my
platform sneakers making it impossible for me to find any traction,
and all I could do was brace myself for a rough, embarrassing,
terrible—
“Oof!” I made
impact, the breath whooshing out of me. Strange. That was
surprisingly less painful than I’d expected. What did British folks
build their floors out of? This one was rather warm and muscular…
No, wait. Damn
it. I hadn’t hit the floor. I was in someone’s arms.
Someone strong and masculine-feeling. My face was turned to the side,
my cheek pressed against his chest—itseemed that whoever this poor
guy was had caught me when I’d fallen, but I was too tear-blinded
and drunk on vodka and sorrow to even realize it immediately.
“You all
right?” Something vibrated against my ear. His chest, probably.
I dragged a limp
hand over my face, rubbing at my eyes with the heel of my palm, and
nodded. I felt my cheek rub over his shirt. Mmm, soft. Felt
like a nice flannel.
Another swipe
over my eyes and my vision finally cleared. I was hanging like a rag
doll, both legs still on the bottom step of the winding staircase,
the top of my body propped up by a purple-plaid-clad chest.
A muscular chest,
from the feel of it.
Not that I was in
the mood to notice something like that, really. Not when I’d just
witnessed my very-recently-ex-boyfriend sucking face with and
practically humping some random girl out in the hallway at our mutual
friend’s party.
But something
about the comforting way this stranger was holding me was helping
keep the tears at bay. I nuzzled deeper into his shirt.
“Right. Uh,
well…perhaps—might you be able to stand on your own?” His voice
was somewhere between a tenor and a bass, and the tentative way he
was speaking made it sound like he was singing me a lullaby. It felt
so good. With the emotional upheaval and the drinks and the lack of
food this past week while I mourned the unexpected, brutal end of a
two-year relationship, I was suddenly very, very sleepy.
I wanted to reply
and tell him that I’d rather stay where I was, but I couldn’t
even muster the energy to do that. In a good way, though. It felt
like a good kind of enervation.
Oh, you
magical, flannel-clad, rumbling lullaby chest.
Sleep. I needed
sleep, desperately, and for some reason, this chest was making me
feel like it might be okay to go ahead and succumb.
The last thing I
heard before I surrendered to total exhaustion was that deep voice,
sighing and saying, “I suppose that answers my question.”
Creep by Lorelie Brown
Roni lives for the raves in Oakland’s warehouse district. Dancing till dawn in white gloves under black lights breathes life into her soul. Nothing will get her kicked out of her underground world faster than turning over Skittles, her dealer. She refuses to provide info about the underage runaway to his big brother Tom. But Tom is going to find Skittles with or without Roni’s cooperation. But Tom is special. He’s rich, handsome and bold. Roni wishes she was special. And like the rave scene she loves, nothing lasts forever.
Excerpt:
How
could he?
I
couldn’t stop thinking those words, over and over, as I ran down
the stairs, face hot with humiliation and anger and the effect of too
many alcopops. I didn’t care that I could barely see through my
tears. I was too desperate to get away from what I’d just seen. So
I kept one hand on the wall as I stumbled my way downward, trying
hard to ignore how the curving descent wasn’t helping my stomach
much. After a week of barely eating, all the alcohol I’d had in the
past two hours was already burning in my gut, and the winding
staircase only added to the roiling discontent.
Not
to mention that the high collar of my jacket was already soggy. Ugh.
My face must be a mess. A watery, crumpled, heartbroken mess. I just
had to get out of here. Out into the cool night air, and then
I’d be fine. Shae would probably figure out that I’d left at some
point, especially if she saw what I’d just seen.
Who
was I kidding? The whole party had probably seen it already.
I
didn’t want to stop running until I was back at my dorm. Then I
could call my parents to let them know that I wanted to come home.
Which was going to suck, because I’d begged them to let me
do this program in the first place, and I hadn’t even managed to
last two weeks in my semester abroad.
The
humiliation of it only made me cry harder, and I stumbled with the
force of my sobbing, missing the last step. I pitched forward, my
platform sneakers making it impossible for me to find any traction,
and all I could do was brace myself for a rough, embarrassing,
terrible—
“Oof!” I made
impact, the breath whooshing out of me. Strange. That was
surprisingly less painful than I’d expected. What did British folks
build their floors out of? This one was rather warm and muscular…
No, wait. Damn
it. I hadn’t hit the floor. I was in someone’s arms.
Someone strong and masculine-feeling. My face was turned to the side,
my cheek pressed against his chest—itseemed that whoever this poor
guy was had caught me when I’d fallen, but I was too tear-blinded
and drunk on vodka and sorrow to even realize it immediately.
“You all
right?” Something vibrated against my ear. His chest, probably.
I dragged a limp
hand over my face, rubbing at my eyes with the heel of my palm, and
nodded. I felt my cheek rub over his shirt. Mmm, soft. Felt
like a nice flannel.
Another swipe
over my eyes and my vision finally cleared. I was hanging like a rag
doll, both legs still on the bottom step of the winding staircase,
the top of my body propped up by a purple-plaid-clad chest.
A muscular chest,
from the feel of it.
Not that I was in
the mood to notice something like that, really. Not when I’d just
witnessed my very-recently-ex-boyfriend sucking face with and
practically humping some random girl out in the hallway at our mutual
friend’s party.
But something
about the comforting way this stranger was holding me was helping
keep the tears at bay. I nuzzled deeper into his shirt.
“Right. Uh,
well…perhaps—might you be able to stand on your own?” His voice
was somewhere between a tenor and a bass, and the tentative way he
was speaking made it sound like he was singing me a lullaby. It felt
so good. With the emotional upheaval and the drinks and the lack of
food this past week while I mourned the unexpected, brutal end of a
two-year relationship, I was suddenly very, very sleepy.
I wanted to reply
and tell him that I’d rather stay where I was, but I couldn’t
even muster the energy to do that. In a good way, though. It felt
like a good kind of enervation.
Oh, you
magical, flannel-clad, rumbling lullaby chest.
Sleep. I needed
sleep, desperately, and for some reason, this chest was making me
feel like it might be okay to go ahead and succumb.
The last thing I
heard before I surrendered to total exhaustion was that deep voice,
sighing and saying, “I suppose that answers my question.”
Smells Like Teen Spirit by Rebecca Grace Allen
Rory Stone’s days of grunge and poetry are behind her, her reality now in bags of Arabian brew, and counting the change in the tip jar. Can indie singer James Griffith rock her muse back into the present?Excerpt:
One
hand gripping the rag, Rory turned to watch James sing. Thick
forearms flexed as his hands roamed across the frets and strings. He
seemed so serene, the music flowing effortlessly from him, one foot
tapping a beat against the floor as he sang and played. And good
lord, that voice. He’d sounded sexy when he’d merely said a few
words, but hearing him sing was a whole new fucking ball game.
Whisper-soft in the verses. Powerful in the choruses. Rory stood
there, transfixed, until the song ended in a crescendo of louder
notes as he jammed through the last few chords.
James
Griffith was no open mic newbie. This guy was a full-fledged
musician. The stage seemed smaller with him taking residence on it
too, like he was already a star bound for bigger places than Hammond
Falls, New York.
He
smiled at the applause the tiny crowd gave him, and Rory was suddenly
flustered by his grin. It was childlike, big and honest. It woke up a
sleeping part of her that wanted to see if she could catch his
attention again. But he was definitely younger than her—someone who
could smile like that obviously hadn’t been kicked in the teeth by
life yet—and Rory didn’t do Pearce kids.
Not
anymore, anyway.
Focusing
back on getting ready for closing, Rory moved through the cafe,
lifting the wooden chairs, placing them upside down on each table in
a way that made it clear closing time was soon.
Last
call, kids. Everybody out of the pool.
Blondie
led her crew toward the front door, pausing to give Rory a
not-so-covert once-over.
“How
long did it take you to do your hair like that?” she asked.
Rory
fingered one of the bleached blond tendrils hanging down from her
haphazard up-do. It was a rare moment of self-consciousness, and
irritation boiled in her gut. Her lip curled up in the beginnings of
a snarl, but Rory quickly stopped herself. This was work. She needed
to behave.
“Probably
as long as it took you to get so good at singing that song.”
Her
tone was bright and bubbly enough that Blondie missed her sarcasm.
James, however did not. Standing a few paces behind them with his
guitar case, he snorted and covered his mouth.
A
grin eased out of her. A real one. One that reminded her of the old
Rory. It felt…weird.
The
girls exited, and James took an uncertain step toward her.
“I’m
really sorry to ask this, since I can tell you’re closing and all,
but could I trouble you for a glass of water?”
Could
I trouble you? What was this guy, a grandpa disguised as a
guitar-playing college student? She stood there dumbly for a moment,
half expecting him to pull a Scooby-Doo-esque mask off his face. The
hot guy you’re staring at is actually an alien!
“Uh, sure. Yeah. No problem.”
Rory went behind the counter. “You want tap or bottled?”
“Tap
would be fine,” he said, voice raspy. She glanced over her shoulder
in time to catch his wince. He was obviously in pain. And that voice
was too beautiful to let suffer.
“I
can make you some tea,” she said. “If you want.”
She
wasn’t saying it so he’d stay here a little longer. She was being
a Good Samaritan. Helping out the needy. Although if he was a Pearce
kid like she suspected, she knew which one of them would take the
lead in a ‘who-was-needier-than-who’ competition.
“That
would be amazing. Thank you.” The relief on his face was palpable.
James reached for his wallet, but Rory shook her head.
“You
put on a good show. It was a nice change of pace compared with the
crap I’m usually forced to endure. Consider it on the house.”
He
tipped his head in a move that said Yeah? Rory gave him a shrug in
reply. It was half a nice gesture and half not wanting to have to
balance the till again. She nodded toward one of the chairs she
hadn’t turned over yet.
“You
can sit, if you want.”
His
smile was too bright, lighting up the room again. She turned away to
fill a ceramic mug with hot water. Retrieving the box that housed the
cafe’s different types of teas, she hesitated before stepping out
from behind the counter, then kicked her apprehension to the curb.
She still remembered how to have a conversation, despite how much
time she’d spent cloistered away over the last few years.
She
strode toward the table, and placed the box and mug on top of it.
“Drink up.”
“Oh,
wow. This is great.” James opened a package of Peachberry Jasmine
and submerged it in water. “Thank you again.”
“No
biggie. I loved your Nirvana cover, by the way.”
The
sudden honesty was a surprise. Rory blamed the song. Grunge had
always moved her in a way no other music did, the sound so raw and
intense, with lyrics about loneliness, isolation and yearning.
She
had to stifle a laugh. Liking that music must’ve been fate. A cruel
foreshadowing of what her life was going to be like.
“Thanks.
I’ve been working on it for a while,” James said. “Nevermind
was the album that made me want to learn how to play guitar.”
A
performer who shared her taste in music. It plucked at her
heartstrings. Or gut-strings. Or a-few-inches-lower-than-that
strings.
He
stretched his hand across the table. “I’m James, by the way. It’s
nice to meet you.”
Rory’s
brows skyrocketed. Again with the manners? The guy must’ve grown up
in a functional household something.
“Dude,
I know your name. I introduced you, remember?”
He
laughed and retracted his hand. “Duh. Of course. I forgot.”
“You
forgot?”
He
nodded, and his cheeks went even redder. His blush made her want to
say twisted and depraved things to him. To unearth the old Rory and
see how deep she could get that crimson to go.
She
reached her hand out toward him, a peace offering. “I’m Rory.”
The Belle vs. the BDOC by Amy Jo Cousins
Shelby Summerfield is a gold star lesbian, even if she doesn’t look like one. Florence Truong is the only other dyke at Carlisle College in 1993 not wearing plaid flannel, and Shelby sets her sights on seduction. But instead of a delightful tumble in the sheets, Florence calls her out for being a straight girl. With seduction off the table, Shelby settles for revenge for her humiliation. But if all she wants is to show up her campus rival, how come Shelby can’t stop herself from saving Florence instead of annihilating her?Excerpt:
Getting busted in
the back of a bar with your hand on a penis was not the way to
go about picking up the hottest lesbian on campus.
“Oh my gravy,”
Shelby Summerfield murmured into the ear of the boy who was panting
into her breasts and tugging her hand toward the bulge behind his
belt. Davis was full as a tick, if the tick had been downing shots of
Wild Turkey all night, and Shelby was trying to break it to him
gently that she was a pussy-only sort of girl. Of course, if she
hadn’t known he’d just been publicly dumped by his girlfriend in
humiliating fashion, she’d have applied her knee to Davis’s
private parts, but allowances could be made for heartbreak among
study buddies.
“Excuse me.”
Oh, fudge.
“Um, hey,”
Shelby managed to squeeze out over Davis’s shoulder.
“Don’t let me
interrupt,” Florence Truong drawled over the Gin Blossoms singing
about jealousy. Someone in the bar—Shelby suspected Davis—had
pumped a truckload of quarters into the jukebox and put the song on
repeat.
“No, he’s
not—” But the woman Shelby had come here to find just shook her
head and rolled her eyes, striding off toward the front of the bar
with a swing of her hips that called attention to her
pipecleaner-skinny grey trousers and forest green velvet blazer with
cuffed sleeves.
“Damn.”
Shelby let herself curse, because really, if a situation called for
it, this one did. “Double damn. Oh, get off me.”
She pushed
Davis’s dead weight off her shoulder, where he seemed to have
passed out sometime after begging for his first hand job and before
the spectacular exit of Ms. Florence Truong. Halfway through his slow
slide down the wall to the floor, Shelby gave in and hauled him
upright again.
“Good thing you
don’t weigh much more than a sack of wet mice, Davis Crawley” she
ground out as she wedged a shoulder under his armpit and hauled him
toward the front of the bar. If she were lucky, she could prop him up
on one of the bar stools with a high wooden back long enough for him
to sober up. No sense trying to send him home when the boy probably
couldn’t remember his own name, much less where he lived. Pouring
him into one of the few town taxicabs was a waste of the money she’d
no doubt have to pay the driver in advance.
Besides, one
drunk poli sci study partner—who was almost certainly going to
remember none of this in the morning—was not about to put Shelby
Summerfield off her game plan. She’d come to this stupid bar
tonight, on trivia night, because she’s heard Florence showed up
every Wednesday.
Shelby was tired
of drooling over the woman from afar.
She was going to
track Florence down like a bloodhound if she had to, because Shelby
didn’t believe in settling for anything less than exactly what she
wanted.
And if that meant
slipping the bartender ten bucks to let Davis sleep it off at far end
of the bar, she certainly wouldn’t consider that a waste of the
allowance her parents mailed her every two weeks from Dallas.
The bartender, a
cranky man whose belly, nose, and enunciation made it clear he was
used to drinking as much behind the bar as Davis had poured down his
throat in front of it barked at her when she deposited Davis on a
vacant chair.
“He pukes, you
clean it up.”
“If he pukes,
I’ll kill him myself,” she muttered, as worried about the state
of her campaign to seduce Florence Truong as she was about the state
of the floors at Egon’s.
The impression
that she’d been giving Davis a handjob in the back of the bar could
surely be overcome. Mopping up puke on her hands and knees in front
of the coolest dykes on campus? Not even Scarlett O’Hara could have
come back from that kind of blow.
“Just…let him
sober up a little. I’ll check on him. I promise,” she swore, and
then grabbed her longneck and wriggled through the crowd toward the
table where Florence sat with a half dozen girls, all of whom howling
the words to a 4 Non Blondes hit. Throwing her shoulders back and
pasting a big smile on her face, she waited until the song trailed
off, strategically, and then made her approach.
Someone at the
table was wearing too much patchouli—although Shelby really thought
that any patchouli was too much, and stuck to her Clinique Happy,
because even the name had a good attitude—and no one even looked at
her, which was how she knew they were ignoring her on purpose,
because her boobs were spilling out of this sundress like nobody’s
business.
Her cup runneth’d
the heck over.
Little Red Thong by Jennifer Blackwood
Emily Jones is ready to embark on the most epic spring break trip of her college career with her bestie, twin brother, and her brother’s best friend, Chase. Chase has been in love with Emily since the eighth grade when she kicked his ass in laser tag. He’s not going to piss away his last chance to tell her how he feels. When the group decides to play a game of Spring Break BINGO that involves body shots, a red thong, and secret hookups, this is the perfect catalyst to get him out of the friend zone. But as things get heated, they have to decide if twenty years of friendship is worth putting in jeopardy because of a game, and what will happen when they hit dry land.Excerpt:
“Lame, ladies.”
Chase fisted his shirt and pulled it over his head in one fluid
motion, putting his muscled chest on full display.
Sweet mother of
pearl.
I clapped my hand
over my mouth to hide a very audible gasp. I coughed and tried to
play it off like I had something in my throat, because nothing could
be more awkward than Chase knowing that I was gawking at his ripped
muscles. That thought didn’t even feel right, because when did the
words Chase and muscles go together? He’d been cute
in a gawky, lanky way, which tended to happen when a gamer’s main
form of a workout was making Mario run through the Mushroom Kingdom.
And that bulk could not be achieved through the use of a controller.
Melissa tapped me
on the shoulder, her brows furrowed, and I realized I was still
coughing and sputtering. “You okay? Need water?”
I nodded and
Melissa pulled a bottle of water out of her bag and handed it to me.
I twisted off the
lid and took a few sips, trying to look anywhere but at Chase. But as
a certain law of the universe goes, the more you tell yourself not to
do something, the more you want to do it. I shifted my gaze to him
as he stepped into the pool, the water slowly moving its way up his
legs, flowing over the print of his shorts, teasing at the waistband
that gave way to abs.
Holy crap. There
was a six-pack…attached to Chase. And were those biceps or dinner
rolls? Shit, when did he get so ripped? I rubbed my lips together and
reached into the pocket of my cover-up for my Chapstick, to alleviate
my suddenly parched lips.
Drew hopped up
from his chair and sprinted toward the pool closest to us, executing
a perfect cannonball. Chase swam after him, the muscles in his back
and his calves flexing with each movement and I shook my head, trying
to force myself to look away.
I hadn’t really
looked closely at him until now, because Chase was always…well, he
was Chase. My next door neighbor since I was born, my brother’s
best friend. He was just always there, kind of like an art piece that
hung above the top of our family’s mantel—something you know is
there but you stop noticing after a while.
Well, I was
noticing now.
Now he was…hot.
Like Freddie Prinze, Jr. hot.
Whoa. Those
thoughts needed to sink back down to the depths from which they’d
sprouted. This was Chase we were talking about. The same guy who used
to flick spit wads into my hair on the bus in middle school and gave
me noogies up until senior year of high school.
After the guys
swam farther away, Melissa laid her Cosmo over her stomach and
turned to me. “You never told me about your brother’s hot
friend.”
“Um. Yeah.
Recent change.” As in, last time I saw him was junior year
Christmas, during winter break, he definitely wasn’t
sporting a football player physique. He’d transformed from Screech
to Slater status in less time than it took the earth to orbit the
sun.
She pulled her
neon green sunglasses down her nose and raised a brow suggestively.
“You gonna hit that?”
“Seriously, M,
who talks that way?”
“Me and Coolio?
Maybe Dre?”
I shook my head
and giggled. “Good to know you’re getting down with your rapper
roots. Should I call you DJ Gold?” On a scale of gangster cred,
Melissa Gold ranked somewhere along the same line as Weird Al
Yankovic. I mean, the girl once put gum wrappers over her teeth to
pretend she had a platinum grill, but that was about as hood as it
was going to get.
She threw out a
fake gang sign. “Fo-shizzle.”
I playfully
pushed at her hands. “Put those away before you hurt yourself.”
“It’s hard
spending my life in a gangster’s paradise.”
“Go back to
your Cosmo before you get us shot.”
She turned back
to me, more serious this time. “For real, though, are you calling
dibs on that Chase dude?”
He was the pain
in the ass next door. So why would it be a big deal if Melissa went
for him?
But somehow that
rational thought process didn’t help the unease that had settled in
the pit of my stomach. Really, I had zero say over who he hooked up
with—not that I cared. But a twinge of possessiveness zinged up my
spine, nonetheless. Chase was a nice guy, not someone who should be
used as a consolation prize for a twisted game of spring break bingo.
“I thought you were into Drew.”
“Yeah.” She
turned to me, her lips curving into a mischievous smile. “You think
they’d be into the three-way kiss?”
I snorted. “Um.
No.”
“Damn. Oh well,
I’m sure there’s someone willing to do that on this boat.”
“Mmhmm.”
She opened her
Cosmo back up and pointed out something in an article, but I
zoned out as Chase commandeered a pool noodle and laid out in the
water, everything but his chest and tops of his legs submerged. The
sun glinted off each droplet on his chest, and Chase’s swimsuit had
molded against his, ahem, package, and it was definitely hard not to
stare. He laughed at something my brother said and two dimples
appeared on either side of his face.
I shifted
restlessly in the chair, crossing and uncrossing my legs, focusing
back on Melissa, who was reading out loud from the Most
Embarrassing Moments column. Something about a bikini falling off
and a big wave. But I couldn’t concentrate on the story. All I
could focus on was Chase’s abs and bulge. Jesus, it’d been a
while since my last boyfriend, but I’d never felt this type of need
before, one that pulled low in my belly. Obviously this was the
aftermath from notgettinganyitus. Maybe it should come with a
warning label with a list of side-effects, like the ones for
prescription medication on television.
Warning:
prolonged abstinence may be associated with sudden onset of lusty
feelings for your brother’s best friend.
I
swallowed hard and licked my parched lips. This was going to be a
very long four days.
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