Anyway, the rest of Hunt’s and my relationship was a blur. He followed his path—like a jock moth flying toward the glorious jock light, in search of fame, pussy, and glory. I followed my own path, working my butt off at school. When our paths crossed, almost daily, I was an object of ridicule. He would poke fun at my curly brown hair or make fun of my flat chest or math club T-shirts. “Hey, Tassie, lookin’ fine in that little-boy body. Just when exactly are you going to hit puberty? My friends and I need to know ’cause we’ve got a bet going.”
Asshat. I ignored him, of course, but it did little to deter the douche bag. I really think he got off on it.
But the strange thing was, during all those years, he never allowed anyone else to say a single word to me.
Not one.
If any of his stupid “bros” opened their mouths, they’d quickly receive the international bro-sign of shutthehellup: a punch in the arm. Hunter would then add a “Back off! Tassie is my nerd.” Like he owned me in some strange version of reality that only existed in his head.
So twisted.
Then there was the day in the eleventh grade when Kurt Lipmann grabbed my ass in the hallway between classes. I yelled at the guy, told him he was a “feckless dick,” and gave him a push. So many people were watching that I think he felt compelled to put me in my place—especially since he probably didn’t know the meaning of feckless—so he slapped me. I wasn’t having it. I went right after him with flying fists that did absolutely nothing except amuse the onlookers. Kurt and I were dragged apart and ended up in the principal’s office. I got suspended for a day—for fighting and swearing—he got a full week. Justice had not been served in my mind. And, as it turned out, it hadn’t been served in Hunter’s mind either. He beat the crap out of Kurt the next week after school. Black eye, cut lip, the works. No, Kurt didn’t tattle, but I knew. Why else would Kurt have come up to me at lunch, stared at his shoes, and said, “I’m really sorry, Tassie. It won’t ever happen again.” I remember looking across the lunchroom, where Hunter sat taller than the rest in his letterman’s jacket, with his group of football cronies. His sky-blue eyes crackled with anger, almost like he was displeased for having to defend me.
Okay. What the hell? His actions left me feeling…well, I didn’t know. Angry. Confused. I mean, I didn’t need him sticking up for me. But the question begged, why would he? He lived to make me suffer.
That night, I went over to his house, and he answered the door in one of those tight tees he loved so much, likely because they showed off his bulging biceps and chest.
“Can we talk? Outside,” I added.
Those sharp blue eyes, framed by a curtain of dark lashes, flashed a hard look. “What do you want, Tassie?”
I lifted a brow, stepped off his porch, and went to wait for him on his front lawn with my arms crossed. It was almost nine o’clock at night and dark out, but he was still likely worried about being seen with me, so I added, “I’m not leaving until we talk.”
Hunter’s broad shoulders rose steadily and then fell with an impatient breath. He stepped out, closed the front door behind him, and walked over.
“What?” he said, all hostile.
“What the hell was that with Kurt?”
He shrugged. “What?”
“I know it was you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Tassie.” He flashed a cocky smile, like he was prouder than hell to have gotten away with it.
“Fine. Play that game. But I don’t need you defending me, and I don’t need you interfering in my life. In fact, isn’t it about time you just leave me the hell alone?”
He chuckled. “We both know you’d miss me.”
My jaw dropped. What is the matter with him? “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?”
He stepped in so close I could feel the heat radiating off his tall frame. “No. What am I doing to you?” he said with his deep voice that always provoked a reaction in my stomach. The truth is that I loved the way it sounded, which completely infuriated me.
Being only five five, I had to crane back my neck to see his face and make sure he saw mine. “This isn’t funny, Hunter. You’re fucking up my life.”
He jerked his head back as if shocked by that. “You’re serious. You really want me to stop.”
“Yes! An emphatic, astounding yes!” One would think after saying “leave me alone” five hundred times, as I’d done over the years, he’d get the picture.
A long moment passed, him staring into my eyes, the porchlight illuminating half his stupidly chiseled face, before he leaned down to whisper in my ear, “Sorry. But you’re my nerd, Tassie.”
I felt the heat of his breath on my ear, and it gave me goose bumps, though I was fairly sure they were the revolted kind.
“I’m not your anything, Hunt.” I turned to leave, but he caught my wrist and snapped me back.
I sort of squeaked-yelped as my body slammed into him. “Hey!”
Hunter suddenly wrapped his big arms around me and…well, he gave me a hug. A big old bear hug.
What the hell? I stood with my body frozen like a block of ice. His large body felt warm and hard against mine, and he smelled really nice.
“Sorry that fucker hit you, Tassie,” he said softly.
A million different things charged through my mind, but mostly I thought I’d bonked my head. Or an alternate universe had jumped out of the ground and sucked me in. Because Hunter Johnson went out of his coldhearted way to single me out and humiliate me almost daily. And now he had his arms wrapped around my body, being all protective and affectionate?
No. Nuh-uh. Something’s not right.
I pushed him away. “Where do you get off…” I searched for the right words.
“Not with you. That’s for sure,” he said, with a snide little laugh.
My mouth fell open. He’s screwing with me. That’s what this is. Just another demented mind game.
“Just…fucking leave me alone,” I spat and marched off toward my house. “I mean it!”
“Not a chance, Tassie!” he yelled. “I’d miss your dirty little nerd mouth too much.”
And he’d meant it, too. After that, Hunter made sure to stop by my locker at least once a day—usually a drive-by to say something stupid like, “Lookin’ mighty fine in those really big glasses, Tass.” Or his all-time favorite, “Say it. Who’s your favorite jock, my little nerd princess?”
To which I’d reply, “You’re not my favorite anything. You’re just an asshole.”
“You know you love me.”
“Like a crusty rash,” I’d say.
“You don’t get rashes—you belong to the awesome NBMs. Remember?”
Yeah, he liked throwing that one at me a lot. The “Not Before Marriage” group was my way of embracing my nerdiness. I wanted girls to see it was okay to wait. Sadly, there were only five in our group and one was a guy—Jeremy Flynn, who followed me around like a puppy until graduation day. Nice guy. Bad BO. Rachel, my best friend, was also part of the club.
Anyway, the daily banter between Hunter and me seemed to be the highlight of his pathetic, self-centered life until our senior year. He’d been away all summer at some stupid football camp, and when he returned, he’d changed. He stopped talking to me, teasing me, or looking at me. He didn’t even beg for the occasional math help or alibi. He seemed…colder and distant. It was a little strange, but it was the best year of my life. College was ahead of me. High school would soon be behind me. The future was bright.
Until now. Hunter is ruining my life again.
“So?” Elle prods from her bed, the history book clutched to her chest. “Are you going to tell me what this football guy did to you?”
I look at my hands folded neatly in my lap and then back at her. I suddenly have zero desire to rehash the past.
“Nah, forget it.” I stand up. “It’s no big deal. We just weren’t friends, that’s all.”
“Oh.” She nods skeptically.
“So you feel like going to an Alpha party tonight?” I ask teasingly.
Elle’s brown eyes bug open. “Uh…yeah. No. I have a brain, and those aren’t welcome in the Alpha House.”
“Point taken. How about loaning me a really slutty dress?”
She laughs. “Either you’re insane or you have gargantuan gonads, which, in either case, means you shouldn’t be let out of this room.”
“It’s gonads,” I say with a straight face. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, but I haven’t been able to find the right time.” I point to my crotch and then pretend I’m grabbing two round objects. “They’re hairy. I mean, really hairy. It’s gross.”
“Ohmygod, Tass!” she says, shaking her head. “You’re such a smartass.”
“So I’ve been told.” The question is, can I be a sexy-ass and seduce Hunter Johnson to win this bet?
CHAPTER FOUR
Yes. I am insane.
As I approach the Alpha House busting at the seams with partygoers and loud music, the reality of what I’m about to do hits me over the head like a lead balloon.
A) I am alone and going to a frat party. Hunter’s frat party.
B) I am planning to catch Hunter with my womanly wiles to prove a point: that with my glorious brain, I can get any man I want, including the one guy Lainey and Jessica think I can’t have but “need.”
Yeah, because I’m sooo needy and all horny for those genius football players. So stupid. I hate those two chicks! Why the hell am I even here? I stop on the sidewalk just across the street from the two-story, wood-framed house with a large porch and black shutters. My heart is pounding a million beats per second, but not because I’m afraid of going inside alone. I’m afraid of failing. It’s always about that with me, likely due to growing up with so many high achievers. I’d rather look like a jackass and win than fail and look like a loser. Failing means you aren’t smart enough to figure out the right answer.
No. No. No. That’s not right, I correct myself. Failing is an essential element on the road to success. Even in the lab, the failure of an experiment is equally as important as its success because it eliminates variables.
Yes, that’s right. Tonight is like any other science project. I must not be nervous. I have set out with a hypothesis that dressing very sexy will attract a shallow man like Hunter—who I will thus refer to as “Evil Lab Rat” that only thinks with his penis. My clothing will tell evil Lab Rat that he and I are the same shallow species of creatures who only wish to fornicate.
Actually, since I’m here, I really should test out multiple variables.
I make a mental note of each test I will perform tonight, the goal being to determine which will prove more effective in getting Hunter—oops—Evil Lab Rat—to pursue the cheese.
Experiment #1: Appearance. I am wearing a short black skirt (that I’ve folded at the waist to make shorter), black heels (the only heels I own), and a low-cut red tank top (that I usually wear underneath a blouse). I’ve straightened my curly brown hair so it’s as long as possible, and I have applied an obscene amount of makeup.
My second hypothesis is that giggling and acting as if my brain is as useful as a paperclip will make Lab Rat feel smarter and therefore, will make him feel good. He will want to spend more time with me. Experiment #2: Laugh at all his jokes and do not say anything remotely intelligent.
My third hypothesis is that the Lab Rat is a complete narcissist and requires flattery on a regular basis for nourishment. Experiment #3: Tell Lab Rat how big his muscles are.
I take a moment to rehash my hypotheses, making sure I haven’t missed anything. I haven’t. My project is as simple as my subject.
I pull my mirror from my small over-the-shoulder purse, check my garish makeup—red lips, smoky eye shadow, and a pound of mascara. Without my glasses, I look the part. No brains. Just a nice college girl out for a dirty night of fun and hookups.
Let the experiment begin.
Right away, I decide that frat houses are gross. So is weed. It smells like skunk flatulence after the skunk has consumed a bad burrito. Surprisingly, however, the noxious potpourri fits the décor of this giant man-child dwelling. The living room, where I enter, has a pool table and is filled with crappy lawn furniture and a kiddy pool containing ice and beer. On the walls, posters of football players are graffitied with intellectual gems such as “pussy” or “big loser pussy.” I assume these are people from the AU rival football team.
As I weave my way through the crowd, who’s laughing and dancing and holding red cups or beer bottles, the hip-hop music hammers away in the background. Ick. What noise pollution. I much prefer thought-provoking songs made with actual instruments in there somewhere, like Ed Sheeran. Also, screaming profanity is only acceptable when I do it, and I only do it because it used to make me feel normal. Normal-er. Now I only do it because I feel it more accurately expresses my emotion. This is another misnomer I frequently see in movies or hear people say about highly intelligent people; that we are robotic and Spock like or that we all speak like Cambridge professors from the 1800s. Not necessarily untrue. Some of the smartest people I’ve met—triple doctorate colleagues of my mother and father, for example—are some of the most laid-back, slang-slinging, sloppy hipsters on the planet. Just looking at them, you’d think they worked at the local coffee house or smoked weed all day in their campers. But that’s because they feel no need to impress others with their genius. They’re too good for energy-sucking pretenses, because life is all about their work. Everything else can suck it. The point is, the old days of robot-nerd are long gone, so I never judge a book by its cover or use of f-bombs. Though, I do judge people who insist on making fart jokes (a minus) or wearing irreverent Game of Thrones “I brake for dragons” T-shirts (a plus). That’s fair game.
I smile politely at the people as I bump my way through the crowd and snag an empty red cup to look more the part of party girl, although no one seems to notice me. This is good. I’m blending right in with all the perky blondes in short skirts—Gamma Nus and muscle heads.
“Hey there. What’s your name?” says a deep voice just as a big body blocks my way to the kitchen.
Slowly, my eyes move up this…this…tree trunk. I’m talking great oak. Sequoia redwood. He can’t weigh less than two seventy. With his height and size, he’d make a ripped guy like Hunter seem more like an anemic string bean.
I swallow down the dry glob in my throat. “Huh-huh-hi there?”
“You Gamma Nu, baby? ’Cause I’d like to Nu you.”
I crinkle my nose at his pathetic attempt at wit. I’m about to tell him he should stick to football because speaking isn’t going to get him far in life, when my real objective taps my shoulder: Snag Hunter.
Now, this guy isn’t Hunter, but more rats equals more data. Experiment #1 is successful. Slutty look has done the job. Move to #2: Laugh at his jokes and do not say anything remotely intelligent.
I throw back my head and laugh. “You’re cute.” I poke his chest. “What’s your name?”
“Henry.”
“Hehe.” I chuckle awkwardly. “Henry. Like, as in the second or the eighth?” Uh-oh, was that nerdy? I think it was since it requires some knowledge of history.
His smile drops. “What’s the difference?”
Yep. I botched it. I have to say something stupid to cover my error so I go with, “One was a land-whore and the other a man-whore. Which are you?” I giggle in an attempt to flirt and show him how ignorant I am.
Henry’s brow lifts. “Exactly how high are you?”
“What?” My jaw drops. “I am not stone—”
“Tassie!” a deep voice booms from behind me.
I know that voice. It’s the reason I’m here. I pull back on my urge to panic and put on my game face.
Slowly, I turn in my very high heels, with one hand on my hip, and jerk my head. “Hey there, Hunt. What’s up?” I immediately notice he’s wearing a light blue T-shirt that makes his eyes stand out. His shorts—so
me cargo things—aren’t anything special, but his legs are.
Wow. He could crack coconuts with those calves.
Hunter’s intense eyes make a slow journey south before heading back north to my face. I wait for a positive reaction of some sort, but only get a snarl. A very disappointing result.
“What are you doing here, Tass?”
“It’s rush week. Just out for a little fun.” I shrug and bat my eyelashes, refusing to give up.
His nostrils flare. “You? Fun?”
“Why else would I be here?” Experiment #3. Muscle flattery. “Wow.” I step closer and reach for a big bicep. “Have your muscles gotten bigger?”
He jerks his arm from my grip. “What are you doing, Tass?”
“Me?” I say innocently and point to myself, ensuring my index finger lands smack dab in the center of my cleavage.
Hunter takes the bait and looks at my womanly hilltops—really more like speed bumps—and then makes a harrumph!
“Outside. Now.” He grabs me by the arm.
“Hehehe.” I giggle stupidly, trying to maintain my cover in front of the onlookers. “Sure, Hunt.”
He shakes his head and drags me through the hallway, into the kitchen and out to the back porch, where he pulls me aside, out of earshot from the pack of smokers.
“Tass, what the fuck is this?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I say with a giggly voice that’s slightly higher than my own.
His hands wave up and down my body. “This. And stop giggling. You sound like a stoned chipmunk.”
“Silly. Chipmunks don’t get high.” I giggle again and then poke my cheek in deep, deep airhead contemplation. “Or do they?”
Hunter shakes his head, and his dark hair falls over his eyes. I sort of want to reach out and fix it—I mean, the guy’s hair is soft—but I keep my hands to my sides. “Wow. You never change, Tass. Still playing dumb.”
“Still?” To my knowledge this is a completely new approach to life.
“Okay, Alvin,” he says with a long breath. “If you really want to play games, be my guest.”
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