Tamsin

by Abigail Strom

  TAMSIN

  Hart University, Book 3

  Abigail Strom

  Prologue

  Tamsin

  You know how some people can’t be labeled? You can’t fit them into a neat little box?

  Yeah, that’s not me. I’ve always been easy to label.

  Bad girl.

  Skank.

  Slut.

  From the time I was fifteen years old, that’s who I’ve been. Tamsin Shay, Queen of the Sluts.

  But hey, at least I’m queen of something. And as realms go, let me tell you, the kingdom of sluts has some pretty awesome people in it.

  I’m proud to be their queen.

  Chapter One

  Tamsin

  The first time I ever saw Daniel Bowman, he stood up for me. He didn’t even know me, and he stood up for me.

  Not that I needed him to. That’s another thing that happened when I was fifteen: I decided I would never, ever wait for someone else to stand up for me.

  Because I would always stand up for myself.

  “That’s her. The skank who goes at it so loud with Oscar I can hear her through the fucking walls.”

  It was freshman year, and I was at the coffee house in the basement of Heller Hall, caffeinating myself before class. To give the asshole credit, I don’t think he meant for me to hear him. I had ear buds in and I was sitting with my back to the rest of the room.

  But I did hear him.

  I started to turn around. But I hadn’t done more than tense up and put my hands on the edge of the table when I heard another voice.

  This one was slow and deep and easy—the kind you always hope has a body to match and hardly ever does.

  “Couple things wrong with that,” the new voice said.

  “Yeah? Enlighten me.”

  “First, don’t call women skanks. Not when I’m around.”

  There was a short silence. Then:

  “Are you shitting me? What are you, fucking Galahad?”

  “Second, if you’re calling a woman a skank because she’s loud in bed, that tells me you’ve never made a woman come so hard she screams. That’s on you, man.”

  I wanted to stand up and cheer. And at the same time, my throat tightened and I felt like crying.

  But I didn’t cheer or cry. I just listened to the rest of the conversation, which turned into the asshole trying to defend his bedroom skills and Galahad giving him enough rope to hang himself with. Then, when their chairs scraped the floor as they got up to go, I turned my head.

  The asshole said something about his next class and headed for the trash can with his empty cup. But Galahad was still at their table, slinging his backpack over one shoulder.

  Oh. My. God.

  He wasn’t my type. I tended to go for guys like Oscar—guys who wore their artsy natures on their sleeves, going for punk or grunge or beatnik, with tats and piercings a major theme. This guy was more of a preppie god in a button-down shirt and khaki pants.

  But it wasn’t the clothes I was focused on.

  He was big—big like my friend Will, who was on the football team—and he had the kind of body that made me wish he wasn’t wearing a long-sleeved shirt. He had short black hair and dark blue eyes and—

  And he was looking right at me.

  It was just for a second. Then, almost before I could be sure our eyes really had met, he turned to follow his asshole friend out the door.

  The second time I saw Daniel Bowman was in Oscar’s dorm.

  “That’s him,” I said, grabbing Oscar’s arm and pointing across the dining hall. “The one who thinks you must be good in bed.”

  I’d told Oscar about the conversation I’d overheard, which of course he’d loved, with the implied shout-out to his woman-pleasing abilities.

  “Him? Okay, yeah. His name is Daniel something. He plays football.” Oscar paused. “He’s a good guy,” he said after a moment, almost grudgingly.

  That was freshman year. Sophomore year, Oscar dumped me. My friend Claire, who’d just gotten dumped herself, talked me into taking a vow of celibacy for fall semester.

  No one thought I’d last more than a week—least of all me. But I ended up sticking with it longer than Claire did.

  We both made it through the semester, thus honoring the vow. Once she was free to date again, though, Claire got together with Will…while I found out I kind of liked the whole celibacy thing.

  Have you ever known—just known—that a boyfriend was about to break up with you? However you react when that happens, it’s probably better than how I used to react.

  I’d get desperate. Clingy. I did all the things you’re not supposed to do, the stuff your friends tell you under no circumstances ever to do.

  Calling and texting all the time. Cooking for him and buying him cute little gifts. Trying to be so amazing in bed he’ll never leave you for another.

  Trying to be the girl he used to want.

  I know. Pathetic, right? My friends thought so, too.

  He’s not worth it, Tamsin.

  He doesn’t deserve you.

  Just focus on yourself. Your classes. The important stuff.

  That last piece of advice came from my roommate Rikki, who’s amazing. She’s always been able to focus on work and classes and “important stuff,” even freshman year when the rest of us were floundering around pretending we had it all together. Rikki actually did have it all together, except for this one time when things kind of fell apart with Sam—the guy she’s with now. The guy who loves her the way every woman in the world dreams of being loved.

  For years I went from guy to guy looking for that, hoping for that, and never ever finding it. But those days or weeks of knowing it was over before it actually was over were the worst.

  And then, like magic, things changed.

  Maybe it was having a friend do the vow-of-celibacy thing with me. Maybe I’d finally hit some kind of critical mass of shitty boyfriends. Whatever the reason, something changed that semester.

  The fever broke. And God, the relief.

  No more lying awake at night wondering what I’d done wrong, wondering when he’d call, or wondering if he’d stick around till morning. Guys stopped being the center of my life.

  And I will never, ever, ever go back to way I used to be.

  Just to be clear, though: I’m still Queen of the Sluts. Once a slut, always a slut, even if you’ve decided you’ve had enough crappy relationships and want to take a good long break.

  It’s the first day of junior year, and this is where I am. Stronger than I’ve ever been, happier than I’ve ever been. Rikki says I’ve found an equilibrium for myself, and that feels right.

  I looked up equilibrium. The first definitions are 1. Bodily balance and 2. Emotional stability. I read those two phrases over again and again because I liked them so much.

  Nothing, and I mean nothing, will make me give up my bodily balance or emotional stability ever again.

  Not even the preppie god who just walked into my Experiments in Drama class.

  Chapter Two

  Daniel

  “I need to take one more arts class before I graduate. I want to get it over with now, so I can focus on my senior project next year. Which one will cause me the least amount of pain?”

  I’m in the living room with my two housemates, and we’re finalizing our schedules for junior year.

  Trace leans over and looks at my computer screen. “These five are your only options?”

  “They’re the ones that don’t have prerequisites. They also fit into my schedule around football and other classes. So, yeah. These five.”

  Trace is frowning. “Not Experiments in Drama. That one will be full of feminists and social justice warriors. How about Hemingway, Faulkner, and Fitzgerald?”

  Beek
er shakes his head. “Gotta disagree with Mr. Men’s Rights Activist on this one. Experiments in Drama will be full of girls with no inhibitions and the guys will all be gay. Statistically speaking, you’re not going to find better odds.”

  Trace looks disgusted. “Never fuck a feminist. You’ll just get accused of rape the next day. Unless you want to ask for consent every ten seconds. ‘I’d like to take off your shirt. Do you consent? I’d like to touch your breast. Do you consent? I’d like to—’”

  “Shut up.”

  My voice is harsh, and Trace looks surprised. But on this particular issue I’m with the feminists. Consent is black and white. It’s not something I ever joke about, and I don’t stay quiet if someone else jokes about it, either. Including a housemate.

  Trace and Beeker and I all go to the same church, and we decided to get a place together last year. At the time, I thought it was a great idea. I was psyched to live with people who share my values. People who believe in God, who do volunteer work, who want to make the world a better place. But lately, I’ve been starting to wonder if Trace and I really do share values—or just a church.

  Trace levers himself up from the beat up old couch and heads for the kitchen. He mutters “Galahad” as he goes, but I don’t call him on it.

  It’s been a while since I’ve heard that nickname. It dogged me freshman year after a guy in my dorm stuck it on me, but it faded away sophomore year.

  I hate it. I try to be a decent person and live a decent life, but you don’t do good things hoping to get praised for them. Whenever I hear “Galahad” it makes me think of someone who wears virtue like a suit of armor, showing off how pure of heart he is. Someone holier-than-thou.

  I don’t want to be that guy.

  “What’s with Trace?” Beeker asks. “He’s been in a bad mood for days.”

  I shake my head. “No idea.”

  “Well, fuck him.” Beeker waves a hand at my computer. “And take Experiments in Drama. Not just because it’ll be a good dating pool, but because it won’t be any work. Acting stuff, right? No essays or exams or anything.”

  That’s a selling point. I’ve got some tough courses this semester and I could use an easy class on my schedule.

  Plus, I have a deep dark secret. I used to do the Christmas pageant at my church back home. The show was as cheesy as you’d expect and none of us were great actors or anything, but the first year I did it there was this moment that…I don’t know.

  I was playing Joseph. I rehearsed dutifully for the three weeks before Christmas, but I was pretty bored by the whole thing. Then, when we showed up at church to perform on Christmas Eve, there were all these candles.

  Hundreds of candles.

  Something about the candlelight and the smell of frankincense and myrrh—someone had brought in the real thing for us to use that night—kind of got to me. It made the cheap set and costumes seem real. And for a moment—a couple of minutes, maybe—I actually felt like Joseph. I wanted to take care of Mary and the baby, and do my best to be a good man. And I was overwhelmed by the light of God.

  Okay, that sounds as cheesy as the show was. But it’s true.

  Anyway, I sign up for Experiments in Drama. I don’t know if it’s the acting thing or the no homework thing that tips the scale, but it’s not the dating prospect thing.

  Because here’s another deep dark secret.

  I’m a virgin. I’ve dated and I’ve fooled around, but I haven’t had sex yet.

  That was okay in high school and when I was a freshman. But sometime last year, girls started to think it was weird that I didn’t want to sleep with them. By the end of spring semester, I stopped dating and fooling around because I didn’t want to talk about why I wouldn’t do more.

  I know there are girls out there who haven’t had sex yet and aren’t ready to. Maybe I’ll meet one of those girls this year and get back to fooling around.

  But until then, I’m not looking to date.

  I know where my focus will be this semester. Football. Engineering. Church. Community service.

  And Tuesdays and Thursdays at 7:30 pm, Experiments in Drama.

  Chapter Three

  Tamsin

  Daniel Bowman is taking an acting class?

  I’ve been looking forward to Experiments in Drama all summer. It’s open to juniors without any prerequisites, but most of the people who take it are drama majors. The professor is supposed to be amazing and I really want to stretch myself this semester. Take risks, delve deep, all that.

  It’s an evening class, too, which is good. I’m not a morning person. My night performances have always been better than my matinees, and I’m hoping I’ll improv better at night, too. Plus the class is in a theater, which is fun. We’ll meet in the small, student-run space where they do smaller shows, experimental stuff, and open-mic events. A very cool environment.

  Then, as I’m sitting here thinking about flexing my acting muscles, in walks Daniel Bowman.

  Now, I should get something straight. Just because I’ve been celibate for almost a year doesn’t mean my lady parts have stopped working. And the sight of Daniel Bowman makes everything down there tingle.

  As I’ve mentioned, I usually go more for grunge than clean-cut. But something about Daniel’s squeaky clean appearance turns my crank. He looks like he just got out of the shower after working out at the gym, and I want to rip open that blue button-down shirt and unzip those pressed gray trousers and…

  “It is a truth universally acknowledged: the hotter a guy is, the worse he is in bed.”

  I glance at Izzy. Sure enough, she’s looking right at Daniel, who’s standing in the doorway peering around in the dim light of the theater.

  His neat dark hair invites a serious mussing, and he’s sporting an equally neat beard and mustache. Then, of course, there’s the truly impressive body filling out his business casual clothes. He’s looking a little confused, maybe because it’s dark in the theater and his eyes are adjusting, but more likely because he doesn’t belong here.

  “It’s also a truth universally acknowledged that guys who look like that don’t take drama classes,” I remind Izzy. “No offense,” I add to Charlie, who’s sitting on Izzy’s other side.

  Charlie, his eyes on his Twitter feed, doesn’t even bother to look up.

  “None taken. Besides, isn’t the implication that I’m good in bed? Which I am.”

  I turn back toward Daniel and raise my voice. “Unless you’re looking for Experiments in Drama, you’re in the wrong place.”

  Daniel looks up at me. Charlie, Izzy and I are sitting about halfway up the raked seating area, with another dozen or so students scattered around us. We’re all facing the small stage, waiting for our professor, Joan Washington, to make an appearance.

  “Experiments in Drama,” he repeats, in the slow, deep, sexy voice I remember from freshman year. “Yeah, that’s where I need to be.”

  He stares at me for a moment, and the tingling in my nether regions gets a little more intense. Then he starts walking up the stairs, and I wonder if he’s going to take the open seat next to me.

  My heart starts to pound.

  But about three rows below us he stops and takes the seat on the aisle, setting his backpack on the floor. He leans over, unzips the backpack, and pulls out a notebook and pen.

  Now for the real question. What the hell is he doing in this class?

  He’s an engineering major. He’s also on the football team, although he’s not a starter. I started watching games last year because of my friends Will and Andre, and I learned that Daniel Bowman is a backup tight end. Whatever that is.

  “He’s a decent player and a really good guy. Solid, you know? Dependable. Just not first string material.”

  That’s what Andre said when I asked about Daniel last year. Not first string material.

  To be honest, that sounds a little bit like me. I auditioned for the lead role in five different shows last year, and I was cast as a supporting character three
times and an understudy twice.

  This year, I’m going to change that. I’m going to make myself into lead actor material, and I’m going to make other people see me that way, too.

  Izzy nudges me. “What’s up?” she whispers. “You’ve got this intense scowl on your face. Do you know that guy?”

  I am frowning. After a moment, I realize why.

  I don’t want anything to distract me from my goals this semester. I don’t want distractions in this class in particular.

  And I’m worried that Daniel Bowman has the potential to be one huge-ass distraction.

  “He’s in the engineering department,” I whisper back. “He’s on the football team. He’s definitely not a drama major. I’m just trying to figure out why he’s in this class.”

  “There aren’t any prerequisites. Maybe he figured it would be an easy way to knock out his arts requirement.” She shrugs. “Anyway, he’s hot. You used to appreciate having eye candy around.”

  It’s true. I did. Even when you’re not eating, you can still enjoy reading off the menu.

  It’s just that a guy as fine as Daniel Bowman can make you feel like you’re starving. And when you’re starving, it’s hard to think about anything but food.

  But I’m not going to explain all of that to Izzy right now. And anyway, it won’t be an issue. I was just surprised to see Daniel here, that’s all. All I have to do is ignore him. Stay focused. Don’t get distrac—

  “Sex.”

  The voice is loud, and seems to come from everywhere. I jump and let out a squeak.

  Izzy smacks me on the arm. “What is wrong with you?”

  “Who’s talking?”

  Izzy smacks me again. “Our professor. Who’s standing on stage. Now shut up, please.”

  It’s true. Joan Washington is standing on the stage, her hands in her jeans pockets, smiling up at us. And I didn’t even see her come in.

  Grrrrr. It’s already happening! Daniel is distracting me, damn it.

  I look down at him. He’s sitting there stiff with surprise, his notebook on his knee and his pen poised above a blank page. He seems like the dutiful note-taker type and I wonder if he’s going to write down the word “sex”.