Friends with Benefits: A Steamy College Romance (Beta Brothers #2)

by Hazel Kelly

  “Well, you better make it simple before the big day because you know everyone is going to get up in your grill.”

  My neck shrank back. “Who taught you that phrase?”

  “Sadie.”

  “In what context?”

  “We were discussing Mrs. Horvath’s halitosis,” she said. “But she insisted I understood the concept well enough to use it in other situations.”

  I shook my head.

  “Like that cop got all up in my grill and if you don't give me my money I'm going to get all up in your grill.”

  “Glad it's coming in handy.”

  “Think you'll try to catch the bouquet?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Why not? I bet Rebecca would throw it right to you if you told her you wanted it. There are only two cousins older than you, and you have the best shot at being swept off your feet next, assuming Sadie’s still dressing like a character from a Tim Burton film every time she goes out.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mom, but I think we should let the bouquet-throwing run its natural course.”

  “Okay, well. You have plenty of time to change your mind.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I'm just saying a lot can happen in a month and a half. Maybe you and this Carter boy will get more serious, and you'll want to catch it.”

  “Doubtful.”

  “As if it would kill you to give an old woman hope.”

  “You're not old, Mom.”

  “I feel old, though,” she said. “In my bones.”

  “Maybe you've been doing too much gardening. I’m convinced there’s a chicken/egg thing with gardening and aging.”

  “Someone has to do the flower beds.”

  “Right, well. I’ll let you go,” I said. “Love you.”

  “I love you, too, honey,” she said. “And Nina?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Make sure this Carter boy treats you right,” she said. “I didn't raise you to take any crap.”

  If only I believed that half as much as she did. “Don’t worry. You won’t have to get up in his grill. He’s a gentleman.”

  “I'm sure he is,” she said. “If you like him, he must be lovely.”

  “He is lovely.”

  In fact, after I hung up the phone, I couldn’t stop thinking about how lovely he was…

  And how lovely it would be to tell him that.

  Didn’t he deserve to know? Just like I deserved to get flowers on Valentine's Day.

  I gnawed on my lip and pulled up his texts, wondering what would happen if I told him I only wanted him to be lovely with me from now on.

  Would he freak out?

  What then?

  I suppose I could always go classic frat boy on him and say, “just kidding, I'm only fucking with you, man.”

  Even if it wasn't true.

  After all, I wasn't fucking with him.

  I was falling for him.

  And he deserved to know the truth.

  T H I R T Y T W O

  - Carter -

  Pain is weakness leaving the body…

  At least, that's what I told myself when the burn in my legs started to feel dangerous.

  Just one more lap. Just one thousand more.

  The phrase one more night came to mind as my eyes burned with sweat.

  One more night with her would kill me.

  Who was I kidding? Her smile alone could kill me.

  And I'd die happy.

  Pathetic.

  That was the real weakness I was fighting as I ignored my shaky knees and pushed my sweat-soaked hair from my eyes.

  My weakness for her.

  It was unreasonable, unsustainable, and entirely unenjoyable. One thought of her laughing at another guy's jokes was proof enough of that. God forbid I let my mind wander to thoughts of her looking into another man’s eyes as she gave herself to him.

  Oh shit, I'm gonna puke.

  I stumbled to the edge of the track, nearly taking out another runner on my way to the only trash can in sight, and arrived just in time to barf my breakfast into its wide rim. Then I wiped my panting mouth with the bottom of my drenched shirt and started running again.

  What choice did I have?

  Anything was better than the crushing inadequacy I felt when the physical pain stopped.

  Not that Nina was to blame for any of it. She wasn't. She was just being honest, just being casual.

  Why she didn’t want more was a mystery. Maybe she genuinely didn’t want a relationship. Or perhaps she didn’t know she deserved more.

  Whatever the reason, it wasn't my problem.

  My problem was that I'd fallen so hard for her I convinced myself it was mutual.

  But it wasn’t.

  And I was a stupid tool for being so surprised.

  After all, I knew exactly what it was like to be a wide-eyed freshman, eager to experience everything and everyone. Eager to find out who I was and what I wanted and who I wanted.

  Did I really want to be the asshole that deprived her of that all-important soul searching?

  She should be dating around.

  Not only that, but she should resent anyone that encouraged her to do otherwise.

  So what if I was convinced no one could love her like I could.

  Fuck- was that what I wanted? To love her?

  I tried to swallow, but my throat was bone dry.

  What was that saying about setting people free if you loved them? Set them free, and if they come back, then they're really yours?

  I dwelled on the idea for a whole lap, ruminating on whether breaking this thing off was the best thing for both of us.

  ’Cause there was no way I could go on like this- being her fuck buddy, pretending I was cool with her Tindering it up and sharing herself with other guys. I didn’t want to cramp her style, but this was too hard. If I continued this charade, I was going to become a miserable asshole, which would ultimately destroy our friendship.

  Up ahead, Logan walked out into the middle of the track and stretched a leg across my lane dramatically, as if he wanted me to admire his hamstring stretch before tripping over his ankle.

  I ran around him without so much as an acknowledgement.

  Unfortunately, he caught up to me pretty quick in my exhausted state.

  “You training for something I don't know about?” he asked, extending a bottle of water in my direction.

  I took it and tossed a glug towards my mouth without breaking my stride. Most of it ended up on my already soaked shirt.

  “Carter, stop this.”

  “Fuck off,” I said, keeping my eyes on the track ahead and shoving his water back at him.

  “Dude, I'm going to ask you one more time.”

  “Oh yeah?” I panted. “And then what?”

  “I'm going to tackle your wasted ass to the ground and hold you there by the balls.”

  I laughed.

  “You know I'll do it.”

  I slowed my jog to a stroll, knowing he'd be well able to take me down after so much running. “I wouldn't give you the satisfaction,” I wheezed, planting my hands on my hips.

  “You okay? You look like you've been running since you left the house this morning.”

  “What time is it?” I asked, my lungs full of fire.

  “Almost twelve.”

  My body felt like a half-cooked noodle standing in front of one of those wacky circus mirrors.

  “You're not going to be able to walk tomorrow, idiot.”

  “Phew.” I slapped his back, suddenly high from the hilarity of how much I'd overdone it.

  Logan tipped his water bottle over my head, and my skin heated the liquid as it dripped down me.

  I bent over and put my hands on my knees. “Forget tomorrow,” I said, my knees ready to buckle under me. “I'm not sure I can walk right now.”

  “C'mon,” he said, tilting his head towards the clear zone at the end of the track. “I'll help you get stretched out, and then we'l
l go for steaks.”

  “You treating?”

  “Suppose I could since I sold a chair this morning.”

  “Oh yeah? To who?”

  “Don't know. Someone online. Thanks to the killer website you built me.”

  I smiled, having nearly caught my breath. “That's awesome, man.” I turned and grabbed his shoulder to steady myself while I stretched my right quad. “Might have to foam roll it out, too, if you don't mind waiting?”

  “Sure. Whatever you have to do so that I don’t have to carry you out of here.”

  “Thanks,” I said, switching legs and pulling my left ankle towards my ass.

  “Hey, Carter.”

  “What?”

  He dropped his chin and looked at me. “Next time you try and kill yourself, could you do it with drugs and alcohol like a normal frat boy?”

  I laughed.

  “Can’t have you ruining our reputation as a fun house.”

  “Noted,” I said. “Maybe we'll try that tonight. Have you seen Fleeter's new bong? It has-”

  “Tits, I know. I was at the house when he brought it home.”

  “I've got a nice bottle of Johnny hidden away, too.”

  His brows lifted. “Black or Red?”

  “Red, moron. As if I'd share the black stuff with you.”

  “You been hiding that since Christmas?”

  “How did you know?” I asked.

  “’Cause your brother’s given you the same thing for your birthday and Christmas for as long as I've known you.”

  “Has he really?” I kicked a heel forward and reached for my toes. “Damn. I never get him shit.”

  “Pretty sure he's doing okay without you.”

  “I thought that, too, until I saw his new glasses.”

  “I think they're cool.”

  I groaned. “Please don't tell him that.”

  “I already did.”

  I shook my head.

  “Hey, Carter?”

  “Yeah?” I asked, lifting my gaze.

  “You know you can talk to me, right? About anything?”

  “I know, man.”

  “Might be better for you than running yourself into ketosis.”

  “I'm fine,” I said. Ketosis is the least of my problems.

  T H I R T Y T H R E E

  - Nina -

  Sadie warned me that Felix was flirtatious, but I severely underestimated how sore my cheeks would be from smiling at his incessant advances.

  It was all in good fun, though. He was just trying to practice his English.

  I guess he needed a certain number of hours every week as part of his exchange program, and I was happy to help.

  After all, I desperately needed an extracurricular activity in my life that didn't involve sex with Carter, obsessing over Carter, and touching myself while I thought about Carter.

  Not that I didn't enjoy those activities immensely, but they were starting to take over my life in way that seemed unhealthy. And selfish, hence the volunteering. I hoped it would help me get out of my head and away from my ego for a while.

  Plus, doing the English exchange was a fun way to meet new people without the burden of invisible sexual pressure, which was more than I could say for Tinder, an app that seemed to intimidate me more with every apathetic swipe.

  “Can you teach me some things to say to make pretty girls smile?” Felix asked, letting his black hair out of its hair tie so it fell in messy curls around his face.

  “Sure,” I said, thinking that sounded far more interesting than going over the list of words that stumped him in class that morning.

  He ran his heavily ringed hand through his hair and leaned forward in his armchair, suddenly engaged in a way that suggested picking up American girls was probably his real motivation for studying abroad.

  Behind him, I noticed Marple’s was particularly packed for a Saturday morning. I loved when that happened. There was something magical about the sheer variety of people that were united by their need for caffeine.

  In one corner, some Asian grad students were passing around an iPad. I assumed they were grad students because they were dressed to impress. Whereas, at the table beside them, two girls in pajama pants who were clearly still sporting their makeup from the night before sat across from each other staring at their phones in silence, as if that's how they recharged their batteries.

  “Sadie said I cannot say you have a pretty mouth.”

  I scrunched my face. “There would be better things to say.”

  “Even if you do?” he asked, his chocolate eyes dropping to my lips so obviously it made me adore him.

  I mean, why couldn't all guys be as forward and machismo as men from South America? I imagined a whole continent where there was no bullshit in dating, no mixed signals. Just sexy dancing and cloudless skies and shameless compliments. “Thank you,” I said, blushing. Not because I was particularly attracted to him, but between his sexual energy and his accent, it would be impossible not to enjoy the hour. “But she's probably right.”

  His brow furrowed. “I do not understand.”

  “That phrase is from a creepy movie.”

  “What is creepy?”

  “Creepy, let's see.” I bit the inside of my lip. “Have you ever felt like a stranger was watching you in a bad way? Like he wanted to hurt you or something?”

  “Of course. I am from Argentina.”

  “Right. Well, that's creepy,” I said. “Or you know how some dolls- like dolls little girls play with- look like they could come to life?”

  “Yes.”

  “That's creepy.”

  “So creepy is uncomfortable.”

  Shit, this was harder than I thought. “Not exactly. Creepy is a word you use to describe weird people or events, and uncomfortable is the feeling you have when you are near something creepy.”

  “So if I see a see someone in a scary mask on Halloween.”

  “Yes! Exactly,” I said. “Scary masks are totally creepy.”

  “I do not want American girls to think me creepy.”

  “Don’t worry. You aren't creepy,” I said. “You can tell girls they have a pretty mouth if you want. Just do it in your own accent instead of a hillbilly accent.”

  “What is hillbilly?”

  I really needed to think before I spoke. “A hillbilly is an uneducated person from the South who drinks too much and shoots rabbits in his yard under a Confederate flag beside his pit bull, who's chained to the front of his pickup truck.”

  He made a face like he hadn't understood a word I said.

  “Knowing about hillbillies will not help you meet girls, though.”

  He waved his hand through the air. “Forget hillbilly then, I don't care.”

  I laughed.

  “How do I invite a girl back to my room?”

  I smiled, amused that he thought that was the obvious follow-up question. Like all you have to do to score is tell a girl she has a pretty mouth and give her directions to your condom drawer.

  “In a way that is not creepy.”

  I cocked my head and tried to think.

  Felix was on the edge of his seat.

  “What do you do back home?”

  He shrugged. “Sometimes I say nothing at all.”

  “Impressive.”

  “Or I say I want to show her something…like my guitar or my tattoos.”

  “I'm sure that will work on American girls, too.”

  “Even you?” he asked, batting his thick black lashes.

  I leaned back in my chair. “Sure. If I weren't sort of seeing someone.” I don't know why I said it, but it felt good.

  “I am sorry, Nina. Sadie telled-”

  “Told.”

  He nodded once. “Yes. Sadie told me you are a single lady so I can be myself.”

  “That's because Sadie is a troublemaker,” I said. “But you can be yourself. You haven't crossed the line.”

  “I am not creepy then? If I flirt with a girl who has a boyfriend?�
��

  “No. You’re wasting your time, but flirting doesn't make you a creep.”

  His brows pinched like he was taking my pathetic excuse for a language lesson far too seriously. “He is a lucky man, your boyfriend.”

  A lump formed in my throat. He'd be luckier if he called me.

  “How do I make a girl leave my room in the morning?”

  I laughed again and shook my head. Maybe Felix wasn't the Romeo I imagined him to be, after all. I opened my mouth to answer his question, but something made me stop, and that something was the feeling that I was being watched.

  I looked towards the door and scanned the small cafe until my eyes met Carter's. He was standing in line with his hands in the pockets of his puffy coat. He looked away as soon as I caught him staring and began studying the menu on the wall behind the counter.

  “Will you excuse me for a second, Felix? I'm going to get another scone.”

  “You are like me with empanadas in my country.”

  “Would you like anything?” I asked, slinging my purse over my shoulder.

  “No, thank you,” he said, pulling his phone out and leaning back in his chair.

  I weaved through the tables and stepped up behind Carter in line. “Hey, stranger,” I said, peeking around him.

  “Nina, hey.”

  I smiled. “How have you been?”

  “Fine.”

  I waited for him to return the question, but he didn’t. “Cool,” I said, wondering why he wasn't happier to see me. Should I have called him after last Wednesday? “Good.”

  “Who's lover boy?” he asked, squaring up to the glass case of breakfast pastries and sandwiches.

  “What?”

  “Who's your friend?” he asked, nodding in the direction from which I’d come.

  Felix was slouching in his chair now, so all I could see was his tattooed arm thumbing through his phone. “He's an exchange student from Argentina,” I said. “I'm helping him practice his English.”

  “I bet you are.”

  “What?”

  He dropped his eyes to mine. “What else would you be helping him with?”

  Was he accusing me of something? “He has to get a certain number of practice hours in every week to satisfy the program he's in.”

  “The program,” Carter said, folding his arms. “Right.”

  Why won't he face me? What’s with the cold shoulder? I was about to ask, but some students in ROTC uniforms got in line behind me. “You're hooked on the raspberry scones now, aren't you?” I asked warmly, trying to get a smile out of him.