Heat Up the Fall: New Adult Boxed Set (6 Book Bundle)

by Gennifer Albin

  “Larissa was just telling us about the guy she slept with earlier. Er, tried to sleep with earlier.”

  “Which guy is this?” I tried to remember who people were dating, but honestly, unless it lasted long enough to span more than one sorority event, there wasn’t much point.

  “Beta Gam. Super nice body, baseball player.”

  “Ah, got it.” His dad had been a major leaguer, I thought. “What made you bail on the sexy times?”

  “She didn’t,” Ginny said helpfully.

  “Wait, what? Why did … what the hell is his name, Larissa?”

  “Let’s just call him Noodle Dick.” Her face turned even redder.

  “Wait, he couldn’t get it up? Was he drunk?”

  “No.”

  “Well, come on. Out with the details!” Ginny demanded.

  “Fine. So, we’d been out a few times, very nice but boring shit like movies and dinner, some kissing in the car and at the door, whatever. Then tonight he asks me to come in, and we’re losing clothes and inhibitions and he’s breathing heavy and like, into it, right?” She waited for us all to nod, the dove back in. “Except when I reach down to move things along, there’s nothing. I mean, I’m wondering if God suddenly decided to relocate his genitals, because I have never met a more disinterested penis. And he’s trying so hard, like grinding against me and moaning and squeezing the fuck out of my boobs, but none of it’s working.”

  “What did he say?” I managed, trying to swallow my giggles. It wasn’t funny, actually. That poor dude.

  Brooke stared, mesmerized by this ridiculous story, and Ginny had less control over her laughter than I did.

  “He stopped trying and asked me if I wanted to play tennis tomorrow.”

  We all erupted into laughter, because honestly, it was hard to feel bad for the guy after that. Medical issues were one thing, but letting a girl find out you had a non-functioning sex organ in real time was a bonehead move, and then refusing to address the elephant in the room was even worse.

  Larissa’s brown curls, perky boobs, and gorgeous coffee skin said it couldn’t have been her.

  “What happened afterward?” Brooke’s blue eyes were huge.

  “Aw, Larissa, you’re scaring the virgin.”

  “Shut up, Ruby.”

  I shrugged. Brooke needed to get laid worse than I did, and that was saying something.

  “You know what’s sad, is that I have a better story than that,” Ginny interrupted, rescuing her roommate from yet another lecture from me about the follies of saving herself for a someday guy who would not fucking appreciate it.

  “I do not see how that’s possible. I just made out with a twenty-one-year old guy whose penis doesn’t work.”

  “Hear me out. Freshman year I was having sex with this guy and he quit in the middle. Like, didn’t finish, just stopped, said he was really hungry, put his clothes on, and left.”

  “That is an unprecedented turn of events,” Larissa mused. “Did you hear from him again?”

  “He texted to tell me some dumbass story about the person in line in front of him at Taco Bell, but other than that, nope.” Ginny pulled her long, dark brown hair into a bun. “Like, what is that? He didn’t even finish.”

  “And it goes without saying that you didn’t either,” I observed dryly.

  Larissa snorted. “You do not even want to know how long it’s been since a guy coaxed an orgasm out of me. You’d think it was easier to wrestle a Coachella invite away from a Kappa.”

  “Where did you find this loser?” I wanted to make sure and steer clear, not that I hadn’t managed to find plenty of dick nuggets at Whitman on my own. Guys who slobbered, or came before I could even think about it, or thought it was cute to sneak out before dawn.

  “Frat party. Seemed totally normal until he ditched sex for fast food at one in the morning.”

  If I really thought about it, none of this seemed all that funny. Emilie and Quinn apparently had some kind of mind-blowing sexual connection that I needed to hire Gandalf to find. Guys had it so easy; they needed somewhere to stick it for five minutes and they got off, went home, and bragged to their friends over cheap beer or whatever. I would bet my mother’s entire fitness empire that they weren’t sitting around the frat house whining about how disappointing any of us were in bed.

  “I ran into Chaney doing the walk of shame a few minutes ago, and she looked like she’d been through a horror show at the hands of that Scottish Lambda Phi she’s been out with a few times.”

  “Cole Stuart?” Ginny nodded. “He’s hot, and that accent makes my panties just evaporate into thin air, but it seems like I’ve heard other girls complain, too.”

  Girls knew all the dirty secrets. If campus relationships were a stage production, we were definitely in charge of casting. We should be auditioning these idiots, or at least asking for resumes. “Life would be so much easier if guys had to wear nametags with their shortcomings printed on them so we all knew what we were getting into.”

  They all laughed at my suggestion, trying to one-up each other adding to my stupid idea.

  “Fucks like a rabbit.”

  “Doesn’t go down.”

  “Nipple abuser.”

  “Slobbers in ears.”

  Ginny shrieked. “That sounds like a Native American name!”

  The potential monikers grew sillier until none of us could talk over the sound of our laughter, only Brooke sitting quietly, gaping at us in horror. Clearly, the guys at Whitman were totally slacking in the bedroom pleasure department, probably because they were all rich and mostly good-looking, which meant they’d never had to work for it. I, for one, wasn’t interested in increasing my number or saying another twelve Hail Marys without some kind of assurance.

  That thought gave me an idea. It might have been as stupid as the nametags, but this one didn’t require a method for tackling boys and forcibly attaching stickers bearing their relationship failings. No one knew what belonged on those tags better than the girls who had been forced to endure their sloppy advances, and if I knew one thing about girls, it was that they loved gossip.

  If flings were what I had to look forward to, why not expect them to be decent?

  I said goodnight and wandered across the hall to my room, gears grinding in my brain as I brushed my teeth and slipped into my pajamas. The best approach seemed to be going with what I knew, which meant starting where I started every time an audition announcement went up for a new production, either in the school theatre or community—a résumé. Complete with referrals.

  Chapter Two

  “You want this one hundred percent anonymous, right?” Noah Waters pushed his horn-rimmed glasses back up his nose, looking for all the world like the sexy computer geek he was—the handsome kind who could hack bank accounts and steal millions of bucks, hide them away in the Cayman Islands, then run away with you and reveal his secret hot bod.

  The part of me that hadn’t had sex since last May wanted to tackle him, but I managed to contain myself. For now. He was a little too proud of his own brainpower for my taste. “Yes. I don’t want anyone to know I’m running the website. Half the guys at this school have some kind of mob connection and the other half have enough spare change in their cup holders to hire a hit man.”

  “Got it. The girls who log on to rate will all be assigned numbered screen names, so they’ll remain anonymous, too. The only real names will be the guys.”

  I nodded, then narrowed my eyes at the back of Noah’s head as he typed away, creating some mysterious code that set up my new ratings website. The way his thick brown hair curled at the nape of his neck distracted me and I had to shake my head to regain some focus. “Remember our deal. You keep your mouth shut about helping me set this up and I leave you off the site, no matter what kind of juicy gossip comes through the system.”

  “Say juicy again,” he said without turning around, the smile evident in his voice.

  “Noah,” I warned.

  He hit a f
ew final keystrokes, then spun around in my desk chair and smirked. “I’m not worried, but yes. That was the deal. And you’re all set.”

  Noah spent the next hour explaining how the site worked, and how I could log in as an administrator to filter, delete, or flag information. It was hard to pay attention because he smelled really good, but after we sent out an anonymous e-mail blast with a link to every campus inbox, he left without attempting to take advantage of me.

  Maybe I was losing my touch.

  A glance in the mirror revealed messy hair and that most of the day’s makeup had worn off, but I still looked pretty good, even in a tank top and a pair of green shorts with Whitman U printed across the ass.

  I spent another hour running lines from West Side Story, studying my face to get the reactions and expressions exactly the way I wanted them, then sat back down at the laptop to copy my schedule for tomorrow. A notification for twenty new e-mails raised my eyebrows.

  Girls were already registering for my site. The Whitman Referral was live, and it appeared I wasn’t the only one interested in a little background checking.

  I clicked through the uploads, not surprised to see that both Chaney and Larissa had already signed up, along with a few other names I recognized. Using my administrator account, I input Matt Samuels, a guy I dated last spring. I wasn’t interested in airing specific dirty laundry, so users weren’t allowed to enter any written information or details, only give their encounter an overall experience rating between one and five stars, then answer Yes or No to the question, Would you write him a referral?

  Poor Matt Samuels. His headshot had looked okay, but I definitely wouldn’t be giving him a callback. A three in the overall experience, and if any future girlfriends checked out my referral, they’d see a resounding but totally honest no.

  If I wouldn’t call him drunk and ask him to come over and do me on a rough night, I wouldn’t foist him on another girl, either.

  Headshots came with a quick and dirty list of previous theatre directors listed on the back. If a potential employer liked the looks of me and enjoyed my group or callback audition, they queried the people I’d worked with before to find out whether or not I could deliver a performance, and whether or not I was a huge bitch of a diva. Once actors hit the big time there were plenty of directors willing to put up with the second to get the first, but at my level, everyone at least played nice.

  The star ratings were inherently subjective, but fewer details meant less chance that anyone would accidentally out themselves and get yelled at by a former beau, and Noah had talked me into erring on the side of caution—an influence I needed in my life, without Emilie around. Details were personal and the point of the website wasn’t to embarrass anyone, or to give girls a place to vent or make up slanderous shit.

  I wasn’t trying to ruin anyone’s life here, or end up in court. I wanted to help. If nothing else, maybe the idea of a sexual résumé would make the Whitman guys shape the fuck up.

  Ten other users added and rated Whitman guys after their profiles were approved, and given that Chaney had been one of them, Cole Stuart’s name and one-star rating didn’t surprise me. What did give me a start was that he had three one-star, no-referrals. After a couple of hours.

  My curiosity piqued. What was his deal?

  Michael Lawrence’s new girlfriend had uploaded him, too, and given him five stars and a yes on the referral. Honestly, I’d have given him one, too—he’d been attentive and sweet, and we’d had great times together. More than anything, I remember laughing.

  Then he asked me to come home with him for Thanksgiving.

  I’d been polite and well-mannered at his parents’ house, putting all of my prep school and cotillion etiquette classes into practice and following the rulebook to the letter.

  It didn’t matter. He dumped me the week after we’d gotten back, and even though he gave me some bullshit it’s not you, it’s me excuse, I’d known it was me. Nothing I’d done, but things I couldn’t change that would never be good enough. When I was ten, my father had cashed in with a computer program that filtered spam and prevented hacking. It had eventually been acquired by Microsoft, and even though my family had at least as much, if not more, money than the kids at Whitman, it made no difference to the Lawrences.

  The entire experience proved that, while I was good enough to have fun with and sleep with and date for a while, the men at Whitman wouldn’t be investing in me long-term. Acceptance came from more than the number of dollars in my bank account, and to most old families, fewer than four generations of wealth meant a lack of class and breeding.

  I shut my laptop. It didn’t matter. I had two more years to build my résumé and make the connections available to me here. Then I’d move to New York, a place where everyone worked for what they got. For the first time since fourth grade, I’d be back on a level playing field.

  I got ready for bed early, tired from long rehearsals and trying to be at least marginally responsible, given that classes started tomorrow and Tuesdays and Thursdays were my busiest days this semester. My cell phone buzzed after I’d turned the lights out, and the screen displayed a text from Emilie.

  Hope I didn’t wake you! Coffee after Speech tomorrow?

  I typed a quick response, glad we’d decided to take our speech requirement together. Stupid liberal arts school—I was a theatre major, so wasting a semester on speech seemed superfluous. Easy A, though.

  Yup. See you then.

  XOXO

  I snorted at Emilie’s trademark signoff, which she refused to lose even when Gossip Girl made it famous, then burrowed back under the covers.

  ***

  Speech was the second class of my Tuesday, a nine-thirty until eleven. The day started with an eight a.m. Shakespeare class, which might have been an error in judgment no matter how much I loved the subject matter. Focus and my brain didn’t mix before noon.

  Then again, our brand-new Hollywood actor-turned-college-student Zachary Flynn sat right in front of me, so maybe it had been the best decision ever. People had been gossiping for most of August about his choosing Whitman, and over half the potential pledges coming through Recruitment had mentioned him. Our applications had to be up since he’d announced his intention on Letterman last Christmas.

  He was a little too pretty for my taste, I thought, staring at the back of his head. Nice to look at, but my philosophy was always to be the better looking one in a relationship and, empirically speaking, there might not be anyone on earth better looking than Flynn.

  My stomach tried to fold in on itself with about ten minutes to go, and since half of the class snoozed, the grumbling noises had been deafening. A bagel stop in the Student Union had been a must on the way to speech, which had necessitated an almost-run to make it on time.

  My thin tank top clung to my sweaty back and perspiration chilled me less than five minutes after flopping into an uncomfortable wooden chair Em had saved. First days were uniform and boring. Profs or their TAs handed out a syllabus and then recited the damn thing to us, as though we were four-year-olds who hadn’t learned to read instead of kids who’d managed to gain acceptance to one of the most prestigious private universities in the country.

  Instead of paying attention to the semester’s requirements in my blow-off class, I studied the rest of the students. Now that the website was up and running, staring at the guys in my classes and trying to recall their average star rating would kill tons of time.

  One guy in particular caught my eye. He sat toward the front, taking notes on the syllabus as though he really cared, even though there was no way he was an underclassman. His short blond hair caught the morning sunlight streaming through the windows and the fingers gripping his old school pencil were strong and lean. From the way his form scrunched into his desk, the guy must be at least six-foot-three and his shoulders were broad, tapering to a trim waist.

  How had I missed him around campus?

  When he turned a moment later under the pretense of
looking out the window, our eyes locked. My cheeks heated; he’d probably felt me staring and swung around to catch the leering creeper in the act. His eyes were light green, like lake water as it shallowed toward the shore.

  The face clicked with a name. I hadn’t missed him around campus, but Lambda Phis were the richest snobs in a world of rich snobs, so I avoided them and their parties.

  That being said, Cole Stuart hadn’t even had a chance to use his Scottish accent on me and I felt a little short of breath.

  Emilie kicked my ankle and I tore my gaze away, hardly aware that Cole and I had both been staring for at least ten seconds. My best friend stifled a giggle when the toe of her ballet flat startled me into dropping my pencil onto the linoleum. I glared at her, not bothering to pick it up, and pretended to not stare at Cole for the remainder of class.

  Excellent head shot. Good charisma. Shitty resume and no referrals. Damn. To quote the illustrious Randy Jackson, it was a pass from me. Dawg.

  The professor let us go after twenty minutes—another common first day thing that should have been nice, but really made the whole thing feel like an even bigger waste of time. Cole flew out of his chair and held my lost pencil out in his palm before I could move.

  “Um, I’ll wait for you outside, Rubes.” Emilie made a quick escape, her short, red vintage dress disappearing into the hallway in the space of about five seconds.

  I made a mental note to kill her whether she kept talking about Quinn all the time or not.

  Cole still held out my green Whitman U pencil, sharpened past the halfway mark, and waited expectantly. When I sighed and took it, he smiled. The smile, combined with the unexpected spark of electricity that shot up my arm when my fingers brushed his palm, kind of punched me in the gut. He had the most unbelievable pair of deep dimples.

  “Thank you,” I managed.

  “Cole Stuart.”

  The accent.