SMART TASS (The OHellNO Series Book 1)

by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

  I throw a pair of dirty socks into my suitcase. “I’ll ignore him. Just like old times.”

  Her expression turns heavy all of a sudden—brows furrowed, lips flat. “You know, Tass, I didn’t want to tell you this and upset you. I mean—you’ve worked hard to get over everything and I didn’t want to start flicking off scabs.”

  “What?” I stop packing.

  “I talked to Henry a few weeks ago—well, maybe it was a month or so ago. And it wasn’t so much talking but begging. On his part.”

  Ouch. “And?”

  “He, Hunter, and a couple other guys got an apartment off campus. I think Henry’s paying for most of it, but they’re all living together.”

  That wasn’t what I expected her to say. “Nice for them. They can smell each other’s farts while they jerk off to pictures of themselves.”

  Elle’s face crinkles up.

  “Sorry.” That was a bit crude.

  “Well, Henry says they left the Alpha fraternity. He said the other guys on the team gave them shit about it, but the whole thing that happened with you really fucked with Hunter’s head, so he quit. And then Henry decided he didn’t want to be a part of it either. Since then half the guys on the team bailed the fraternity.”

  I’m stunned. Completely stunned. “I guess…that’s good, but—”

  “But it doesn’t undo their stupidity?” she says.

  “Exactly.”

  “It’s a start,” she points out.

  Maybe. At the very least, the Alphas might decide that losing half their members and the star quarterback is a sign that they need to grow the hell up.

  “So does this mean you’ve forgiven Henry?” I ask.

  “We went out a few times—you know, just to talk and hang out, but then I ended it for good. I’ve got a lot on my plate.”

  I’m not surprised she didn’t tell me that she’d been seeing him again. I probably would’ve felt betrayed. Now, I’m not so sure I’d care because he made her laugh and she needs as much happiness as she can get.

  “It’s too bad,” I say. “I mean—you seemed happy with him.”

  She shrugs. “It was a fling. Flings are supposed to be fun. And then they’re over.”

  I really wouldn’t know. “I guess.”

  “Anyway, Henry asked me to talk to you. He wanted me to try to convince you to give Hunter a chance.”

  “A chance for what?”

  “Henry says you don’t know everything. That you should at least listen to what Hunter has to say.”

  I’ve worked really hard to move past all this. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  “That’s what I said. Let sleeping dogs lie.”

  “You were right. My dog’s asleep, and I plan to leave it snoring in the corner. Besides, he admitted doing it. What’s there to know?”

  She shrugs again. “You’ll have to ask Hunter that.”

  Coming home after so many months is far less of a big deal than I’d made it out to be. I sort of expected my room to have been turned into a yoga cave or book room for my parents—those two own a lot of freaking books—but everything’s almost the same as when I left, with the exception of my parents being a bit more excited to see me compared to if I were just coming home from school on a normal day.

  “Tassie!” My mom throws out her arms the moment I enter the house, which is your typical two-story, stucco ranch built in the ’90s. My mother gives me a big squeeze. She looks like an older version of me but with short brown hair and brown eyes. My eyes are blue like my dad’s. Both my parents wear thick glasses and stay slim because they forget to eat. They live to work, not work to live.

  “Hi, Mom.” She lets me go, and I inhale the sweet scent of cinnamon and bread and something roasting in the oven. My mouth waters. “What are you cooking?” The house already smells like Thanksgiving dinner, but that’s still five days away.

  “Oh, it’s a new cleansing diet your father and I are doing. Stewed curried prunes with lentils.”

  Ewww…

  “The chili pepper and cardamom help boost the body’s circulation and immune system while the insoluble prune fiber nourishes the probiotic community living in your lower intestinal track.”

  Yep. Home sweet home. “Is Kyle here yet?” Kyle is my older brother, the tech start-up millionaire. He is also a workaholic.

  “He just called and said he’s hung up on some new software launch. He’ll try to be here late tonight.” She swipes her hand through the air. “But if I know him, he won’t really be here until Wednesday.” My mother smiles, and I know this makes her happy. In her mind, being a workaholic is called being dedicated. She’s very dedicated.

  “Is that my little Sassie Tallahassie?” My father’s deep voice rings out from the living room, which doubles as a third study. The first and second studies are the spare bedrooms my parents turned into home offices. But since they ran out of shelf space, the living room now looks like the public library with wall-to-ceiling bookshelves that block out any natural light. It’s like a paper coffin. Don’t get me wrong. I love books. But deciding that a window is taking up valuable book space, so you block it out with shelving, is a little extreme. Personally, I like sunlight.

  “Hi, Dad.” I give him a big hug and notice he feels thinner. “Have you lost more weight?”

  I pull back and notice how his khakis are sort of hanging off his frame, as is his button-down checkered shirt.

  “New project!” he says, sounding all excited.

  “You know your father,” says my mom. “Just can’t get him away from that computer.”

  Except when it comes to erecting new shelving. I notice they covered another wall, blocking the doorway between the living room and the kitchen. Now you have to go out into the hallway and around.

  “Oh, by the way,” my mom says, “Hunter was just here asking about you. Something about some assignment from school? I didn’t know you had any classes together.”

  That’s kind of strange. And a little intrusive. He knows I don’t want to see him.

  “We don’t. I just help him out once in a while with math,” I lie.

  My mother shakes her head. “I don’t know why you waste your time, Tassie honey.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.

  “Well, he’s never been very nice to you. I see no reason you should go out of your way to help him when there are plenty of other people in this world who might benefit from your gene pool.”

  I love how my mother always refers to our gene pool as if we were royalty or saints who perform miracles. In a way, that’s the sort of parental brainwashing that messed me up.

  “Well, Mom, someone has to take pity on the less fortunate,” I say sarcastically.

  “Tassie, I’m just pointing out the obvious.” She gives me that look, the one that shuts me up unless I’m in the mood to fight, which I’m not.

  “Well, I’ll go get my stuff from the car and see what he wants.” I turn for the door.

  “Okay,” says my father, “but hurry back. I want to tell you all about this new algorithm we’ve developed. It has made our climate-prediction model point-zero-zero-five times more accurate.”

  Oh no. He’s going to talk coding. I can’t stand coding. It’s so binary. “Sounds great, Dad.”

  “Oh, then I’ll tell you about a new study we’ve just gotten approved by the FDA,” my mother adds. “It’s cutting edge.”

  “The monkey nut trial?” I ask.

  “Testicles, Tassie. Monkey testicle. But yes.”

  Now we’re talking! I can talk monkey nuts and DNA sequencing all day long.

  “Can’t wait.” I head outside to my Prius and pop the trunk. I see Hunter’s red Mustang in the driveway. His parents gave him that car on his sixteenth birthday and Hunter treats it like his child, always washing and waxing it. Okay, people don’t wax children—not that I’m aware of, anyway—but you get the gist.

  I stare at the neighbors’ front door, thinking about go
ing over and knocking, but I really can’t stand seeing his parents. His dad is gruff and loud and his mom never speaks up, not even to defend her own son. They piss me off. They piss off my parents, too, but I think it’s mostly because they’d tried to talk about the “Hunter situation,” as it was referred to at my house in the early years, but couldn’t get anywhere. I would come home crying from elementary school because Hunter did something. My mother would go and try to talk to his father, who would just say something arbitrary like “kids will be kids.” As time went on, I stopped crying because I didn’t like seeing my parents so upset. However, I think they still knew there were problems, because to this day, they cannot stand Hunter’s parents. His folks aren’t very nice to us either.

  I decide it’s better to unblock his number from my phone and text him rather than go over there. I’ll tell Hunter I’m busy tonight with something, but maybe we can talk later. Like next year or something.

  I lug my giant hot pink suitcase inside—it’s girly and ideal for spotting in any airport baggage claim when I travel—and head straight to the laundry room off the kitchen. I flip on the lights and am surprised there are no books in here.

  I set up the first load and then dig my phone from my jeans pocket. As my finger reaches for “unblock” next to Hunter’s name, I hesitate. Not about unblocking him, but about what I want to say. Frankly, I just want him to leave me alone and that includes not having to think about what he wants all week long.

  I hit unblock and then call. It rings a few times, and I hear that voice. So deep. So familiar. So sexy. It sends prickly goose bumps down my arms and neck, which completely irritates me. One would think after all this drama, my body would know better.

  “Tassie?”

  “Hey, I just got here to my parents’. What did you need?”

  “Can I see you?”

  “I’m really busy, Hunter. What do you want?”

  “I want to talk.”

  I think about it for a moment. It feels too painful to move backwards. Forward, away from him, feels right. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. And frankly, I didn’t come home to see you. I’m here to be with my family.”

  “Tass, I’m only asking for a few minutes of your time.”

  “Understood. However, I don’t owe you anything.”

  “Also understood,” he replies curtly.

  “Then why are you acting like I do? Owe you, I mean?”

  “I’m not acting; I’m asking. Big difference.”

  I want to put this behind me, so if he’ll drop it, I can spare a few minutes. “I’m having dinner with my parents and then I have plans.”

  “Fine, then. Let’s meet for breakfast,” Hunter says.

  “I’m jogging in the morning.”

  “You?” He sounds like he’s about to laugh but doesn’t.

  “Yes. Me.”

  “Sorry, it’s just you were never really into fitness.”

  “Your point?” He better not be insinuating that I’m fat merely because my body boasts womanly curves. I’m not an athlete. I never will be. There is fluff in my trunk, and I feel no shame.

  “Just stating a fact. So why don’t I join you?” he says.

  I think about it for a moment. “Okay. Meet me out front at seven.”

  “P.m. or a.m.?”

  “A.m.,” I snap.

  “I thought you said you had plans tonight. Won’t that be a little early for you to get up?”

  Ugh. He’s like the anti-mom, schooling me on the proper art of partying. “I know how to go to a party, have fun, and get to bed at a reasonable hour, Hunter. Do you?”

  “What party?”

  “None of your business.”

  “I’m just being polite, Tass. Not like I’m going to crash it.”

  Whatever. “I’m meeting Rach at her sister’s.” Her older sister lives in downtown Houston and works at some talent agency. Rach has guaranteed bountiful man candy for our viewing pleasure as well as free frou-frou drinks and lots of girl talk. I’m not planning to drink since I’ll be driving home late.

  “Really now?” He sounds devilish.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing,” he says all too innocently.

  “Didn’t sound like nothing.”

  “I just happen to be going to Justine’s party, too.”

  Justine is Rach’s sister. “What? You said you weren’t going to crash.”

  “I’m not. I know Justine from high school. She’s trying to convince me to sign with her agency.”

  I completely forgot that he’d dated Justine. It was years ago. She was a senior, and he was a sophomore. That’s how good-looking the son of a bitch is—he had seniors chasing after him.

  “Well, great. Now you just completely ruined my night.” And tonight just happens to be my—wait. No. I don’t celebrate today. It’s against my rules.

  “I’m only going to meet the owner of the agency,” he says. “They’re getting into sports, and they’ve offered to represent me for half the commission of the other agencies.”

  I’m silent on the matter. He knows I don’t want to see him there.

  “If it makes you feel any better, I’ll only stay for a few minutes and then I’ll leave, though we could drive together if I stayed.”

  Nuh-uh. “No. We’re not driving together. I don’t know you. You don’t know me. We’ll be two invisible boats passing in the night. And our engines will be electric, so there’s no noise.”

  “God, you’re a strange woman.”

  “And this just occurred to you.” I practically wear the strange flag on my forehead.

  “I generally tend to notice your lips more than anything. And your wide blue eyes. Your smile is nice to look at, too.” His voice is low and serious and instantly sparks an unwelcome reaction inside my stomach.

  “See you in the morning.” I end the call.

  Damn this guy! How dare he start talking flirty-sexy to me. Now I’m feeling all flustered. He’s sucked me in again. The man is an emotional black hole with gravitational forces beyond my control. I slam my fist down on the washer.

  My mother suddenly appears. “Tassie? Everything okay?”

  I nod with a clipped smile. “Yeah. Everything’s fine.” Just as soon as I blast this football monster from my life.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Tonight, I’m stepping out of my comfort zone and wearing my shortest outfit—a black dress I purchased weeks ago for my charade with Hunt, but I feel it fits the night. Short, sexy, fashionable for a woman like me who knows only two things about style: show some cleavage (aka my womanly speed bumps) and show those quasi-toned shaved legs. I’ve worn my hair all crazy—full-on blow-out—that will give the impression I’ve arrived on a motorcycle sans helmet. My lips are cherry red. My blue eyes are smoky. My black heels are tap-tap high, meaning I can’t manage a step wider than a Chihuahua. Tap, tap, tap.

  Yes. I’m a vision of nerdy hotness.

  Why?

  Hunter.

  That conversation with him has lit a fire of pure frustration in my lady furnace, and I’m determined to bury him under a rubble of smokin’ hot lovers. What better place to start than a party filled with hot male models dressed in blue jeans and cowboy hats?

  I enter the penthouse suite through the private elevator and my first reaction is to cry. Like, blubber. Hard. I’m outgunned, outboobed, and outlegged. Blondes, brunettes, size zero goddesses encrust nearly every single inch of space in the stylish loft.

  “Fuck. Me,” I whisper. No one said that the women here would be twelves—on a scale of one to ten. That makes me a four at best, and a four might as well be invisible. No revenge lovers for me tonight.

  “Tass!”

  I look to my right and see Rach surrounded by a group of very beautiful people. She’s wearing her red hair in a big bun and has on a silver sequin dress cut just above the pubic bone. Seriously, the hem is so high I can almost see her g-spot.

  “Hey, Tass!” Sh
e gallops through the crowd and hugs me.

  “I can’t believe how much I’ve missed you.” I hug her tightly and whisper in her ear, “But what the hell is up with these women?”

  She growls. “I know, right?”

  “You said there’d be hot guys here.”

  Her face explodes with guilty colors. “Oh, don’t you worry, baby. They. Are. On. The way…”

  I wrinkle my nose. “Really?”

  “Real-ly.” She nods exaggeratedly. “In fact, there’s this one model you have to meet. I’m talkin’ hot. Cover model. Playgirl material.”

  I nod. “I have no idea what that actually means.” I’ve never picked up a Playgirl in my life.

  She pinches my cheek. “Consider it my birthday present.”

  I glare at her. “You know that talking about my today is a sensitive subject.” It is the reason that I have not thought about it once and instructed my parents many years ago to never celebrate it. Because I don’t. My theory is that age is just a number and if you convince yourself you’re getting older, then you will. It’s a theory that will take a lifetime to prove out, but let’s see if I still look twenty when I’m fifty. Then there is the whole idea of slowly decaying over time, which terrifies me. Anyway, everyone in my life is prohibited from mentioning today. Even me.

  “Tassie, I don’t think anybody cares how old you are. I mean, come on.” She grabs a drink from a passing waiter with a tray and hands it to me. It’s got some pink stuff in it.

  “Well, I don’t think; I know nobody cares.” I sniff the drink. It smells like cotton candy and some very strong alcohol, so I hold it out for her to take.

  She pushes it back to me. “Then?”

  “Then nothing,” I reply.

  “Then happy birthday!”

  “No,” I growl. “You know I don’t celebrate my today. Not since I was four.”

  “This year, yes, you do.”

  “No,” I growl.

  “Yes!” She points toward the elevators. “And there’s your man candy now.”

  “What?”

  “I decided you needed a little party fun to kick off the night. Happy birthday, Tassie!”