I’d texted, emailed, left voicemails, stopped by and nothing. Avery had either skipped town, changed her locks or was at the local theater seeing every movie multiple times just to stay away from me. I felt pathetic, a lovelorn loser like some schlub actor from a romantic comedy—yet I couldn’t help myself. I was going crazy trying to see her—wanting to see her—and the more she stayed away, the crazier I got.
I finally slid the phone aside, resting it on the wide railing of my outer patio, peering down at the chilly, silent landscape. Streetlights were already on in the early afternoon haze, a grey, wintry sky signaling another early night as a blanket of quiet spread across campus. It was all but empty now, the week before Christmas having driven everyone who hadn’t already left, home.
Or so I thought.
The banging started on the front door just then. So loud and strong, it vibrated the sliding glass doors leading back into the apartment and shook the wooden planks beneath my feet. I knew then it wasn’t Avery, she’d never pound that hard, particularly after playing so hard to get all week. If anything, she’d knock softly, hoping I wouldn’t answer before promptly running away.
“It’s open,” I called out, to whomever might be pounding on the other side. Of course, they didn’t hear, but staring pensively past my unanswered email thread down to the chilly sidewalk below, I hoped they’d go away. I was in no mood for visitors, and scanning the mostly empty campus across the quad from the Athletic Dorm, I couldn’t imagine a single cool person still left to knock on my door.
And I was right. Mostly. “Cocksucker Craig!” came the booming voice of Hardy “Hard-on” Hannigan. A 320-pound defensive lineman I hadn’t heard from since I’d limped out of the locker room that fateful Friday night two months earlier. He was halfway through the door, shutting out the hallway light with his massive frame, decked out in size XXXL jeans and a Worthington College hoodie to match. “What the fuck are you doing sitting on the goddamn balcony when it’s cold as a witch’s dick on New Year’s Eve?”
I snorted at Hardy’s blasphemy before correcting him. “Witches don’t have dicks, remember?”
“They do when it’s this fucking cold!” he grumbled, literally dragging me inside from the porch and I snatched my phone before we both tumbled into the living room. Hardy was at the fridge in a flash, rummaging through a variety of half-empty six-packs I’d started collecting since Avery kicked me out of her apartment exactly three days earlier.
“What are you still doing in town?” I asked as he tossed me a cheap can of beer. He popped the top on an imported winter lager, sucking half of it down in three ugly slugs as I stared at the cold can in my hand.
“I couldn’t split until I went to Kappa Alpha Omega’s Winter Whoopass Party now, could I?”
“They still do that?” I asked, remembering the previous two years’ parties through a vague, beer soaked memory and the blurry pictures of whatever co-eds I’d banged either night.
Hard-on peered back at me incredulously over the green bottle top. “Every fucking year, Craig. And this year you’re going with me!”
“Screw that,” I growled, shaking my head over the lip of my foaming beer can. “I’m not in the mood.”
He saw me glance at my phone and before I could stop him, yanked it from the end table where I’d left it after he’d dragged me inside. Before I could leap to stop him, he’d scrolled through a half dozen screens before rolling his eyes.
“This shit is what you get for being exclusive to one female,” he scoffed, already reaching for a second beer as I grabbed the quickly forgotten phone. I cradled it protectively, as if Avery might crawl through the very screen and save me from a night of drunken debauchery with Hard-on and the rest of the thugs at Kappa Alpha Omega.
“You?” he asked, setting down his second beer and rolling up the sleeves of his hoodie. “Not in the mood for free, unlimited pussy?”
I shrugged, not wanting to tell him that with Avery, I already had all that, and more, in the most desirable package ever. Plus, lively conversation before, during and after—something I’d never had before, and now she’d cut me off, feared I’d never have again.
“Seriously, dude,” Hard-on said, grabbing a third beer and sitting on the couch across from me. “Lot of pretty ladies disappointed you’ve been shacking up with just one lately,” he insisted. “Think how happy you’d make them if you came to the Winter Whoopass party and gave a few of them a shot,” which made me chuckle. “Come on, dude,” he said, smirking. “You could think of it as their Christmas present!”
“More like a lump of coal,” I groused, so smitten with Avery that the thought of free, random pussy at a drunken frat rave made me want to crawl in bed and hide under the covers.
“Wow, dude,” he said, “you’ve really got it bad, huh?” I nodded, watching him slurp down the last of his beer and signaling for me to do the same. Figuring a blackout drunk was my only escape from Hard-on, I willingly complied.
He smiled, apparently pleased with my behavior and tossed me a second beer as he opened his own. Like him, I gulped mine greedily, grateful at least for the brief escape from seventy-two hours of straight up obsession.
“I’ve never seen you like this before,” he mused, leaning against the counter and peering at me curiously. Hard-on was massive, but not without charm. Big and lunky as he was, he had a good nature and never failed to make a guy feel better on or off the field. I supposed in his own dense way, Hard-on was just trying to cheer me up.
“I’ve never felt like this before,” I tried to explain, shaking my head as we both chugged our beers. “It’s got me kind of locked up, you know?”
Hard-on smirked over the top of his beer. “Literally, man” he said. “No one’s seen you in weeks.” As if to prove it, he looked around the apartment as I followed his eyes like he was seeing it for the first time.
Usually tidy, I’d let the place fall into disarray. T-shirts and hoodies hung off the ends of chairs and stools, while beer cans and empty takeout boxes littered the rest of the place.
When at last I’d returned to face him, Hard-on had already grabbed us both a fresh round. Handing me a fresh one, he sank onto the couch across from me so hard I thought it might break. Holding up my can as if to prove I wasn’t ready yet, I found it empty. “I’ve been hanging out with Avery pretty much every day,” I offered, taking the fresh beer in return and matching Hard-on sip for sip. “I guess… I guess I let a few things slide.”
“And now?” he asked, shoving aside a greasy pizza box to slide a fresh four pack onto the coffee table.
“We’re kind of taking a break,” I said, avoiding his eyes. It sounded weak and pathetic and I couldn’t blame Hard-on for rolling his eyes as he peeled off two more beers. Once again, I raised my can in defense only to find it almost empty.
He chuckled at my forgetfulness and handed me a fresh one, cracking one more open for himself. “So, if you’re taking a break,” he mused, waving his beer for emphasis, “what the fuck are you doing sulking around here for?”
I peered back at him wide-eyed, my stomach full of beer and my head beginning to buzz. “I don’t know. What am I supposed to do?”
He shrugged. “Dunno,” he snorted. “Never been attached to anyone long enough to take one.”
“Me either,” I said, raising my half-empty can in solidarity. “I don’t know, man. I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do.”
Hard-on huffed. “I wouldn’t wallow in self-pity while a frat party full of hot, hungry pussy awaits.”
I chortled at his vibrant use of words. “We’re on a break,” I explained. “Not broken up.”
“What’s the fucking difference?” he bellowed, crumpling his latest empty before reaching for the last two in the six-pack holder. “You’re not gettin’ any pussy all holed up in here like a hermit. That’s for sure!”
“I know,” I said as I tossed aside my empty for a fresh one. “I mean, I know I can’t be with Avery right now—over some
stupid shit, but then again, I don’t want anybody else.”
“Bullshit!” Hard-on spat. “You just don’t know you don’t want anybody else because you’ve shut yourself off up in here and haven’t seen anybody else.”
“No shit,” I snorted, my head getting fuzzier by the minute. “It’s called avoiding temptation, dickweed. You should try it some time.”
“The fuck for?” Hard-on sprung from his chair, his face flushed, either from beer or frustration—t was hard to tell. “We’re fuckin’ jocks, man. We run this place. Shit, man, we own this fuckin’ campus. Anything we want, we take. Booze, grades, cars, money… and hot ass mother fuckin’ girls. And you’re just gonna throw it all away for some fucking chick?”
“She’s not just some chick,” I said, defensively, waving my own beer can back at him and finding it empty. “She’s special.”
“She’s special?” he mocked. “So are you, bro. In fact, you’re so goddamn special you don’t have to play by the rules, man. This girl—whoever the hell she is—will never know what you do tonight, bro. And since it’s the last party of the school year, she’ll never have to know. Tomorrow you can go back to being exclusive and the chick will never be any the wiser.”
“But I’ll know,” I said, shaking my head. “And I’m the one who has to fucking live with it.”
Hard-on literally slapped his head, then shook it and glared at me as if he was about to dead lift me and toss me over the balcony. Instead, he reached down and yanked me to my feet.
“All right, Cocksucker,” he said. “My nice guy act isn’t working, so let me put it this way… you’re going to the fucking party, one way or another. So, if I have to drag you into the shower myself—”
“Shower?” I sputtered, feeling myself launched down the hall by Hard-on’s massive hands. I wasn’t sure whether it was being hoisted out of my chair and propelled halfway down the hall, or the amount of beer I’d drank, but suddenly my buzz caught up to me, big time.
“Yeah, man, you smell like ass!”
The water was cold, but it did little to revive my spirits or sober me up and Hard-on wasn’t helping much. Halfway through, he shoved a fresh bottle of beer in through the shower curtain and, realizing there was no use in refusing, I took it greedily. Sucking it dry as the soap slathered down my body.
Stumbling from the shower, the world now a soft, warm fuzz, I quickly got dressed, grabbing faded jeans and a cable-knit sweater to fight off the cold. Hard-on nodded approvingly as I emerged from my bedroom, my expensive cologne wafting around me like a cloud.
“Much better,” he said, opening the door and waving me forward. “After you, bro.”
“Wait,” I said, stumbling slightly as the beers fogged my head even more. I wasn’t used to hanging with my old pals and their fast and hard-drinking ways. I never thought about drinking when I was with Avery, but suddenly, I realized I needed to drink to be without her. “My phone.”
Hard-on stopped me with a firm arm across the doorway, stopping me from going back in. “Fuck that, dude,” he said, slamming the door shut behind us. “Where we’re going, you won’t need a phone.”
I shook my head, following blindly wherever my big friend might lead me. I figured I’d play along, have a few more beers, get just drunk enough to act stupid and get kicked out of the frat house before stumbling home, alone and guilt-free.
Unfortunately, I figured wrong.
Twenty-Five
Avery
“3 DAYS R UP!”
I stared at the text message and smiled, oblivious to the cold, gray day outside my frosted window. December 18th had come—and was almost gone—without warning. The last month of the year half over, our parents’ wedding less than a week away, and Craig texting me constantly for the last seventy-two hours straight.
It had been a nearly constant stream since I’d kicked him out of the apartment three days ago. Slowly, but steadily the thread he’d started became longer and longer. The messages had been gentle and teasing, at first:
“You’re not really going to keep me away for three days, are you?”
“It’s been three hours already… does that count?”
“Are you mad at me?”
But then, as I’d steadfastly ignored him, they’d grown increasingly frantic—and sexual:
“Uh, okay, now I’m getting a little worried.”
“My dick misses you!”
“Btw, so do I!”
But at least I gave Craig this much… he’d held off on using ALL CAPS, at least until today.
I had to admire his stamina—not just in bed, but also with his cell phone—persistently texting me at all hours of the day and night. Nor could I help but be flattered by the constant attention. No man had ever blown up my phone the way Craig had, and many times when my willpower was close to faltering, I felt tempted to respond.
I’d be in the middle of some random household chore, just trying to stay busy and keep my mind off Craig, when suddenly my phone would ding, making me smile to discover he’d texted me again. I’d blush and reach for the phone instinctively, as I had every time he’d texted me before our self-imposed exile, but now was different. Now, I had to be strong and resist the impulse to reply to him and give him any encouragement to get back into my bedroom in any way.
Then, I’d grab my sneakers, tug them on, throw on my favorite Worthington College hoodie and dash out the door leaving the phone on the counter to buzz, vibrate and ding to its heart’s content, just as I was doing now. The sneakers, once squeaky and new, were now familiar and worn as I laced them up and reached for my hoodie and keys on the way out the door. The hallway was quiet and deserted, like the rest of the apartment building as I skipped the elevator and took the stairs six flights down to the back exit.
Dead leaves, dry and dirty, crunched underfoot as I crossed the wide, sloping lawn behind my apartment complex to reach the winding trail that ran alongside, but never quite intersected with the Worthington campus. It was midday, bordering on late afternoon, the sun weak and orange beneath a tapestry of billowy gray clouds.
I zipped my hoodie tighter to fight off the winter chill as I strode briskly on the paved pathway. I wished—and not for the first time—I could listen to music while I walked, but I found the constant texts from Craig too distracting. And besides, the only music I wanted to listen to at this late date was Christmas music, but that had been permanently ruined thanks to a particular upcoming wedding ceremony.
I picked up the pace, hands dug into the pockets of my hoodie, my ponytail bouncing with the effort as I struggled to burn off the anxiety I felt from the approaching nuptials. Every day that burned down like a wax candle just brought me that much closer to the day when it would be official that Craig and I would be related. Was it any wonder I’d cut him off when I had? No matter how hard it had been for me? He might have thought it was easy for me to go cold turkey from him, but nothing could be further from the truth.
I missed him terribly. His touch. Sure, absolutely. Everything else about his physicality, too. His smooth skin, his chiseled features and sculpted body, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss his cock and those magical fingers.
But most of all, I missed him. All of him. The total package. His crinkly smile and warm, hazel eyes. His low, soft voice and what he used to say to me so very often. How he calmed me and thrilled me at the same time. I’d become addicted to him in a way that made walking away from him harder than quitting a pack a day cigarette habit.
The walking, I figured, was a part of my recovery. Like Craig Rehab. I was slowly working off the anxiety, doubt and fear that resulted from not being able to be with him physically. Every mile I walked moved me a little farther from the hold he had on my life, on my body, on my brain—and on my pussy. So I walked any hour of the day or night, wearing down the soles of my new sneakers as I wore a familiar trodden-down path around the campus. Sometimes I’d walk for hours at a time, hardly realizing how hungry, tired or even sweaty I was,
until I arrived back at my apartment door, barely able to stand and racing for the fridge to chug orange juice straight from the carton.
His presence in my life was powerful and in his absence, I’d almost caved a million times—and then some—reaching for the phone to text him, or my purse to pay a visit to the Athletic Dorm. Instead I somehow held fast, reaching for my walking shoes instead and pounding the pavement for miles in a vain attempt to rid my mind and body of the urge to race into Craig’s arms and stay there until our parents’ Christmas Eve wedding.
I guess what stopped me was the simple fact that each day away from Craig made it that much easier to spend another day away from him. It wasn’t easy—far from it—and yet the long, daily walks—not to mention a nightly bottle of wine or two—made sleep come easier, and earlier, leaving me one day closer to quitting him completely. Like any addiction, I just needed time to recover.
It wasn’t fun but I knew I had to do it. When Mom shocked me with her invitation me to that thoroughly phony and completely staged Thanksgiving dinner, I’d been so dazed and confused. For days after, I’d secretly harbored some deep, dark fantasy scenario in which Craig and I kept our relationship under wraps and continued to be with each other despite our parents’ marriage.
I’d been excited by it for a day or two, my mind imagining some big, sprawling house where we all lived together, and in the middle of the night, Craig and I would meet in darkened hiding places. I pictured him fucking me on top of the washing machine, one hand squeezing my ass to steady me with the other clamped tight over my mouth so I wouldn’t scream out when I came and wake the whole house.
Other times I pictured myself slipping into the steamy shower stall when no one else was around, sinking to my knees without a word and gobbling Craig’s thick, wet prick as the hot spray wettened my hair and desire wettened my pussy. The desire, the fantasy, was so real, I’d wake up at night tasting him on my tongue, my panties wet from the dream that I was sure we could make a reality.
Time Out: A Holiday Sports Romance Page 13