by A. J. Truman
OUT OF THIS WORLD
A BROWERTON UNIVERSITY BOOK
A.J. TRUMAN
OUT OF THIS WORLD
(formerly published as The Token Yank)
By A.J. Truman
Copyright 2017 by A.J. Truman. All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy, or transmission in whole or in part of this publication is permitted without express written consent from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either used fictitiously or are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, business establishments, or locales is purely coincidental.
Created with Vellum
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Also by A.J. Truman
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Thank you to James at Go On Write for the cover (and Natasha Snow for the wonderful original). Thank you for Paula, Anita, and Andria for beta-reading and Lisa for British beta-ing. And thank you to all the readers who have read and reviewed my books and written me notes. I couldn’t have done this without your enthusiasm and encouragement, Outsiders!
What’s an Outsider, you say? Oh, just a cool club where you can be the first to know about my new books and receive exclusive content. Join the Outsiders today at www.ajtruman.com/outsiders.
Chapter 1
RAFE
It was a truth universally acknowledged that Rafe would fuck any guy with a British accent. It didn’t matter if the guy was short, fat, pasty, or forty. There was something about the British accent that overrode normal conventions of beauty. Maybe it was a lingering evolutionary thread leftover from the British imperial era, and it helped explain how such a little country could’ve dominated most of the world. Who would’ve been able to resist a guy who sounded like he was forever reciting Shakespeare? Even a stuttering Colin Firth in The King’s Speech was eminently fuckable.
Rafe’s ears perked up in the airport as he listened to the dignified-sounding chatter around him. A British man in a suit (double sexy!) talked on his cell phone about work files. He had the dirty blonde hair and big eyes that reminded Rafe of Jude Law, the Talented Mr. Ripley era. Excuse me, would you mind escorting me to the men’s room and shagging my brains out?
“Rafe, do you have your passport?” his dad asked him. Rafe looked up, and the British guy in a suit was gone.
“Yes.” Rafe patted the front pocket of his backpack. “I am ready to get stamped!” He silently congratulated himself on the unintentional double entendre.
“Why is it in your backpack, sweetheart?” His mom looked at his dad in shock. The three of them all had the same lean figure and wild brown curls. It would be adorable if it weren’t so embarrassing.
“Please don’t keep it in your backpack.” His dad half-closed his eyes and exhaled a breath. “Rafe, your passport is the most important document you have in your possession. You need to keep it in your front pants pocket. When it’s in your backpack like that, it can easily be stolen.”
“Sorry.”
“Just be careful, okay?”
“I will.” He put his passport in the special carrier his parents had gotten him and nestled it deep inside his pants pocket.
The three of them sat at a table outside a coffee stand before the security gate. Rafe saw other kids with their parents, and he wondered which ones would be in his study abroad program. It was rare for a sophomore to be going abroad for fall semester, but Rafe was compelled not to wait. He was in desperate need of adventure.
“You’re going to have a wonderful time.” His mom rubbed his hand. He wondered if she was going to tear up like when they finished unpacking his dorm room freshman year. “I loved studying abroad. I studied in Paris. You can go into any hole-in-the-wall place and have the best meal of your life.” She stared wistfully at the table for a second. “Just be careful if you go to Paris. In any major European city, pick-pocketing is big there.”
“I know you like to wear your wallet in your back pocket, but I think you should wear it in front,” his dad said.
Rafe stood up and made a small production of putting his wallet in his front pocket for his parents, cramming it next to his passport. His dad winked at him and rubbed his head. Kids in college loved to complain about their parents, but Rafe stayed silent in those conversations. They loved him and meant well. He believed his coming out in eighth grade, and their instant acceptance and support, gelled them into a tight unit.
“And you checked with Verizon, and you’ll have international service on your phone?” his mom asked.
“Yep!”
“And you have your credit card?”
“Yep again.” Rafe patted his wallet, in his front pocket.
“So when you land, how will you get to the school?” His dad stood up to throw out his coffee cup.
“The study abroad program arranged it. The bus will take me.”
“And what’s this school’s meal plan like?”
“Good. Dining hall food. There’ll be lots of fish and chips.” Rafe hoped his smile satisfied them.
“I’m just checking,” his dad said, defensiveness in his voice.
“Rafe, you wanted to be in charge of arranging your study abroad trip, which we respect,” his mom said. She and his dad seemed to be forever in sync. They’ve finished each other sentences, usually when those sentences were asking Rafe about his life. “You’re an adult. It’s your right. But we want to make sure we have all the details, so that we know you’re safe and taken care of over there. It’s not the same as you being in Pennsylvania at college. You will be an ocean away.”
“I know. It’s fine. I took care of everything. I adulted real hard when I planned this semester abroad. Don’t worry!”
“We’re your parents. It’s our job to worry about you, Rafey.” His dad rubbed his hair again. “We’re going to miss you.”
“You, too.”
They sat there a few more minutes, until it was time for Rafe to go. His parents each hugged him twice. They walked with him to the security checkpoint, basically handing him off to the TSA agent, who could care less.
“I know it’s a foreign country, but don’t be scared. You’re going to have the best time,” his mom said as she pulled him into her chest.
“I love you.” Rafe hugged each of them tight. He wasn’t going to tell them that the only thing he was scared about was coming back to the states in December still a virgin.
* * *
Rafe didn’t sleep on the plane. He took advantage of the free movies and TV and made conversation with other American students in his program. But it was a long flight, the longest flight he’d ever been on, and so he had plenty of time to think.
He thought about sex.
Sex
with hot British guys with hot British accents.
Most people he met were amazed that Rafe had come out at thirteen. He thanked his lucky stars for having loving parents and friends who supported him. But most people would probably be flabbergasted that despite being out and proud for six years, Rafe had never had a boyfriend. And he only managed to touch one other dick. There were guys deep in the closet who’d had more romantic experience than he. It wasn’t for lack of trying, though. He performed many grand romantic gestures to win the hearts of guys, but every time, he came up empty. That’s why Rafe nicknamed his study abroad semester Operation: Slut. He might fail at relationships, but by golly, he was going to succeed at sex! At least with fucking, there was no rejection. Nobody pulled out halfway through and said, “You’re a really nice guy, but I’m just not feeling it.”
And there was no reason why Operation: Slut couldn’t start now. Rafe made eyes at a pale-skinned British hottie waiting to use the bathroom. Or loo, in this case.
Maybe we could join the mile high club together.
Once upon a time, Rafe believed in grand romantic gestures. Back at Browerton, he was always trying to win guys over with pre-planned romantic gestures that always seemed to work in movies but never real life. Except when his best friend Coop took over the library PA system to win over his now-boyfriend Matty last year. He would have to tweak his usual course of action now that he was in Operation: Slut mode. Grand Buttsexing Gestures?
Pale-skinned British hottie looked back at him! Rafe tried to contain his excitement, tried not to let the heat of their eye contact set him on fire. It’s on. I am going to lose my virginity on Virgin Airlines. It seemed right.
He joined the hottie in line. He smelled so good, a mix of cologne and hand cream, like the men’s department of Macy’s.
“Hey. Good flight so far?” Rafe asked.
“Yeah.” The guy checked his phone, which make eye contact difficult.
“Where in England are you going?”
“London.”
“Cool. London Calling, right?”
The guy continued checking his phone, which struck Rafe as odd considering he didn’t get service at 35,000 feet.
He heard the whoosh of the toilet flushing. It was now or never, and this trip and operation were all about the now.
“Do they have the mile high club in the U.K.? Or is it the kilometer high club? I’m down with the metric system,” Rafe said as suavely as possible. If only the guy would look up from his phone, then they could give each other sex eyes to confirm how on this would be.
But instead, as soon as the lavatory door opened, the Brit swooped in and slammed it shut. His hottie turned cold. Not the most auspicious start to his trip. Rafe returned to his seat and hoped that this was not a sign of things to come. Or things that won’t come, in his case.
* * *
When they landed, the first thing he noticed was that London didn’t look all that different from Virginia. Same landing strip, same air traffic guys with the wands, same trees and grass. Even the terminal wasn’t too different from the airport in D.C. Until he noticed the exit sign.
Way Out, it said.
He spotted an arrow pointing to the Underground.
Ads dotted the wall for products he’d never heard of. Their prices were in pounds, and phone numbers were an odd jumble of numbers, and websites ended in co.uk. It really hit Rafe. Toto, we are definitely not in America anymore.
People buzzed around him. He was in a swirl of British accents. Guy after guy had one. I’ll bang you and you and you and you.
He followed the other kids in his study abroad program to the customs line. “So what school are you studying at?” one of the girls asked him.
“Stroude University,” Rafe said with an uncontrollable yawn. “You?”
“UCL,” she answered in her American accent, which felt extra loud. University College London. Rafe heard that UCL was mostly Americans studying abroad. He wanted the real British college experience.
“Me, too,” the girl behind them said. “I can’t wait to be right in the heart of London.”
“I’ll be right outside London, so I’ll definitely be frequenting.”
“You guys are going to UCL, too?” A guy on the other side of the railing in their crisscrossing line leaned over into their conversation. “Nice!”
Rafe asked the other kids around him. They were all UCL, and two Oxfords. Showoffs. Rafe got a sinking feeling weighing him down, or maybe that was the jetlag.
“Is everyone going to UCL?” he asked, almost in desperation.
“Looks like it.” The girl shrugged. “But you’ll get a really authentic experience in…what school are you studying at?”
* * *
Rafe couldn’t dodge the sinking feeling that he’d made some big mistake. It followed him through customs, where the agent chastised him for not having his passport out and ready. It continued at baggage claim, where the other Americans in his program squealed about being in London and discussed bars to go to. Some kids didn’t wait and picked up drinks at the airport bar. The legal drinking age in England was eighteen, not twenty-one. But not even that could erase the anxiety roiling around in Rafe.
Outside, busses were lined up waiting for all the students. The names of the colleges were on signs in the front window. Rafe didn’t even marvel at the bus drivers sitting on the passenger side. Most kids piled into the UCL bus. Rafe walked to the end of the waiting area, past the coach busses, to a white van with a sign reading Stroude scratched in bad penmanship.
“Going to Stroude?” The driver asked, almost surprised. He had a thick accent, choked with phlegm and cigarette smoke. The first non-sexy accent Rafe had encountered. “You…” He checked his list. “Rafe?”
“Yes.”
“Fantastic.” The driver loaded his suitcases in the trunk. “We are all set.”
“What about the others?”
He rechecked his list. “There are no others, mate. Just you.”
Rafe wanted to talk to someone in his program, a group leader, but the two women in charge were ensconced with the UCL students. Rafe unleashed another yawn that ripped through his lungs, but he wasn’t tired. Exhaustion weighed down his body, but adrenaline kept him wired. He was in a new world, and he had no idea what was going on.
“You ready to go?” the driver asked.
“I guess so.”
“Did you use the loo?”
“What?”
“The bathroom.” The driver laughed to himself. “You Yanks are so formal. You should use the toilet. It’s a bit of a drive there.”
“I thought it was only a few miles outside London.”
“Maybe on a map, but with traffic, it’ll take about an hour.”
I have made a big mistake.
“Don’t be nervous. You’ll have a good time over here,” the driver said, seeming to sense his mood. “We Brits will treat you well.”
“Thanks.” Even though this driver didn’t know him, it didn’t sound like an empty promise. Rafe leaned forward in his seat. “What’s your name?”
“Joseph.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Joseph. You’re officially my favorite British person I’ve met so far.”
Joseph gave him tips of things to eat and see in London. They were mostly things Rafe had already heard about through his research and general British knowledge, but he appreciated them nonetheless. Rafe wound up giving Joseph advice for asking out this woman he liked. Rafe might have had no need for grand romantic gestures this semester, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t pass on some tips.
Through his car window, Rafe watched the skyline of London get smaller in his rear window. The busyness of Heathrow Airport gave way to highway, then to rolling hills. This is what he’d told himself he wanted. An authentic study abroad experience. But the dreamy ideal gave way to the stark reality of being in the middle of nowhere in a foreign country surrounded by strangers. Any romanticism in that scenario quickly faded.
That is, until they entered the imposing, yet welcoming gates of Stroude College. A large castle, an actual castle made of stone and having castle towers, greeted them once inside the campus. Rafe’s college back home, Browerton University, had ivy, but nothing compared to this. This was real history. The castle was probably older than Rafe’s home country.
“Whoa!” Rafe gawked out the van window.
“This is a beautiful campus, mate. You’re going to love it. How long are you here for?”
“Just until mid-December. So a little over three months.”
“That’s nothing. It’s going to go like that.” Joseph snapped his fingers. “So make the most of it.”
“I will. Good luck with Janine! Remember what I told you. Stand in a heart made of candles and rose petals outside her balcony. Balconies are inherently romantic. Make sure the candles are unscented. She will be swoon central.”
“Thanks, mate!”
Joseph dropped him off at the castle. A study abroad liaison waved Rafe over and led him to an orientation room with about a dozen other Americans, all wearing red Cornell T-shirts, and all just as sleep-deprived. They took up an entire row in the front.
“Welcome to Stroude!”
Rafe meant to say something back, but yawned instead. “Sorry!”
“Don’t be. It’s the jetlag. It’ll wipe you out for a good two days. Just whatever you do, resist the urge to go to sleep this afternoon.” The woman pointed him to a seat.
The thing with a British accent is that while it can be sexy, it can also lull someone to sleep. It’s consistent and modulated like a metronome. She went over life at Stroude, the school’s history and academic system. Rafe had picked out his courses before he arrived, and he looked up where they were on the campus map. But eyes had trouble focusing, and all they wanted to do was close. They drooped and drooped and the room went black.
“And don’t you dare try to sneak a fag in your room.”
His eyes bolted open. “What?” he yelled maybe too loudly.
“Rafe?” the liaison asked.
“That seems a little discriminatory.”