by Ney, Sara
“What do you do with it?”
He laughs. “Sip it?”
“Sip it.” Hmm. “That won’t take long. I like to take my time and baby my drink.” My hands are wrapped around my latte, nursing it even though it’s cold.
And the cup is beginning to sweat already.
“Sometimes,” I muse out loud, staring out the window watching the scenery pass by, “I’ll get a warm latte in the afternoon with a warm cookie and it’s the world’s best thing.”
I turn in time to see his brows go up. “Surely not the world’s best thing?”
“Mmm. There is nothing better than a warm cookie, I am telling you.”
“Nothing?” he mutters with another snort. “I could think of a few better things.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say Like what? but I stop myself—he isn’t talking about sex, is he?
He could be talking about the new Stars Wars Legos being released, or lying on a hammock on a beach somewhere. Winning the last match of the season, or soaking in the hot tub or the ice bath in the university’s training room.
Yes.
That’s what he means.
Ashley Jones is far from getting fresh with me.
We’re friends and roommates and nothing more.
My hair is in a ponytail, ball cap pulled down over my head so I wouldn’t need sunglasses. I’ve got on a sports bra and a tank top, a pair of cropped black leggings and sneakers.
Ashley looks over a few times—it feels like he’s sneaking glances, but that can’t be it either.
I’m a mess even though I’m put together.
Fresh face.
No makeup.
The same way he saw me last night.
Leaning forward, I turn the dial on the radio, not in the mood to force conversation when the drive is so peaceful. Find a station that plays newer songs, setting the volume at a low decibel, just loud enough to hear.
Shoot a few of my own furtive glances Ashley’s way, studying his masculine silhouette, the chiseled, defined jawline. The overnight stubble on his cheeks casting a sexy shadow. The content set of his mouth.
He has sideburns growing on the sides of his face, and rather than being turned off by them, I like it.
It feels slightly badass with a touch of I don’t give a shit on a guy who’s just here for the education and the experience and doesn’t worry what other people think of him.
He’s a decent guy.
I like him.
Thirteen
Ashley
“Should we take a selfie or something?”
Georgia’s question is hopeful, and her face is too as she shields her eyes from the sun.
It’s taken us nearly two hours to get to the top of the cliff we’ve been climbing, the view spectacular.
We’ve parked our arses on a giant boulder overlooking the city, near enough to the treacherous overhang to be stunning, noshing on the protein bars Georgia produced from the black backpack she brought on the hike.
“A selfie?” Why are girls like this?
“Please?”
“You want to pose for a picture with me? Why don’t I just take one of you?”
Georgia considers this. “It’s such a pretty view.”
Pretty view.
She sure is.
It.
It sure is, not her.
Jesus, Ash, get a grip.
She’s busy retrieving her mobile and poking away on the screen with her finger, pulling up the camera and holding it as far out in front of her as she can.
“You need to get closer.”
Yeah, no.
My body stays rooted to the spot.
No need to move, as she does it for the both of us, scooting herself across the rock until we’re both in the picture.
“Would you smile?”
“I am smiling.” I’m not though—I’m gritting my teeth, gap taking center stage, causing me to frown.
This fucking gap.
Never used to be there; I stopped wearing my retainer a few years ago because what jackarse wants to wear a retainer to bed, and the gap appeared over the course of time.
“Maybe you should hold the phone—your arms are longer.”
They are indeed.
I outweigh her and am taller than her by at least eight inches, arm span like a set of wings, and now she wants me to take her mobile and take the picture with it.
The picture I didn’t want to be in to begin with.
“Fine.”
It’s dwarfed in my hand now as I extend my arm, thumb on the camera button—and when I snap the first selfie, Georgie smushes against me closer still, beaming up with that killer smile of hers.
I smell her.
She smells like sunshine and whatever fruity lotion she put on, her hair almost in my face. Up my nose.
It’s impossible not to take a whiff.
Before I know it, Georgia’s arm is sliding around my back, her hand throwing out the peace sign as I hit the dumb little camera button.
“Would you smile? You look like you have to take a shit.”
My mouth falls open, and for the second time since meeting her, I’m caught off guard—the first time being that night she approached me at the rugby house to ask me out on a dare.
And here she is telling me I look constipated.
I smile.
“Okay never mind.” She laughs. “It looks like I’m holding you here against your will.”
Her face is still facing the camera; this time she schools her expression so it matches mine and I snap away until she eventually snatches her mobile back to inspect the photos.
She doesn’t move over, doesn’t give me the space we had when we sat down, probably because she’s so busy going through the shots I took.
“This one is cute.”
The picture is thrust in my face.
“Cute?”
I sure as hell don’t look cute, but she does—then again, does it matter what my face is doing? Do girls care?
Another group makes their way to the top—four people, two couples—doing what we did when we made it. Looking around and oohing and aahing at the view.
Georgia offers to take their picture because she’s in the mood, I guess.
I watch as she laughs and places them, as if she’s a professional photographer that’s been hired. Moving one girl so her arm isn’t blocking her girlfriend, shifting the guy so he’s to the right. Over a little. No, that branch is in the way—everyone take one step to the left.
Georgia is a natural with people, rearranging the foursome for the second time, oblivious to me idly standing by, their laughter echoing through the valley.
We’re up high where the air is clean and the overlook goes on for miles and miles and miles.
“They’re from school,” she says, rejoining me, dusting the gravel off her knees because she knelt down to play photog. “Mostly liberal arts majors.”
“What does that mean?”
“Uh—music and art and I think…psychology? Gosh, I’m not actually sure, but they all seemed really nice.”
I glance over.
The group is still taking pictures, selfies mostly, the couples holding hands and doing lovey-dovey shit that makes me look away quickly.
No one needs to see that shite, least of all me.
There’s a picnic table at the far end away from the group and Georgia heads in that direction, reaching it before me and climbing to sit her arse on the tabletop, trainers on the sitting bench.
I join her as she stretches her legs, noticing that they look smooth.
She’s tan from being in the sun, on the track, legs long and toned in all the right places.
Muscular but feminine.
She flexes and her calf muscles tighten.
I avert my damn eyes so she doesn’t catch me staring; the last thing I need is for her to see me gawking at her—I don’t need her moving out because she feels creeped out.
It’s only been a day, but
it’s already fucking fantastic having someone else in the house—less lonely.
Less silent.
Less monotonous.
“Thanks for bringing me up here—I love anything with a scenic view.” She glances over. “And thank you for breakfast.”
I picked up her coffee and the croissant she ordered, plus the extra granola bars she wanted for her backpack on the off chance we got hungry on our way up or down the bluffs.
“You’re welcome.” Is it just me or do I sound like I’m grunting?
“What are you up to tonight?”
“Sundays I usually lie around watching the telly, but I did that last night, so…I don’t know. I haven’t been downtown lately.”
Downtown to the bars.
Kind of fun if enough people are out.
“What’s your favorite?”
“Pub? Probably Nomads.”
It’s a little divey and loud, but they have peanuts in buckets on the tables and it’s usually busy with a fun crowd. Having a pint or two to knock off at the end of the week does my body good.
“I’ve never been there.”
Is she angling for an invitation, or is she simply telling me she’s never been to Nomads? It’s hard to know with females.
Some of them have ulterior motives.
“Wanna come?”
Georgia hesitates. “You want to hang out with me?”
I mean…she’s as good as any of my mates, and less drama, too, which is saying a lot. Stewart and Andy and the lads are great, but they’re so fucking sensitive. And if I hear one more word from Stew’s gob about dating or anyone from the team yapping about rugby on our days off, I’ll go stand in front of a moving bus.
Nope.
Georgia will do just fine as a sidekick.
“It’s Sunday so I probably won’t get pissed.”
She tilts her head. “Does that mean mad or something completely different?”
“Drunk,” I explain. “Trollied. Rat-arsed.”
“Rat-arsed?” she repeats. “Um, that’s maybe my new favorite word.”
That has me laughing. “You can’t just say it whenever you fancy.”
“Whenever I fancy? Love that, too.”
Wow. She’d be so easy to court, or romance, or whatever people call it. Putty in my British hands.
Or not.
Georgia is a hard one to figure out—plus, we have that roommate thing going on.
“What else do you fancy?” I ask, curious.
She shrugs, thinking. “Besides running? I love the water—paddle boarding and wake boarding and…I don’t know. Swimming? Um. Christmas?”
“Christmas is one of your hobbies?”
“Duh, it’s magical. Who doesn’t love it?”
Okay. Moving on… “What else?”
“I love traveling but haven’t had the chance—or the money.”
“Where would you go tomorrow if you could go anywhere?”
“In the United States?”
I nod. “Sure.”
“Vegas.”
“Vegas!?” What an odd choice.
“Is that weird? I’ve never been there, and it seems so fun.” She shrugs. “Plus it’s not that expensive and there’s so much to do.”
She’s not wrong about that—it’s not that expensive and there’s a fuck ton to do, loads of trouble one could get in.
“It’d only take a day or two to drive.”
Indeed; a couple blokes and I drove there when I was a freshman, fresh off the plane from Britain; they tried to hire me a prostitute, too, but I hardly need to pay someone to suck my dick, do I?
I don’t think they realize prostitutes aren’t as novel to lads in the UK as they are in America. The idea of paying to bang made me want to throw up; it didn’t make me hard.
“Where would you go if you could go anywhere? Anywhere at all?” Georgia asks in kind.
Not Vegas, I want to retort. “Somewhere warm.” With a beach and hammocks hanging beneath palm trees.
“Like Florida?” she counters with a laugh.
“Too many tourists. I’m sick of them—that’s why I stay out of London when I’m home.”
“So maybe the west coast?”
I shrug. “It’s not in America, but Greece is warm.”
Her eyes practically bug out of her skull. “Greece! That sounds so…fancy.”
“It’s warm and a stone’s hop from London.”
“What a stone’s hop?”
“I don’t know, ’bout three hours?”
“That’s it? That doesn’t sound terrible…”
“It’s not a long flight and it’s worth it—bluest water you’ve ever seen.” I woolgather, feeling a bit homesick if I’m being honest, remembering the trips we would take around the holidays, Mum, Dad, Jack, and I—down to Greece after Christmas, usually when my brother and I were home from school. “Yeah, I think I’d like to go back sooner than later now that you mention it.”
“Sounds like a dream.” She sighs, probably not on purpose, a far-off look in her eye as she gazes out at the view before us.
I gather Georgie didn’t come from privilege and didn’t have buckets of money growing up, which is why she had to transfer so late in her college career. She had to follow the money because she didn’t have it in the bank and neither did her parents.
So me talking ’bout Greece and her wishing on Vegas…
The two of us sit here a little longer, listening to the birds and the wind and the rustling of the trees. Watching the foursome as they sit at the edge of the cliff, arms around each other.
Georgie removes her baseball cap, pulling the elastic band from her hair. Braids it in one thick rope falling down her back.
I stand on the picnic table bench and look down at her. “Ready to split?”
She looks up. “Sure, we can go.”
It’s going to take some time to hike back down the bluffs, an hour to get home—maybe stop and grab another coffee—and I may like a nap if we’re going to Nomads for a drink.
Georgia leads the way down.
I watch her braid swing back and forth, back and forth against her back as she navigates the stones and rocks and occasional branch on the hiking trail.
Jaunty.
Cute.
Do my best not to focus on that hair, swinging there, daring me to feel it to see if it’s as soft as it looked when it was down around her shoulders.
Fuck.
Focus, Ash.
Focus.
Words I know I’ll be repeating to myself for the remainder of the year, already regretting the decision to ask her to live with me.
I never did learn the easy way…
Fourteen
Georgia
I wasn’t planning on doing both my hair and makeup to go to a divey little college bar, but here I am anyway, looking cute and feeling rather fine…doing a twirl for Ashley when I entered the kitchen earlier.
He got us an Uber so we could drink, though it’s the end of the weekend and we both not only have class tomorrow, but also training.
I have to be up at five in the morning to run laps at the track, and I’m already dreading it. Already counting the hours of sleep I’ll get based on the time I hop into bed later.
If we’re back by 10, I’ll get six hours once I take my makeup off and rinse in the shower.
If we’re back by 11, I’ll get five hours.
If we’re back by…
And so on.
The smell of my perfume filled the entire car ride on the way to Nomads—and not in a terrible What did you do, bathe in it? kind of way. I caught Ashley sniffing the air in my general direction after we buckled ourselves in, noting with satisfaction that he didn’t comment.
We’re downtown relatively early—most students start heading out around ten, but we want to be home by then—so there are plenty of spots to sit when we arrive at Nomads.
Sidling up to the bar, we choose two stools at the far end, the perfect place for people w
atching as co-eds begin to slowly trickle in.
Ashley’s knee bumps into mine as we settle in, the contact searing my skin through my jeans.
His elbow jostles my ribcage.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, larger than life and not nearly as compact as I am, constantly bumping into me each and every time he moves.
It’s not his fault he’s huge, but it’s unnerving when he touches me.
I’m not supposed to get butterflies when he bumps me.
I’m just. Not.
Ashley is hungry and orders some food—loaded nachos and mozzarella sticks—and my stomach growls thinking about greasy bar appetizers, also wondering at the same time how clean the kitchen could possibly be.
I’ve watched one too many bars-gone-bad reality TV shows for my own damn good.
“I’m gonna go to the bathroom—can you order me whatever you’re having?”
Ash nods, patiently waiting for the bartender to acknowledge us even though it’s not crowded in here at all. Just a few dudes playing pool in the adjoining room and one or two other people at the counter does not a busy bartender make.
I find the bathroom easily, the women’s slathered in a vomit-inducing shade of pink paint I can’t imagine looks any better the more intoxicated a person becomes.
As I’m pulling my jeans down past my hips so I can use the toilet, my eyes lock onto the bright, colorful artwork on the back of the pink stall door.
Sitting, I pee and scan the flyer at the same time, scanning the words with excitement.
NEW & exclusive Heart Hotel and Casino
All expenses paid
$1000 spending cash
Are my eyes playing tricks on me or am I staring at a sign to win a trip to Vegas on the back of the bathroom stall?
WHAT ARE THE ODDS?!
I was just talking about wanting to go to Vegas!
There’s a small, white square with a code for scanning on the bottom and I fish the cell out of my back pocket, all the while trying not to drop it in the toilet beneath my butt. Open the camera and take a photo to access the contest link.
I read it over, read it again, already memorizing the rules, terms, and date they choose the winner.
The poster has been up for some time, the contest ending next week.