Booty Call(14)

Corey sighs. I ignore him. It’s a casual mixer, not a rave. We can talk about course work. It’s good practice for the rest of our lives.





—fourteen—





Scott





S: Back in the city. Want to hang out later?





I feel like I’ve been gone back to my early twenties sending that message. That makes me shudder, because I was thinking with my dick then. Fuck, I’m thinking with my dick now. But…it’s what Ali wants. And after abandoning her all week to go to New York and go six rounds with the Mayfair legal team and the British Consulate, I could use some chill time with a hot girl who likes me just for me. Maybe I haven’t matured past my twenties after all.

She doesn’t reply to my text right away. I move through my apartment, dropping my keys on the counter, my wallet beside them. I toe off my shoes then undo my tie.

She said she’s only seen me in a suit.

When I pick her up tonight, I want her to see the real me, as much as I can share with her. The me that used to live in cargo pants and black t-shirts when I wasn’t in fatigues.

I put on casual stuff and grab my phone again. No message back.





S: You studying? Want me to do a coffee run?





I fire up my laptop and check my email. Then I prowl into the kitchen. I don’t have shit fuck all to make breakfast with. Maybe I should do a grocery run before inviting Ali back to my place. I grab my keys and wallet, throw on a hoodie, and head out the door.

Two bags of eggs, bread, milk, cheese and OJ later—plus vegetables and fruit, because I’m not actually a twenty-year-old goon—I’m back at my place, and still getting radio silence.

I pull out my phone to text her again, promising myself it’s not needy if I’m concerned about her, when the screen lights up.





A: Sorry. So, so sorry. At a party.





I have zero right to get mad about that. She’s an adult. A college student. And for the year that I’ve known her, totally responsible.

I’m still thinking “what fucking party” when she texts again.





A: Should be home by eleven. Midnight at the latest. Will text when I’m back.

S: I can pick you up.

A: It’s cool. I’m with a friend. He’ll walk me home.





And now I’m officially wondering who he is. The back of my neck heats up and I have to force myself to put the phone down before I crack it from gripping it too hard.

I count to fifty before replying.





S: You okay? Just say the word, and I can come get you.

A: Seriously, I’m good. It’s a mixer.





I’m not sure I know what that means. In my world, it would mean cocktails with officers and NGO officials. And I wouldn’t call it a party. I don’t reply, because anything that would come out of my fingers would be inappropriate right now. I put away the groceries. When the phone chimes again, I take my time reaching for it.





A: What are you wearing?





That mollifies me a bit. She might be with a guy, but she’s thinking about me. And maybe the guy is a total dork.





S: Not a suit

A: Tease! Pics or it didn’t happen

S: I’m not taking a selfie

A: I will if you will





And just like that, I’m trying to take a picture of myself without looking like a menace. I settle for a body shot, no face. It only took six rejected pictures to get one that was acceptable. Ten seconds later she fires back a picture of herself reclining on a couch, full glass of something dark in her hand. She’s wearing a long-sleeve black shirt and jeans, her hair is down, and she looks so good my dick aches.





S: I think it’s midnight

A: hahaha





I’m not joking. I want her, and I want her now.





S: Are you on campus? I’m coming to pick you up.

A: Fine. But I’ll meet you downstairs. And don’t rush. I’ve just stumbled into a conversation I can actually stand.





She texts the address, and I do as she instructs. I go to Starbucks, get us coffee—boring old man drip for me, a vanilla latte for her—and head to campus, taking my time. When I get there, I find a parking spot not far from the building she’s in and wait.

And wait.

Thirty-five minutes later, I text her.

No answer.

I’ve got two choices. I can keep waiting, or I can go up and see if she needs rescuing.

I can already hear her protesting that I’ve shown up, but I can play Hailey’s bodyguard or something. I know how to be subtle.

Heading inside, I scan the main floor for her, just in case she’s waiting inside. Nothing, so I take the elevator upstairs. The only lights on in the building were a single office on the third floor, unlikely to be the site of a student party, and a bunch of windows were lit up on the top floor. Probably a lounge of some sort.

As soon as the elevator doors open, I hear an argument.

“Time for you to head home,” an authoritative voice insists.

“We hired you to keep other people out, not tell us we’re having too much fun.” A female voice, but not Ali.

I turn the corner and see two young people being blocked from re-entering the open space beyond by a large black man who looks like he’s not going to be swayed. Poor guy.

I give him an easy smile, security-guy-to-security-guy. “Hey, man. I’m here to pick someone up. Alison Reid.”

He consults his clipboard and nods. “She’s here.”

“Can I…?” I point past him.

He shakes his head. “Private party.”

I pull out my wallet and hand over a card. He takes one look at The Horus Group logo and waves me past.

I wait until the drunk kids can’t see my face to snicker at their protests fading behind me. But my gloating doesn’t last long, because on the far side of the lounge, on a couch facing away from the entrance, Ali’s wrapped up in the arms of a kid. A guy, she’d say, but I just see a hundred and thirty pounds of privilege and a drooling dick. He’s trying to kiss her and she’s pushing against his chest, laughing uneasily.

I see it all through a red haze.

“What the fuck?” I bark out, reaching over the couch and shoving the kid to the floor. Ali scrambles to her feet, clearly pissed.

“Scott!”

“Behind me, Ali.”

“Stop it, he’s drunk. It’s fine.”

I move around the furniture, getting between them. I shoot her a quick glance over my shoulder. “Did you want him to touch you?”

“No, but—”

I pick the loser up off the floor like he’s made of paper and shove him, hard, against the wall. His head snaps back and thunks against the brick. That’s gonna hurt tomorrow.

So will the Hulk-fist-sized bruise I’m about to give him on his cheek. I pull my arm back and Ali latches on to it. “Stop!” She twists so she’s between us. “Don’t do something you’ll regret.”

“I guaran-fucking-tee you I won’t regret smashing this asshole’s face in.”

“I was handling it.”

“I was waiting downstairs for a half hour. How long has he been crawling on you?”

She winces. “Sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for. Out of my way.”

Behind her, the kid groans and crumbles to the ground. I roll my eyes, and Ali presses her hands against my chest. “Let’s go. I’m fine.”

I shrug her off and crouch down, fisting the front of his shirt hard enough he whimpers. He’s an emo little shit, nothing but skin and bones, and he’s fucking petrified. Good. “Leave her alone. She’s not interested in your tiny little dick, or your pathetic feelings, or anything else, got it?”

His eyes go wide and start to fill with tears. Jesus.

I sneer and drop him back to the floor.

Ali sighs, the sound magnified in the sudden silence. The entire party has stopped and is watching us. I stand up, and stare down at him for a beat before I turn to look at her.

She’s pissed at me. Her eyes are wide and her mouth is small, her lips pressed tight together. Without a word, she yanks her backpack off the ground, spins around and heads for the exit. She doesn’t wait for the elevator, taking the stairs instead, and she flies down each flight. I’m right behind her, but I don’t catch up to her until we’re on the ground floor.

“Wait. Alison! Wait!” I hook my fingers around her upper arm and spin her around.

She shoves me hard in the chest, but I don’t move. I let go of her, though. I’m not an idiot. She paces backward, shaking her head at me. “What the hell was that?”

She bumps back against the door and shoves it open, and we spill out into the night. It’s cold enough that she pulls up short and rummages in her bag, pulling out a jacket. Her movements are short and jerky as she shoves her arms into the sleeves and yanks it tight around her body.

“That was…” I exhale roughly. “That was me reacting to a guy mauling you.”

“There’s protecting me and then there’s using me as an excuse to flood the room with testosterone. That was way over the line.”

“I didn’t even hit him. Anything less would have been unacceptable.” It grates on me that she doesn’t see herself as precious enough to be worth such protection.

“He’s my friend! And he’s drunk. Now you’ve terrified him.”

“He was all over you!”

“I was fine!”