The Studying Hours(32)

Oz: Hey Jameson?



Sitting up straighter, I’m instantly on alert, because when a guy uses your full name in a text message, shit is about to get serious. Even I, who hasn’t had a date in months, know this as fact.



Me: Yes Sebastian?



In my mind, that yes is breathy and wistful, and comes out on a sigh. Too bad it doesn’t translate via text.



Oz: When I get back in three days, I think we should



The message is cut off, and nothing follows.

I think we should.

I think we should…

What!

What do you think we should do?

Dying a slow death, I wait impatiently for the second part to come through. I think we should…what? I think we should make out again? I think we should meet in the library? I think we should date?

What. What for the love of god should we do!

“Sweet Jesus, where’s the rest of the text? Where is it!” I shout to the walls of my bedroom, shaking the crap out of my cell and thanking God my roommates aren’t home to witness my incessant grumbling as I jiggle the phone back to life.

I wait, and wait—then wait some more—for him to finish that short sentence, for the little blue light in the upper left hand corner to blink.

Finally, sick of the torture, I grow a pair of lady balls and text him back: What should we do?

Two minutes pass.

Then three.

Then eighteen.

Then two hours.

Then ten.

And still, nothing. I get nothing.

It’s agony.





Sebastian





“I thought I asked you not to wear that tank top to bed, especially when I’m not allowed to touch you.” I watch Jameson from across the hotel room from the center of the bed.

She pulls the fabric away from her form, glancing down at the sheer white garment. “What is your obsession with this shirt?”

“I’m not obsessed with it. I just don’t want you wearing it.”

“That makes no sense. My boyfriend loves this shirt; when I wear it, it reminds me of him.”

“Boyfriend?” Since when does James have a boyfriend who’s not me, and why am I just finding out about it?

I watch her cross the room to stand in front of the large sliding glass door; heavy snow falls in sheets across the windows, our Utah snowboarding trip blessed with several inches of fresh powder.

“Yes, my boyfriend.” Jameson rolls her eyes. “Elliot? Remember him? Your roommate and the love of my life?”

The love of her life?

I laugh, frowning when it sounds foreign and forced. “Since when?”

“Since you’re too busy for a girlfriend, that’s when. Wrestling, friends, studying, your job—remember when you told me you weren’t ready to be tied down? Well we all have our priorities, Sebastian.” Her smooth, delicate hands find the hem of her threadbare tank top and she tugs it up past her flat stomach. “I’m not yours.”

Up and over her bare, taut breasts.

My mouth waters and my hand flies to the burgeoning bulge in my gym shorts, stroking.

“No touching. No looking. All this is just for Elliot.” She pushes down the waistband of her pajama bottoms. “You won’t be tied down to one person, remember?”

Remember? “I never said that.”

I would never say that. Would I?

Did I?

“You did. And now you’re going to lose me.”

Jameson pushes the sliding glass door open and the curtains billow like clouds around her ankles. A gust of wind carries in thousands of cold, shimmering snowflakes; they stick to her hair, glistening before melting into her warm skin.

She turns her back, stepping out into the frigid winter storm.

“Where are you going? James, come back!”

“You’re losing me, Sebastian,” her voice whispers. You’re losing me. You’re losing me.

Gasping, I open my mouth, but no sound comes out.

Somewhere in the hotel a door slams. Water from a faucet. Light streaming in from the bathroom on the far side of the room.

“Wake up, fuck stick. Time for warm ups.”

Huh?

“I’m not covering for your ass if you’re not outside by five.”

I crack an eye open and peer over at one of my teammates—my roommate for this trip to Ohio—who’s lacing up his running shoes.

“Did you hear me?” he asks. “Get moving.”

“Yeah, I heard you.” I roll with a moan toward my cell. “Jeez, what time is it?”

“Four forty-five. Time to grease the tires.” He lobs a damp bath towel toward the bed but misses. “You look like shit, by the way. Get any sleep last night? You were mumbling all night, whining like a little bitch.”

“No.” No, I didn’t sleep, because I did nothing but toss and turn, sweat and moan, and talk in my sleep.

“What was I saying?”

My teammate laughs. “You were calling out some dude’s name and begging him not to leave you. When you started to cry, I had to put a pillow over my head.”

Shit. “Sorry man.”

“Whatever. You’re lucky I didn’t put the pillow over your head instead.” He grabs a pair of dirty shorts from the floor, tossing them at my head. “Time to hustle.”

“Stop throwing shit, I’m up, I’m up.”

I rise from the bed to quickly move through my morning ritual—piss, brush my teeth, get dressed—mind on one thing, and one thing alone: Jameson Clark.





Jameson





Something is ringing.

One eye pries open, head flops to the side, and fuzzily I ogle my nightstand. My phone buzzes and rings, doing a happy little samba across the flat wooden surface. It’s loud, obnoxious, and annoying—exactly like it’s supposed to be.

I slap at my phone and snatch it up with a groan when it’s in the palm of my hand.

I blink at the unidentified number calling, but nonetheless swipe to accept, letting the call connect.

“Hello,” I rasp groggily.

5:37 is not a good look for me.

“James?” The voice is vaguely familiar. Masculine. Deep and sexy and familiar.

“Huh?”

“It’s me.”

God I’m tired. Am I even awake? What day is it? “Me who?”

Deep chortle. “Sebastian.”

My eyes pop open in a panic, because why on earth would he be calling this early unless there was an emergency? I struggle to sit up. “Oz? Sebastian! Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, no—everything is great.”

I am literally going to kill this guy when he gets back.

“You’re calling me at five in the morning cause everything is great?”

“Yes and no. It took me this long to find a phone to use.”

“But it’s still dark outside.”

Pulling the phone away from my ear, I gaze down at the number, dazed and confused. Not his number. Not his phone. “Wait. Whose phone is this?”

“I borrowed one from the team manager. Mine died last night and I don’t have a charger.”

He borrowed a phone to call me? “You have my cell phone number memorized?”

“Mind like a steel trap, Clark, remember? Three. Point. Seven.” He’s breathing hard and it sounds like he’s pacing.

“Are you out for a run?”

“Yeah. Sorry it’s so early but I felt like a huge dick leaving you hanging last night. None of my teammates would let me borrow me their fucking phones, and I couldn’t charge a phone call to the hotel room.”

Assholes.

“Oh,” I respond dumbly, still unable to form an articulate sentence.

“Yeah, so sorry bout this—I know you’re still in bed—but I won’t have a phone until Friday when we get back. Left my charger at home and no one will let me borrow theirs.”

“Assholes.”

He chuckles through the line, low and good. Good and oh my god, I’m so tired I want to smush his adorable face. The sound of his delicious laughter sends a hum of pleasure careening down my spine…rocketing through my pelvis…and tingling my ovaries.

I snuggle down into my sheets and imagine that smooth, silky breath of his trailing across my stomach.

“You weren’t dreaming about me again last night, were you?” I joke, the early morning light just now beginning to peek through my drawn curtains.

“Maybe.” I can hear him smiling.

“Mmm, that’s weird.” My voice drawls. “Before I was rudely interrupted from my deep slumber, I was dreaming about dipping my toes into the warm Caribbean sand on a beach somewhere. A cabana boy was about to bring me a sippy sippy.” I yawn, stretch like a feral cat, and make a mewing sound. “Mmmmm.”

“Wait.” It sounds like he’s stopped in his tracks. “Are you wearing that white tank top?”

Disoriented, I mumble, “Huh?”

“The white see-through tank top you had on in Utah. It’s what you were wearing in my dream last night—this morning.”

“Isn’t it a bit early for this line of questioning?” Careful to keep the vibe flirtatious and not a prelude to phone sex, I tease, “I can’t even form a cohesive sentence.”

“Yes or no?”

“No.” I flop down on my back to stare at the ceiling as he grunts, disappointed.

“Bummer. That visual was the only thing getting me through this run. I’m freezing my balls off here, picturing you in that shirt, but it’s worth it.”

“Um…”

He grunts again, this time frustrated. “Shit, babe, I thought I’d have more time to talk but Coach just walked outside. Gotta go. Let’s do something when I get back. I’ll text you tomorrow, yeah?”