Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
He stands as I approach, unfolding to his full six four like a transformer. “Hey,” he says, voice low and gravelly. “You running somewhere, Goldilocks?”
I smile, hoping it looks real. “Just escaping before the lunch mob.”
His blue eyes flick to my lips, then back. “Heard you’re a runner,” he says, and I know he’s referencing the 5k charity race I bailed on two months ago. I didn’t think he remembered.
I want to say something clever, but my brain is two beats behind. “Maybe I just like the chase,” I reply, softer than I intend.
Jake grins, a wolf baring its teeth. “Gotta watch out for the wolves, then.”
We stand there, looking at each other. I feel stupid, to be honest. I’m expecting him to come in with some dumb line, but instead he just looks at me, really looks, and says, “You look different today. Something new about you.”
My cheeks go warm. “Maybe I changed my hair?” I joke, tucking a strand behind my ear.
Jake shakes his head. “No, not that. You just seem more dangerous.” He says it like it’s a compliment, but also a challenge as his blue eyes squint.
The girls are watching from the safety of the vending machines. Kayleigh is pretending not to stare. Mary Kate is full-on waving, her hand flapping like a signal flag.
Jake leans closer, his arm grazing my shoulder. The smell of him—clean sweat, Axe body spray, a hint of lingering cigarette smoke—makes me lean back just so subtly. “Can I get your number?” he says, all at once. “In case I need to call for backup next time.”
I don’t want to do this. I really don’t want to give my number to this oaf of a boy who thinks he’s god’s gift to women. But in a wooden voice, I recite my digits, a little stunned by how normal this feels. He enters it into his phone with one thumb, then looks back at me, cocky and unhurried. “Maybe I’ll take you somewhere less cafeteria-chic next time.”
I laugh, but it’s reflex, not real. “Sure. Let me know if you can keep up.”
He puts his hand on my upper arm, and it’s supposed to be chivalrous or whatever, but his thumb lands high enough to brush the curve of my breast, just for a second. It’s subtle, but I notice. He notices that I notice, and grins wider.
My skin goes cold, then hot. Not with desire, though—I realize it’s disgust. I pull my arm back, polite, and give him a half-wave. “See you around, Jake.”
He winks. “Count on it.”
I walk away, pretending I don’t feel every pair of eyes in the room. The girls are waiting, already whispering and snickering.
Kayleigh is first: “Did he ask for your number?”
Stella is second: “Did he touch your boob?”
Mary Kate is third: “Was it electric?”
I shrug, playing it cool. “He’s just a guy, you guys. And no, he didn’t touch my boob, it’s just the angle.”
But as we spill back into the hallway, chattering and pretending to be shocked at my own audacity, I realize something fundamental has shifted. Jake Namors is the same as ever—beautiful, hungry, preening. But compared to the man who bent me over a wall and made me see God in a patch of dead grass, Jake is a puppy. A kid in a borrowed suit. All bark, no bite.
The realization is sharp enough to sting. The old me would have been thrilled, would have spent all week replaying every word Jake said. Now, I just want more of the real thing. The thing with teeth that makes me forget my own name while gaping my asshole with his huge, veiny cock.
The girls drag me through the quad, still buzzing. The sky is the color of skim milk, and my phone vibrates with a new text: “Can’t wait to see you again, Goldilocks. -J”
I smile, but my mind’s already gone. Gone to the alley, the wall, the night that turned me inside out.
And I know, with the sick thrill of certainty, that I’m going to win this contest. But I’m not going to do it by playing the usual game.
I’m going to rewrite the rules. And this time, it’s going to hurt so good that I cry.
4
A CATERING COINCIDENCE
Thomas
There’s a myth, at places like Century College, that power is money, or connections, or the face on a plaque above the library stairs. That’s just the sales pitch. True power is more elemental: it’s the physics of want. The hunger in the room that bends all other hungers toward it, quietly, inexorably, as gravity bends space.
Tonight, that force is me.
From my post by the picture window, I can see the whole ballroom: the chandelier like a dripping icicle, the ice-sculpture peacock at the center of the silent auction table, the crosshatched grid of men’s tuxes and women’s skin glittering with priceless jewels. Beyond the glass, trees sway so gently it could be a screensaver, but inside, the air is heavy and humming. Every gaze in the room orbits the same small axis: the man who wrote the eight-figure check to save this college from another year of mediocrity.