“Your woman not in the party mood?” Ten pressed.
I gritted the back of my teeth. “She didn’t go to the game.” I tried not to let it show how much that bothered me. Most of the time, our games took place on Saturday afternoons; she wouldn’t have classes or work—since she didn’t even have a job. But she always had a reason for not attending them.
After listening to her belittle my position on the team, I knew football didn’t mean much to her, so I didn’t want to hold anything against her. But I had kind of hoped she’d want to attend at least one game, if for no other reason than to see me play.
“How the fuck could she not go to the game?” Ten frowned at me. “She’s dating a starting player. A starting sophomore player. Doesn’t that kind of make her a shitty girlfriend for not—”
“Stop,” I warned, sending him a death glare. “She couldn’t make it. Leave her alone.”
“Her roommate made it.” Ten lifted a challenging eyebrow. “I saw Blondie sitting with the Gamble family before the game started.”
I narrowed my eyes, desperately wishing he hadn’t brought her up. “Well, obviously she didn’t have anywhere else to be.”
“Even Gamble’s woman was there, and she has more reason not to step foot on campus than—”
I shoved abruptly to my feet, cutting into his tirade. I already knew he wasn’t a Cora fan; I didn’t want to listen to him bashing her a second longer. “You’re taking care of the dishes this morning, right?” I asked. “Good.” I walked out of the kitchen, leaving my stunned roommate gaping after me.
I was already a confused bundle of nerves; I didn’t need him irritating the situation. It didn’t seem possible that someone could be upset with his girlfriend as well as worried about whatever secret she was keeping from him, all the while feeling guilty for having dreams about another girl. But there I was, experiencing something I was certain no one had ever experienced before.
When Cora called later in the day, I couldn’t even talk to her because I didn’t want her to hear all the guilt, upset, and worry in my voice. But then I grew even guiltier for avoiding her, so I called her back two minutes later.
She sounded tired, which made my guilt explode. I asked if she wanted me to come over and take care of her until I had to go into work that evening, but she said she and Zoey were going to spend the evening together. Girl stuff, she claimed. So I stayed away.
Monday progressed painfully. I spent extra time in the weight room that morning so I had to hurry through my shower. My hair was still wet when I rushed into art class. That was one miserable hour...and not because of my hair. When the scent of Zoey’s shampoo wafted my way as soon as I sat down, I hardened my jaw and tried to breathe through my clenched teeth and not my nose. Then she went and smiled at me and told me hello, and congratulated me on the team’s win. The entire time, I kept picturing that dream. The way her lips had pursed before she’d told me to lick her between the legs, the way her eyes had softened with need. I couldn’t get that freaking dream out of my head.
What was worse, I had it again Monday night. Twice. Her and Cora both crawling all over me, kissing and licking things they shouldn’t, taking me to new heights of pleasure. I won’t even go into how sinfully, wickedly, deliciously awful both Tuesday and Wednesday nights were.
By Thursday, even my co-workers noticed something was bothering me. Ten had actually been giving me my distance. But it only took Pick one glance when he’d been strolling out from the office before we opened to glance my way at the bar and slow to a stop.
“You doing okay, Hamilton?”
I nodded and mumbled something about being fine as I kept my attention on taking chairs off tables. Pick glanced toward Ten, who shook his head no, and I clenched my teeth, wishing my roommate would mind his own stupid business. Because of his headshake, Pick didn’t let the issue drop.
Moving closer, he talked in a lower, more confidential tone. “What’s going on? You got bags under your eyes. You been getting enough sleep?”
I shrugged, still not looking at him. “I’ve had a couple disturbing dreams,” I admitted reluctantly, forgoing to mention that I would then wake up and touch myself, each and every time, only feeling worse after each episode.
“Nightmares?” Pick asked, his brow knitted with concern.
He’d only been my boss for a few months. Before that, we were co-workers. But for as long as we’d worked together at Forbidden, he’d been the protector of the group, the paternal figure, though he couldn’t even be five years older than the rest of us.
