It’s been years since my morning shower didn’t feature a quick nut to get my day started right. I’ve always hated the idea of waking up beside a girl. Smelling her morning breath. Having her all over me, telling me to wake up. Being annoyed by her voice.
The reality is a lot fucking better.
I know I must be jonesing for pussy if a quick and embarrassingly juvenile dry hump was that good. I haven’t rubbed myself off against a girl like that in years. Any other time, I would have pushed for more, maybe just yanked her panties aside and slid right on into home base. But I know better than to think the rules of The Game are flying out the window just because Killian is being a dick.
Turning the knob of the shower, I step out, strutting into my room. I know she’s gone—I’d heard her sneak out—but that’s okay. She could probably sleep with me again tonight. Tristian is apparently not in the ‘guys Story can sleep beside’ loyalty club. It’s only got one member—me.
I shoot off a group text to the frat before heading downstairs, warning every member and pledge that a single look at, or word about our Lady will call for some serious punishment, if not outright removal.
Downstairs, the two of them have already started breakfast. It doesn’t matter that he throws me a nod and looks perfectly normal. Tristian’s clearly still sulking over me being the Lady’s favorite Lord. He doesn’t have me fooled.
It’s hard to look at Story and not pitch a tent at the memory of her, just forty minutes ago, laid out beneath me, grinding up against my dick and loving the shit out of it. I stop by her chair to press a kiss to her cheek, stealing a piece of cherry Danish in the process. “Who got Danishes?”
Tristian shoots me a glare. “I got one, and it’s for her, not you.”
My eyebrows hike up my forehead, but I take my seat and refrain from showing how surprised I am. Tristian buying sweets for someone is basically his version of second base. My boy is laying it on pretty thick. He must have really been stung last night.
Story looks a little better this morning than she had last night. Her eyes aren’t all red and empty anymore, even if she still looks wary and a bit hunted. There’s a yellow flower tucked behind her ear and she glances up at me, cheeks flushing. “I think Ms. Crane made you waffles.”
Fuck yeah, she did. I’m Ms. Crane’s favorite, too. I decide to cut Tristian some slack this morning. It can’t be easy living with someone who keeps scoring all the bitches.
I’m halfway through the aforementioned waffles when I decide to check my phone. “We might need to go in a little early,” I say to Tristian. “A couple of the guys haven’t checked the group text yet.”
Story goes stiff at the mention of the frat, looking between us. I shoot her a wink to let her know it’s all good.
Tristian nods, setting down his glass. “Let’s roll out, then.”
Finding Beckwith is easy. He’s always hanging around the parking lot, showing off his Trans-Am. Putting the fear of God into him is even easier.
But not usually this easy.
“I already told him,” he says as I approach, holding his palms out defensively. “I haven’t done anything with her!”
I stop, narrowing my eyes. I don’t know which ‘him’ he’s referring to, but I decide to play it cool. “Really.”
“Really!” he insists, backing up. “I wouldn’t lie to Payne, okay? That guy is a fucking psycho. I’ve never seen that card before, and I’ve only talked to the Lady once—at the last pregame party. Tristian was there. Ask him for yourself!”
Killian.
Comprehension dawns as I realize Killer’s been grilling the guys about that goddamn package. He’s like a dog with a bone—won’t stop until he can prove it.
I tilt my head, searching his face. “In defiance of the charter that you pledged to, you haven’t checked your texts, Beckwith.”
His eyes bug out. “Are you serious? One of you takes my phone and smashes it, and then another wants to penalize me for not answering texts? What do you expect me to do, share with someone else? It’s only been an hour.”
Rolling my eyes, I whip out my phone and repeat the warning I’d sent the others. I’m not cleaning up any more of Killian’s messes. If he wants to go around giving everyone the third degree and smashing their phones, then that’s on him.
I have to wait outside the admin building for twenty minutes before the second guy appears. I know instantly from the look on his face that Killer’s already been here.
“He smash your phone, too?” I ask, deadpan.
Morris is big and broad and epically pissed off. “Yes, and it was brand new.”
I wince on the inside. Killer is really burning a path through campus, apparently. I repeat the warning to Morris and move on to the next, but it’s exactly the same. Every guy who hasn’t checked the group text has had his phone destroyed by Killian Motherfucking Payne.
It takes me the length of my first class to work out why.
Last night had been crazy. I’d like to say that I never doubted Story’s loyalty, but there for a moment, Killer had me second-guessing. It wasn’t until she walked into that basement, Tristian stone-faced at her side, that I realized just how wrong Killian was.
After that, the whole thing was just hard to watch. I tried focusing on the guys instead, but that made it worse. I kept getting all these flashbacks to third grade—the jeers and taunts and laughter. I kept hearing them say fucked up things about our Lady. My Lady. I had to shut one of them up, whopping him hard upside the head. Fucker’s lucky he didn’t get worse.
But now I’m thinking I wasn’t keeping as close a watch as I should have, because every guy I’ve had to hunt down had one thing in common last night: Their phones were out.
Which means Killian is not only grilling the frat, but he’s also destroying any video evidence of what he made our Lady do to him.
She doesn’t know it yet, but that’s as close to an apology as he’ll ever give.
