I’m not at Cresswell, I’m at Hayden. The girls' dorm.
They enter the correct code and reluctantly, I follow them in, giving a slight nod of thanks.
I’ve been in here before, naturally. Different girls, different rooms. Hell, I lost my virginity in room 306. I was a freshman, she was a junior, and it lasted approximately the length of the commercial break during a rerun episode of CSI—not that anyone knows that.
The two dorms are almost exact clones of each other. The seniors are on the fourth floor here, just like over in Cresswell. I take the stairs, two at a time, fast enough that I feel lightheaded when I reach the top. Truthfully, I’m no
t a big drinker, especially when I’m trying to stay in top physical shape. Obviously, the booze hit me harder than I thought.
At least that’s my excuse for walking down the senior hall, fingers dragging down the wall as I scan the names by the doors. Until I stop abruptly.
418.
Gwendolyn Adams.
My stomach flutters in warning, but I knock anyway, leaning against the wall as I wait. She appears in the open door only a moment later, dressed in an obscenely tight shirt, no bra, nipples on point. Her shorts are these tiny clinging things, probably halfway up her ass. Very little is being left to the imagination here.
I drag a hand down my face.
This was the worst idea.
Her eyes widen. “What the hell are you doing here?”
I fumble my phone from my pocket, holding it to face her. “Just got the text from Dewey. Apparently, we did a great job.” My sneer feels limp. “What’s your angle, Adams? You think I need you to cover for me? You think I need your help?”
“Jesus,” she mutters, casting a nervous glance down the hall. Her hand fists my jersey and she yanks me in the room, shutting the door behind her. “You smell like a brewery, Bates. Are you drunk?”
“Wow, nothing gets past your keen observation skills, huh?” I lope into the room. It’s a small single, tidy to the point of boredom. Where are the fairy lights? The color-coordinated curtains and bedding? The photos of friends? Oh right, she doesn’t have any. I snicker at her bare walls before turning to face her. My gaze instantly fixates itself on those pert tits. “Well? Why’d you cover for me?”
She crosses her arms over her chest. I smirk at the still-visible outline of a nipple.
“I didn’t cover for you, Bates. I did the job we were assigned. Believe it or not, I’m just as ready to be done with this as you are. Probably more than.”
“Not fucking likely,” I mutter. I roam over to the bookshelf, fingers running down spines. Mostly assigned reading. Ah, Stephen King. For the kind of girl who flirts with having a dark side but is never quite willing to put out. How apropos. I hook my finger into the spine and pull it from the shelf. “Plus, isn’t that a bit too selfish a motive for an Adams? You don’t do things for yourself. Nah, you’re too good for that.”
“This again?” She drops her arms in her annoyance and my eyes dip back down. “I’m so sorry you’re intimidated by my service work. I know this may seem like a really radical statement, but not everything in life is about you.”
I inhale, which is stupid, because I’m overwhelmed by a blast of her scent—something sweet and homey and feminine. I tumble gracelessly onto her bed and stretch my legs out, flexing my ankles as I open the book. A quick flip through the pages reveals creased top corners. Gwendolyn Adams, abuser of books, isn’t so perfect after all.
She stands over me, expression slightly murderous, and snatches the book out of my hands. “Please, make yourself uncomfortable.”
“You’re telling me,” I begin, crossing my ankles, “that you have no desire to turn me into one of your little charity ventures? Fixing the poor little rich boy would be quite the pet project.” I lean back on my elbows, finding her mattress surprisingly soft. “Whatever, Adams, you can build me a house if you want. For the record, I prefer platinum fixtures and a double-headed shower feature.”
“I think you’re drunk.” She tosses the book aside and my eyes follow, raising an imperious brow at the untidiness of such an act. “I also think that you’re—and I cannot stress this enough—the biggest self-centered idiot I’ve ever met. And we’re both going to get in more trouble if you’re caught in here.”
“Tell me why you covered for me.” I’ll keep asking until she answers. What the hell, right? I have all night. I want her to admit that she just can’t stop trying to one-up me.
Unfortunately, Gwendolyn Adams doesn’t give a shit about what I want. Instead of answering, she frowns at the injured hand pressing into her bed. The bandage is ratty, dirty from an afternoon of gluttony and not giving a fuck. I’d forgotten about it, really.
She gestures to it long-sufferingly, “Is that seriously the best bandage you could manage?”
“Do I look like a nurse?”
“You don’t want to know what I think you look like,” she answers in a terse voice.
My eyebrows climb my forehead. “I bet I fucking do.”
We’re locked in a suspended, challenging stare that goes on long enough that she eventually sighs. “Do you want me to rewrap that for you, or what?”