Fake Shot (Leighton U #5)

Prologue

Logan

August — Sophomore Year

I’m going to fucking kill him.

The thought has run through my mind countless times over the past year of rooming with Camden Steele, so realistically, I shouldn’t be surprised he’s already on my last nerve.

He might be the only idiot jock left in this house—a massive improvement from the four, sometimes five, I lived with last year—but he’s clearly still up to his same old fuckery.

Just in the past week since the new semester has started, he’s brought home two different girls—plus a guy I recognize from my art seminar—he’s woken me up with his blaring alarm only a couple hours after I’ve gone to bed, and has left the bathroom floor soaking wet after showering.

Though, come to think of it, the last one could definitely be Bailey’s doing.

But what I know for certain isn’t Bailey? The music currently blasting through our shared wall. Which would be annoying at any point of the day, but it’s especially irritating while I’m trying to get ahead on the reading assigned for a couple classes.

Gritting my teeth, I grab my noise-cancelling headphones and slide them on, hoping like hell my own music can drown out the noise of his.

I mean, honestly. Is that…Taylor Swift?

Unfortunately, even with “Loser” blaring in my ears, it’s not enough to stop Camden from being a distraction. I mean, he’s got the volume turned up enough to vibrate my goddamn bedframe while I’m sitting on it.

With an irritated huff, I pound on the wall a couple times, hoping it might give him the hint to turn down the music. Of course, that would require my roommate to use his brain and actually think, which is a rather rare occurrence.

Exhibit A being the music still pounding and thumping from the other side of the wall.

My fist collides with the drywall again, but I shout through it too, thinking if I spell it out for him, it might yield better results.

“Jesus Christ, Camden! Can you turn down the goddamn music?”

But just like the first time, there’s no change in volume.

Ripping my headphones off, I toss them down beside me and shove off the mattress. It takes me all of three seconds to get to his door down the hall, and my fist collides with the wood hard enough, I’m surprised it doesn’t splinter.

“I swear on your life, if you don’t shut that shit off, I’ll come in there and do it myself!”

Nothing. No change. No fucking consideration.

“You asked for it,” I mutter under my breath.

Hand around the knob, I shove open the door in a fit of fury, storming into his room with the intention of reaming him a new asshole.

But in the haze of irritation, I fail to notice just what I’m walking in on.

Though, even in the calmest state of mind, I don’t think my brain would be able to process the sight of Camden naked, rock hard, and wall-twerking to “Shake It Off.”

For a split second, I’m too stunned to speak.

Hell, I’m too dumbstruck to do much more than gape at the scene before me, not sure if I’m in some kind of fever-dream-turned-sex-nightmare starring the single-most idiotic person I’ve ever met.

Because there’s no way this is actually happening.

I’m sure to wake up any second—likely in a cold sweat—and realize none of it was real.

My brain is still lagging when he drops his feet down from the wall, the lush, round globes of his ass greeting my gaze. It’s only when he turns enough for me to catch a frontal glimpse, finding him doing the goddamn helicopter with his dick, I’m snapped back to reality.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I shout.

Somehow, he hears my exclamation over the thumping music—louder than it would be in a nightclub—and turns all the way to face me. Unfortunately, that also means his erect dick-copter is now aimed right at me, making it almost impossible to not look.

“Oh, hey,” he calls back over the music. “I, uh, I lost a bet.”

And all the while, he’s still. Fucking. Twirling.

“Jesus Christ!” I finally find enough common sense to cover my eyes with one hand, using the other to motion toward him. “Why are you twirling that thing like a goddamn baton?”

A few seconds pass before the music cuts. I can finally hear myself think, but for some reason, my brain equates being able to hear with it being safe to see.

Newsflash: It’s not.

He’s still very much naked and hard, holding his cock when I uncover my eyes.

“A baton?” he slowly asks. “I thought those were for track and field.”

“Goddamnit, Camden. Will you cover that thing up? I don’t need your one-eyed syphilis monster saluting me right now.”

He doesn’t have the chance to move, let alone answer, because a feminine screech sounds out from somewhere behind him.

“Oh my God. You have syphilis?”

What in the ever-loving fuck?

Startled by the sound, I peek around him and find his laptop open to some kind of FaceTime or Zoom call.

While I can’t be one hundred percent sure, I’m almost positive I’ve seen her come through Camden’s revolving door of hookups.

One from earlier this week, if I had to wager on it, but wagers are apparently what got us in this mess in the first place.

Regardless of who it is, it doesn’t explain…anything I’m seeing right now.

All I can do is continue gaping at him like he’s lost his mind. Though, that’d require him to have one to begin with, and from the state of things, I’m not so sure he does.

I grimace, my gaze darting between the screen and Camden, not knowing where my safest option is. But at least he’s covered his dick now, or as much as he can given it’s still very much erect.

“Is this some kind of weirdass mating ritual that hockey players do?”

As soon as the question leaves my mouth, I pray the answer is no. I’ve been traumatized enough without thinking my brother may have partaken in something similar. Fuck, or my father. Just the thought makes me want to hurl.

“I told you, I lost a bet,” Camden says, repeating his earlier sentiment.

As if saying the same thing is in any way an explanation.

“What kind of bet has you dancing naked on Face—” I cut myself off and shake my head, realizing it’s pointless to attempt a conversation with an imbecile. “You know what, never mind. I don’t wanna know, because I don’t fucking care. Now, would you just get dressed and keep the music off?”

He frowns, hands still covering his junk, before muttering, “But I still have two more songs to go. And she requested the Macarena as a closing number.”

It takes every ounce of willpower I possess not to ask any questions—because I have plenty—let alone to not lose my shit on him. Instead, I simply rub the bridge of my nose and take a deep, calming breath.

“Fine. Then keep it turned down at least. Or wear some goddamn headphones so I don’t have to listen to ‘Shake It Off’ while you” —I gesture vaguely toward his junk— “shake it off.”

He lifts his hand—the one covering his dick—in a mock salute.

“Can do, Little Reed.”

I glance away to prevent myself from getting another eyeful of his erection. How the hell it’s still hard after this is beyond me. The guy must have some serious exhibitionist tendencies or something.

I grimace at the thought, and instantly shove it away, hating myself for even going there in the first place. Actually, I’m hating my brother for being friends with this idiot, subsequently bringing him into my life too.

“Okay, seriously, you have to stop uncovering yourself,” I tell him before adding, “And don’t call me Little Reed.

Not when you’re naked. Not ever, actually.

” I turn to leave, but not without calling over my shoulder on my way to the door, “Oh, and by the way? You’re paying for the lobotomy I’ll need to erase this from my memory. ”

“Wait, isn’t that when they stick a scope up your ass? How would that erase your memory?” he asks a second later, just as I’m about to cross the threshold.

Despite my better judgment, the question has me halting in my tracks and turning to look at him again. Somehow, I manage to keep my gaze on his face, only to realize…he’s serious.

“In what world would—” I stop myself and hold up my hands. “No, I’m not having this conversation when you’re naked.”

God knows the one we’ve been having has gone on long enough.

With that, I bolt back to the safety of my bedroom and lock myself inside for good measure.

My back presses against the door, and I take a deep breath, finally having a second to process the last five minutes.

Camden’s done some wild shit, even just in the time I’ve lived here, but this definitely takes the cake as far as I’m aware.

I mean, honestly. What was that?

Blowing out a breath, I try my best to shove away the memory and lock it in the deepest recesses of my mind, no part of me wanting to remember what just transpired.

Once I manage to gather my thoughts, I drop onto my bed, ready to get back to my reading now that I can actually hear myself think, only for the music to start up all over again.

Just as loud as before.

My eyes sink closed, and I fall to my back on the mattress, dragging a pillow over my face so I don’t scream.

Yeah. Definitely gonna kill him.