The Charlie Method (Campus Diaries #3)

Chapter Nine Beckett

CHAPTER NINE

BECKETT

Leave my Little alone

“I MEAN, IF C OACH SAYS IT ’ S ALL RIGHT, THEN TAKE HIM AT HIS WORD for it.”

“We both know he has no choice.” There’s a loud clatter from the kitchen.

Will is pissed. I don’t blame him. His dad’s TV crew showed up at our opponent’s rink tonight to interview Coach Jensen before our away game, which obviously guaranteed Jensen would be in a foul mood before the first puck even dropped. Then they shot B-roll footage of our warm-up, enraging the Boston College coach, because it turned out they never asked anyone at BC if it was all right to film them.

Oh, and then we lost the game. So Will is doubly pissed.

If my parents were constantly sticking their noses in my life, I wouldn’t be thrilled either. Luckily, my mum and dad are terrific people who are very good at minding their business. Will’s dad, not so much.

I still haven’t even met the guy, and Will has been living with me since the summer. It’s late fall now. Not a single appearance from Mr. Congressman, though we did receive a gift basket as a housewarming gift. It was full of local jams and artisan breads, along with a typed message that some aide probably recited to the order taker at the jam shop.

Will’s dad sounds like a total dickhead.

Meanwhile, Will’s still clanging around in the kitchen like a toddler who just discovered pots and pans.

“Mate, what are you doing in there?” I call. “I thought you were getting your phone.”

“I was. And then I saw the sink.”

“Yeah, my bad.” It was my turn to do the dishes. “But we can do it in the morning.”

“No way. I’m making breakfast tomorrow. I need a clean kitchen when I cook.”

“So we’ll clean it later tonight when we get home.”

“We’ll be too drunk for that.”

“You are such a diva.”

“Fuck off. I’ll be, like, three minutes.”

I grin to myself. Will was such a choirboy when I met him. Now he tells me to fuck off on a regular basis. It’s great.

I flop down on the couch and pass the time by checking my messages. There’s a text from a cute sophomore I met on campus a few days ago, but I’m more interested in my ongoing chat with Charlie. I open it to find that Will has finally gotten acquainted with our match.

Leaning back, I scroll through their chat thread, raising a brow when one message catches my eye.

If the three of us were hooking up and he grabbed my dick, I might not push his hand away.

Interesting. It never even occurred to me to grab Larsen’s dick. He’s straight as an arrow. So am I, for the most part. I’m just more open-minded than most, and nothing gets me hotter than heightening someone else’s arousal. So if it was something Charlie fantasized about, then who knows, I might not push his dick away.

I lick my lips and do a little rearranging below as their conversation becomes full-on X-rated. Speaking of fantasies. Look at that. Charlie has a car fantasy. Our kinky, sexy girl wants to get drilled on the hood of a sports car.

I’m sitting there with a semi when Will appears in the doorway.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asks, noting my pained expression.

I hold up my phone. “I see you’ve met Charlie.”

A sheepish grin touches his lips. “I like her.”

“Yeah, same.”

“Yet you haven’t asked to meet her in person,” he points out.

“Neither have you.”

Will shrugs. “She’s not ready for it.”

“Exactly.”

I swear we share a brain. I feel like we’re one person sometimes. Or maybe not one person so much as complementary persons. We’ve got a nice balance going on. He can be intense. I’m too laid-back. He likes to call the shots when we’ve got a girl in the bedroom. I’m perfectly cool following directions. “Eat her out, Beck.” “Fuck her from behind.” Don’t mind if I do.

I’m dying to meet Charlie. She’s funny. Cute as hell. I appreciate that she types in full sentences and uses punctuation. I’m not one of those “R u up? I’m so hot 4 u bb” sort of guys. In the age of autocorrect and voice-to-text, there’s really no reason to be typing in abbreviations.

“Car’s here,” Will says, checking his phone.

I haul myself off the couch and follow him to the front hall. It’s too windy to walk tonight, so we decided to play high rollers and order a car. Will can afford it. His dad’s credit card pays for everything. I was starting to feel like some broke-ass loser every time Will pulled out that card—he won’t let me pay for groceries, gas, all the streaming subscriptions—but I think Will enjoys sticking it to his father. I’m surprised the congressman hasn’t started paying my phone bill yet.

The car drops us in front of Malone’s exactly four and a half minutes later. The bar is loud, crowded, and chaotic when we walk inside—just the way I like it. Bodies fill every inch of space, forcing me to elbow my way through to create a path for us. Whenever a hockey fan spots us, we’re greeted with backslaps and cheers, which is nice considering we sucked absolute balls tonight. The best thing I did on the ice was smash a Boston College d-man into the plexi to create a rebound for Shane, who scored the only goal of the night. We still got our asses handed to us, 3–1.

The air in here smells like beer, sweat, and faint traces of perfume and cologne. Passing one couple, I make the mistake of taking a breath at that moment and end up inhaling a gust of the guy’s musky bodywash. Jesus. Everything in moderation, mate.

A glance at the bar shows a line snaked around it, people waiting impatiently for their turn to order.

“I’ll grab a pitcher,” Will offers, raising his voice over the music. “Go find the boys.”

“On it.”

Every booth and table is taken, occupied mostly by Briar students. I wander through the main space toward the adjoining room that houses a few pool tables and another long line of booths. I scan the crowd for my teammates. I always look for Patrick first because his bright-ginger head is easiest to spot. Jackpot. He’s in the middle of the room, crammed into a booth with Nazzy, Nick Lattimore, and a few other teammates.

I push my way toward my boys but slow when I glimpse a familiar face. Charlotte from class.

Our eyes lock, and she frowns at me. I respond with a grin. This girl hates me for no good reason other than I embarrassed her on the first day. Which, all right, I guess is a good reason—if I intended to embarrass her. I didn’t realize she was allergic to jokes. Instead of laughing, she turned beet red while trying to scrub sugar off her face.

I would’ve dropped it, but annoying Charlotte Kingston is honestly the most exciting part of Climate Policy. Those lectures are beyond boring. In fact, nearly all my classes are comprised of long, boring-ass lectures instead of fieldwork. I thought as an environmental science major, I’d be doing cool shit like hanging off windmills and single-handedly saving beached whales.

I was lied to.

“Sugar puff,” I say, nodding in greeting.

“Ice Boy.”

It’s too bad she’s always scowling at me, because she’s actually incredibly hot. I heard her tell someone she was born in South Korea but adopted as a baby and raised in Connecticut. She certainly fits the Connecticut bill with the little sweater sets, the pleated skirts. I’m surprised she doesn’t wear shiny Mary Jane shoes. But she prefers these little suede booties. Ankle length. Very proper of her, covering up her ankles. Wouldn’t want the men to get too horny and whip out their dicks at the sight of them.

I’m about to keep walking when her companion catches my attention. “Hey, I know you,” I say with a grin.

The girl sitting across from Charlotte is a slender brunette with big blue eyes and a smattering of freckles on her dainty nose. But her cute girl-next-door face is belied by a body that won’t quit, wrapped in tight jeans and a tiny crop top that shows off a flat stomach and perky tits.

“Go away,” Charlotte chides. “Leave my Little alone.”

“Your Little?” I raise a brow.

“I told you not to call me that in public,” the brunette sighs.

“Blake,” I say, her name coming back to me.

She rode with us to a party a few weeks ago. She came with Diana Dixon, Shane’s girlfriend.

Charlotte’s suspicious eyes shift between us. “You two know each other?”

“Gigi’s cousin, right?” I say to the brunette, ignoring Sugar Puff’s death glare.

“Family friends,” Blake corrects. “We’re not actually related.”

“Your dad is John Logan,” I accuse.

She looks amused. “Why do you say that as if I’ve committed some sort of crime?”

“I’m just saying, how dare you be raised by that man? He should be my dad.”

“You can have him,” she says graciously. “He’s super overprotective.”

“I think I’d be cool with John Logan protecting me. I could curl up in his arms and bask in all that hockey greatness.”

Charlotte speaks up, annoyed. “We’re sort of in the middle of something here. Can you just…” She makes a little skedaddle gesture with her hand.

“One of these days, you’re gonna stop being mean to me,” I tell her.

“I’m really not being mean.”

I turn back to Blake. “Normally, I would do your dad a solid and not leave you at the mercy of a bunch of horny guys at a sports bar dressed like that, because you’re either leaving here with a boyfriend or a one-night stand. But you’re with Charlotte, who I’m pretty sure is a man repellent. So…”

“Ha ha.” Sugar Puff gives a big, fake laugh. “Go away, Ice Boy.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” I wink at her, then keep going toward my booth.