CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CASEY
“Casey? Are you listening to me?” My mother’s concerned voice from the phone makes me snap to attention.
Embarrassment burns through me, though I quickly shoo it away.
She doesn’t know what I was thinking about.
She doesn’t know that I’ve been getting dicked down daily, for three days straight, by my incredibly hot and perfect roommate who says I’m his type.
She just thinks I’m Spacey Casey, and well, she’s right.
“I am,” I hurry to say, picking at lint that isn’t even there on the arm of the couch. “I am. So they confronted you while you were in the middle of dessert?”
“Yes. Can you believe how rude that is? We hadn’t even finished eating.
It was key lime pie, by the way. Absolutely delicious.
Stunningly fresh lime flavor. But anyway.
After what happened last year….” As she launches into another round of drama details, my mind tries to wander again. But this time, I stop it.
Because I can focus on things that aren’t Griffin’s dick. I can.
Until his bedroom door swings open and he saunters out in those damn black boxer briefs.
He looks over at me, a knowing smile on his face, because that’s just how things are right now.
We boned again last night but I’m already dying for it.
I might never get enough. In fact, thoughts of his dick are beginning to interfere with my daily life, since I can’t even focus on a conversation with my own mother.
“Casey, are you even here? I swear—”
“I’m sorry, Mom.” I sigh, feeling genuinely bad. Once the bathroom door clicks shut and I lose sight of him, I can think a bit better. “I’ve just…had a lot going on.”
More like a lot going in me.
“I’m sorry, honey. And I’m just whining about the Hendersons.” She tuts softly, then sighs. “Well, are you at least getting excited for Claire’s bachelorette party?”
The words settle strangely inside me as I wrack my brain, trying to place the information. “Her bachelorette party?”
“Yeah, she said they booked one of those brew boats that go out on the bay. You paddle and drink and try not to throw up, I guess.”
My stomach twists violently. I’m one of her bridesmaids, yet she never told me. “I don’t think I’m invited, Mom. I didn’t get the info.”
“That’s ridiculous. You’re invited.”
“She’s probably still mad that I told her I didn’t want to be her maid of honor. Just another way to stick it to me.” The words taste like acid, and suddenly I feel like I could be sick.
“I’ll figure this out honey. How could you not be invited?”
“I’m sure Claire has a reason.”
We chat a little longer before hanging up. I’m stewing over the admission when Griffin comes out of the bathroom, freshly washed. Except this time, he doesn’t have a towel on. Sleeping with your roommate affords these small luxuries.
“You better put some clothes on or you’ll be in trouble,” I call out as he slips into his bedroom.
“Maybe that’s what I’m waiting for.” His voice is faint from the bedroom. That sounds like an invitation if I’ve ever heard one.
“Welp, better go get dicked down again,” I murmur to myself as I come to standing. Just as I hit the threshold of the bedroom, I find him pulling on his shirt.
“Oh, you’re dressed,” I say dully.
He cocks a grin. “You sound so sad about it.”
“I am. You were supposed to be naked and in trouble.”
It’s when he reaches for a small rolling suitcase nearby that I realize something else might be going on.
“I’ll be naked and waiting for all sorts of trouble when I get back,” he assures me. He stands in front of me, sliding his rough fingers along my jawline as he tips my head back so our gazes can meet.
“Where are you going?” I can’t help but pout.
“It’s time to go shrink my dick for the ice bath campaign.”
I do remember that he does these endorsement deals. Because he’s a professional, famous athlete who gets paid to put his name on things. The exact timing just didn’t stick in my brain.
“I can’t say I’m not a little bummed,” I admit, wrapping my arms around his waist. “But maybe you can send me some pictures of you in ice to make up for it.”
“Or I could send you photos of my dick when it’s not three shriveled inches.”
I shake my head. “I wanna see the shrivel.”
He scoffs. “You’ve had enough of my eight throbbing inches already?”
I burst into laughter. “Never. I’ll miss every throbbing inch of your dick while you’re gone. And the rest of you, of course.”
I’m just about to push up onto my toes to kiss him when I remember the very pressing matter I’d prepared earlier that morning: my next attempt to pay Griffin rent.
“Hey—I almost forgot. One more thing.” I dart to the end table where I left the envelope stuffed full of rent money for him, then glide back to him and press it against his chest. “This is for you.”
His brow arches. “What’s this?”
“It’s for last night.” I wink.
He grins but shakes his head as soon as he peeks inside and sees the cash. “Keep it, Casey.” He tucks the envelope into my hoodie pocket. “Last night was on the house.”
I huff, but my frustration disappears quickly as he dips down to press his lips against mine.
We kiss for a little while, and I enjoy the minty taste of our deep, sensual tongue kisses.
Is this what roommates are supposed to kiss like?
I’m not sure, because I’ve never slept with an old-friend-turned-roommate before, but this level of attraction seems indecent.
I wasn’t this attracted to Jake, not even in the honeymoon phase.
It reminds me of all the questions that swirl in my mind late at night as I’m trying to fall asleep after yet more great sex with Griffin. What are we doing here? Is he going to do this with anyone else? Does it just end when I leave?
The questions seem too heavy and big for right now; I just want to enjoy the lightness, the sexiness. So I swallow the questions yet again and pat his butt to send him on his way.
We pause again by the front door for one more round of kisses. It turns into him scooping me into his arms, where I wrap my arms and legs around him. I giggle through kisses, wriggling in his arms.
“I love when you hold me like this,” I say. “I feel like a little koala bear in your arms.”
“Koala Casey?” A smile drifts onto his lips. “So does that make me eucalyptus?”
“Yes. I need a steady diet of your cockalyptus.”
He groans, but not because the joke is bad. I can feel he’s hard as he reluctantly lets me slide to the floor. He’s running behind and needs to catch a plane. “After I get back, we’ll work on getting you those nutrients.”
“Have fun. Go be successful and hot,” I call out after him, waving from the threshold.
“You too, Case.” He winks as he slides into the driver’s seat. I heft with a laugh. That’s not gonna happen. How could I be considered successful and hot? But then Griffin’s voice breaks through.
You have a habit of underestimating yourself.
“Fine, I’ll be successful and hot,” I mumble to myself as I step back into the house and shut the door. Then the reality of the situation hits me.
Griffin is going to be gone for two entire days.
As a recently established fuckbuddy/puck bunny/who knows what this is, two days is an eternity.
So I do what I do best: escape into fictional worlds.
I’m on a crime thriller featuring a news anchor who’s been getting violently ill during her broadcasts, but I have to stop when I hit the halfway mark because I can’t handle the possibility that the heroine’s husband might actually be the one poisoning her after everything they went through.
These are the types of thoughts that burst out of me that I never have anywhere to put.
I always write reviews of books after I read them, since I log my progress and set annual goals in an online book tracker.
But there are so many thoughts that come before that review that I want to share.
And unless I’m buddy reading, they just wither and evaporate inside of me.
My mind drifts to what Abby—the beautiful, book-loving flirt who will hopefully never touch Griffin’s arm in my presence again—had suggested earlier this week at the bar.
The book review accounts on TikTok.
I don’t even have the app installed on my phone anymore, it’s been so long since I ditched my initial efforts.
It takes me some time to get back into my account, and immediately I’m served a lot of weird content.
Ice cream eating contests, designer bag sales, dry-skin peeling videos that I hope I never see again in my life.
But the longer I look for book review stuff, the more it starts to give me.
Pretty soon, I’m in a rabbit hole of readers and reviewers who are sharing their voices and hot takes.
I’ve been in full corporate social media marketing mode for so long, I forgot how to use it for myself. And I have to say—I enjoy it.
What if you really tried TikTok again?
The thought arrives stealthily. I already know exactly what I’d say about this crime thriller. I could probably talk for a half hour about the different character arc details and the way the author structures the surprises.
But as fast as the ideas come, the naysaying arrives.
Who in the world would even care about what I have to say?
What does it matter if I add to the conversation about this book?
Literally nobody cares about what I think of these characters.
I stare into space, letting my mind run amok. It’s noisy chaos in there, and only after I’ve spewed enough negative things to myself to sink a ship do I catch my spiral. I draw a deep breath, hearing Griffin’s words in my head again.
I do have a habit of underestimating myself, and it’s happening right now.