Chapter 7
Seven
KAI
I wake up with a jolt, heart pounding, pulse rattling my skull—and my hand inside my panties. My room is still dark, early morning streetlight filtering beneath the blinds. For a moment, I’m entirely disoriented. Then it all crashes back—his face, his voice, and me getting off on both in my sleep.
Obviously, it wasn’t real. It was a dream. A goddamn nasty dream, vivid in a way that makes my skin feel hot and my pussy achy.
I shove my pillow over my face, squeezing my eyes shut. How could my summa cum laude brain do this? There are a million hot guys on this campus. Why would my subconscious dream specifically about some immature hockey jerk?
The clock flashes 5:17 a.m. I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling, my blue satin pillow case soaked with sweat. The dream replay lingers—his low voice, the curve of his jaw, the way he wrapped one enormous hand around my throat and used the other to finger fuck me.
I don’t want to remember. I hate that I dreamt it.
And yet every detail flashes behind my eyelids like a slideshow. So I do what any sane person does at 5 a.m.: I go after the one person who has contributed to this shitshow—Sue.
I storm into our shared kitchen. Sue—hospitality major, domestic goddess, emotional barometer of the apartment—is leaning over a bowl of flour, humming one of the songs from the Wicked soundtrack off-key.
“God, Kai—” she jumps, splattering batter across her loose sweatpants. “Why are you up this time of morning?”
“You’re singing too loud,” I snap, slamming a cabinet shut. The ping echoes.
She wipes her hands, blinking into the low light. “Normally, you can sleep through anything.”
“What the hell are you doing?” I snatch up a mixing spoon. “Do you ever sleep?”
“Damn, you’re cranky. I was just making scones. And you better watch your tone or I won’t give you one when they’re finished.”
I fling the spoon back into the bowl and head to the fridge. “I’m just realizing just how mean you can be, Susan.”
“You’re calling me Susan now?” She laughs. “I didn’t know my singing had this kind of negative effect on you.”
“Why did you tell him?”
“Tell who what?”
“You freakin’ told Bass what my matcha order was.”
“That’s why you’re pissed with me?” she asks incredulously.
“I need alcohol,” I murmur, having no success finding something to eat in the fridge. “Something to erase this insanely vivid nightmare I had.”
“Girl, it’s five in the morning. You can’t have a drink.” She follows me as I start rummaging through the snack cabinet next. “I’m sorry, okay? The guy cornered me outside of the dorm, batting those oddly long eyelashes of his. The words just kind of started falling out of my mouth.”
“Remind me never to trust you with any government secrets.”
“You’re not even planning to work for the government.”
“You’re missing the damn point, Sue!”
“It was just matcha. Sheesh! What kind of nightmare did you have? You’re in a shitty mood.”
“A hellish one,” I whisper, the words tasting bitter. I should not be having dirty dreams about Bass Morelli.
He’s a moron.
Imagine me calling home and telling my girlfriends from the neighborhood that I’m fucking a moronic hockey player. I usually like them nerdy and sitting in the stands with me — not playing on the field.
“Now, I have to know what happened.” She grins. “Was it Jack?”
Jack is a guy in my class who’s doing a similar project as mine, except he’s working with the baseball team. It was the assignment I wanted, and even though he had nothing to do with getting it, I’m holding it against him. I’m petty like that.
“Of course not.”
“I seem to remember you two shared a few flirty drinks in the corner of a homecoming party last year.”
“Until he took my baseball team from me, and now I'm stuck with the hockey pucks.”
“Seriously, Kai? Jack had nothing to do with that. You are the only hot ass bitch I know who self sabotages her sex life. When’s the last time you even had some?”
“I don’t need it,” I lie. “I get off on sunshine, tequila, and hard work.”
Sue rolls her eyes. “That’s ridiculously sad.”
“Says the girl baking scones at five in the morning.”
“Touché.”
“I can’t talk about the dream,” I return to the earlier topic. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You shouldn’t be upset, Kai—dirty dreams are healthy.”
“Not when it’s him,” I say, flopping onto our Ikea stool so hard it creaks. “I'm better than this. I’m smarter than this. I’m not sure what’s wrong with me.”
"Now wait a ding dang minute." Sue sets the bowl down. “Who is him?”
I close my eyes, pressing thumbs to my temples. “Morelli.”
“Shut the motherfucking front door! You’re dreaming about him now, but you’re mad I gave him your matcha order? You should be thanking me, girl.”
She tries handing me a blueberry scone from her spatula. It looks damn good, but I swat it away. “I don’t dream about hockey players.”
She chuckles. “Well, obviously you do.”
I glare. “You’re not helping.”
“Okay, so you had a dream. It’s disturbing because it’s not supposed to be Morelli. But maybe you’re just...processing? Like, don’t we always dream about things that our subconscious is trying to work out?”
“All you’re doing is validating my fear.” My voice drops. “Why is my subconscious trying to process anything about him?”
“Because that’s what subconsciouses do? Process the shit that we don’t want to consciously deal with.”
“I just wish he’d leave me alone.”
“Do you though?” She asks as if she’s just caught me in a lie.
“What are you insinuating?”
“You’ve never had a dream about Jack, at least not that you've told me about, and on paper, he’s exactly the kind of guy you say is your type. But here you are, up in the middle of the ass crack of dawn, looking for alcohol because of whatever you were doing with Bass Morelli in that dream.”
“Correction…nightmare.”
“Ooh, did his dick scare the fuck out of you?” She throws back her head in a fit of laughter.
“You know what…F you. I’m going back to bed.”
“I bet you are,” she chuckles sarcastically.
Later, when the apartment quiets (Sue's back to baking, the TV on low), I pace in front of the bathroom mirror. I’m furious at myself.
At him. My body requires eight full hours of sleep.
I should not be up watching the sun rise.
That's what you do when you're forty and on vacation with your husband.
“You’re not going to win,” I whisper to my reflection. “You’re not going to make me his before I even choose it. You’re not allowed to do that.”
Yeah…I’m going batshit crazy like my Grandma Jones did in the 90’s. Talking to myself is the first sign.
A few hours later, I’m still awake, and I feel like death warmed over.
Sue puts a steaming mug in front of me. “Here,” she says, poking me with a spoon gently coated in smushed blueberries.
“You need real caffeine today. None of that matcha nonsense. Drink it. Shower. Put on something that makes you feel powerful and remember who the hell you are—my bestie and one of the smartest bitches on this campus.”
Talk about hyping your bestie up. And for a second, I believe her. That I am that girl, and this day will be just like any other. And that I can tuck this dream away and move on.
But I know I won’t.
Because I’m fully awake now—have been for hours. And I can still feel his hand gripping my throat as he rammed the fingers of his other hand inside me.
My nipples pebble at just the thought…like it really happened.
And a part of me, a very small part, hopes that it does.