Chapter 8
Eight
Camden
The next morning, I’m crossing the front yard, about to head off to hell on Earth—also known as this goddamn philosophy class—when I hear my name being called from somewhere behind me. Turning, I find Logan, Bailey, and Lexi on their way out the door, likely going off to class as well.
My gaze locks on my pseudo-boyfriend as he approaches, asking, “You got a sec?”
I glance between him and his friends, who are lingering near the front door—no doubt to give us a bit of privacy—before replying, “Yeah, a couple. What’s up?”
He shoves his hands in his jean pockets and rocks on his heels before shooting a quick glance over his shoulder at our other roommates.
There’s something off about his body language; I can’t quite put my finger on it.
It’s almost like he’s nervous, which makes absolutely no sense, and yet all evidence suggests that’s the case.
“Are you heading to class?” he finally asks, breaking the awkward silence.
“Unfortunately,” I mutter before shooting him a wry smile. “Unless you wanna—”
“Not happening,” he interrupts before I can even finish the request. Just as well, he’s already doing enough for me without actually attending the classes for me.
“Well, then I’m gonna be late for class, so…”
“Oh, yeah. Uh, in a similar vein, this is for you.”
Pulling his hand from his pocket, he opens it to reveal a small Converse keychain, matching the pair on his feet, before placing it in my palm. At first, I have no idea why he’s giving it to me, but upon further inspection, I realize it pulls apart at the toe of the shoe, revealing a USB drive.
“What’s on it?”
My attention lifts back to his face to find his lower lip caught between his teeth, watching as I fiddle with the drive.
“I took all of Holden’s and Theo’s notes and dictated them for you so you don’t have to worry about reading them.
And I found the ebook versions of all your required texts and made them into PDFs with the Open Dyslexic font, so it should be a lot easier for you to read.
Hopefully it’s enough to get you through some study sessions when you’re gone for away games.
” He rushes through the explanation at hyperspeed, focused on the driveway rather than my face.
“And, uh, if you send me the book titles for any of your other classes, I can do it with those too. I’ll just need the drive back to download them, obviously. ”
Blinking down at the little plastic shoe in my hand, I’m floored that he thought to do something like this. I mean, when did he even find the time?
It takes me a few seconds to find my voice even after clearing my throat, still overwhelmed by emotions.
“I… You didn’t have to do that, Logan.”
His jaw has its own pulse as he adjusts the bag on his shoulder, clearly uncomfortable. “It’s nothing. I’m sorry if this is like…overstepping or whatever, but I figured with this and our study sessions, you should easily pass this class with at least a B.”
“We both know I’m more of a Cs-get-degrees kinda guy.”
“You don’t have to be.”
He says it so casually, I almost dismiss the comment entirely. But the truth is, he’s right. If someone had taken the time to help me earlier, or maybe if I’d gone and sought the help myself, there’s a good chance I could’ve been a completely different student through college.
Hindsight is a bitch, I guess.
“I guess I don’t see the point in changing this close to the end,” I say, pocketing the USB.
“Maybe to prove to yourself that you’re not stupid just because your brain processes things differently?” As soon as the words leave his mouth, he looks away. “I don’t know. Just an idea. But, uh, have a good class, and I’ll see you at the library after practice?”
Warmth radiates up from my chest, causing my throat to close up a bit, and I do my best to swallow down my gratitude before I choke on it.
“Yeah, I’ll see you then.”
With his gaze still cast aside, Logan nods and goes to take a step back toward where Lexi and Bailey are waiting. But rather than letting him retreat, I snatch the fabric of his unbuttoned flannel, halting him in his tracks. Which, technically, is a legal move. I’m touching his clothes, not him.
Or, at least, I’m hoping that’s how he’ll see it.
Logan frowns for a second, brows drawn together in confusion, as he looks to where I’ve got a hold on him.
“You’re forgetting something,” I murmur, my brow arched.
I take a step toward him, closing the space he just created until there’s little more than inches between us. Dropping my voice low, I whisper, “Don’t pull away. They’re watching.”
His puzzled expression quickly morphs into understanding as his gaze lifts to find mine. My hand cups the side of his face, and I skim my thumb across the apple of his cheek, noting the cracking texture running through his clay irises reminds me of desert flats.
“Kiss me,” I say, the request barely more than a whisper.
There’s only a beat of hesitation before he shifts his weight upward, pressing his lips to mine. I’m sure it’s meant to be a brief, fleeting kiss, just like the first time he did it, but my instincts take over, and I use my hand on the side of his face to hold him there for a few moments longer.
His lips are soft on mine, pliable in a way I wouldn’t mind teasing and testing the limits of, but I know better than to push my luck. Well, more than I already am, which is why I pull back, then press another gentle kiss to his lips.
His lids lift slowly, meeting my gaze while his tongue swipes out over his lower lip, wetting it. The action has my attention dropping back to his mouth, locking in on the slight sheen of moisture where I just kissed him.
And damn if I’m not the slightest bit tempted to do it again.
“Believable enough?” I ask, barely more than a whisper.
He nods and clears his throat before taking a step back, his gaze diverting to the ground once more. There’s a hint of blush creeping over his cheeks now too, and it’s kinda cute.
Innocent, even.
“Just… See you after practice,” he mutters, back to his grumpy self. “Don’t be late.”
As fate would have it, Logan’s flash drive quickly becomes my most prized possession.
Well, not as much as him being my tutor, but it’s the next best thing when I’m gone for two away games over the weekend and into the following week.
The PDFs of my assigned text—now changed to a different font—are infinitely easier to read, making my trips to Minneapolis and Lansing far more productive on the work front than they’d be otherwise.
In fact, I end up finishing one of my make-up assignments that way and study for an upcoming exam with them.
The thing I haven’t used, though? The notes he dictated from Holden and Theo.
But with practices being insane this week, and the due date for my assignment looming on Friday, I decide it’s time to give them a listen.
After all, the more times I read or hear the information, the more likely it’ll stick. Which is exactly why I download the files to my phone, intending to listen to them whenever I have a few available minutes—starting with my shower this morning.
“The theory of the self, as stated by René Descartes,” Logan says, the sound filling the bathroom as it pours from my phone’s speaker.
“This theory, in part, explores the mind and the body being distinctly different entities. A person could exist, just their mind, and all other things, such as their body or the world itself, could be nonexistent. Descartes sets out to prove—”
Damn.
I never noticed just how much I like Logan’s voice. Then again, I suppose that’s an odd thing to notice about someone, especially when it’s usually directed at me in irritation or anger.
But as I lather shampoo into my hair, the rich, slightly raspy tone of his voice scratches an itch in my brain. I could get lost in listening to him speak, the smooth cadence of his words putting me into something of a trance, almost wrapping around me like a warm blanket or a satin cocoon.
I continue listening as I shower, rinsing my hair before grabbing for the body wash. My hands move on autopilot, spreading the suds all over my body while my mind focuses on Logan’s shift from Descartes’s theory on the self to John Locke’s.
“Locke’s first hypothesis states that ‘the self’ is directly linked to the human soul, that the soul is what defines one person from all others…”
My back connects with the cool shower tiles and my eyes sink closed, allowing the water to pour over me as I listen.
A little moan falls from my lips, my head rolling against the wall while my hand slowly strokes my cock a couple times.
At some point, it started growing thick and heavy between my thighs, though I’m not sure if it was before or after I wrapped my palm around it.
I do my best to tamp down the desire coiling low in my stomach, though, because somewhere in the deepest recesses of my mind, I know this is a horrible idea.
Getting off to Logan’s voice while he’s reading me fucking philosophy notes?
It’s the definition of insane. But it doesn’t matter.
And neither does Locke, Descartes, or anything outside of Logan’s voice.
It’s what my theory of self hinges on.
The subtle way he enunciates certain words, picturing the way his perfect, pouty lips would look forming each one. The timbre of his voice, imagining how it would sound whispering sinful, filthy things instead. The gentle intake of breath, wishing like hell I could hear it in my ear.
Those thoughts have me hard enough to cut diamonds and aching for release in no time, my hand picking up speed, jacking my cock from root to tip. I give in to the lust, feeling it drench me like the water from the showerhead, washing away any and all common sense.
Harsh breaths slip out as I work myself faster, rolling my palm over the head with every upstroke. My teeth sink into my lower lip as I push myself closer to release, and a little whimper slips out, along with a soft curse.
“Fuck, Lo.”
My hips arch forward, rocking with my movements as Logan becomes more than just a disembodied voice surrounding me.
He’s perfectly formed behind my closed lids, those chestnut eyes with all their cracks and fissures in the irises boring into my soul.
His lips that…I swear I can still taste—feel—against mine.
And it all becomes too much, leaving me dangling on the ledge, holding on for dear life—
“Hey, Loge. Don’t mind me, I just need to grab my deod—” Bailey’s voice cuts off as suddenly as it starts, and I halt my movements just as quickly.
I squeeze the head of my cock, painfully edging myself off the precipice of release. A few more strokes would’ve sent me into freefall, but there’s no chance of that happening with one of my roommates in here.
Well, the wrong roommate, at least.
Bailey’s silent during all this, as am I, the only sound coming from the water raining from the shower head and Logan’s voice pouring from my phone. Part of me hopes he’ll just take whatever it is he needed and leave, but luck doesn’t seem to be on my side.
“Uh, no judgment,” he finally says, while sounding rather judgmental, “but are you listening to a recording of yourself while you shower?”
My eyes sink closed, and I utter through gritted teeth, “Uh, no. It’s…Camden, actually.”
To further prove my point, I pull the curtain back only enough to peek my head around, careful to keep my erection from view. Bailey is on the other side, his brown eyes wide in shock while holding a stick of deodorant in his palm.
Ah, so we’re both holding our sticks right now.
I grimace at the errant thought, but Bailey must notice, quickly rushing to explain.
“I’m so sorry, man. I just heard Logan’s voice and assumed—”
“It’s fine,” I bite out, not from irritation but the way my dick is still throbbing painfully in my grip.
His gaze darts from me to my phone—the clear and obvious source of Logan’s voice—and I can see the confusion written all over his face. But whatever questions form in his mind, he decides not to voice them.
Instead, he shakes his head and motions over his shoulder with his thumb.
“I’m just gonna…”
I nod, offering a clipped, “Yeah, good idea.”
He’s gone a few seconds later, and I blow out a long breath before allowing the shower curtain to fall closed again.
I’m still rock hard, though I have no clue how, as I sink back against the shower wall in relief.
But despite the desire still roaring through my veins—and the source of it still rambling on about the theory of the self—I twist the knob to glacial and let the spray freeze me to the bone.