Chapter 2 Jude #2
Okay. Literate. Clever. And he actually read my profile instead of just looking at my pictures, because he clocked something about my personality that most guys miss when they're too busy staring at the photo of me in that cropped tank top.
I'm interested. I hate that I'm interested.
Depends. Are you as good at following through as you are at following instructions?
Three dots. Then: I don't start things I can't finish. But I'd be happy to let you test that theory.
My cheeks go warm. I take a long sip of my drink to hide whatever's happening on my face, but Milo catches it from the kitchen doorway. His big dark eyes narrow just a fraction. Milo sees everything. It's his most annoying and most lovable quality, and right now it's firmly in annoying territory.
"You're blushing," he says quietly.
"I'm not blushing. It's the alcohol."
"You've had two and a half seltzers, Jude."
"Mind your business, Milo."
He smiles into his tea mug and goes back to his baking. I hate my friends. I love my friends. Mostly both at the same time.
The conversation keeps going. We volley messages back and forth for the next forty five minutes while the apartment dissolves into its usual evening chaos around me.
Benji puts on music, something loud and bass-heavy.
Shay argues with someone on the phone about a group project, his voice going sharp and clipped the way it does when he's about to verbally destroy a stranger.
Soren curls deeper into his corner, drawing something small and careful in his notebook.
And I'm texting a stranger whose words feel like they're peeling me open.
He's smart. Actually smart, not "let me quote something I saw on Twitter" smart.
Every message has a sharp edge and a soft landing.
He's funny without performing it. He asks me questions that aren't boring, like he actually wants to know the answers and isn't just filling space until we can talk about sex.
And when we do talk about sex, which happens fast because I'm me and I don't have a subtle gear, he matches me line for line. No clumsy segue, no awkward escalation. Just a conversation that flows from clever to filthy like water finding a crack.
So what exactly are you looking for tonight? he asks.
Someone who can keep up with my mouth, I type back.
Keep up, or keep it full?
I press my phone against my chest and bite my lip so hard I nearly taste blood. Jesus Christ.
Why don't you pick? I send, my fingers moving faster than my brain. Since you're so good at following instructions, I want to see what you do when you get to make the call.
Longer pause this time. The typing indicator appears, disappears, appears again. I watch it like it's going to tell me something important about the rest of my life, which is insane and I need to stop.
Hotel off campus. Tomorrow night. No names, no expectations. I'll book the room. You just show up and bring that mouth. And that attitude.
My pulse jumps. Something hot and electric runs through me that has absolutely nothing to do with biology and everything to do with the fact that this man just made me feel seen through a screen.
And that's the dangerous part, isn't it?
Not the hookup. The hookups are easy. It's the part where someone pays attention to the specific shape of you instead of the general idea.
Tomorrow works, I type. But for the record, I always bring the attitude. It's the only thing I don't take off.
Good. I'll take care of the rest.
I lock my phone. Press it screen-down against my thigh. Stare at the ceiling for two full seconds.
"Jude?" Soren's watching me from his corner, notebook forgotten, pen held loosely between his fingers. "You okay?"
"Great." I flash my biggest, brightest grin. The one that works on everyone. "I've got a date with a pair of anonymous hands tomorrow night and he just promised to, and I quote, 'take care of the rest.' So I'm doing fantastic."
Benji raises his beer bottle. "To Jude's anonymous hand man."
"To gas station sushi," Shay deadpans.
"To shrimp cocktail," I correct him. "This one's shrimp cocktail. I can feel it."
Everyone laughs. I laugh too, because that's what I do. I'm the punchline and the delivery. I'm the entertainment. The one who keeps it light, keeps it moving, keeps everybody's Tuesday night from feeling like just another Tuesday.
I don't mention that my fingers are a little unsteady under my phone case. I don't mention that his messages are sitting behind my eyes like something bright I can't blink away.
I'll take care of the rest.
No alpha has ever said that to me and meant anything beyond logistics. Ride logistics. Hotel logistics. Whose-place-is-closer logistics. It's always logistics with a hookup, and that's fine. That's the deal. That's what I signed up for.
So why does some stupid, reckless part of my brain keep whispering what if he means it differently?
I shove that thought into a box and sit on the lid.
My phone buzzes one last time. I shouldn't look. I should leave it. I should go help Milo with the banana bread and make Benji laugh and tease Shay about his spreadsheets and ask Soren what he's drawing.
I look.
For what it's worth, I don't think you're as simple as you pretend to be.
The words sit on the screen, glowing. Something tight and warm blooms in my chest and I kill it immediately, smother it like a candle flame between two fingers.
I type lol okay Shakespeare and close the app and shove my phone between the couch cushions.
"Milo, is whatever you're making in there almost done? I'm starving."
"Ten more minutes."
"I'll die in ten minutes."
"You'll survive."
I lean back into the couch. Press my shoulder against Benji's bony one. Let the noise fill me up. Milo humming in the kitchen. Benji's music. Shay complaining about the music. Soren's pen scratching against paper. The smell of butter and brown sugar and home.
Tomorrow night. Anonymous. No strings. Just a really good hookup with a really smart alpha who has really nice hands and texts like he can see through walls.
That's all this is.
The oven timer goes off and I let the sound of my people swallow everything else.