2. Konnor
CHAPTER TWO
konnor
I watch her breathe through parted lips with her blonde hair fanned across my pillow.
Pemberton is beautiful when unconscious.
When she’s like this, I can almost convince myself.
Almost. Then she shifts and makes a small sound, and something in me braces for her to wake up and open her mouth and ruin it.
I wish I could love her.
I wish she wasn’t such a bitch.
When I am inside her, it’s hard to tell if she loves me or hates me. Our sex is aggressive and angry and wild. On tap, too. Which works. Maybe she loves me; in her own way.
I like her eyes, her hair—I’ve always been a sucker for blondes. But when I run my fingers through it now, an ache moves through me.
I reach out and touch her cheek, searching her face for that feeling.
What is that feeling? Hope? Warmth? Nervous and excited at the same time.
Instead, my mind drifts to a different face, one without definition—a blank canvas circled in gold—that still pulls that beating thing in my chest harder than anything real and right in front of me.
Fuck. My hand won’t stop trembling, so I pull it away from her face.
Two hours without a drink and reality comes in too sharp—every sound amplified, every light obnoxiously bright.
I can’t stop fixating on the golden strands splayed across my pillow, my mind looping, and there’s only one solution for this and it’s waiting in the kitchen.
I roll off the mattress, trying not to disturb the mean, hot, beautiful woman snoring sweetly on my bed. Lazily sliding my boxers up, I wander to the bar fridge.
My parents leased the apartment for me—their attempt to force adulthood on me since I’m assisting with the freshmen this year.
They believe leadership will round out my extracurriculars—which currently consist of drinking—and impress any rugby scouts asking about me.
I haven’t always had the best reputation with, well, responsibilities.
So, the apartment is walking distance to campus, but not on campus. It’s swanky enough that Pemberton practically lives here now instead of her dorm. She gets the luxury she craves; I get to fuck her whenever I want.
A mutually beneficial arrangement.
After making myself a drink, I meander into the bathroom, ignoring my reflection. My clothes come off, the faucet comes on, and I step into the steamy glass shower.
I take a swig of my Jack on the rocks before placing it on the tiled ledge beside me. The combination of Jack and the water coming down hard and warm on my head works like a charm. I lean my head forward against the tiles, letting the water run down my hair and face.
One thing Pemberton and I have in common is our love of daytime naps.
I sleep a lot. I drink to feel normal. I sleep a lot because I drink to feel normal.
Rinse and repeat. Which is why, at 6:30 p.m. on a Tuesday night, I’m just surfacing, whereas Erik and Jax are already at The Grill, waiting for us.
“Konnor!”
I lift my head from the tiles at the sound of Pemberton’s harsh voice. “You have a letter from the dean!”
“Okay,” I reply and lather myself with shower gel. “Just leave it on the table.”
As I bend down to wash my legs, my calves burn. I need to go back to the gym; rugby practice was harder yesterday than it’s been in years.
I finish off my drink and rinse the suds from my body, hoping Pemberton will surprise me by joining me. She won’t, though. She never does; she can’t wear makeup in the shower. She looks beautiful without it, but that just isn’t her style, and who am I to tell her what to wear?
Wait.
Why is she going through my mail?
I turn off the shower and stroll into the kitchen, water rushing down my legs to the tiles as I give myself a half-arsed rub down with a towel.
“Where is it?” I ask.
Pemberton is sitting at the dining room table, her long bare legs poking out from underneath it. She’s wearing my favourite jersey, and from this angle, I can tell she isn’t wearing any underwear.
Nice.
My gaze is quickly redirected when I notice the letter open in front of her. “What the fuck? You opened my mail?” I frown. “Since when do you open my mail?”
“Don’t talk to me like that!” she hisses, eyes narrowing into slits. Just like that, her beauty vanishes. It happens so often. “Do you need another drink or something?”
“Give me that!” I snatch the letter from her hand as she curses at me and look down, reading it.
Mr. B. and Mrs. R. Slater,
Tuition for Konnor Slater (ID 109678) has been received. Please find enclosed invoice.
We would like to take this opportunity to thank you for your generous contribution to our new sporting complex. Attached for your records are the receipt and official sponsorship certification.
If you have any further queries, please do not hesitate to contact our office at (087) 654-234.
Kindest regards,
Dean Kevin Milner
Staring at the words, I wonder how much money my parents actually have. Prepaid tuition and a contribution to the new sporting complex?
Both of my parents are entrepreneurs, so to speak, but I’ve never been able to decipher whether they are disgustingly wealthy or just strategic fakers.
I quickly flick through the next few sheets, then fold the letter and all its associated documentation back into the envelope. I don’t want to see any monetary figures.
“Pem, it isn’t even addressed to me.” I wave the envelope. “This is for my parents.”
She stands with a huff, grabs a drink from the bar, and shoves it into my hand. “Here. This should stop your bitching.”
Why the hell am I with her?
Her hair. Her eyes.
“Yes, Pemberton, I am well aware I drink too much. Thank you for my beverage.” I raise it, giving her a cocky smile. “Cheers!”
“What are you wearing?” she snipes, motioning to my naked body. “You’re dripping on the new rug.”
I wiggle my hips teasingly, my cock slapping against my thighs. “My birthday suit.”
She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “No, what are you wearing to the bar?”
“This.” I pinch her on the backside as I walk past her and towards the bedroom area—a section of the open-plan apartment divided by a bookcase.
She groans at me as if I’m the most inconsiderate man on earth. “Seriously. I want to match!”
“It isn’t a wedding, Pem. It’s The Grill,” I call out as I rifle through my clothes, searching for a pair of jeans or, at the very least, a clean pair of track pants.
“Do you care about me at all? I want us to look like a couple. The it couple, you know?”
“We are a couple,” I shout to her, then mutter under my breath, “A couple of what, I dunno.”
I can faintly make out her snide mutters. “Arsehole,” I think. “Alcoholic,” perhaps. “Jerk.”
I find a clean shirt. “White!”
It only took me five minutes to get dressed in semi-clean jeans and a shirt—a bloody perfect combo—but now I must wait for Her Majesty.
I drink a few more bourbons.
Pemberton eventually emerges from the bathroom, strutting her sexy body around in front of me, teasing little minx.
She’s dressed in a skin-tight white halter dress that shows off her toned thighs and grips her impeccable arse.
I mock bite my fist, ogling her. She looks stunning and, of course, I tell her as much.
She actually smiles at me.
My hair is still damp by the time we leave the apartment, and that sends Pemberton up the fucking wall, but I’m happily feeling the effects of my previous four bourbons, so I don’t care much anymore.
Pemberton takes the elevator.
I take the stairwell.
When the elevator doors open with a ping, I am there to meet her in the lobby. Our doorman, Adolf, is at his post. I say ‘post’, because this man is more suited to a military position than a reception desk. He’s a stoic figure with a straight posture and watchful eyes that see all.
I’ve come to rely on him over the past few months. Most nights he’s summoned cabs for me without a hint of judgment, producing a water bottle from his hidden stash before sending me off with quiet words. ‘Stay safe, Mr Slater.’
I should probably tip him more.
When we pass through tonight, he glances at my messy, damp hair, then at Pemberton’s tight expression, then back at me. A single eyebrow lifts very slightly. “Evening, Mr Slater. Miss Pemberton.”
Pemberton ignores him.
“Adolf.” I tap the desk twice. “Don’t wait up.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, something like a smirk. With his eyes on me, he reaches under the desk and sets a water bottle beside my hand without a word.
I should definitely tip him more.
We walk the three blocks to campus, and before long we are pushing through the crowd into The Grill.
I scan the dim interior, squinting past neon beer signs and bobbing heads for someone I know.
“There they are.” Pemberton gestures toward the lads at the back, standing around a high table.
I nod at Jax. Then I grab a fifty-dollar note from my wallet and hand it to Pemberton. “Get me a JD and Coke, beautiful?” I kiss her cheek. She’s a completely different person in public, almost charming.
Almost.
She heads for the bar, and I make my way to the lads.
The Grill’s got the best atmosphere on campus, excluding The Basement Lounge.
‘Cause that place sits at the end of a narrow underground tunnel connecting the library to the café.
The one time I tried going down there, my chest tightened like someone was sitting on it, sweat poured down my back, and the walls seemed to close in until everything went black.
Jax found me sprawled across the entrance.
Doesn’t matter—The Grill has a good vibe.
We can be rowdier here than at the other establishments, and our group gets that way sometimes.
Marcus, the proprietor, seems to have patience for us, perhaps because our wallets get a workout here, or maybe because we respect his cut-off time when others don’t.
He’s a dictator, though, a real tough prick.
I've put in the hard yards comforting more than a few teary new barmaids.
But now my days of rotating women are over.
I’m monogamous.