Chapter 20
JACKSON
Drew’s leg whirls through the air in what I assumed would be a graceful spin. But then his knee finds my crotch like a heat-seeking missile, and suddenly, I’m singing soprano.
“Fuck!” My vision blurs into kaleidoscope fragments of Drew’s horrified face as I fold in half, hands instinctively cupping my balls. Copper floods my mouth where I’ve bitten my tongue. “Jesus Christ, Drew!”
“Shit, shit. I’m sorry!” Drew’s hands flutter around me, unsure of where to land. “Are you okay? Can you breathe? Do you need ice?”
I wheeze something that might have been words if my testicles weren’t currently retreating into my body.
This is the third time in the past hour that Drew’s “choreography” has resulted in bodily harm.
First, he kicked me in the shin, attempting what he called a “sexy slide.” Then he somehow managed to headbutt me while doing a bend and snap. Now this.
“Jackson, talk to me!” Drew’s face hovers inches from mine, hazel eyes wide with concern. “Should I call someone? The health center? An ambulance? A priest?”
“Just…give me…a second,” I struggle to say through gritted teeth.
“God, I’m the worst fake boyfriend ever.” He runs his hands through his messy hair. “Do you want me to…” He pauses, and I see the exact moment a terrible idea forms in his brain. “Do you want me to kiss them better?”
I jerk my head upright with enough force that my neck audibly cracks. “What?”
Drew’s face is turning pink, but he doubles down because that’s what he does. “You know, like when you were a kid, and your mom kissed your boo-boos?”
“You’re seriously offering to kiss my balls?” Please say yes.
“I mean…” He shrugs. “It wouldn’t be the weirdest thing I’ve done this week.”
Heat floods my face, and I’m acutely aware that I’m still cupping my junk while Drew stares at me with an expression that I can’t identify. I’m extremely close to passing out from thinking about Drew’s mouth anywhere near my crotch. “That’s not—you can’t—we’re fake dating!”
“Right. Fake dating. Obviously. I was joking.”
The room is suddenly too small, too warm, too full of Drew’s presence.
He’s wearing black socks on his big feet, gray sweatpants that have molded to his thick thighs, and his long-sleeved shirt is rucked up, revealing a strip of skin.
I force myself to straighten up, to ignore the lingering ache in my balls and the new, different ache in my chest.
“We’re terrible at this,” I say, gesturing at the space we’ve cleared in my dorm room for our rehearsal.
“We’re not terrible,” Drew protests, then immediately trips over his own feet, catching himself on my dresser. “Okay, we might be terrible.”
“We’re going to be eaten alive. People are going to see through our ruse—”
“Only if we keep trying to choreograph something. So…what if we didn’t?”
“Didn’t what?”
“Didn’t plan anything. What if we went out there and”—he waves his hands around vaguely—“vibed.”
“Vibed? Your grand plan is to vibe?”
“Think about it!” He’s getting excited now, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Every time we try to plan something, I end up decking you. But if we wing it, if we be ourselves, maybe it’ll work.”
He’s right, which is annoying. Real moments are the unscripted ones. A forehead touch here, brushing pinkies there. We need to stop trying and just…be.
“You want us to show up and hope for the best?” I ask.
“We show up and trust each other. Because that’s what builds relationships, right?
We need to show everyone that we trust each other, Jacky.
Without that, we really are faking it.” Drew flops backward onto Ryan’s perfectly made bed.
I try not to think about how Ryan would have an aneurysm if he knew.
“Besides, I’m exhausted. Who knew fake dating required this much cardio? ”
“Pretty sure that’s just your violent interpretation of dancing.”
“Hey!” He props himself up on his elbows to glare at me. “I’ll have you know I’m an excellent dancer when I’m drunk. And the lights are low. And no one’s watching.”
“So never.”
“Exactly.” He grins, then pats the space next to him on Ryan’s bed. “Come on, let’s watch a romance movie. We can claim it’s research for being a convincing couple.”
I hesitate. Sitting on a bed with Drew sounds dangerous, even if it’s not my bed. No. Especially because it’s not my bed. But he’s staring at me with puppy-dog eyes, and I’m weak, so I carefully lower myself onto Ryan’s military-crisp comforter.
“Scoot over,” I say when Drew doesn’t move. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”
Drew immediately rearranges himself until he’s properly on the bed, back against Ryan’s pristine pillows. I settle next to him, hyperaware of every inch where our bodies aren’t quite touching but could be.
“What should we watch?” I ask, grabbing the remote control.
“Something cheesy.”
I flip through the channels until I find a movie already playing. Drew smiles at the selection—Sixteen Candles. “What I wouldn’t give to have me some of that Jake Ryan.”
“Your fake boyfriend is sitting right here, you know?” I say, giving him my best death glare.
“What?” He snickers. “You mean to say that if that guy”—he points to Jake on the screen staring at Sam in class—“asked you to the dance, you’d turn him down?”
Truth be told, high school me would have stammered something about not being into guys and made a joke about preferring Sam’s sister. But college me, who said yes when Drew suggested this whole fake dating thing?
I agreed to fake date Drew because some desperate, pathetic part of me wanted to know what it would be like to hold his hand. To kiss him and have an excuse. To pretend, even for a few months, that Drew Larney could want me.
“Earth to Jackson.” Drew nudges me with his elbow. “You’re thinking so loud I can practically hear the gears grinding.”
“I was considering the question,” I say, keeping my eyes fixed on the TV where Sam is now bemoaning that her friend didn’t get the survey.
“And?”
I’m in love with you. And every time you touch me, I die a little more inside because I know it doesn’t mean to you what it means to me.
“Jake Ryan’s pretty hot,” I say instead.
Drew laughs. “See? Everyone’s a little gay for Jake Ryan. It’s science.”
We settle into watching the movie, and by the time we get to the house party scenes, we’ve ended up under the covers to stay warm.
I turn my head slightly. In the blue-white flicker from the TV, Drew’s jaw is sharp enough to cut glass one moment, then soft and boyish the next. His eyelashes—longer than they have any right to be—fan against his skin. He’s beautiful in a way that makes my toes curl.
What would happen if I told him? If I opened my mouth and let the truth spill out? Maybe he wouldn’t run. Maybe he’d smile and say he feels the same. Maybe we would stop pretending and be real boyfriends.
In my mind, I can see it perfectly. The movie would end, and “If You Were Here” by the Thompson Twins would still be playing.
I’d turn to him and say, “Drew, I need to tell you something.” He’d smile at me with those hazel eyes shining brightly, and I’d be brave for once in my life.
“This isn’t fake for me,” I’d say. “It never was.”
And then he’d blink, slowly and seductively, and say, “Thank God, because it’s not fake for me either.”
We’d meet in the middle, the kiss different from all our staged ones. This one would be for us. His hand would cup my jaw, and I’d finally get to touch him the way I’ve wanted to for months. Years, if I’m being honest.
The fantasy is vivid enough that I can almost taste it. Drew’s mouth on mine, his fingers in my hair, the weight of him pressing me into the mattress. We’d make out like teenagers while that song played, and everything would be perfect and—
“Jackson.”
The voice is wrong. Too high, too formal.
“Jackson, what are you doing?”
A hand on my arm, smaller than Drew’s, shakes me gently. My eyes fly open to find Ryan standing over us, his expression full of confusion and annoyance.
Oh, God. Oh, no. I’m pressed against Drew’s side, my arm thrown over his waist, and my hips are moving in small, unconscious thrusts against his thigh. My dick is rock hard in my jeans, and there’s no way Drew hasn’t noticed because I’ve been humping him in my sleep. “Ryan! I—we were—”
“You’re on my bed,” Ryan says, his tone eerily calm.
The TV is still on; the credits are rolling. How long was I asleep? How long was I…shit, I want to die. I need the floor to open up and swallow me whole.
Drew’s head is tucked into the crook of my neck, his breath hot against my skin. He’s snoring softly—these little huffing sounds that shouldn’t be cute but totally are—and there’s a small wet spot on my shirt where he’s been drooling.
My heart does a complicated gymnastics routine as I realize we must have fallen asleep watching the movie. Drew’s arm is thrown across my stomach, his body curled into mine as if he belongs there. In sleep, all his usual bravado is gone. He looks younger, softer, completely unguarded.
Heat floods my face as I try to sit up without disturbing him. “We were watching a movie and…and nothing happened! I swear we didn’t do anything in your bed.”
Ryan’s eyebrows climb toward his hairline. “You didn’t have sex in my bed?”
“No!” The word explodes out of me, loud enough that Drew stirs, mumbling something unintelligible before burrowing deeper into my shoulder. “Jesus, Ryan, no! We watched a movie and passed out. Fully clothed! See?”
I throw the covers off us and gesture wildly at our clothed bodies, which only succeeds in making Drew shift again. This time, his leg slides between mine, and I have to bite back the moan that wouldn’t help my case right now.
“If that’s true, then explain that.” Ryan points directly at Drew’s crotch.
I follow his finger and immediately wish I hadn’t. Drew’s gray sweatpants are tented impressively at the crotch. He’s hard. Very hard. And I’m eternally grateful that Ryan didn’t point to my boner.
“I—that’s—” I sputter, my face burning hot enough to set off the smoke alarm. My toes curl involuntarily, and I resist the urge to pull the blanket over both our laps to act as some kind of modesty shield. “That’s morning wood! Or middle of the night wood. It doesn’t mean anything!”
“Mm-hmm.” Ryan’s expression suggests he’s cataloging this entire incident for future blackmail. “And I suppose the way you’re still staring at it doesn’t mean anything either?”
I don’t know what expression I’m wearing, but based on Ryan’s smirk, it’s probably something harrowingly revealing. Because the truth is, Drew looks perfect like this. Sleep-rumpled and soft, with his walls down, trusting me enough to be vulnerable.
I want to run my fingers through his messy hair. I want to press my lips to his forehead. I want to wake up beside him every morning for the rest of my life.
And that’s the problem with this whole fake dating thing. Every moment is real to me. Every touch, every smile, every time he calls me his boyfriend—even with the “fake” implied—carves out another piece of my heart.
“I’m sleeping in your bed,” Ryan announces. “Try not to defile mine any further.”
“We’re not defiling anything!” But my protest falls on deaf ears as Ryan crosses to my side of the room.
He climbs into my bed and pulls the blanket up to his chin with a satisfied sigh. “Your bed’s quite comfortable. I might keep it.”
Drew chooses that moment to shift again.
His palm slides across the hem of my shirt, fingers dipping beneath the fabric.
Five thick fingers skitter across my skin, resting just below my navel.
My stomach muscles jump and tighten at his touch.
Goosebumps race up my sides. A soft “mmm” vibrates from his throat as he nuzzles closer, his nose brushing the underside of my jaw, and his breath warming the hollow of my throat.
Fuck me five ways from Sunday. I’m in bed with the guy I’ve been crushing on since freshman year.
He’s hard against my hip, his hand is on my body, and I can’t do anything about it because it’s all fake.
We’re friends playing boyfriends. Friends who don’t notice each other’s erections or think about touching them.
“Drew,” I whisper, gently shaking his shoulder. “Hey, you need to wake up.”
“Mmm, five more minutes,” he mumbles into my neck.
I suppress a shiver as his lips brush my skin. “Drew, seriously. Ryan’s back. Wake up.”
That gets through to him. His eyes flutter open, unfocused and confused. Then reality crashes back in, and he jerks upright.
“Shit! Fuck!” He’s scrambling backward, face flushing as his hands immediately drop to his lap.
“It’s fine,” I say quickly, even though nothing about this is fine. My skin still tingles where he touched me, and I want nothing more than to pull him back down and sleep for a few more hours. “Ryan’s in my bed now. We should probably…”
“Yeah. Yes. Definitely.” Drew stands up. “I should go. It’s late. Or early. What time is it?”
I check my phone. “4:17.”
“Right. Cool. I’ll…” He edges toward the door, still covering his crotch with his large hands. “Thanks for the movie. And the practice. For the roller disco thing.”
“Drew—”
“Bye!”
He’s out the door before I can respond, leaving me sitting on Ryan’s bed with my shirt rucked up and my heart racing. The room is too quiet without him, too cold without his warmth.
I flop back onto Ryan’s bed and press a pillow over my face.
I should get up. I should brush my teeth, change into actual pajamas, and try to get some shuteye. But Ryan’s bed still smells of Drew, and if I close my eyes, I can pretend he’s still here.