Chapter 12
TRICK
Even before I reach the back door, I hear the laughter and music playing. Knocking would be futile, so I let myself into Fifi’s apartment, holding the folded jersey under my arm. Rod came through with a size medium and magically attached my name to it while I was waiting.
He didn’t ask why I wanted it; in fact, he didn’t want to know, so I didn’t tell him. But I did promise him and his wife tickets to a game when I make it to the big show.
Stepping inside the kitchen was like turning up the volume to Slam concert levels, and even though I didn’t make a sound—or at least not one that could be heard over the din of a dozen girls having high-decibel fun, the dancing stopped after I took two into the kitchen area, which was currently being used as a bar.
All eyes turned to me, and someone turned down the music.
“He’s here,” one of the girls I don’t know yells, and from a small clutch of highly coiffed coeds, Fifi appears. She’s smiling—and apologizing—with her lopsided grin and pleading with her deep golden eyes.
I meet her halfway into the living room slash dance floor, and in spite of the eager audience, I wrap her in my arms and give her a kiss.
It’s what they were waiting for, me too.
Our audience is not the silent type, but they are appreciative and yell encouragement, whistle, clap, and one girl stands on the couch to get a better view.
“Get off the couch before you kill yourself, Eva, and I have to deal with the police.” The highly unempathetic scolding comes from none other than Ricci, who, back in high school, could have been voted least likely to channel a dorm mother.
Fifi turns in my arms, and I continue to hold her, wrapping my arms around her warm flat belly and pressing her world-class ass—as subtly as I can—against my dick. I withhold my groan.
“You’re such a sexy couple,” Nina declares. “I need a photo.”
I get into the pose, lowering my lips to Fifi’s ear as she squirms like she’s uneasy.
“Promise not to post it on social media,” she says.
“You know I wouldn’t do that,” Nina pouts. “Not anymore.”
“Promise to send me the pics,” I say as she flashes her camera at us. A couple of other girls take out their cameras, including Darcy. I don’t know the others. But all seven of them are hot as they stare and whisper and giggle like I’m some kind of rock star. I have to admit, I’m flattered.
And unlike the me of a month ago, I have absolutely no desire to hit on any one of them. Except my girl Fifi. The buzz runs through my blood, warming me up until it reaches my brain that I’m acting exactly like a boyfriend, a bona fide, realer than hell, actual committed boyfriend.
My hold on Fifi reflexively loosens.
“Let me introduce you to all the girls,” Fifi says. I grin at my audience, then get distracted by the whiff of her scent and the tickle of her curls against my jaw, because she has some kind of magnetic pull—probably sex appeal—that draws me back in.
She points and names the girls I don’t know, including Eva. “Then of course you know Ricci, Nina, and Darcy.”
“Pleasure, ladies.” I notice everyone’s throwing me admiring smiles except Darcy. She looks more like she’s assessing me as one animal sizing up another, and I’m not sure if it’s for love or war.
“So are the rumors true?” Eva says, stumbling forward, though she doesn’t spill a drop of her tall umbrella drink.
She’s short, plump, and adorable, and very, very friendly, plus she has the longest real lashes I ever saw.
Unless they’re the best fakes money can buy.
I’m somewhat of an expert since at least fifty percent of the coeds I’ve met and, er, somewhat became familiar with over the last few years, wear fake lashes.
At best, they highlight pretty eyes, and at worst, they are very, very bad, such as falling off at very inconvenient times and getting stuck to key body parts—mostly mine.
“Never mind the rumors,” Fifi says.
“I’d like to hear if the one about the orgy—” Darcy chimes in before Ricci claps a hand over her mouth.
“Orgy?” My brows reflexively shoot up my forehead as my mind catches up to the fact that my reputation has far outdone my reality.
I glance at Fifi with confidence, mostly, possibly covered with a dusting of trepidation.
I’m pretty sure she knows the rumors are false, or at least highly exaggerated.