Naturally, it’s mostly selfies. The most recent is a picture of himself in front of a mirror, showing off his cut and defined body. He’s looking down at the phone, tongue trapped between his teeth, lips pulled up into a cocky grin. There’s a video of him working out at the gym, lifting weights, that’s a little older. The rest are either photos of his car or candid, random shots from the shows. The farther I go back, I catch some lacrosse stuff. Photos of him sweaty, dirty, tired-looking, but satisfied after a win. He may be erratic and impulsive, but he knows how to commit to his body, his hobbies, his passions.
I scroll back up to the recent picture—the one with him shirtless in the mirror—and stare at it for too long, eyes raking over his muscles, following his abs down to the waistband of his low-slung sweats. My hand creeps beneath the covers, so yeah.
I guess this is happening.
Before I can slip my hand into my pants, a direct message pops up.
Bass: Saw your profile was live. Can’t sleep. You?
I stare at the message for a long moment, frozen. Do I want to open this door? Isn’t it already open?
Sugar: No. I can’t sleep either.
Bass: I should come over, help you relax.
Sugar: Doubt my roomie would be into that.
Bass: Georgia? She wouldn’t care, but if that’s a problem…you know I don’t have a roommate.
My stomach reacts in a series of somersaults. I keep replaying Georgia’s words in my head, over and over.
“Oh, geez. Bass? No way.”
I don’t trust him. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But Georgia?
I type the next sentence out in a rush, pressing send before I can reconsider.
Sugar: Too bad I don’t know where your room is.
His response is instant.
Bass: Cresswell. 408. Code #2289
I stare at the text on the screen. What a presumptuous idiot. Does he really think I’ll just march over to the boys’ dorm in the middle of the night for what amounts to a booty call?
He’s right.
I keep telling Bass that he’s fixated on me, but the truth is that I’m equally fixated on him. This fucker is like the guy-equivalent of an earworm—a song that gets stuck in your head, all day, all night, and you end up looking it up and listening to it just to find out why.
That’s the real reason I slide out of my bed, making sure not to wake up Georgia, grab my jacket, and quietly exit my room.
The distance is short, since our dorms are side by side. The risk of getting caught seems high but I feel high. Maybe I want to get caught—probably the only thing that could jerk me back to my senses. But even after I push in the code and climb the stairs to the fourth floor, no one stops me. I walk down the quiet, dim hallways unnoticed, passing the silent rooms of sleeping boys, down to the one on the end; 408.
My heart pounds in my chest when I get there. I look at that door and think of who’s behind it, and what waits for me on the other side. I stand there for a long, torturous moment, willing my feet to retreat. “Fucking insane,” I mutter to myself, taking a step back. I’m about to turn away when the door opens, revealing Sebastian in the gap.
“I was hoping you’d come,” he says. Or I think that’s what he says. All my senses are focused on his bare chest and the fact that, under the ladder of abs and the cut muscle shaped like a ‘V,’ all he’s wearing is loose cotton boxer shorts.
He’s practically naked.
I’m still looking right at his bare chest when I admit, “I have no idea why I’m here.”
“No?” he asks, with the tilt of his head. “Because I think you do.”
He steps aside and I slowly, reluctantly, enter his room. I realize it’s more like a suite once I’m inside. He has a small living room with a gray couch and armchair. A flatscreen is mounted to the wall, a bunch of gaming instruments piled haphazardly underneath. Through the hammering in my chest and the blood throbbing in my ears, I hear the click of the door closing behind him.
I swallow loudly, realizing that I didn’t even bring my knife. It’s a ridiculous thought. If I really thought I’d need it, I wouldn’t have come in the first place.
No.