Campus Flirt (The Campus)

That’s all right. I have no problem beating them out of him. In fact, it would be my pleasure. But before I can crack my knuckles and rise to my feet, the guys I arrived with gather around the table.

There’s a chorus of greetings before Carson waves me over. “Come on, man. They’ve got a table ready for us.” With a scowl, he glances at Asher. “No thanks to this dumbass. If I had to guess by that chick’s intense dislike for our man here,” he slaps him on the back, “it must have been a fuck and flee situation. She would have refused us service if she could have gotten away with it.”

Unsurprised, I shake my head before giving Sasha a little side-eye. There is no way in hell I’m abandoning ship and leaving her alone with this fuckwad.

“No need, there’s more than enough room here.” Sort of. “Why don’t we join Sash and Ryder?”

Carson glances from me to the hockey player lounging on the seat across from us as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. The blond football player’s brows pull together as if he’s assessing the situation before his attention once again settles on Sasha. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“Umm—”

I squeeze her against me, cutting off her response. “Are you kidding? She doesn’t mind at all.”

Carson ponders this for a moment before shrugging. “Sure, all right then.”

The booths are long enough that it’s not a problem to squeeze three guys semi-comfortably in on one side. Asher and one of the sorority girls pile in beside Ryder, while Carson slides in next to me. Crosby pulls up two more chairs for himself and the other blonde. The rest of the guys grab a nearby table to camp out at.

Once we’re all situated, the waitress arrives to take our order. It’s unfortunately the same chick from the hostess station.

This doesn’t bode well for us.

Or our tacos.

She takes her time going around the table, writing down everyone’s order. When she gets to Asher, she gives us all a slight smile before swinging away.

“Hey,” he calls out, deep voice rising above the noise in the dining room. “What about me?”

She spins around to face him before cocking a brow. “What about you?”

“I’d like to place an order.” His voice hardens. “Is that going to be a problem?”

A thick blanket of tension settles over us as she shrugs and folds her arms across her chest. “I don’t know. Is it?”

Instead of responding, his lips settle into a tight line as his eyes narrow. It’s not an expression I’ve seen often from him. The guy is normally easy going and chill. He doesn’t get bent out of shape over much. And why should he? Life has been pretty easy. From what I understand, he comes from money. Even though he’s not the sharpest tool in the shed, he manages to skate through his classes each semester. And the girls flock to him like he’s the pied piper of pussy. The guy must be a real rock star in the sack because his bed is never empty.

How do I know this?

I share a wall with him. One that has turned out to be paper thin. Let’s just say I either make good use of my noise-canceling earphones or I’m forced to listen to the porn star soundtrack going on in the room next to me.

“I really hope not.” There’s a pause before he adds, “I’d hate to get your manager involved.”

She bares her teeth like a rabid dog before snapping, “Fine. What do you want? And make it quick. I’ve got other customers to take care of.”

Even though Asher knows exactly what he wants, he takes his sweet damn time perusing the menu. We’ve been here enough over the last three years to have memorized the plastic sheet. After a handful of moments, he strokes his shadowed jaw before glancing at her. “I can’t remember if you mentioned any specials.”

A muscle tics in her jaw. Any second, she’s going to fly at him. “It’s Tuesday, dickhead. That means all the tacos you can eat.”

Everyone at the table stills, including Asher.

It’s only when someone clears their throat from behind the waitress that everyone comes alive again. “Lola, can I talk to you for a moment?”

The words might be arranged in the format of a question, but by the flush on the older man’s cheeks, it’s more of a directive.

She stiffens as a dull flush crawls up her neck. “Yeah, give me a minute to put this order in.” Her gaze stays laser focused on the blond football player who sparked her anger. “I assume you want the tacos.”

“Yup.”

When she swings away without another word, the older dude snaps, “Lola, don’t you have something to say to this customer?” When she gives him a blank stare, he prompts, “Perhaps an apology for your unfortunate choice of language?”