“Yep, that’s the one,” Kevin says with a toothy grin. “Guy’s either eating or asleep.”
“So far he’s quiet and pays his rent on time,” I say, tossing a look at Troy, who drops the side of his mouth in a frown. “I don’t give a shit what he does in that room.”
“I told you I’d get you next week,” Troy mumbles clicking his fob to unlock his truck before tossing his backpack onto the seat behind him. “I did spot a blonde creeping out of his room last Saturday.”
Once inside Troy’s king cab, we collectively stare up at the dark window in curious silence.
Troy’s the first to break it. “It is kind of creepy how he’s always sleeping.”
Kevin spouts off pensively from behind us. “Maybe he’s got necrophilia.”
Troy and I burst out laughing.
“What?” Kevin leans in from the back seat, his mammoth hands gripping our headrests. “That shit is real. I know someone who has it.”
“He wouldn’t be able to play if he had narcolepsy, dumbass,” Troy corrects for the both of us. “Necrophilia means sleeps with the dead.”
“Wouldn’t that just mean he’s dead too?”
“No dude, as in has sex with dead people,” Troy states with an exaggerated sigh. “Seriously, Kev, how did you get into this school?”
“Eat shit, Jenner. I just mispronounced it, that’s all.”
“Do yourself a favor and read a book, read several,” Troy advises, starting the truck. “Or Google. Just as educational, less time-consuming.”
I groan, in protest. “Yes, because the internet is nothing if not factual.”
“Still more of an education for him,” Troy mutters, hitching a thumb behind him. That’s the thing about Troy, he’s not a typical jock, he doesn’t really fit the stereotype like the company he keeps. He’s a decent guy. We get along. We talk about more than sports and women. On most levels, he can get deep. He has the looks, the king cab, and he’s built like an ax-wielding Viking ancestor. I have a little respect for him, and most days I don’t mind being the guy on the right.
Everyone has a Troy, very few are lucky enough to be Troy. But Troy himself will tell you he doesn’t have it so great. With his status comes a shitload of pressure. I might admire the amount of attention he gets, but I don’t necessarily want it for myself
. I’ve seen what that pressure does to him from time to time, and it’s not pretty. At times, he drinks too much and spends the rest of it playing catch up on his studies. He’s not a frat guy either, and he does the work along with the play. But as I study him when he pulls away from the curb, I can’t help but wonder how good it must feel to be king.
Theo
Four hours later…
She’d screeched…in the way of a monkey. Not exactly the throaty and appreciative moan I was hoping for. That’s my first thought when I come to. The room is spinning, and I can’t find my boxers in the dim light. Another pound on the door has me scrambling for clues as to how I got here.
How many shots had I done?
Shots and keg-stands, my brain answers as I wipe the sweat from my forehead.
Bile burns my throat as the aftermath hits me. My chest is shredded, and I can feel the evidence when I pull down my sweater.
What in the hell happened?
Grimacing, I stand and stretch. Either I blacked out and got into my first fight, or I just lost my virginity in the way of American Pie band geek sex. The pile of hair and limbs on the bed snoring below me confirms it was something close to the latter. I feel like I’ve just been on a safari that went horribly wrong.
“Think, Theo,” I mumble as I foot on my jeans and stumble, hitting the bed. Terrified, my head snaps up and I monitor the sleeping hair to see if I’ve disturbed it.
I’m not well-versed in sex, but I’m pretty sure I could press charges for what went down. Every muscle in my body is screaming, along with my pounding head. I’m still drunk, but unbearably too sober to face what happened. I’m pretty sure I still have splinters under my fingernails from the door frame I clung to before she pulled me inside. I’m going to fucking kill Troy. Tonight. While he sleeps.
I didn’t have to participate, and I’m certain, in a way, I didn’t. Too terrified to see what slumbers in the small bed with TGU logos embossed all over the comforter, I pull on my chucks. If I had sex, there has to be a condom.
“Evidence. Where’s the evidence?”
I search high and low for used latex, not for proof it happened, but for proof we were safe and don’t see one.