Sell My Soul (Sixty Days 1)

“Their names won’t be mud around campus,” I assured him. “I don’t talk about my own crap, let alone drag anyone else into it.”

“And like I said, I’m not worried about what happens to them. I’m worried about what happens to you.” His pause ate me up. “They say it’s sixty days. That they fuck you up for sixty days. I heard the stories, about Rebecca Lane. I heard they hurt her so bad she couldn’t walk for weeks. That she had to fuck twenty guys and take three in her ass at once.”

I couldn’t hold back the smile. I felt like an idiot as it crept on my lips. That horrible urge to laugh in the face of tension.

“Three in the ass sounds like quite a feat,” I said. “Are you sure she took them all at once?”

The way his palm slammed the trunk above my head made me start. “I’m being serious.”

“So am I,” I told him. “I know what happened to Rebecca Lane is enough to send most people spinning. But I’m not most people.”

His expression was strange. Lips pressed tight.

Worried.

It felt warm.

“You’re really telling me you want sixty days with those freaks? For fucking real?”

“I’m not telling you anything. Like I said, I don’t talk about my crap. Listen to all the rumours you want.” I fidgeted with the bark of the tree. It felt dry against my fingers. My mouth felt dry too.

“I’m bothered,” he told me. “Bothered about you. Bothered about you going off with that asshole freak for money. It was him, wasn’t it? That asshole on the sand? He was the one who paid you?”

“With all due respect,” I replied, surprised by the strength in my own tone. “It wasn’t that guy that was about to slam me on the beach in a three-guy pile up.”

“And with all due respect, it wasn’t us that crawled up the sand fucking begging for it.”

“Touché,” I said, and admired his balls.

We stood quiet for a long minute. Staring. Thinking.

I needed to go from there. Needed to retreat to my regular schedule and back to the urges to ping the guy who wanted to fuck me up for cash.

“If it’s about money…” Jake began, but I held a hand up.

“I’m not talking about any of it,” I reaffirmed. “I don’t… talk… I’m not a talker.”

“Fine, don’t be a talker,” he said. “Be a listener.”

My smile felt brighter than I intended. “I’m always a listener. Listening is something I’m particularly skilled at. Years of practice.”

“Then listen to me,” he butted in, and I did listen. I listened loud and clear. “I feel like a jerk for the other night. I feel like an utter douche for going along with the other pricks and their dumbass pussy chasing. I feel like an asshole for not stepping in and saving you from whatever shit was going down.”

“Don’t–” I started, but he shook his head.

“I’m not done,” he said, and leaned in close. “Look, my family are the Whartons. The national hauliers.”

I’d heard of them. Seen them on plenty of trucks before.

“Nice,” I said.

“I mean we do alright. More than alright.”

“Good for you,” I told him.

“I get the money is attractive. I heard Rebecca Lane bought a posh new pad on her earnings. I’m just saying that if it’s money you’re after… If it’s money you need…”

My blood chilled.

“You’re trying to deliver a counter offer?” I asked, and my voice sounded so weak.

The shake of his head was definite. “Fuck no. I’m offering you an alternative, sure. Just not… like that… not fucked up like that.”

“I’m good,” I said. “You don’t need to… feel guilty. I don’t need any sympathy-fuelled counter offers.”

My messy bun felt messier under his hot stare. My cheeks felt pink and way too expressive, my breaths shallow and flaky.

“It’s not guilt,” he told me. “It’s not sympathy, either. It’s more than that. I’ve seen you around. I like you… the look of you… Fuck, this is so embarrassing.”

His awkwardness was sweet enough to burn. It seemed a night groping my tits on wet sand with two of his college mates had done little to quell his interest after spotting me about campus.

“And I like the look of you,” I told him, and meant it. “But we’re… different. My life is different, Jake Wharton…”

“Right,” he said.

“Right,” I said.

“Don’t do it,” he insisted. “Whatever it is you’re planning, there are other options, other ways.”

“Thanks,” I said, and I meant it. “But I’ve got to go. Lectures.”

He blocked my exit with his arm across my chest, his hand gripping my upper arm with just the right tension. “Give me your phone,” he said, with a surprising amount of command in his tone.

I kept my eyes on his while I fished in my bag for the device, curiosity getting the better of me. I handed it over and watched him scroll through the menu.