Rules of Play (The Script Club 2)

We didn’t have to fill the silence getting to know one another or rehash old stories. We already knew each other and though we shared plenty of old stories, this new, unlabeled thing between us was infinitely more exciting. We baked lasagna, played video games, watched baseball, studied, and read.

And talked.

We debated travel hotspots, action-adventure flicks, and our favorite bands. Even when we disagreed on what ranked as “best,” we’d end up laughing. Eventually, we’d end up naked and writhing. It got better each time.

I couldn’t figure out what it was. Something in the way he looked at me was new. We were familiar yet different at the same time.

Aiden finished my transmission yesterday too, and funny enough, it didn’t occur to me to ask if he still wanted to “experiment.” I knew he felt the same way. It wasn’t a forever thing, but we were on the same page for now and—

“Your coffee is ready. George. George?”

“Huh?” I blinked like an owl at sunrise. “Oh. Right. Thanks.”

I grabbed my mug from the coffee machine and a banana from the fruit bowl, then joined Asher at the small kitchen table nearby.

“You look exhausted,” he commented, peering over the rim of his cup.

“I am.”

Asher adjusted his round tortoise glasses. His morning-mussed hair wasn’t nearly as out-of-control as mine, but Ash was fussier about appearance than me. He was fastidious and neat. Sometimes painfully so.

Let’s put it this way; Asher was the roommate who insisted on fluffing throw pillows on the sofa every night before bedtime. In a very precise way. Fluff, karate chop to the middle, repeat. And he didn’t deal well with messes of any kind. Crumbs, coffee stains, banana peels on the table…

When he slid a napkin toward me, I wordlessly wiped the single drop of coffee I’d spilled and set the banana on it, curbing a sarcastic, “Yes, Mom.” Ash couldn’t help his somewhat obsessive tendencies, and since we all benefitted from his extreme penchant for order, we rarely called him on it. Besides, we all had our quirks. And honestly, one of the best things about living with a group of like-minded scientists was that we accepted and celebrated each other’s differences.

Asher was a tasteful pint-sized dynamo who rocked bow ties, snazzy suits, and fancy loafers to class or at work, but at home, he geeked out pretty hard to all things Star Wars. At the moment, he was wearing black-and-white stormtrooper pajamas. Anyone else might have looked like an overgrown-kid-slash-hopeless-dork, but Asher emanated a casual sophistication I wouldn’t have thought possible for a guy sporting Yoda slippers.

I glanced down at my “Just do math” tee and ancient black sweats, then checked the time. I had to be on the road in twenty minutes or I’d be late for—

“So…who is he?” Asher asked, reaching for his cup.

“Who?”

“Don’t play dumb. We know there’s someone. You were gone all weekend and—”

“Studying at my parents’ house,” I interrupted with a shameless lie.

“Okay, but one night last week, I came downstairs for a glass of water and heard…noises. Sex noises, to be precise. Coming from your room.”

I unpeeled my banana methodically. “Must have been porn. I’ll keep it down next time.”

Asher lifted his brows. “Hmph. Anyone I know?”

“Ash…”

“My guess is a secret lover or a Grindr friend.”

“You don’t make friends with guys on Grindr, Ash,” I huffed around a bite of banana.

“Whatever you say,” he singsonged before continuing in a conversational tone. “You know, the last date I went on, which I believe was eight months ago—didn’t end well. Not for lack of effort on my part. I leaned in to kiss him, but he gave me a high five and smacked my forehead. We laughed it off and tried again. I ended up with a bloody nose.”

I snickered. “I remember that.”

“So embarrassing. It was a shame because I liked him too, but I had to inform him we couldn’t be more than friends. I have a terrible fear of bad sex, and if a guy can’t figure out where to put his lips while kissing, I’m not taking a chance that he wouldn’t know where to put his dick during coitus.”

“If it was during coitus, he’d already have his dick in your ass,” I pointed out.

“True. So…was it good coitus or bad coitus?”

“Quit saying coitus. I hate that word.”

“Fine.” He picked up his mug and narrowed his eyes. “Did I tell you about the straight guy I matched with on Grindr?”

“You don’t get “matched” on Grindr, Ash, you hook up,” I corrected.

“Right. Well, I hooked up with a straight guy,” he confessed in a rush.

“And?”

“It was hot, but I feel guilty now. Like I’ve corrupted him.”

“But if he was on Grindr, he wanted to be corrupted by you…or someone else. It takes two to tango,” I said, raising my mug to my mouth. I sounded like a real dumbass. Caffeine might help.