Frat Boy and Toppy
Read Frat Boy and Toppy Online
Authors: Anne Tenino
Riptide Publishing
PO Box 6652
Hillsborough, NJ 08844
http://www.riptidepublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Frat Boy and Toppy
Copyright © 2012 by Anne Tenino
Cover Art by L.C. Chase,
http://lcchase.com/design.htm
Editor: Rachel Haimowitz
Layout: L.C. Chase,
http://lcchase.com/design.htm
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Riptide Publishing at the mailing address above, at Riptidepublishing.com, or at [email protected].
ISBN: 978-1-937551-27-8
Also available in paperback
ISBN: 978-1-937551-30-8
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Brad is great at meeting other people’s expectations. But his own? Not so much. Take the gay thing. Okay, so yeah. It took a morning meeting with a frat brother’s hairy, naked ass for him to admit it, but he knows the truth about himself now. Let the gay life commence.
Unfortunately, it’s not that easy. He hasn’t quite determined how to come out to anyone, even Sebastian, the geeky-hot TA in his history class. Sebastian is everything Brad is not. Intellectual, suave, hairy. Out. And he doesn’t seem interested in Brad, even when Brad makes a fool of himself trying to catch his notice.
Score one for foolery: Sebastian does more than notice Brad; he takes him to bed. Brad’s been with plenty of girls, but with Sebastian, the sex is something else entirely—hot, mind-blowing, affirming, and a little domineering in a way that drives him wild. But when great sex turns into something more—dare he admit the “L” word?—Brad must face the crushing realization that Sebastian doesn’t feel the same. Unless, of course, he does. After all, even grad students can be idiots about matters of the heart.
For Mores.
T
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O
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ONTENTS
One of Brad’s frat brothers bent over naked in the locker room showers early one Thursday morning, and he thought, “I’d tap that.”
He stood there frozen, skin stinging from the pelletized water, soap suds streaming down his chest while his world made a . . . What did they call that? Paradigm shift.
Dammit, dammit,
dammit
. He’d been trying to avoid this. Admitting it to himself. Consciously. His subconscious had been admitting it for a while in his sleep.
Emitting
it.
Brad flicked another quick look at Collin. Yeah, he still had a delectable ass.
Dammit
.
Brad had spent years trying to avoid the “G” word, but denial was suddenly circling the drain. He stared at the water pouring down at his feet, and thought about hanging on to the security that came with telling himself he wasn’t into guys. But it was pointless, right? It wasn’t going to go away. Trying not to know it now was like trying to make the soap suds go back in the bar.
He’d tried girls, lots of them, alcohol (even more of that), and running himself ragged. Waited to grow out of it. Looked like maybe he’d grown into it instead. He’d been doing all right his first couple of years at college, but this last year things had gotten difficult.
He’d started having dreams again a few weeks ago, like he’d had when he’d started high school. About naked guys and hard dicks and touching skin. Waking up with sticky sheets. Lately nothing helped with the dreams, not even tequila, but he could sort of ignore them. If he worked at it. Blame it on a fucked-up childhood or something. Pheromone poisoning from spending too much time in the locker room.
Lusting after a guy’s wet, hairy, naked ass while awake? Not as easy to avoid noticing.
This isn’t the first wet, hairy, naked male ass you’ve checked out in the shower.
Shit
. It wasn’t.
Brad heaved a sigh. Water ran from his temples to his chin like a curtain of tears. Except not. He didn’t really feel like crying about it. He sort of just felt like . . . dealing with it.
Somehow, a while after Collin and the other guys had finished up and wandered out of the showers and back to their lockers to dress, Brad finally made himself move again. He rinsed off—he wasn’t sure what he’d washed and what he hadn’t, but who the hell cared? He made it to his locker, but once there, he sort of stalled out, standing there in his boxers and a clean T-shirt, staring blankly at the pair of jeans in his hands.
“Brad, you all right?”
Brad startled when Collin asked that from behind him. “Yeah,” he answered automatically. “Fine. Just . . . thinking about a paper.”
That was a lame excuse. He never thought about homework unless he had to and everyone knew it. He started pulling on his jeans like everything was normal, and after a few silent seconds, Collin went on his way.
Brad didn’t actually know what he’d been thinking about. His brain had mutinied, and he couldn’t make sense of all the things swirling around in there. On autopilot, he got dressed and went to his history class.
He hated history. He never would have taken it, but he needed one more humanities class to graduate next year, and his roommate Kyle was taking Classical Greece and had promised to help Brad through it.
In spite of the fact that Professor Whitehall was just as annoying as every other humanities professor out there—fake semi-British accent, amusing little stories about summer trips to Europe, peppering his lectures with foreign phrases—Brad found himself in every class. Even when Kyle didn’t go. Wanted to just . . . be there.
It wasn’t until Brad was sitting in history that morning, on the south side of the room in the first third of the auditorium just like always, that he even realized he could deny his revelation. Just pretend it had never happened. He wasn’t attracted to guys. Couldn’t be. He was a jock.
Although there were pro players out there who were gay. They all came out after they retired, but they came out. He was nowhere near pro caliber. No auto-out for him by being a jock.
Maybe he wasn’t
completely
gay. Was that possible? Could he be bi?
Brad looked at the table in front of him from between his forearms, tunneling his fingers through his buzz-cut one more time. He rested his forehead on the heels of his hands and closed his eyes.
He needed to think. Just think. Slow down the brain tornado and focus.
He was still trying to get his head to settle down when Ashley Waylon sat down next to him. He could tell it was her even though she didn’t say anything. Her perfume, for one thing. It would choke a horse, she laid it on so thick. Brad had dated her for a few boring-as-hell weeks, so he was pretty familiar with it.
