The Hook Up (Game On Book 1) (22 page)

“Fuck it.”

My thumb is swiping the screen and tapping “call” before I can talk myself out of it.

She answers with a husky, “Hello?” The sound courses along my skin in little licks of pleasure.

“Hey.” I settled down further into my bed. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“No. I was just—”

“Reading?” I offer with a smile.

“Yeah.” She sounds vaguely pissed of that I guessed correctly, and my smile grows. She makes a small noise like a stifled sigh. “It’s too late for a booty call, Baylor.”

“Is sex the only thing you think about, Jones?” I rest my head on my bent arm and stare up at the ceiling. “I mean, what if I just want to hear about your night?”

She snorts. “If anyone has had a memorable night, it’d be you. Speaking of which, why are you calling me now? Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, getting smashed?”

“I don’t drink during the season.”

“Seriously?”

“As a history lecture.” I run a hand over the bare skin of my abdomen and wish it were Anna touching me. “It messes with my performance, and I don’t need the hassle that comes with partying that way. Tonight, I was the designated driver and all around wet blanket.”

“The guys must have loved you.” There’s a smile in her voice.

The darkness surrounding me is warm and close now. “There may have been some grumbles.”

“Poor baby,” she croons without any sympathy whatsoever, “not getting to have any fun.”

“Depends on your concept of ‘fun’.” I like her ribbing and want more.

She laughs, a soft, rolling chuckle that makes my gut tighten. “So what
did
you do tonight? Or shouldn’t I ask?”

“I’d tell you, but maybe you don’t want to hear.”

“Pfft. That just makes me more curious. And you know it, Baylor.”

I grin before turning on my side. “All right. Some of the guys bought Gray a group of strippers.”

“They any good?” she asks immediately, her voice flippant.

It’s then I admit to myself that I want her jealousy. Which is stupid of me. And stupid to be disappointed when she isn’t. I shrug, but then realize she can’t see me. “Gray seemed to think so.”

“But not you?” A world of skepticism lives in her tone.

“No.”

“
Right
.” I can almost hear her rolling her eyes. “So a bunch of naked, gyrating women do nothing for you. Nice try, Drew.”

“You want to know what it made me feel?” My response is sharper than I want it to be but I can’t rein it in. “Empty. Like the world is full of lonely people who don’t know what the fuck they’re doing with their lives.”

It isn’t until I say the words that I realize how lonely my life has been. Until her. Until I understood how life could be if she’d just let me in.

Anna is silent for a moment. “Maybe that’s true. But you can’t fix other people. Only yourself.” She sounds so sad, I feel like a heel for snapping at her.

“Besides,” I say, making my tone lighter, teasing, because it’s easier for both of us, “there’s this girl who I can’t stop thinking about. She takes up all my attention, even when I’m not with her.”

Her voice goes playful, falling in line with mine. “Are you sure this isn’t a booty call?”

Do you want it to be?
I almost ask, but I’m too tired, so I tell her the truth instead. “It’s about me not being able to sleep and wanting to hear your voice.”

Her breath catches, a gratifying sound if ever I’ve heard one, and then comes the sound of her moving about, like she too is sinking beneath her covers. “Iris and I went out for burgers tonight,” she says softly, a conversational opening that both surprises me and sends a pang through my chest. “George usually comes with us, but he’s been begging off lately. Which is kind of odd.”

Maybe I should be jealous of George. It’s clear he’s Anna’s closest friend. Except they really do treat each other like siblings.

Tucking my arm beneath my pillow, I close my eyes so there’s only her and me. “What do you think is going on?”

“I’d say it was a girl, only George has a tell when he’s into someone, and he isn’t doing it.”

“A tell?” I’m laughing at the idea.

“Yeah. He’ll start singing
Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked
by Cage the Elephant under his breath at all hours.”

“That’s… interesting?”

“It’s freaking weird, is what it is. Especially since he sounds like Mickey Mouse when he sings it.”

And then we’re both laughing.

I don’t know how long we talk about inconsequential things before I nod off to sleep. When I wake in the morning, the phone is still cradled in my hand.

WHEN I ENTERED college my choice of major wasn’t a pressing issue. Truthfully, I could have coasted by on a General Education track, doing the minimum requirements, and no one would have batted an eye. Not that I asked; the point was made extremely clear to me. And I made it extremely clear that I didn’t want that kind of ride. It went against everything my parents taught me. Granted, I chose English Lit because I’d been raised on it, and I knew it would be easier for me. Football is a full-time job, and I needed every advantage to hold my head above water when it came to academics.

But I work my ass off and manage to maintain a 4.0 grade point average. I am proud of that. Even so, I am looking forward to graduation. Endless studying and too little sleep are getting to me.

In point of fact, my eyelids grow heavy and my head wants to fall forward as my Literature in Film professor drones on about the differences between
A Room With a View
the movie and the novel. I take deep breaths, try to clear my head, but the stuffy room isn’t helping.

The end of class can’t come soon enough. I eye the clock as Professor Gephard hands back the quiz we had last week. An honest to God quiz. Like we’re still in high school. I’d wanted to laugh when he gave it to us.

“Good work, Mr. Baylor,” Gephard says as the quiz lands on my desk. 100 points. Perfect score.

I’ve been acing this class. Frankly, it’s easy and I like the material.

I give him a nod, my eyes scanning the quiz for lack of anything better to do, when I see a mistake. Rubbing my eyes, I read it over again. Yep, I’d answered question number 10 incorrectly.

Hanging back until everyone clears out, I head to Gephard’s desk. He looks up as I approach.

“How can I help you, Mr. Baylor?”

“There’s a mistake on my quiz, Professor. I have the wrong answer for number 10.” I point to the question. “It ought to be Charlotte Bartlett, not Freddy Honeychurch.”

Gephard doesn’t even glance at the paper but blinks up at me as though I’m speaking gibberish. The back of my neck goes hot. It’s just one stupid question. I shouldn’t push it. But it bothers me all the same.

I point to the page again. “I wrote that Freddy told Mr. Emerson about Lucy breaking off her engagement with Cecil. But it was Charlotte.”

Smiling, Gephard puts his palm over the quiz and slides it back to me. “It was obvious you’d read the work thoroughly, Mr. Baylor. I saw no reason to mark you down for a simple mistake.”

Something thick and ugly bolts through my gut. “But I got it wrong.”

“Yes, however, it was clear you knew the answer. The fact that you were able to discover the error tells me as much.” He smiles again. “Excellent game last week, by the way. Took my granddaughter to see you play.”

A pulse starts throbbing at the base of my neck. “That’s great…” I look down at the big red 100 scrawled over the top of my quiz. “Are you telling me that when a student answers a question incorrectly, you ignore it if you know they’ve ‘read the work thoroughly?’”

His smile slips a little. “You are an A student. Top of this class.”

Bile burns up my throat. I swallow it down but can’t control the way my heart is now pounding. “Did I get there on my own, or did I have help?”

Gephard sits up straight, his mouth thinning into a purple line. “Just what are you implying, Mr. Baylor?”

“I’m not implying anything,” I say evenly, as though I don’t want to grab hold of his lumpy wool sweater and shake him until his dentures rattle. “I am asking if you make the same allowances for the rest of my classmates.”

His watery gaze flickers away from mine. “My colleagues and I are aware that you have more responsibilities than your classmates.”

“You have got to be kidding me.” It takes everything I have not to smash my fist into the desk. “I never asked for your help. I don’t want it. Ever.”

“Oh, for God’s sake…” Gephard snatches the paper and makes a slash through the question with his red pen. His knobby knuckles tremble as he writes a spindly 99 on the top of the page. He shoves the paper back in my direction. “There. One whole point deduction. You now have a slightly less perfect A, Mr. Baylor. Are you happy?”

Rage pushes its fist against my breastbone. “Don’t you dare try to shame me.”

Gephard’s wispy brows rise, but I don’t give him a chance to speak.

“I have just as much a right to ask questions as any other student.” Holding the test up between us, I glare at him. “Apparently more.”

His face turns magenta. “You are overreacting.”

Bracing my fists on the desk, I lean my weight on them, bringing my face level with his, and he flinches. Fear widens his eyes, and I want to snort. He thinks I’m a thug. Perfect. But I don’t back down. I keep my voice level and enunciate so he can hear every word distinctly. “I beg to differ.”

Snatching the quiz up, I turn and leave the classroom.

I manage to walk out on Gephard without screaming, but I’m far from calm. I can barely see straight as I leave campus and head home. My head is throbbing, my throat is closing up and aching. There is a buzzing sound in my ears.

On the seat of my car, my quiz lays face up, mocking me with its false score. Yeah, I still received an A. But how many other times have I been helped out by my professors? For the most part, English Lit is subjective, the bulk of my grades coming from how well my professors believe I’ve handled the topic. I think of the hours I’ve spent hunched over my computer, trying to put my thoughts down in words. And the pride I felt when I got high marks on those papers.

My sweaty hands grip the steering wheel as a wave of humiliation slaps down on me. Was it all a joke? A fucking joke on me?

I don’t know. And it burns me. I have to know.

At home, I run through my house until I reach my office.

Lies. It could all be lies. Years of it.

Hands shaking, I tear open my filing cabinets, intent on ripping out old tests and essays. Papers flap, slap, and flutter to the floor. I grab an old test, ready to pick it apart, when I stop, my breath coming out in hard pants.

The page wavers before my eyes, the sound of my heart pounding in my ears. And then I crumble the test in my fist. I can’t look.

“Fuck!” I chuck the balled up paper as hard as I can. It hits the wall with an ineffectual tap. “Fuck!”

Sinking to the floor, I grab the ends of my hair and blink hard. I’m shaking, and I can’t stop. I want to vomit. I want to kick my desk apart.

I’m a coward, because I can’t bring myself to know the truth. If they’ve all helped me, I can’t live with the humiliation. But the doubt is already there, and I know it will never go away. I can try to be the best person I can be, but the world only wants to see one side of me. And I feel sick to my bones.