Unethical (13 page)

Chapter Sixteen

Blake

R: How about The Meat Locker? Ladies love a guy in a man thong.

B: I only save wearing that for you.

Ryan and I had been throwing around job ideas for the past thirty minutes. I’d kept my eye out on Jobslist for over a week, but nothing new popped up. The coconut bra at Bikini Coffee looked more appealing than ever.

R: What about being a sign holder at Say Cheese Pizzeria?

B: And have some assholes punch me in the nuts while I wear a smiling pizza suit? No thanks.

R: Chicks dig that suit, man.

I took the cement stairs of Bexel two at a time. Just before I opened the door to spend the next fifty minutes drooling on my desk, I spotted a bright yellow flier posted on the glass door. It had a picture of a dude in the thinker pose.

Wanted: Art Model

No experience necessary

Possible nudity

I almost laughed it off until I saw the pay. Two hundred bucks a session. Damn, that and my scholarships could easily pay for tuition if I did that a few times a week. How hard could it be to model? Sitting in front of a class sounded at lot better than a paper route.

It was decided. Call me Magic Mike, because I was selling my body for cold, hard cash.

“Take the shot, pussy.” Ricky pushed the shot glass of Patron in my face, some of the tequila spilling over the edge onto my shirt. I grabbed the glass and pounded the drink. After ten rounds, I didn’t even need the lime anymore. My taste buds must have been royally fucked over, because I couldn’t taste anything.

Ricky clapped a hand on my back. “Good job, man. Let’s go to Cantina. We need to find you some fine ladies to dance with.” Ugh. Dancing. I did it because it was a necessary evil to pick up any chick at a party, but I had no interest in it outside of the fraternity. Plus, I didn’t want to dance with anyone at Cantina. I wanted to dance with Payton. I wanted to wrap my arms around her and feel her pressed against my body, my fingers threading through her soft curls. God, I sounded like such a vag tonight.

Brandon, our newest A Sig brother and also our sober driver for tonight, dropped us off at Cantina. I made it outside just in time to save the interior of Brandon’s car.

The heat from the dance club spilled out of the doors and into the street where I puked the contents of Dods and Sanchos. Mental note: Tequila burned even when it came up the other way.

Brian, one of the senior guys in the fraternity, patted my back and said, “Happy birthday, man. We’ve all been there. I’ll get you a water at the bar when we get in. Now look sober enough to get past the bouncer.”

I wiped my mouth, the sour taste of beer and tequila coating my tongue. I squared my shoulders and put my best sober face on as I strutted up to the club like I’d been there before. The closer I got to the entrance, the more my skin fried like a bug flying into the sun, ready to combust into flames from the heat. My palms started to sweat, and my stomach sent warning flares indicating there might be a round two of puking out on the pavement. My head had that fuzzy feeling—the one that came along with drunken shenanigans and greasy burritos I didn’t remember buying.

For some reason, we stopped, and I stumbled into Brian. The entrance was right there, straight ahead. Why weren’t we going in?

Ricky elbowed me in the ribs. “Little bro, show them your ID.”

My hands tingled as I reached for my wallet and fumbled around, trying to get my license out of the pocket.

“It’s this guy’s twenty-oner,” Ricky said, like this was some sort of explanation.

The bouncer smiled and nodded at him. He took my license, looked at it, and stamped my hand, a blue circle with a C in the middle.

The club must have been going through global warming, because the heat created a greenhouse effect on the dance floor. If I didn’t get water soon, I would melt into a puddle in front of the DJ booth. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth as I scanned the room for the bar. The only thing that came close to a bar in my immediate sight was the girls dancing, their beer spilling on the floor as they dipped their hips. How dare they waste such precious liquid gold.

Someone pulled me to a booth at the side of the room. A pitcher of beer and glasses with lemon wedges sat on the table. No water, but beer would do.

God stuck his middle finger at me, probably smiting me for my binge drinking, when someone handed me another shot.

A few hours later, I somehow made it back to the fraternity in one piece. I didn’t even remember what happened after the first round of shots at Cantina, but I still had the blue stamp on my hand as a party prize. Everything was fuzzy around the edges and tilted. I needed two things—a burrito and sleep.

Andrew sat in the chair at his desk, highlighter in hand. “Wish I was twenty-one. Maybe I’ll get a fake ID and bring Payton to Sancho’s. That girl can dance.”

I wished I could beat the shit out of him right now. That’d get me kicked out of the frat, but I didn’t care. I sat down in my chair across from him and scrubbed my hands over my face. “Stay away from Payton.”

He swiveled around to face me. “Why?”

“’Cause she’s been through enough shit.”

“Huh?” He leaned closer to me, his elbows on his legs. “Bro, you’re drunk. Go to bed.”

He was not getting this. I stood and pressed my finger into his chest. “Serious. Don’t fuck with her.”

“What? Do you have a stiffy for her or something?”

“You don’t know her. You don’t know what she’s been through.”

He pushed out of his chair and puffed out his chest, like he was ready to throw down. “And you do?”

“Yeah, I fucking do.”

The last thing I remember before I blacked out was my fist flying through the air.

I didn’t want to open my eyes. It was that crucial moment right as I came into consciousness from a night of drinking—the one that decided whether I’d hug the toilet all day or be lucky enough to escape hangover free. I opened my crusted lids, immediately rewarded with fifteen jackhammers carving the Sistine Chapel of all hangovers into my skull. The good news: I’d survived my twenty-oner. The bad news: I didn’t remember my twenty-oner.

Apparently, I was smart enough to take off my shoes, but I didn’t make it to the sleeping porch. Instead, I lay on the daybed, facing the window, curled up in the fetal position.

Alcohol: 1, Blake: 0.

As I rolled over, it occurred to me that either someone jacked something from the room, or there was a scuffle. My lamp dangled off the desk by its cord, and my chair was turned over. Not to mention my chemistry homework scattered across the floor. What the fuck happened? The jackhammers, now going in full force, made it tough to recall the shit show.

Let’s see. Shots at Sanchos. Beers at Dods. But anything after that remained a messed-up blur.

Andrew strolled into the room and rummaged through his closet. He grabbed a black shirt from one of the dresser drawers and pulled it over his head. “Sleeping Beauty’s awake.”

“Fuck you, too.”

“Don’t get your panties in a wad, bro. You were enough of a bitch last night to last you ’til at least your next period.”

Shit. What did I say to him? Did we fight last night? Is that why the room looked like an EF5 twister came all up in our shit?

“Sorry, dude.”

“You know, if you had a boner for Payton, you should have told me.”

“Is that what I said?”

“Yeah, and some stuff about her dad. You hulked out and totally annihilated our room, bro.”

I pressed my thumbs against my temples, trying to remember what I had told him. Did I give away her secret? No, I could never do that. My head pounded to the same rhythm of the song I took Jell-O shots to last night. “Sorry.”

He booted up his computer and opened a spiral notebook with some chem equations scribbled, or at least I thought those were equations. He had the doctors’ handwriting down to a science. “No big deal, but you’re cleaning up this mess. And you can have her. I don’t think she’s gonna put out. That bitch has her shit on lock down.” He shook his head and smiled. “Just tell me one thing.”

“What?”

“Is she really that whack job’s daughter?”

My heart stalled. What the fuck did I say?

“Who?”

“Dr. Cooper.”

I smoothed my thumb and index finger over my brows, letting the gravity of the situation sink in. This was all my fault. Andrew didn’t let things like this slide. He’d use this to get anything he wanted from me. And I’d do anything to keep his mouth shut.

He smirked. “Thought so.”

“What do you want, Andrew?”

“Do my chem skill builders for the rest of the semester, and we’ll call it even.”

Fuck
. It took me an insane amount of time to keep caught up on my own chem homework, and now I had to do Andrew’s? Yep. Anything for Payton.

“Deal.”

Chapter Seventeen

Payton

“I never get sick of drawing naked people.”

I didn’t know why I had been so adamant on Jules joining the class at the beginning of the semester. She was totally ruining my zen moment as I prepared for figure drawing.

Blake and I had texted a few times since the supply room incident, but we had both been swamped with classes. We’d planned on studying together sometime this weekend, but hadn’t set a date.

I smiled, focusing back on my drawing pad. Apparently, this new model was all the art students could rave about. He started last Wednesday, so this was the first time I would be catching a glimpse of this “epic hottie.”

This wasn’t a nude session, thank God. I didn’t think I could keep a straight face as I drew some guy’s ding dong on my sketch pad, but I was interested to see what all the hype was about with this model.

I opened a fresh piece of paper in my notebook, staring down at the blinding whiteness of the blank page.

“Oh my gawd,” Jules croaked in the same tone used in the beginning of that one eighties song about some dude with an affinity for big butts. I resisted busting out into song in front of the class, but, honestly, I didn’t think they would mind.

Her jaw dangled, seemingly unhinged, as she stared at the entrance. I followed her line of sight and clapped my hand over my mouth to hide my fish-out-of-water, open-mouthed gape.

In a black robe and black flip flops, Blake walked through the doorway and shook hands with the professor.

Professor Hayes motioned to Blake and said, “Today I want you to really focus on your shading. Pay close attention to every curve and detail.”

“I can’t believe you dumped that fine piece of ass,” Jules whispered.

I smacked her arm and gave her a death glare when she bent to grab something from her bag.

Why had I insisted on her joining this class?

Blake shrugged off his robe in the same manner as a stripper at Chippendale’s. Cue corny techno music. Underneath the robe was a pair of black boxer briefs that didn’t leave much to the imagination. Most of the girls and some guys nodded in approval at the half-naked man who was once considered all mine. Thank goodness he wasn’t naked. My face burned, and I broke out in a cold sweat. With my heart pounding like I just ran a 10k, I doodled hearts in the right-hand corner of my notebook.

“And to think he’s single. If you don’t snatch him back quick, I might rethink trying to help you hook back up.” Jules winked and fanned her face.
Yeah, just wait until I stick your hairbrush in the toilet later.

I flip-flopped for a few minutes between wanting to maim her and cutting class to study at the coffee shop, not being able to handle everyone staring at him half naked.

I looked in every direction but Blake’s. Of course, this had to be the day that I sat front row.

“How do you want me?” Blake asked.

On top of me in my bed? Yep, that sounds good.

“Whatever feels natural. You’ll be holding it for a couple hours,” Professor Hayes said.

He took a seat on the stool in the center of the room, and the spotlight shone directly on his face. He propped his left foot on the middle rung and put his elbow on his knee. His head rested in his left hand.

I wiped the corner of my lip with my sleeve. Holy crap, I was drooling. Drooling! I had been reduced to a slobbering Neanderthal. Or whatever my professor called those primitive humans in anthro.

Once he found a comfortable position, the whole room went silent except for the sound of pencils scratching against paper. The fevered shading of the artists put me back into drawing mode. No big deal, just a model I needed to draw. No need to panic because all his goods sat on display for everyone to see. Nope, not a big deal.

I focused on drawing his face first. His dark brows, the playful way his curls swept across his forehead, his lips that plumped out into a tiny pout. I kept erasing, never able to get his nose just right. He broke it a few years back with an elbow to the face during a scrimmage. Now it had a little bump at the top of the bridge of his nose that somehow made him even cuter.

His eyes met mine, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. He lifted his one eyebrow, resuming our eye-fucking match. And I was drooling again. I needed him, badly. A thousand pins pricked the back of my neck, and heat pooled low in my belly. I shrugged off my University sweatshirt. What did they keep this building at ninety fricken’ degrees?

I worked my way down his body and began drawing his hand. The hands that, at one time, brought me so much pleasure. The ones that made my back arch and my body quiver. I shifted in my seat, the heat between my thighs turning to a slow ache.

I drew the dark hair of his happy trail, ending at the band of his boxer briefs. Usually, Blake wore boxers—I used to steal them in high school because they were so comfy to sleep in—but with these skin-tight boxer briefs that hugged every contour of his legs, and the delicious V lines disappearing beneath the fabric, I changed my mind. I was totally team boxer brief now.

With twenty minutes to spare, I made it to my favorite part of his body—his calves. The way the hardened muscles bulged against his skin when he flexed to readjust on the stool did bad things to my insides. He deserved a shrine for the way the taut muscles constricted as he ran down the field…or fought the build of his climax. That was how I knew he was close to coming—he always flexed his calves.

As class ended, Jules and I strolled over to Blake, who still sat on the stool in the middle of the classroom. He stretched his arms over his head, the muscles in his stomach pulling into tight ridges.

“Nice job, Hiller, but I think you need to do a few more sit-ups. You’re starting to lose it.”

Blake smiled and shook his head. “Good to see you, Jules.” He nodded to me, his eyes softening. “Payton.”

“Hey, Blake,” I mumbled, feeling suddenly out of my element. Since when couldn’t I say
hi
to people?

“I’d better go get ready for my internship. There’s a cute intern I keep bumping into in the supply closet.”

He pulled on his robe, slipped on his sandals, and strode out of the room.

Jules grabbed my arm and bounced. “He totally wants you. This is so exciting.”

A shiver ran through me; my life was finally getting back to normal.