Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
I’m throwing on a pair of jeans when our door opens. Christine walks in, bubbly and in high spirits. “Hey, you! Oh man, you leaving for class? I was hoping to catch you and hang for a bit.”
Throwing my arms into a tank top, I reply, “Yeah, same class every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.” She used to know my schedule.
“Oh, yeah. Sylvia’s in your Psych class. Tell her I said hi! I missed her last night. Brittany and I binge-watched The Real Housewives of Atlanta. I totally passed out in her room.”
Wow, sounds torturous. “Awesome.”
“How about we hang out tonight? We can hit up the hamburger joint we found and go see a movie, whatcha think?”
My eyes warm at her offer. I miss our hangouts. Our chill nights. When it’s us and no interferences from sorority life. “Count me in.”
Her face lights up. “Great! I have class until five. I have to stop at the house for a meeting, but then it’s us against the world.”
I agree to all things, tell her I’ll see her later, and run out to class. I’m not normally very athletic, but I have under three minutes to get to class and it’s at least a five-minute walk…walking. I feel better. Minus trying to function on three hours of sleep in three days, I think us hanging out is just what I need to feel like myself again. I know I sure haven’t been acting like myself lately. I make it up the steps of Haller Hall and into class just as Ms. Phillips begins.
“Sorry,” I apologize, trying to spot an open chair. The problem is, when you’re late for a class this large, the only open spots are in the front. My eyes find Sylvia in my search for an open seat, and no shocker, she’s snarling at me. With a sigh of resolution, I snag a seat in the front row. Ms. Phillips doesn’t look any happier at my late arrival, but onwards she goes.
“On Wednesday, we discussed Pavlov’s theory on classical conditioning. Today we’re going to go over the—”
A knock on the door has Ms. Phillips pausing, the class’s attention interrupted. I follow everyone else’s lead and look at the door until I wish I hadn’t. Just like Wednesday, but this time, Fredrick, the oaf, stands there, holding a small box—one much smaller than any I’ve received yet. My professor greets Fredrick, and they chat quietly, until he hands her the box and disappears. I slowly sink in my chair when she turns, her expression not one of happiness. More like annoyed. Ready to expel someone? Possibly me since she’s staring right at me.
“Ms. Stone, I’m not sure if you’re aware, but this classroom isn’t a postal drop. I suggest having your packages delivered to your place of residence and not my classroom.” She walks over to my chair and hands me the box. I grab for it, but she doesn’t immediately release it. She gives me a sharp look and lets go. Turning her back to me, she continues with her lecture.
What was that all about?
I take the box and slip it into my bag. If I wasn’t scared of my instructor and didn’t feel Sylvia’s beady eyes burning a hole in my back, I would peek. Instead, I grab my pen and lock eyes on the board. Dog, saliva, food. Unconditioned…
My phone vibrates in my hoodie pocket. Excitement shoots through me. Why I have my bat phone in my hoodie, don’t ask. I reach in and pull it out, reading the message.
Son of Satan: Open the box.
What? Is he high?
Another vibration.
Son of Satan: Now, Jensen.
I whip my head up and look around. How does he know I’m not doing it? He’s crazy if he thinks I’m opening that right here. Especially with my instructor eyeing me down every time she turns. No way. Not doing it—
Another vibration.
Son of Satan: Don’t keep me waiting.
Okay, now I’m starting to get freaked out. Is he in my class? And he’s so damn bossy.
I shoot back a simple text.
Me: No.
Even though my hand is itching with curiosity. I wait for Ms. Phillips to start drawing a chart on the board before grabbing the box and hiding it in my lap. I can’t believe I’m doing this. What if it’s some sort of ball gag and I drop it and it rolls up to the teacher’s feet? I start to chuckle but catch myself. It’s clearly too light to be one.
Reigning in my focus, I nonchalantly pull on the bow without bringing attention to myself. It slides right off, and I stuff it in my pocket. I unlatch the tucked flap on the box and lift the top open to reveal a red lace…something. I’m not one hundred percent sure what it is. It’s not enough lace to be an outfit, but too much to be a thong.