Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 125845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 629(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 629(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
“Three years with Sasha for me,” Alec says with a nod, referring to his current girlfriend.
“Oh, it’s definitely a girlfriend thing,” Matt confirms. “Like, with Jesse. He and Katie have the most predictable sex life ever. When we were rooming together in the dorms last year, every time they put that stupid sock on the door I knew they’d need exactly forty-seven minutes to bang. I could probably plot out the exact time of orgasm.”
“Sounds kinda boring.” Although maybe having sex with someone you’re madly in love with feels different somehow? I have no idea. I had a few girlfriends in high school, but none of them were ever the one.
“Okay. It’s been twenty-one minutes,” Foster announces. “He’s either balls deep right now or she’s got her mouth full. Either way, the dick is in play. I repeat, the dick is in play.”
“You jackasses are the worst. As team captain, I should stop this,” I warn.
They all wait expectantly.
A slow grin stretches my mouth. On the other hand, Conor gets so much action his ego could probably use some coitus interruptus. “But I won’t. Go ahead. Do it.”
Foster and Alec sprint up the narrow staircase. A moment later their heavy footsteps thud on the ceiling. Incessant pounding reverberates through the house as their fists attack Conor’s bedroom door. It sounds like a SWAT team breaking into a crack den.
“Pablo’s hungry!” Foster shouts.
“Feed me,” Alec hollers.
On the other end of the sofa, Matt is shuddering from laughter.
An even louder commotion ensues. Angry cursing rings in the air, followed by the frantic footsteps of two huge hockey players racing down the stairs. Conor is on their tail, bare-chested, barefoot, with a pair of plaid boxers haphazardly sagging off one hip. His blond hair sticks up and his lips are a bit swollen.
“You fucking assholes,” he growls.
“What?” Foster blinks innocently. He gestures to the coffee table. “Our pig needs his lunch. We have a pet, bro. Pet comes before pussy.”
“Pet before pussy,” Matt echoes.
Gavin tears his eyes off the video game and nods gravely. “The wise words of Thomas Jefferson.”
“I fed him this morning,” Conor protests.
Foster glares. “He eats three meals a day, you selfish jackass. Look at him—he’s starving.”
I glance at the egg and his stupid face, then bury my own face in my hands and quiver in silent laughter.
“Davenport!” Conor barks. “You’re team captain. I’m filing a complaint against them.”
I lift my head, lips still twitching. “What’s the complaint?”
He jabs the air with his index finger. “I was fucking.”
“That’s not a complaint. It’s a statement of fact.”
Foster crosses his arms over his bulky chest. “Don’t forget—you gotta take five whole minutes to make sure he eats all his food.”
A vein throbs in Con’s forehead as he snatches Pablo off the table. It looks like he’s about to whip the egg against the wall, but at the last second he curses under his breath and spins around. Low mumbling comes from the kitchen.
I gape at Matt. “He’s not going to prepare actual food, is he?”
“Nah, it’s not in the rules.”
“What exactly are the rules?”
“They’re whatever we make them,” Foster replies with a grin. “But basically, five minutes are required whenever Pablo is in play.”
“But you can’t abuse the system,” Matt says.
“What system?” I sputter. “It’s all nonsense.”
“He eats three times a day, shits twice a day, and requires attention whenever one of us is bored and wants to harass whoever has him.”
“But you can’t play the attention card more than a few times a day,” Foster adds. “With that said, texting between the hours of one and five a.m. is highly encouraged.”
“This is all very reasonable,” Alec tells me. “What aren’t you getting?”
“Are you gonna do this to me when I have him?” I shudder. My turn is on Friday.
“Nah, we would never do that to you,” Foster assures me.
The others chime in.
“Never.”
“Of course not.”
“Never do that to our captain.”
Goddamn liars.
On Thursday night, Demi and I manage to squeeze in a second study session for the week. Once again, we convene in her bedroom at the Theta house. She’s sitting cross-legged on the purple bedspread, sucking on a grape lollipop. I’m sprawled on her little couch, regaling her with a juicy new tale in the sordid history of Dick Smith.
“So she promised to pick up a strawberry cheesecake along with the usual pumpkin pie. Meanwhile, everything else was coming together beautifully. The catering staff was top-notch. The table was set with the crystal my grandparents gave us as a wedding present. We had family coming in from Palm Springs and Manhattan. Thanksgiving in the Hamptons is always an important event.”
Demi observes me carefully. I know she’s trying to figure out where I’m going with this.
“But the pièce de résistance was going to be the strawberry cheesecake,” I brag. “That was the first cake my parents ever sold when they opened that original little bakery on Burton Street, which they turned into a massive dessert empire. It was perfect—Mother would be so touched that I remembered, that I’d gone out of my way to please her. God knows my brother Geoffrey doesn’t care about her happiness.”