Stanwick was going to fail me. I’d decided to write a counter argument to her theories. Not because I got all hot and bothered from watching porn, but after some investigation, I realized pornography or stripping was the only way out for some women. Single moms, women trying to get out of abusive relationships, girls with druggies for parents—the system didn’t work for these young women, and working at Mickey D’s didn’t pay the bills. Taking their clothes off and having sex on camera gave them the notion they were controlling the situation and calling their own shots, and allowed them to pay the bills.
I was in the middle of typing a chapter about the Casting Couch, an Internet show, for lack of a better word, where a very convincing man interviews women on their sexual preferences and knowledge of porn, and promises them jobs that pay upward of five thousand dollars. Of course, the dude must sample the goods before sending in the girl’s résumé (was that what they called it?), and the two ended up exchanging oral favors and having sex on camera.
It should be noted, I wrote, I use the term “girls” in the most positive way because the young women on the couch are very much, in fact, young in age and maturity.
However, I didn’t think the couch was one of the better outcomes of the porn industry. It was more a horrible fad, perhaps even a diss to the women making real pornography flicks.
I was banging away at the keyboard, defending my position, when my phone dinged.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: I saw you, closet fan.
I smiled to no one, just my laptop and my lukewarm cup of tea. I didn’t intend to answer. I knew who it was, but I went back to my paper.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: What are you doing? We’re having a party. You can’t keep turning your nose up at my invitations. They’re legit. And we don’t check IDs.
I spent ten minutes trying to construct a sentence for my paper, but my concentration was broken. All I could think about was Steele in his uniform, his arms glistening from sweat as he winked at me. Finally, I swiped my finger over my phone and hit REPLY.
CATIE: Great win! Thanks, but I can’t come tonight.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: So you know who this is? You at a better party?
CATIE: :) No.
I hit CONTACTS on my phone and added this number under the rightful owner’s name, because apparently I was a masochist.
BLANE: What are you doing? Studying? It’s Thursday; you’ve studied enough.
CATIE: How did you get my number?
I wasn’t going to admit I was sitting alone in the library. If I had learned one thing from Grace, it was to never come across as desperate.
BLANE: Mr. Boots, of course.
CATIE: Stop it.
BLANE: You coming? Don’t make me come and find you. That’s a lot of coming separately.
CATIE: I’m not coming. You don’t need to come alone and get me. I’m sure your party is packed with willing come-helpers.
I banged my head into the desk. What was I doing? I didn’t know how to talk sex in real life, let alone sext.
CATIE: Great game, though.
BLANE: Don’t do that, Cate. Don’t shut me out. I’m coming.
Did I answer? No.
He wouldn’t find me.
I certainly wasn’t falling into that trap or down that hole, or whatever they called the abyss of hot jock boys.
I toggled the phone on IGNORE and went back to my analysis of porn with an ache a mile wide in my gut. I wanted to like boys; I really did. Despite my feminist leanings, I craved something more than the lonely existence I had established for myself, but I needed to reevaluate my goals.
I definitely didn’t need the campus player.
With that settled, I grabbed my notepad and scratched down some notes for what I wanted to research the next day, and typed the last few sentences of the casting-couch portion of my thesis.
My eyes were tired, and my head hurt from demanding it concentrate on the task at hand. I was taking a sip of my lukewarm tea when I felt the hair lift off my neck and a calloused hand run along my collarbone.
“Found you,” a low voice whispered into my ear. “Told you I would come and get you.”
I turned slowly and there he was. Green eyes, matching dark green headband keeping his hair out of his face, and low-riding worn-in Levi’s with a button fly—yes, I spent a few too many beats staring at that region. It was in my line of sight right now, after all.
“Blane?”
“That’s me!” He slapped my laptop closed and shoved it into my bag.
“What if that wasn’t saved?” I hissed at him.
“Come on, Cate. You know you’re an every-ten-seconds saver. It was saved.”
He grabbed my bag and my almost-empty cup of tea and said, “Come on.”
“What? No, I can’t just go with you.”
“You can and you will.”
He guided me out of the seat by my elbow, and I went willingly, saying “no” but showing “yes.” When I was on my feet, I wrapped my arms in front of my boobs, keeping my stance firm as I raised an eyebrow at him.
“Cate, hon, I’m not going to corrupt you. I’m not going to rape you or even take you back to the heathens occupying my apartment. Now, come on. I won tonight, and I feel like celebrating with you.”
I raised my eyebrow even higher.
“Not that kind of celebrate . . . G-rated celebrating.”
I tried to stop it, but my frown had a mind of its own.
“Come on,” he said in a wheedling tone. “It’ll be fun. Stop with all that he likes me like a buddy shit in your head. I see it running around under your big head of curls.”
“Fine, I’ll fucking go,” I said.