The Mistake

I’m still not in the mood to see a movie, but after Dean twisted my arm, I realized that getting out of the house might not be the worst idea. Hannah usually comes by after work on Wednesdays, so hopefully she and Garrett will already be asleep by the time Dean and I get home. And yes, I know her work schedule, sad pathetic loser that I am.

On the bright side, I haven’t been obsessing over her as much as usual. The person who monopolized my thoughts all weekend was not Hannah, but Grace. Christ, and don’t get me started on Monday’s oral spectacular. When I jerked off last night, it was to the memory of Grace’s firm, creamy thighs and hot, tight—

“Logan. Hey.”

I blink in confusion as Grace enters my line of vision. For a second, I wonder if my dirty mind somehow conjured up the image of her, but nope. She’s actually here, standing five feet from the box office.

“Hey,” I greet her.

She smiles, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She’s in a tight sweater, black yoga pants, and an unzipped blue windbreaker, looking like she stepped off the pages of an Abercrombie & Fitch catalogue. I kind of like the whole comfy-but-hot look she has going on.

I hear a soft ahem and notice there’s someone standing beside her. A curvy, raven-haired girl in a brown leather skirt and fuzzy red top. And she’s gaping at me. Like, jaw-scraping-the-floor gaping.

Someone pokes me from behind. “Dude,” Dean says irritably. “Stick to the plan. You, tickets. Me, popcorn.”

I thrust out the twenty-dollar bill in my hand. “Change of plans. I’ll grab the snacks.”

He rolls his eyes, then spares an admiring glance at Grace’s friend’s tits before ambling off to grab the tickets.

“What are you guys here to see?” I ask Grace.

She grins. “What do you think?” She holds up two tickets and I chuckle when I glimpse the title of the Statham movie.

Of course. I forgot what an action nut she is.

“That’s what we’re watching too. We should all sit together.”

Her friend makes another squeaky noise. Actually, it’s more of a gasp, with a bit of a wheeze thrown in there. There’s a lot going on in that one little sound.

Grace gestures to her friend. “This is Ramona. Ramona, this is Logan.”

The friend looks me up and down. “I know who he is.”

Aw, hell. I’ve seen that look before. Many, many times, on the faces of many, many women. As if she’s picturing me naked and inside her.

Too bad I’m not interested in fulfilling that fantasy. I’m wholly focused on Grace, and the parade of wicked images flashing through my mind. Like the way her eyes glazed over when my tongue first touched her clit. And the breathy noises she made when she came. And—

“It’s Grace’s birthday,” the friend announces.

Grace’s features crease in discomfort. “Ramona.”

“Shit, it is?” I grin at her. “Happy birthday, gorgeous.”

I don’t miss the way her friend’s jaw slackens again, or how Grace shifts in visible embarrassment.

“Thanks.” Her bottom lip juts out glumly. “I’m nineteen today. Go me.”

I snicker. “I take it you’re not a birthday person?”

“Absolutely not. My mother scarred me for life.”

Her friend suddenly snorts. “Hey, remember the year at the spring fair? When your mom crashed the stage during that folk band’s set and performed a birthday rap for you?”

“You mean do I remember the day I researched how to emancipate myself from my parents?” Grace replies in a dry voice. “Vividly.”

Ramona shoots me a conspiratorial look. “I wanted to invite some people over to the dorm to celebrate, but she threatened to cut off both my arms and feed them to me if I did. So we compromised by going to the movies.”

We’re interrupted by Dean, who frowns when he sees my empty hands. “For fuck’s sake, do I have to do everything?” Then, as if remembering he’s in the presence of two very pretty girls, he breaks out in a grin. “Also, are you gonna introduce me or what?”

“This is Grace and—” Shit, I’ve already forgotten the friend’s name.

“Ramona,” she supplies, and that hungry gaze fixates on Dean now.

She can ogle him as much as she wants, but I can pretty much guarantee that the moment he finds out she’s a freshman, Dean won’t be ogling her back.

For all his manwhoring, the guy has a strict rule about not doing freshmen. I’m not sure I blame him, considering our little stalker incident at the start of the year. Dean had hooked up with a freshman, who, after one night of exquisite passion, decided they were madly in love. She then proceeded to show up at our house at all hours of the day and night, sometimes wearing clothes, other times not wearing clothes, usually armed with flowers and love letters and—my personal favorite—a framed photo of herself wearing Dean’s hockey jersey.

Sometimes when I’m falling asleep, I can still hear her wailing Deeeeeeeeean outside my window.