Disorderly Conduct (The Academy #1)

“No. No, no, no,” I tell my dick. “Don’t even think about it.”

But seriously, the bikini is cotton candy pink, with flimsy, little ties on the sides. The fringe rests on her suntanned hips like a taunt. I’m supposed to just pretend I don’t see this? The bottoms mold to the pussy I know is criminally tight and always, always so damn wet for me. Her pose is modest, her arms twisted in front of her to hide her tits, but the photo is still so sexy I want to die just knowing other men have seen it. Die.

My cock does not want to die, on the other hand. He’s alive, well and thriving, thank you very much. My self-loathing isn’t strong enough to keep from enlarging the picture, looking for the reflection of a man in her sunglasses. Nope, though, just Nina. Knowing Ever was with a man in that bikini might have killed my erection, but no way that’s happening now.

“I’m sick.” I reach into my sweatpants and give my cock a vicious tug. This is what it has come to. I’m beating off to Ever’s dating profile. “Fuck, I’m sorry, cutie, I’m so sick. I just miss being inside you so bad.”

I let my head fall back and picture myself coming up behind Ever while she’s dressed in that bikini. Put the phone down, I would say to Nina. No one sees her like this but me. She would give me a mischievous look over her shoulder, then shake that tight ass against my lap.

“Fuck me,” I breathe, pumping my fist harder, my gaze zeroing in on the tiny pink triangle between her thighs. “Oh fuck, rub your pussy all over me. Slide it all over me. Make me so hungry for it. Make me hold you down and spread your legs to get my mouth on it.”

Every muscle in my neck, stomach and arms is strained beyond belief. I’m going to go off so hard. I might even come close to the kind of orgasm Ever gives me. Maybe. Maybe . . . here it comes . . . just another few jerks—

My laptop dings.

What the hell?

I sound like a racehorse after the Kentucky Derby, my cock is a throbbing monument jutting from my lap, my hand squeezed around the base. But I drop my junk like it’s hot when I see Ever is messaging me. She’s messaging me. Jesus Christ. Can she see me? Did she see me rubbing one out to her pink bikini picture?

Hi, I’m Ever ?



That’s it? That’s all she’s giving me to work with? I mean, I definitely shouldn’t message her back. She doesn’t know I’m Charlie. But ignoring her would be rude. Especially when the hard-on she inspired is lounging on my abs like a sunbather. I drum my fingers on my desk a few moments, trying to ignore the voice shouting in my head that answering is a terrible, no good, very bad idea. The desire to speak to Ever wins by a landslide.

Hey. How’s your night going?

Pretty good. I love James Brown, too.



“You do?” I have this crushing urge to hug my laptop. Or pick it up and shake it. I’m not sure which. “What else don’t I know about you, Ever?”

Do you play Frisbee in the park a lot?

Only twice. Once to find out I was terrible at it. And then one more time to confirm.

It’s all in the wrist.

Oh no. You’re supposed to state up front in your profile if you’re a Frisbee enthusiast. You didn’t read the fine print?

Frisbee enthusiasts need not obey your silly human rules.

You’re an alien, too? I have the worst taste in men.



My smile collapses like it’s a Vegas casino that’s just been imploded. Worst taste in men. As in, me? Charlie? Or is she just kidding around? I’m scared to find out.

It hits me at once that Ever is flirting with a man she thinks is someone else. Charlie is barely an afterthought right now for her. I have no idea how long I stare at the winking cursor, trying to count how many things suck ass about the current situation. In the end, I run out of fingers. And my erection has left the building on top of everything else. Another message dings on the screen from Ever, shaking me out of my stupor.

Hey, sorry if that was weird, bringing up other men. You’re the first guy I’ve messaged and I think I might be worse at this than I am at Frisbee.

No, you’re great at this, actually.



My fingers are stiff as I type, but I can’t deny wanting to reassure her. And no lie, I’m back to a semi-even keel knowing I’m the first dude she’s messaged. That’s not the kind of thing Ever would lie about. She’s not a liar at all, being nothing but honest with me since the beginning. I’m the liar in this scenario, and I’m making it worse the longer I continue this conversation, but I can’t seem to stop myself. I want to talk to her.

I’m probably the one that’s sucking at this. It’s my first time, too. I’m more of a face to face person.

Same. There’s too much left to chance here. You could have a voice like Mike Tyson.



I snort laugh. Then I make a pretty unmanly whining noise. She makes sports references, too? Reve S. Guy is one lucky asshole.

We should meet so I can lay your fears to rest.



The words have been typed before I realize my fingers are moving. What am I doing? What is wrong with me? I can’t meet up with her. I’m Charlie, not Reve. I’m pretty sure a Halloween mask and a voice manipulator are out of the question when we meet in person. So what is my end game here?

If Ever has plans to go on a date with Reve, it might prevent her from making more dates. And if I plan the date with Reve far enough in the future, it will give Charlie time to slide back in to her number-one spot. It’s such a dick move, though. Am I really capable of something like this?

God, she could have just as easily messaged someone else tonight. If I hadn’t signed up, she would be chatting with them right now. It could be anyone on the other side of the screen. Someone who could break her heart . . . or prey on her. I hear those kinds of horror stories every day. A woman meets a man on the Internet, he lies about his background and intentions, then boom. He’s a felon with warrants for credit card fraud and assault. Not Ever. Never Ever.

Wow. This is easier than I thought. Um. I think we’re supposed to be in this talking phase longer, but as long as we meet somewhere safe . . . okay. Let’s do it.



I’m jealous of myself. How ridiculous. But seriously, she’s not even going to ask me for a better picture? Or some proof of citizenship? Or a hair sample? I could be a serial killer.

I have two options here. One is to turn up to the date as Charlie. In which case, I’m pretty sure she’ll castrate me, right there in the dining room. The second option is to lead her on until the date rolls around and cancel at the last minute. Or not show up at all. No way. I’m not going to hurt Ever’s feelings like that. I still haven’t recovered from the first time, when I fucked up her speed dating night and made her sad.

So here is what I’ll do. I’ll give myself until the date to get us back to our original arrangement. As Charlie. If I can’t pull it off by next Friday . . . I’ll show up to the date as myself and come clean.

It’s risky. Really risky. But I don’t see another way that doesn’t cause Ever pain.

God help me if I blow this.

How does next Friday sound?