I’m trying not to be terribly jealous.
I mean, I went from high school where I had zero relationships, to college, where the only way I met guys was when Marcela and I were partying. The combination of a high volume of alcohol, lowered inhibitions, and Marcela’s expert wingwoman skills led to a lot of introductions—and a few that went beyond mere introducing.
But I haven’t been drunk since the night I got arrested, and I haven’t had sex since then either, which puts me firmly at the four-month mark of my sexual hiatus and I have to say…I miss it. Especially when every time I see Kellan he’s shirtless or sweaty or eating or playing video games—whatever the guy does, it’s sexy. What’s worse, of course, is knowing that every time I close my eyes, the guy I picture leaning in to kiss me isn’t Kellan at all.
I know I’m lonely. And with the exception of Nate, who’s among the legions of men lusting after Marcela, Crosbie’s the only guy I’ve really talked to or hung out with in eons. And as weird as it is, I’ve kind of missed him this past week. I’d gotten used to coming home from work and finding him camped out on the couch, eyes glazed as he blows up cars and robs banks with Kellan, tearing his gaze away long enough to spare a smile, switching that intense focus from the TV to me, just for a second. Which is all it takes to kick my hormones into gear and wish he’d do so much more.
The moans are increasing, mostly from the female half of the equation, and they’re muffled now, like he’s covering her mouth. Nate and I are tucked back in the corner near the balcony, so unless they’d scoped out the floor or spotted us from the ground level, they have every reason to think they’re alone.
Nate scribbles something on a piece of paper. Ten bucks says it’s Kellan and a blonde.
That’s kind of like putting your money on Meryl Streep being nominated for an Oscar.
He writes again. Go look.
I swallow a laugh. No. Two emphatic underlines.
Chicken.
I’m boring now, remember?
I certainly do. Zzz.
I kick him under the table and he yelps.
I dare you, he writes. Triple double dog dare you.
“How old are you?” I hiss.
He leans in. “Not a hundred and five like you’ve been acting.”
I recoil, offended. “I have not—”
“You’re killing yourself. If you’re not going to do anything fun, the least you can do is spy on the people who are and report back to me.”
“I think you have some kind of once-removed voyeur fetish.”
He grins. “Guilty.”
But I really don’t need any more prompting. You can’t get arrested for accidentally noticing a couple getting it on in the library. It’ll only take a minute, my grades won’t suffer. No phone calls to my parents, the Dean, or the police. What’s the harm?
Plus I’m so bored.
I inch back my chair and stand, my sneakers making no sound on the worn old carpet. The moans increase as I approach the aisle stuffed with books on capitalism, and I glance over my shoulder at Nate. He gives me the thumbs up as I turn one aisle before the lovebirds and crouch as I creep along. Halfway down I spot two pairs of legs—one in denim, one barely covered by a miniskirt—and I ease closer, their heavy breathing more than masking any noise my approach might make. Hell, I could topple over a shelf and I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t interrupt the makeout.
I’m about twenty books away when the female half of the equation moans, “Oh, Crosbie.”
His low chuckle, the one I’ve been missing all week, is immediately, terribly, unwelcome. My skin prickles with nauseating goose bumps and I feel a strange, achy clench in my chest.
“I got you,” he murmurs.
Any fleeting hope I’d held that it was a different Crosbie shatters. It’s him.
And it’s certainly his reputation.
Somehow, when I thought it was Kellan, I didn’t really care what I’d find.
But this hurts.
Instead of wisely returning to my table and telling Nate we have to go, I retrace my steps to the end of the aisle, snatch a book off the shelf, and take a breath before turning into the occupied aisle as though searching for an interesting book on capitalism.
And there they are.
Ten feet away, grinding against the shelf, his hips pinning hers to the row of books I’m never going to touch. They’re fully clothed, at least, only their lips involved in the encounter, and even though they look like they’re glued together, Crosbie jerks away the second he spots me.
His partner in library crime looks dazed and confused until she follows his gaze to discover the problem, and even though I knew what I’d find before I rounded that corner, I still hear myself stammer a pretty convincing, “Sorry, I didn’t know—” before I race back to the table where Nate waits.
“Pay up,” he says, holding out his hand.
“Joke’s on you,” I say, trying to act like I find the whole thing amusing and not appallingly, horribly painful. “It wasn’t Kellan.”
“It was too.”