Dirty English Page 2

  “Don’t worry about me, Shelley. I’m good, okay? I don’t need a guy in my life to make me happy. All I need is you and Blake—and the occasional hookup.” Blake was my other best friend from Oakmont Prep who’d come to Whitman as well.

  She smirked. “Your sex rules again?”

  I nodded.

  Here’s the thing. I’d had sex since Colby. Plenty of times. The events of that night didn’t ruin my sexuality, only my trust in men. So a year after Colby, I halfheartedly propositioned a guy from my science class and asked him to come back to my room. Connor had been his name, and I’d seen him checking me out more than once when we had a lab together. That day, he’d looked at me like I’d suddenly grown two heads—me having a reputation as a bit of a bitch when it came to guys flirting with me—but he’d been eager. We’d walked back to my dorm room, and while the sex had been horrible, a furtive and awkward encounter, it proved that Colby had not won.

  He was not the last person to touch me.

  My body was my own.

  So was my heart, and I planned to keep it that way.

  After that, sex got easy—as long as I was in control. Over the past year, I’d made it into a game with strict rules. Pick an average guy who wasn’t popular or rich or too good-looking. Make sure he wasn’t taken. Make sure he didn’t drink or do drugs. Make sure he wasn’t an escapee from the local insane asylum. Have sex. Never speak to him again. End of story.

  It was about control. My choice. My rules.

  I had to initiate the first move, and I had to be on top. Most importantly, I had to be in my own bed and around my own things. Sex with me was tame by most standards, I suppose, based on some of the crazy stories Shelley had told me about her adventures. But I didn’t care. If they wanted me, then they’d follow my lead.

  “Maybe I’ll join a nunnery.”

  She grinned. “You don’t look good in black.”

  “True.”

  “And you aren’t even Catholic, goofball.”

  “Again, true.” I smiled back widely. I didn’t mind her teasing me. It was better than pity.

  I moved past her and we went back into my apartment to unpack. I pulled out a picture of me with Granny on her front porch the day I left for Whitman freshman year. Most days, it hurt to look at that photo, to see the skinny girl in the picture with the saggy jeans and wrapped wrists. But it was the last picture I had of Granny and me together, and that was worth something to me no matter how hard it was to be reminded of my foolish mistake with Colby. I set it on the coffee table.

  We finished putting the dishes in the kitchen cabinets and then moved to the bedroom where she helped me arrange my closets. Later, we ventured into the extra bedroom, which was more like a tiny storage room. This was university housing and the apartments were notoriously small, but I managed to fit my jewelry supplies and a twin bed in there.

  But I hadn’t made any jewelry in two years. The metals I’d once loved to shape and mold had become a metaphor for my own stupidity in love.

  Shelley fiddled with one of my drawing pads, a pensive look on her face. She darted her eyes at me and then back at the boxes against the wall.

  I steeled myself for her questions.

  “When are you going to get serious about your jewelry? What are you going to do when you graduate in two years?” She opened the book and flipped through the pages. “Besides, I really need a new necklace. Something with a butterfly. Or a heart.” Her face softened as she looked up at me. “Remember the little friendship medallions you made us when we were fifteen—”

  “Shelley, I’m not talking about this. I can’t make jack right now.”

  She cocked her head. “Are you just going to give up on your dreams because you made a ring for Colby? It’s been two years, yet he’s still dictating your future. It’s fucked up. At one time this was all you wanted to do—design and create. Do you honestly think you’d be happy in some job where you can’t make something beautiful?” She sighed, a resigned look on her face. “I mean, you use sex with guys to say you’re past him, but you’re not. Not really. You’re still punishing yourself for something that’s not even your fault.”

  It was my fault. I’d been drunk. I’d taken his drugs. Willingly.

  The familiar shame settled in my gut. I blinked rapidly. “You weren’t in that hotel room. You know nothing.”

  She bit her lip. Nodded. “You’re right, I wasn’t, but I saw you afterward. I took you home and took care of you until your mom got back from Vegas. I know how wrecked you were. I—I just love you, that’s all.”

  I exhaled and paced around the room, setting things out, arranging them. We’d gotten too serious. “Besides, butterflies and hearts are worse than tramp stamps. If I made you a piece, it would stand for something big.”

  She grinned. “Like what?”

  “Maybe your phone number on something since you give it out so much to guys.”

  She pretended to be pissed but then giggled. “God, that is so true. I’m a slut.”

  We laughed. “Come on, let’s go get the rest of my stuff.” We made our way back outside my apartment and stood in the breezeway. I sighed as I looked out over the parking lot. I still had several more boxes to bring up before I could even think about relaxing.

  She poked me in the arm. “Hey, I have an idea. Let’s go meet your neighbor.”

  I shook my head. “No, it’s move-in day, and I’m sure they’re just as busy as we are.”

  She ignored me and tiptoed over to the door. Instead of knocking, she pushed the cracked door open and peeked inside the darkened apartment. “I don’t see anyone. Maybe they’re in the back on the balcony.” A grin crossed her face. “Which gives us plenty of time to be nosy.” She bent down and riffled through the boxes outside, pulling out a cap with a Union Jack flag on it, a pair of men’s athletic underwear, a pair of men’s black Chucks. She went a bit crazy, pulling out fingerless boxing gloves—that was interesting—and a collection of postcards from London.

  “Oh, your neighbor is definitely a guy. And hung.” She held up a box of condoms. Super-sized and ribbed. Triumph gleamed in her eyes. “Magnums, baby. Score,” she sang out.

  My eyes scanned the door to make sure no one saw us. “Put that stuff back before they come out here. Are you insane?”

  “Yes.”

  I groaned at her obvious disinterest in being caught, but I couldn’t help venturing closer. I did want to know more about my neighbor who read the classics and listened to rap music.

  She tapped her chin, eyes coasting over the contents. “Even with the musty books, he’s not a terrible combo. I’d do him.”

  “You’d do Manson.”

  She laughed.

  I snapped the postcards out of her hand and tossed them back where she’d gotten them. “Step away from the box, or I won’t go to the Tau party with you tonight or wear that silly dress you spent an hour hemming last night.” Shelley was a fashion major and took all sewing projects serious. I was her number one model.

  She sent the box a forlorn look and pouted. “Fine, you win. Party pooper.”

  “Huh. You need me to keep you in line. You never would have survived freshman English if I hadn’t been yelling in your ear every morning to get up.”

  She agreed—a little too easily—and we moved back inside and went to sit on the balcony.

  “What’s that you have?” I asked later, noticing a brown book she kept pressed against her side.

  She glanced down with a feigned look of surprise. “Oh this old thing? I got so wrapped up in your new place, I must have forgotten to put it back in the box.”

  Right. I narrowed my eyes. “Really?”

  She got a giddy expression on her face, ignoring my sarcasm. “Okay, you got me. It’s Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. I snitched it from your neighbor. I mean, it’s your favorite book because your name is in it.” She let out a dramatic sigh and pressed the book to her heart. “Don’t you see? It’s fate. You and the boring neighb
or dude are meant to be.”

  I shook my head. Sometimes she was too much. “That’s it. No more silly romantic movies for you. I don’t even know why we’re friends. I’m revoking our friendship as of now.” I snatched the book out of her hands. An old hardback with gold lettering, it was an older printing, perhaps even valuable.

  What kind of guy hangs on to a book like this?

  The kind that believes in love, my heart whispered.

  I cracked the book open and turned the pages until I found the chapter where Mr. Darcy describes how he fell in love with Elizabeth Bennet: I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.

  Sappy drivel. I snapped it shut. “I love lots of books. It’s called reading, you know. You should try it.”

  “No need. I have my looks.” She preened and flicked a strand of hair over her shoulder. “Where are you going?” she called as I marched through the living room and toward the front door.

  I held the book up in my hands. “Hello! To return what you stole.”

  She threw her arms up. “It accidentally got stuck to my hand, I swear! There’s a difference!”

  “Uh-huh.” I walked over to the neighbor’s, but the door was shut, and the boxes were gone. I put my ear to the door, but all was silent.

  The sudden blast of music from a car in the parking lot made me jump.

  I leaned over the breezeway railing that overlooked the parking lot and searched below until I found a rugged-looking black Jeep with the top off. The Beastie Boys song “Fight for Your Right” reached my ears. I blinked. Damn, it was loud.

  The driver was a bulky guy with a black Union Jack hat pulled low over his brow, blocking his face from me, leaving only the ends of his brown hair showing as it curled around the sides. A pair of aviators rested on his nose. Even from here, I saw broad shoulders and taut, muscular forearms as he shifted gears on the manual transmission. I even caught the flash of tattoos on his arms but couldn’t make them out.

  Mystery neighbor? It was the same hat from the box.

  I found myself leaning over further, arching my neck to see more of him.

  Something about a big dude that read Pride and Prejudice made me breathless.

  In my head earlier, as we’d gone through the boxes, I’d pictured my neighbor as more the Harry Potter type, a geek with black-rimmed glasses and a shy smile. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

  Before he pulled out into the traffic, he turned and glanced back at the apartment building, his shielded eyes seeming to zero in on me. His car idled as he looked at me, and even though there were quite a few yards between us, I felt the physical weight of his stare.

  I inhaled sharply, goosebumps making the hair on my arms rise up.

  Had he seen Shelley going through his things? Shit.

  The book! I looked down to see it was still clutched it in my other hand.

  Dammit.

  Feeling ridiculous, I tore my eyes off him and backed up slowly until he was out of my vision. I propped the book up against his door and bolted for my apartment.

  “Who was that?” Shelley asked as I flew in the door.

  I shook my head. “It wasn’t Harry Potter, that’s for sure.”

  NOTE TO SELF: arriving at the first frat party of the year at the Tau house with a black eye and without your usual girlfriend—now ex—raises a lot of questions and a shit-ton of stares.

  The black eye was from a fight the night before. Right when it had looked like I was toast, I’d got in a heavy hook straight to the guy’s jaw and a high kick to the gut. He’d gone down like a sack of bricks. It was my third win since uni had ended in May.

  I rubbed my sore fists against my jeans.

  The pain was worth every cent I’d taken home.

  “Where’s Nadia?” one of the honorary frat little sisters asked with a big smile when I came in the door.

  I grunted. “Not with me. I’d check with the men’s tennis team.”

  Her eyebrows went up as I marched on by. She obviously hadn’t heard that Whitman’s It couple had broken up over the summer. I’d ended it when I’d walk in on Nadia bouncing on top of some other guy’s cock. I clenched my fists, remembering her deception. She’d known exactly when I’d be walking through that door, and she’d timed it perfectly, all part of her plan to force me to freak out and do what she wanted. Buy her a ring, go to law school, be like my wanker father. Never going to happen.

  Her manipulations had failed, and I’d dumped her.

  To borrow a saying from my dead mum, she was all fur coat and no knickers.

  Most days I felt like my heart had recovered, but my faith in women was shit.

  As far as I knew, Nadia was still with her new guy, some fancy tennis player from Brazil. Donatello or Michelangelo or something. Ninja Turtle? Yeah.

  I pushed thoughts of her away and entered the large den which on a normal day would have a row of couches, end tables, and beer bottles, but now had a mass of bodies gyrating on a makeshift dance floor. Music blared, a strobe light ricocheted around the room, and red Solo cups littered the floor.

  I wasn’t a member of this frat—I didn’t have time to get rat-arsed every night—but my twin brother, Dax, was the Tau President, so it was understood I was always invited.

  Questions kept coming from partygoers as I crossed the room.

  “Hey, Nadia isn’t with you?” one of the girls asked. That’s right. She’s a bloody slag and I’m done with her.

  “Dude, what happened to your eye?” a guy called as I passed. I sent him a dark look. Seriously? You don’t know about the underground fighting? You must be new at Whitman.

  I grabbed a bottle of water from the bar and twisted off the top to take a big drink.

  “Dirty English is in the house! About fucking time,” Dax called out as he jumped down the staircase and landed on the bottom floor, a distance of about seven feet.

  “Bugger me, you’re going to kill yourself doing that.”

  He tossed his head back and let out a deep laugh. “Me? Dangerous? Look in the mirror, arsehole.”

  I sighed, half annoyed, half glad to see him. Polar opposites, he was the happy-go-lucky one who partied while I was the serious one who dreamed of teaching mixed martial arts at my own gym and maybe getting a run at the UFC.

  I peered into a face nearly identical to mine, except for the scruffy beard he had going on. His grin was lopsided.

  “You’re snockered, brother,” I said.

  He shrugged, ignoring me. “Where have you been? This party is off the chain, and I need my wingman.”

  I grinned. “Whoa. You’re my wingman.”

  His lips twitched. “Let’s try it out then. Pick a hottie and let’s see who she wants more? I’m up on you by three already.”

  “You’re keeping score?”

  When you have a twin, everything’s a competition.

  Freshmen year, we’d pretended to be the other one for a week, even going so far as to wear long sleeves so no one saw my tattoos or Dax’s lack of. We’d switched up girls for the weekend too. Damn crazy. They’d dumped us when they discovered the truth. I didn’t blame them. But lately those days seemed like a distant memory. At twenty-one, I was close to graduation and about to be out on my own while he’d still be here trying to finish his degree.

  Dax ruffled his hair back and checked his breath by holding his hand up and blowing. He rolled his neck. “Alright, the next pretty bird that walks through that door is up for grabs. The first one to get a kiss wins.”

  “Stakes?” I asked.

  “The usual.”

  I smirked. “It’s your dollar.”

  His eyes gleamed. “It’s not about the money, brother.”

  I laughed. Dax had a way about him that always made you grin even when your ship was sinking fast.

  Just then, I heard the front door open and saw Blake, one of the frat brothers, shooting out of his seat like he�
��d been shot in the arse by an arrow. Lorna, who’d been sitting in his lap, fell to the floor in a heap. I leaned down to help her up. Blake was a bit of a mystery to me, but Lorna was a popular girl and most guys knew her, me included.

  “Ouch, love. You good?”

  She dusted herself off, annoyance on her face as she took in the girls who’d entered the house. “Thanks. God, Blake is such a freak when it comes to her. I thought he was going to be with me tonight, but then he tells me she’s coming. I just don’t get it. She’s not even that pretty. She’s weird and slutty.” She crossed her arms and glared. “He sees her across the quad and practically runs to her.”

  A bit more than I wanted to know, but I smiled to soften the blow of her being rejected.

  I turned to see why the room had gone quiet.

  Or maybe it just seemed that way to me.

  She sauntered straight in the room like she belonged there, yet the bravado was fake—I could tell by the fluttering eyelashes and the way she clutched her purse like a lifeline.

  I recognized her right away although I don’t think she’d ever looked at me twice in our years at Whitman. Which was surprising. This was a fairly small, albeit prestigious, uni, and I’m used to girls flirting with me in the hallways and classrooms. After all, it’s hard to miss the guy with the English accent who was voted Whitman’s Sexiest Man on Campus by the sororities. But this girl, she lived in a bubble, and seeing her out at a frat party was like spotting a unicorn.

  Her name was Elizabeth Bennett, and the only reason I knew that much was because we’d had a class together last year and the professor had called roll.

  It was a memorable name.

  I remembered turning to check out the girl with a heroine’s name, but she’d bent her head over a textbook already. She’d sat in the back of the class all semester and never once spoken to me—or to anyone. Most people said she was stuck-up. Some guys even claimed she’d shagged them in her room and then had never spoken to them again.