Boyfriend Bargain Read online

  I have to be realistic.

  This crazy, harebrained idea will never work.

  Plus, I don’t have time for over-the-top, testosterone-driven superstar athletes.

  Until now, that is.

  I have to make time.

  Because Zack Morgan is the key to me getting into the law school of my dreams. He just has to agree to be my fake boyfriend.

  2

  Zack

  The door to the Kappa house looms in front of me, and I toy with the idea of ditching. I hate the dog and pony show that waits for me inside.

  I’m sick of it.

  I know what they see—a talented hockey player with the world at his feet—but it’s not true. Nothing is true.

  I push a hand through my hair. What I should do is get the hell out of here and decompress from our win tonight—which we barely pulled out of our ass.

  At least I didn’t have another episode.

  My gut twists as I think back to the Minnesota-Duluth game and how I lost my shit. I can’t let that happen again, not when it might get enough press that the Predators catch on.

  I touch the necklace that’s under my shirt. It’s not a magic talisman, but it does keep me grounded—for now—and as my new sports psychologist says, it sure as hell won’t hurt.

  I grimace. He saw my fuckup all over TV like everyone else.

  I’ve been nervous and anxious during a game before, but that debacle…that was a new animal.

  I feel color rising on my face. It was also embarrassing.

  That night, the medics and trainers took one look at me and called 911. I came to and told them to stop. Fuck, I pleaded for them to cancel the ambulance, but they didn’t and I ended up at the ER. One EKG and a few tests later, there I was, my heart just fine. Our team lost to our biggest rival, and I walked out of the hospital and told the public I’d had a recent bout with the flu and wasn’t completely recovered yet.

  Lie.

  Only Coach, Eric, and Reece know the truth.

  Because if people discover I have real issues with anxiety, I’m done in the NHL, all my dreams destroyed.

  Thus the new psychologist. The thing is, you can’t fix a guy with guilt so deep it cuts like a knife.

  “Dude. You going to stand out here in the cold all night? Everyone’s waiting.” Eric winks and nods his head at the door. “Some girl is dying to get with you.”

  I throw a look at him, taking in the styled dark red hair and short beard. He’s all decked out in his blue dress shirt, slacks, and loafers—his I’m gonna get laid tonight outfit. My best friend since summer training his freshman year, he’s a year younger than me and sharp as hell underneath that lighthearted playboy exterior.

  “It’s just a party, man.” This comes from my brother Reece, who’s also dressed for pussy, his face angular and chiseled like mine. His blond hair is short, though, and he’s two inches shorter than me.

  He and the team are the reason I decided to finish my senior year when I could have gone straight to the NHL. I want a championship for Hawthorne so bad I can feel it in my bones. We missed it last year, and damn, that sticks in my throat.

  Reece gives me a come on look, exasperation on his face. “You need to lighten up. Just enjoy yourself.”

  Enjoy myself?

  My lips tighten. He doesn’t get that I’m tired of the attention. “You two go on.” I stuff my hands in my jeans. “I’ll call an Uber, and you can drive my Escalade back.” I’m thinking most of the Uber drivers might be in for the night by the time they leave.

  Eric throws an arm around my shoulders. “Fuck that. These people need to see us. We won and they planned this to see you, the king.” He grins, wide and genuine, and I have to smirk at the missing tooth from tonight’s game. He’ll get it fixed in a few days, but right now he doesn’t even care, just riding high on our win.

  I look back at the Kappa house. Lately these victory parties just remind me that I don’t deserve accolades.

  I’m a fucking terrible person.

  And I’m slowly losing my mind.

  I resist the urge to just take off running, to let my body exhaust itself until I can’t feel anything but the burn of exercise. I wish I could just be normal and take this knot in my gut and make it work for me, not against me.

  I know the truth, though, straight from the head doctor: You have an issue. This is your new normal.

  I inhale several deep breaths and let them out slowly.

  “All right.” I give Eric a nod and he opens the door, music spilling out.

  We walk in and gaze around the darkened room, and I feel the weight of every person in it staring at me. I straighten my shoulders and give a defiant glare back, putting my mask on, pretending I don’t have a care in the world.

  People swarm around us and I push through, trying to feel the excitement I used to from the attention, but all I have is dread in my stomach—

  Until my gaze sweeps the room and meets hers as she peers around a column.

  Her.

  Her.

  Her.

  I narrow my eyes, my heart accelerating, my brow knitting.

  I’ve seen her before in passing, those wide, intelligent eyes and that full, pouty mouth with the slight indentation in the middle.

  I’ve never seen her here, though, and not with her hair down and glasses gone.

  Fuck me.

  3

  Sugar

  Inside my small crossbody purse, my phone vibrates, diverting my attention away from the party, and I pull it out. It’s been doing this for the past ten minutes, and I’ve been ignoring it, but now that Zack has arrived and the wait is over, I’m nervous it might be Mara trying to get in touch with me. She’s raised me since my mama died, and it gnaws at me that once she’s gone, I won’t have anyone left at all, except for the relatives in LA—that’s Lower Alabama—and I don’t want anything to do with my father’s people.

  It’s my ex, Bennett, who’s sending me messages, and a long sigh slips out of my mouth as I scroll up to see several texts. My hands tighten around the cell.

  I’m knocking on your door. Where are you?

  Please, babe, open the door. BTW, this dorm sucks balls.

  Jesus…fuck…where are you? I need some closure.

  Shit. Just call me, text me. Anything. Please. What you saw that night…I’m sorry! I can explain it.

  My heart drops, feeling like someone tossed an anvil on it. We’ve only been broken up for a month, and here I am, still missing the cheating bastard. Familiar anger rushes to the surface and my gut churns at the memory of seeing him with another girl in the parking lot of the bar where he plays with his band. I recall the steamed-up windows of his Land Cruiser, her legs straddling his in the driver’s seat—

  Why didn’t I see what a liar he was?

  Sexy tattoos and a guitar, Sugar. I was blinded. I got sucked in and drank the Kool-Aid. I think back to the phone numbers I’d find crumpled up in his pockets, the long, hungry looks girls gave him when he was on stage, the way they swooned when he sang a slow song—one he supposedly wrote for me. He was a ticking time bomb, just waiting to explode, and well, I guess he did—inside some chick in the parking lot.

  I chew on my bottom lip and push thoughts of him away.

  Looking around the room, I see my new roommate Julia at the bar. She waves me over, and I respond with a nod.

  Julia isn’t my favorite person in the world, but she did agree to meet me here so I wouldn’t be the Lone Ranger, and I’m doing my best to get to know her.

  We met a few weeks ago when I moved into the dorm after Christmas. I originally thought I would be living off campus with Bennett at his apartment, so I didn’t arrange a dorm room, which left me stuck in Ellington Hall, an ancient, creaky place with hissing radiators and dark stairwells.

  I make my way over to her and plop down on one of the stools.

  There’s a hard glint in her pretty whiskey-colored eyes as she turns and studies me, the movement accentu
ating her strapless black pleather dress. Delicate heels are on her feet. Obviously, my frat party attire sucks. “Where were you?” she asks.

  I can’t tell her I’ve been hunkering down behind a support beam. Plus, the independent streak in me is annoyed. “Why?”

  She shoots me side-eye from underneath her smoky eyeshadow. “You disappeared and never came back. I made an entire loop around the place looking for you.”

  “I can handle myself fine, Julia. I work at Boobie Bungalow, the finest gentlemen’s club in Sparrow Lake, Minnesota,” I add with a smirk, quoting the slogan on the faded billboard next to the interstate.

  Her eyes flare big as saucers. “You strip? Holy cow. You look so…nice, but I guess you’ve got the boobs for it.”

  “Uh, thanks, but I don’t strip. I just run errands and tend bar sometimes.”

  She nods. “Is that how you’re planning on paying for law school?”

  I take another sip of punch. “I’m counting on student loans for law school.” I can’t ask Mara to foot that bill—being a strip club owner doesn’t make you rich, and she isn’t even technically family. She is the only good friend my mama ever had, and if she hadn’t taken me in, child protective services would have.

  “I see,” she says, looking bored. She comes to these parties for random hookups, and I know that because she told me so right before we met out in the parking lot and walked in together. I’m here for hot sex. Those were her exact words.

  Okay. Good to know, good to know. You have to appreciate her honesty. I mentally filed it away.

  A cute girl with pink and white hair cut in a pixie style is in front of me, indicating my Solo cup. “Want more punch?”

  I grimace and give Pixie Girl a hopeful look. “Got any top-shelf tequila back there?”

  She smirks. “I suppose you’d want fruit with that? This isn’t the Ritz.”

  “Vodka? Bourbon? Prosecco?” My gaze is hopeful, but she shakes her head with each question.

  “Look, it’s spiked punch or draft beer. You pick.” Her annoyed gaze is calling me a special snowflake, and I sigh. I’m just not quite sure what’s in that punch, and I’m a cautious person.

  “I’m good,” I say.

  She shrugs and moves on to someone else.

  I turn back to face the party, and Julia’s gaze bounces over the crowd of people, stopping on the hockey players.

  Praise Jesus. This might be a way in. “Please tell me you know them,” I say.

  Her lips tighten as her red nails tap against the wooden bar. “I do, and it’s best to avoid them. If you’re here for an athlete, I suggest the volleyball or tennis players—both have great fingers.” She smirks, giving me a look. “Avoid the wrestlers though. Word is they all have the clap.”

  I blink. Indeed, she is knowledgeable. She also thinks I’m here for a one-night stand. Whatever. Let her think what she wants.

  “I sense backstory. What happened with the hockey guys? Did you hook up with one?”

  I cross my fingers. Please don’t say Zack. It will be super weird if my new, bad-girl roomie has slept with my future fake boyfriend—that is, if I can get the nerve up to ask him.

  “No. They’re just all assholes.” She fidgets and tilts her head toward the dance floor, clearly changing the topic. “See anyone you know?”

  My shoulders slump against the bar. “I see faces I recognize, but this isn’t really my crowd.”

  A group of broad-shouldered men in football jerseys saunter past us, headed toward the dartboard in the back of the room, and one of them gives her an eye waggle.

  “Now that’s a tall drink of water.” Straightening up, she tucks a strand of sleek brown hair behind her ear. “And I’ve always wanted to score a tight end or a wide receiver.”

  I snort. “You just like saying the names of those positions.”

  “Maybe.” She downs her punch. “I should follow them.”

  My mouth opens. “How do you even start a conversation with a guy you don’t know?” Please. I need to know.

  She arches an elegant eyebrow. “Girl, you’re just out of practice because you were in a relationship for two years. You just bat those eyes and start talking about whatever he likes—and in this case, it’s how spectacularly he handled that ball.”

  I snort, watching her check out the football players at the dartboard. Again. “Go on. I’ll be fine. I know how to kick a guy in the nuts if I have to.”

  Considering she was worried about where I was before, it doesn’t take much convincing this time. I watch as she fluffs out her hair and sways away from me, her willowy figure drawing its fair share of looks. She makes her way over to the group of players, steering herself right into the center of the action where the guys are.

  She’s good.

  A long exhale comes from me as I look around the room for Zack.

  Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve put this off long enough.

  I gather my resolve. No way am I leaving this party until I’ve at least spoken to Zack Morgan.

  If Julia can do it, so can I.

  4

  Sugar

  Half an hour later, I’ve made zero progress and haven’t budged from the bar. I suck so bad. Julia has disappeared upstairs with a football player and I’m alone. When Pixie Girl does a pee dance, I volunteer to make sure no one steals the punch, even though she was kind of mean to me earlier. She gives me a long look, promises to be right back, and dashes to the restroom.

  Feeling like a bump on a log, I groan, surveying the crowd. There are so many people here, I have no clue where he is, and I keep hoping he’ll walk by to get a drink, but he doesn’t. I picture random girls at his beck and call, rushing to refill his glass and feeding him juicy strawberries on some sofa in the back. Scratch that—it’s way too PG. He’s probably getting sucked off in a bedroom upstairs.

  It feels as if someone has cranked up the heat, and I take my coat off and tie it around my waist.

  I’m looking at my phone when a warm, sweaty body appears next to me.

  Frat Boy.

  He’s back and we’re only a few feet apart. I get a better impression of him, stocky with a barrel chest and big biceps…like a wrestler. I recall Julia’s warning about the clap. Great. Just great.

  There’s a red zit on his forehead and it takes center stage as he shoves back a lock of brown hair that’s fallen in his face. Giving me a once-over, his beady gaze lingers on my chest.

  “Heyyyyyyy, you. Has anyone ever said you look like an angel?”

  Ugh. “I haven’t fallen from heaven, so don’t even go there.”

  He squints down at me, his words slurred. “I’ve never seen you at a Kappa party. You new here?”

  “Stellar observation. Now if you don’t mind, I have to call my boyfriend. He’s on his way here.” I pull out my phone, wave it at him, and pretend to scroll through my contacts. I could leave and head back to my column, but I’m hoping he’ll take the hint and move on. I’ve become fond of my barstool.

  “You’re hot,” Frat Boy mumbles on an exhalation as he slides in closer and tosses an arm around my shoulders. “And I won’t tell your boyfriend if you want to hang out. I won’t tell my girlfriend either. Have you seen her?” He scans the area as if looking for her, and when he seems satisfied the coast is clear, he leans in, giving me a whiff of his alcohol-laced breath.

  “I don’t know your girlfriend,” I snap as I edge away until his arm drops. “But I feel sorry for her.”

  It’s like he doesn’t hear me. Putting his elbows on the bar, he bends his head down until we’re practically cheek to cheek. “Name’s Harry by the way.”

  I stare at my phone, mentally willing him to get out of my face.

  “Friends call me Horny Harry. Want to know why?” He does a little giggle and puts his arm around my shoulders. Again.

  I’ve been described as haughty a few times (I’m really not), but with my height of five ten, I do have a glorious glare. I use it now. “Look, I’m not interested, oka
y? You should go away.” I poke at his arm a few times until it slips off my shoulders.

  His face reddens. “Hey now. You blinked at me.” He sounds like a petulant child as he points down at his shirt.

  If his brains were leather, he wouldn’t have enough to saddle a June bug. I can practically hear my mama saying the words.

  “Everyone blinks.” I stand. “Why can’t a girl just come to a barstool and have a drink—even if it isn’t a decent one? Huh? Is that so hard? Why can’t I just sit here and watch the crowd and look for hockey players? That’s a rhetorical question, by the way.”

  He leers. “Whatever. My room is just upstairs. I have some beer in the fridge and condoms. Sounds good, right?” He nods his head toward the steps that lead to the upper level of the house. “Come on, babe.”

  Babe.

  BABE.

  Bennett called me that and no one will ever again. It’s a promise to myself. I’m better than babe.

  Picking up my purse from the bar, I cross the strap over my shirt.

  He makes a pout. “Ah, don’t leave like that. We were just getting to know each other.” He moves as if to take my arm, but I give him a little push in the chest. Dude probably weighs about two fifty, and of course, it does no good.

  “Are you cheating on me already?” The shrill tone comes from Pixie Girl. I guess she’s back from her pee break. With her hands on her hips, she sends a scathing look at Frat Boy and then turns it on me. “And you? What makes you think you can flirt with my man? Is that why you offered to watch the bar?”

  Oh. My. God.

  I shake my head at her. “No! This—this isn’t what you think. I’m not flirting—”

  “Then why are you standing there with your fuck-me eyes on him?” She glares at me.