The Play: Chapter 32

A few days after New Year’s, Hunter and I are back on campus walking toward the Psych building. It’s the final lecture of the semester and we’re supposed to be receiving our case studies back, but while I’ve got a spring to my step as we amble down the path, Hunter’s long gait is stilted and his expression is sullen. He’s been sulking non-stop since we had brunch with my father.

“God, could you try to smile?” I demand. “It’s such a beautiful day.”

“It’s minus-fucking-twenty and your dad hates me. It’s not a beautiful day.”

I suppress a sigh. “He doesn’t hate you. He liked you.”

“If by liked, you mean loathed, then you’re right.”

“I see. Now he doesn’t just hate you—he loathes you. Someone’s been drinking the drama juice.”

“And someone’s refusing to face the truth,” Hunter grumbles. “Your father did not like me.”

I want to argue again, but it’s getting harder to find a solid defense for my father’s behavior.

I refuse to say it aloud, because I don’t want to injure Hunter’s pride any further, but brunch was…awful.

It did not go well.

I really wish Mom had been there to create a parental balance, but she’s still in Florida, and it was me and Hunter versus my father from the get-go. After a whopping two questions about Hunter’s background, Dad determined he was dealing with a spoiled rich boy from Greenwich, Connecticut. Which is absolutely not the case—Hunter is the most down-to-earth person I know, and his work ethic is stellar.

But my father is incredibly biased and impossible to please. He grew up poor and sacrificed so much to get to where he is now, so needless to say, anyone born with a silver spoon in their mouth already has one strike in my father’s eyes.

And he wasn’t even impressed by Hunter’s athletic achievements. I thought for sure that would win him over. I not-so-subtly brought up how much work is required in order to excel in a sport, but I think by that point Dad was just trying to be difficult because he waved my comment off. Which is bullshit. He’s a big football fan, and I’ve heard him say numerous times that football players possess an incredible work ethic.

Clearly, Dad is still on Team Nico. But I’m hoping he switches his loyalties, because I’m Team Hunter all the way.

“He’ll warm up to you,” I say, giving Hunter’s hand a squeeze.

He slants his head. “Will he? Because that implies I’ll be seeing him often.”

I hesitate. We haven’t formally declared ourselves as “dating,” so I’m not entirely sure if he’ll see my dad again. Also, until we define our relationship, I’m trying to avoid PDA, so I drop Hunter’s hand as we reach the building, because Pax and TJ are waiting on the steps.

“Ah! New boots!” Pax shouts when he spots me. His envious gaze devours my footwear, which is indeed new—black leather boots with brown fur, to match the hood of my parka. “I love!” he announces.

“Thanks! I’d like to say I feel the same way about your hair, but…what the hell is going on there?”

Hunter snorts. “For real, Jax. I’m not into it.”

I roll my eyes. He’s well aware what Pax’s real name is, but now it’s just a running joke, and Pax plays along because he thinks Hunter is hot.

“When did you get that done?” I ask.

“And why?” TJ says, looking like he’s trying not to laugh.

Sighing dramatically, Pax smooths a hand over the green streaks in his black hair. “This past weekend. And why? Because my little sister is in cosmetology school and her exams are coming up, so she was practicing her dye skills on me.”

“I’m not going to lie,” I inform him. “It looks terrible.”

“Gee, thanks, bestie.” He winks. “The guy I hooked up with last night didn’t seem to mind.”

“Nice.” Hunter holds his palm up for a high five.

Jax—dammit, now I’m doing it. Pax returns the high five, and then the four of us escape the January chill and enter the building. I notice TJ slide a curious look between me and Hunter, but he doesn’t say anything.

We take our usual seats in the middle of the row, only this time Hunter usurps Pax’s place beside me. Once again TJ’s gaze takes note.

Anticipation ripples inside me when Professor Andrews arrives with her two TAs in tow. Yes! Either my eyes are projecting what they want to see, or the teaching assistants are carrying our graded assignments.

“Morning, ladies and gents. So… The previous times I taught this course, I used to return these at the end of the final lecture, with the simple goal of torturing everyone. I’m not certain what that reveals about my own psychological makeup—” Andrews grins at the class. “With that said, I’m in the mood to be nice today.”

She’s behaving atypically goofy, but perhaps that’s because this is our last day. The TAs who ran our tutorials approach each aisle and begin calling out names. One by one, students get up to accept their assignments.

Although everyone worked together on the projects, each paper was handed in and graded separately. I practically dive out of my seat when my name is called. The moment the envelope that contains my submission is in my hand, I waste no time slicing it open. Beside me, Hunter does the same with his.

A cover page is stapled to the front of my submission, and I almost shriek out loud when I see my grade.

A-plus, baby.

Hell yeah.

Curious, I peer over at Hunter’s sheet. “What’d you get?”

“B-plus.” He looks pleased with that. I had proofed his research paper and thought it was excellent, but I probably would’ve gone more in-depth about certain things, so I think the grade is fair.

I flip through the pages of my case study to find that Andrews scribbled notes in the margins. The praise I find is ludicrously good for my ego. Things like:

Terrific insight!

Highly perceptive!

Provocative…

GREAT angle, she writes in the section where I discuss possible counseling tactics to try to help the narcissist reach the rare self-awareness. The slew of compliments has my ego swelling to monstrous proportions. This feels way more satisfying than the A-plus I got in Organic Chem. This one feels right.

Hunter leans closer to whisper in my ear. “You look so hot right now.”

I wrinkle my forehead. “Really?”

“Oh yeah.” His breath tickles my cheek. “It’s that cocky look in your eyes. Never thought I’d get turned on by an academic, but fuck, I’ve got a semi, Semi.”

I snicker softly. But I realize he’s not kidding when he straightens up and I glimpse the hot lust swimming in his eyes.

I gulp through my suddenly parched throat, turning toward TJ as a distraction. “How’d you do?”

“An A,” he replies, and Pax got a B, so all in all I’d say Abnormal Psych was a smashing success.

Since it’s the last class, Andrews rewards us with a topic that I could probably spend a solid twenty-four hours listening to: serial killers. In fact, if you tally all the time I’ve spent watching crime shows, it probably adds up to a depressingly long portion of my life.

Andrews begins to discuss a case that’s so macabre I’m on the edge of my seat. Ten minutes in, although she still hasn’t named the killer, I grab Hunter’s arms and hiss, “She’s talking about Harold Howarth!”

“Who?”

“He was the subject of the episode Brain Surgeons Who Kill.” I remember calling my dad immediately after watching that episode. I told him he’s never, ever allowed to inject poison into a patient’s frontal lobe, and he asked me if I was high.

As I resettle in my chair, I almost rest my hand on Hunter’s knee, a habit I have when we’re sitting together on his couch. This morning I forcibly have to stop myself. PDA isn’t allowed until I know what this is. But my gaze keeps flitting toward him. I wish I could touch his leg. Or even better—slide my hand inside his pants and wrap it around his cock. I find myself wanting to touch this man all the time.

And I mean all the time. Sometimes I want him so badly I can’t even wait for him to close the bedroom door before I’m mauling him. Today is one of those times, except we’re not in a bedroom and my throbbing body is furious at this predicament.

By the time Andrews dismisses us, my core is one dull ache. I barely hear Andrews thanking us for being so attentive this semester, wishing us luck with our future. Any other day, I’d linger after class to express my own gratitude, but I think I’ll need to settle for sending a lengthy email.

I’m so aroused, I’m practically leaping out of my own skin as we exit the lecture hall. My impatient gaze darts around the wide corridor. We didn’t drive, and there’s no way I can last the long walk back to my house. So, as Pax and TJ walk on ahead of us, I grab Hunter’s hand and drag him around the corner.