The Play: Chapter 9

I slide into my Land Rover and instantly crank the A/C. Christ, how is it still so hot outside when we’re halfway through September? Don’t get me wrong, I hope it never ends, but I’m actually sweating after spending the past hour in the quad with Demi.

I drive out of the student lot and back to Hastings, where I speed past my residential street to another one a couple of blocks away.

I wasn’t kidding when I told Demi I wish that someone had consulted me about the girls moving into the townhouse. I have nothing against them, but I’m in college, dammit. I want to hang out with the guys. I’m not in the market for a girlfriend this year and there’s no reason why I should know so much about eucalyptus facemasks and what kind of tampons everyone in my house uses. Also, Rupi’s and Brenna’s cycles somehow synced up so now they get their periods at the same time. They’re really mean when that happens.

I park in the driveway behind the beat-up Jeep that Matt shares with Conor. They’re housemates, along with our teammate Foster and two seniors named Gavin and Alec.

When Matty answers the door, I welcome the familiar sounds of guys insulting each other and video game controllers clicking, and the aroma of pizza and stale beer when it’s barely noon. This is college.

“Hey,” I greet everyone in the living room.

Foster is sprawled in the armchair, balancing a beer can on his knee. Gavin and Alec are battling it out in a shooter game. The only notable absence is Conor, who’s probably in class.

I’m not sure whose turn it is with Pablo Eggscobar, but he’s on the coffee table in the drink-cozy harness that Bucky made for him, and he’s rocking a new look. Someone used a black Sharpie to draw eyes and a snout right above Coach Jensen’s scrawl, and voila—Pablo now has a pig face with Jensen’s signature serving as his mouth.

Truthfully, I’m surprised he’s still in one piece. Drunken college guys aren’t exactly conducive to egg rearing.

“What’s up, Pablo?” I greet the egg. He doesn’t answer, because he’s not real, but hey, at least I’m trying to make an effort.

Captain handbook rule number a thousand: pick your battles.

“Who’s playing egg mom today?” I ask.

“Con. But he just went upstairs with some chick, so we’re waiting for the right moment.” Matt settles on the couch.

I flop down on the other end. “The right moment for what?”

Matt and Foster exchange evil grins. “For feeding time. Pablo is about to be hungry as fuck.”

Gavin snorts without looking away from the TV screen.

I stifle a sigh. According to my sources, things have escalated since last week. Jesse Wilkes texted me yesterday bitching about how the other guys wouldn’t stop calling him when he was out with Katie. It’s officially become a game to inconvenience the egg carrier as much as possible.

“How long’s it been?” Alec asks, his fingers moving like lightning over the game controller.

“Only about ten minutes,” Foster replies. “They’re probably still on foreplay.”

“Hers,” Gavin guesses.

“Or he’s getting blown,” Matt counters.

They all go quiet for a moment.

“Nah,” Foster finally says, raising his beer to his lips. “He goes down on her first, then she blows him, then they fuck. That’s the order of sex.”

I start to laugh. “Oh really? Is that what the manual says?”

Matt snickers.

“That’s the order I do it in,” Alec chimes in. “Why? What do you do?”

“I don’t fucking know. I don’t chart out my sexual encounters like I’m exploring undiscovered islands in the Maldives.” I roll my eyes. “There’s no set order. You just see how it plays out.”

“It always plays out the same way,” Alec says stubbornly.

“It’s true,” Foster agrees. “Usually goes that way for me, too.”

“Huh. Weird.” When I think back on past hook-ups, they’re honestly different every time.

Sometimes we stumble into my room and she’s on her knees with my dick in her mouth before I can blink. Once I was with a girl who wanted to kiss for all of three seconds before she turned around and offered me her ass, ordering me to screw her from behind. Longer sessions have begun with me kissing every inch of their bodies, or vice versa. Sometimes we even start with sex and end with foreplay.

“I don’t know what you guys are doing, but I can’t find a pattern in my hook-ups,” I admit.

“Maybe it’s a girlfriend thing,” Foster suggests. “I dated the same chick all throughout high schools and I’m using her as my point of reference.”

“Three years with Sasha for me,” Alec says with a nod, referring to his current girlfriend.

“Oh, it’s definitely a girlfriend thing,” Matt confirms. “Like, with Jesse. He and Katie have the most predictable sex life ever. When we were rooming together in the dorms last year, every time they put that stupid sock on the door I knew they’d need exactly forty-seven minutes to bang. I could probably plot out the exact time of orgasm.”

“Sounds kinda boring.” Although maybe having sex with someone you’re madly in love with feels different somehow? I have no idea. I had a few girlfriends in high school, but none of them were ever the one.

“Okay. It’s been twenty-one minutes,” Foster announces. “He’s either balls deep right now or she’s got her mouth full. Either way, the dick is in play. I repeat, the dick is in play.”

“You jackasses are the worst. As team captain, I should stop this,” I warn.

They all wait expectantly.

A slow grin stretches my mouth. On the other hand, Conor gets so much action his ego could probably use some coitus interruptus. “But I won’t. Go ahead. Do it.”

Foster and Alec sprint up the narrow staircase. A moment later their heavy footsteps thud on the ceiling. Incessant pounding reverberates through the house as their fists attack Conor’s bedroom door. It sounds like a SWAT team breaking into a crack den.

“Pablo’s hungry!” Foster shouts.

“Feed me,” Alec hollers.

On the other end of the sofa, Matt is shuddering from laughter.

An even louder commotion ensues. Angry cursing rings in the air, followed by the frantic footsteps of two huge hockey players racing down the stairs. Conor is on their tail, bare-chested, barefoot, with a pair of plaid boxers haphazardly sagging off one hip. His blond hair sticks up and his lips are a bit swollen.

“You fucking assholes,” he growls.

“What?” Foster blinks innocently. He gestures to the coffee table. “Our pig needs his lunch. We have a pet, bro. Pet comes before pussy.”

“Pet before pussy,” Matt echoes.

Gavin tears his eyes off the video game and nods gravely. “The wise words of Thomas Jefferson.”

“I fed him this morning,” Conor protests.

Foster glares. “He eats three meals a day, you selfish jackass. Look at him—he’s starving.”

I glance at the egg and his stupid face, then bury my own face in my hands and quiver in silent laughter.

“Davenport!” Conor barks. “You’re team captain. I’m filing a complaint against them.”

I lift my head, lips still twitching. “What’s the complaint?”

He jabs the air with his index finger. “I was fucking.”

“That’s not a complaint. It’s a statement of fact.”

Foster crosses his arms over his bulky chest. “Don’t forget—you gotta take five whole minutes to make sure he eats all his food.”

A vein throbs in Con’s forehead as he snatches Pablo off the table. It looks like he’s about to whip the egg against the wall, but at the last second he curses under his breath and spins around. Low mumbling comes from the kitchen.

I gape at Matt. “He’s not going to prepare actual food, is he?”

“Nah, it’s not in the rules.”

“What exactly are the rules?”

“They’re whatever we make them,” Foster replies with a grin. “But basically, five minutes are required whenever Pablo is in play.”

“But you can’t abuse the system,” Matt says.

“What system?” I sputter. “It’s all nonsense.”

“He eats three times a day, shits twice a day, and requires attention whenever one of us is bored and wants to harass whoever has him.”

“But you can’t play the attention card more than a few times a day,” Foster adds. “With that said, texting between the hours of one and five a.m. is highly encouraged.”

“This is all very reasonable,” Alec tells me. “What aren’t you getting?”

“Are you gonna do this to me when I have him?” I shudder. My turn is on Friday.

“Nah, we would never do that to you,” Foster assures me.

The others chime in.

“Never.”

“Of course not.”

“Never do that to our captain.”

Goddamn liars.

On Thursday night, Demi and I manage to squeeze in a second study session for the week. Once again, we convene in her bedroom at the Theta house. She’s sitting cross-legged on the purple bedspread, sucking on a grape lollipop. I’m sprawled on her little couch, regaling her with a juicy new tale in the sordid history of Dick Smith.

“So she promised to pick up a strawberry cheesecake along with the usual pumpkin pie. Meanwhile, everything else was coming together beautifully. The catering staff was top-notch. The table was set with the crystal my grandparents gave us as a wedding present. We had family coming in from Palm Springs and Manhattan. Thanksgiving in the Hamptons is always an important event.”

Demi observes me carefully. I know she’s trying to figure out where I’m going with this.

“But the pièce de résistance was going to be the strawberry cheesecake,” I brag. “That was the first cake my parents ever sold when they opened that original little bakery on Burton Street, which they turned into a massive dessert empire. It was perfect—Mother would be so touched that I remembered, that I’d gone out of my way to please her. God knows my brother Geoffrey doesn’t care about her happiness.”

Demi’s lollipop pokes into the inside of her cheek. “Is this typical for you, taking great pains to seek the approval of your mother?”

“It had nothing to do with approval. I just told you, I wanted to make Mother happy.”

“I see.”

I huff in annoyance. “Anyway. Dinner was spectacular, and then it was time for dessert, and you know what happened? The servers come out with a fucking pumpkin pie and nothing else. No cheesecake. I was forced to paste a smile on my face, but inside I was seething. Kathryn apologized after dinner and insisted that all the bakeries in the area were either closed or sold out, but a fucking apology didn’t help me in the moment. She made me look bad in front of the whole family, and then goddamn Geoff made a joke about pumpkin pie and how original that was, and I wanted to clock him. Happy Thanksgiving, right?”

There’s a beat of silence. I glance over to find Demi shrewdly inspecting me.

“Wow,” she says slowly. “There’s a lot to unpack here. I guess my first question is—if all the bakeries were closed for the holiday, do you think it’s fair to blame your wife for not being able to get the cheesecake?”

“She could’ve picked it up the day before,” I say coldly. “There was no excuse.”

She shakes her head a couple times, as if jarred out of the charade. “Jeez. You’re good at this,” she remarks.

I give an awkward shrug. “Right? You think I should quit hockey and get into acting?” It’s a lame joke.

The actual punch line is, it’s not a joke at all. The story I just told is the unfiltered truth. The only part I left out was how the asshole’s son endured weeks and weeks of obnoxious boasting about that stupid strawberry cheesecake prior to Thanksgiving, and then years of bitter griping about the pumpkin pie following it.

Yup, that’s my father for you, doesn’t give a shit about anybody but himself. He wanted to look good and one-up his brother, and fuck all the closed bakeries and my horrible selfish mother for depriving him of his needs. Poor Mom was walking on eggshells for months afterward. That man is impossible to please.

When I opened my “PATIENT” envelope last week and saw the disorder I’d been assigned, I’d almost laughed out loud. Hardly any research required, as I’m wholly familiar with the symptoms and how it manifests. I’ve lived with it my entire life.

“Why was it so important for you to look good in front of your family?” Dr. Demi asks.

“What do you mean?”

She rephrases. “What was supposed to be a happy family gathering turned into a competition between you and your brother. I’m simply wondering why you engaged in it?”

“I don’t turn shit into a competition, he does. He’s jealous of me because I’m older and more successful. And, what, I’m supposed to let myself be humiliated when he tries to put me down? No way. I’m going to fight back.”

“I see.” A pause. “Do you feel like you have unreasonably high expectations of the people in your life, or an average level of expectation?”

I wonder what conclusions she’s reaching. It’s evident that Demi is highly intelligent. That’s just one of the many reasons I enjoy hanging out with her. The main reason is that she’s easy to talk to, and there’s no pressure whatsoever to be anything but platonic. She has a boyfriend who she clearly loves, so there’s no temptation on my end. Sure, her body is hot as fuck, and she has a habit of wearing tight tops that hug her perky tits and bare her midriff, but I’m able to admire her without fantasizing about tearing her clothes off.

Demi jots down more notes, then says, “’Kay, let’s finish up. I’ve got dinner plans with Nico. But I think I’m starting to form an idea about your diagnosis.”

“This really is fun,” I admit. The irony is not lost on me that I’m having a good time describing—in detail—the way my father’s brain works.

Dad isn’t my favorite person, but I don’t typically complain about him to anyone. My whole life, I just went along with the cookie-cutter perfect family thing we’ve got going on. Anything else would’ve felt self-indulgent. I mean, I’m a rich dude who grew up in Greenwich and attended elite private schools. Other people have it worse. Some of them suffer from actual physical abuse, which is far worse than simply being unable to meet the unrealistic standards of an egomaniac.

Nevertheless, it is fascinating to describe these events of my childhood from Dad’s point of view. I don’t know if I’m hitting the right notes, but more research on the subject will probably help me zero in on specific thought patterns.

“I’ll see you next week,” I tell Demi. “But I don’t think I’m available on Monday, though.”

“How about mid-week?”

“I should be around on Wednesday night. But not the weekend—we’re playing three games.”

“Okay, possibly Wednesday night,” she says, “but that’s usually my gym day.”

“You go to the gym?”

“Of course. Why do you think I look this good?”

Naturally, my gaze is pulled right back to her tight, petite body. She can’t be taller than five-three, but, man, her legs seem endless. Long and tanned and bare in her tiny denim shorts. I bet her ass is taut and perfect, a perfect little handful.

Oh shit.

It’s happening.

I’m fantasizing about her.

Abort, dude, abort!

“Anyway.” I wrench my gaze away, but not before she catches me.

“Oh my God, stop it. You’re not allowed to look at me like that,” Demi orders. “You’re a monk, remember?”

“I wasn’t looking at you like anything,” I lie.

“Bullshit. You were giving me the Penis Eyes.”

“I was not. Trust me, smoldering looks aren’t my go-to move.” I smirk. “If I was making a real move on you, you wouldn’t be telling me to stop.”

“You have an actual move?” A delighted smile lights up Demi’s pretty face. Her skin is incredible. Glowing and flawless, and I don’t think she’s even wearing makeup. “Show me!”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No,” I growl. “You’re not allowed to see my move.”

“Why not?” she whines.

“Two reasons—you have a boyfriend, and I’m a monk.”

“Fine. But for the record, I’m betting your move is lamer than lame.” Grinning, she opens the top drawer of her desk. After some fumbling, her hand emerges with another lollipop. Cherry, this time. Or maybe strawberry.

“I think you’re a sugar addict,” I inform her.

“Nah, I just like having things in my mouth.”

“Nope, not even touching that statement.”

She glares at me. “It’s called an oral fixation, Hunter. It’s quite common.”

“Uh-huh. If you say so.”

And despite my best efforts to forget all about this conversation, thoughts of Demi and her oral fixation follow me all the way home and consume my sexed-up brain. And the next thing I know I’m locking the bathroom door and stepping into the shower, a tight fist around an erection hard enough to slice a slab of marble in half.

It’s happening again.

I’m fantasizing about Demi Davis, and this time I ain’t stopping it.

I picture her plump lips wrapped around that red lollipop, except within seconds the lollipop is replaced with the head of my cock. I’m nudging it between those sexy lips, and her tongue instantly darts out for a taste, because she’s so hungry for it.

“Mmmm,” I imagine her murmuring. “Tastes like candy.” And I imagine myself saying that her pussy probably tastes even sweeter, which makes her moan and the throaty sound travels the length of my shaft and tightens my balls.

“Goddamn.” My hoarse expletive echoes in the shower stall. I rest my forearm against the tiled wall as I work myself over with fast, desperate strokes. My dick is so hard it hurts. The steam in the bathroom makes it difficult to breathe. As I start fucking my own fist, my forehead sags against my arm and I suck in gulps of heated oxygen.

Oh man, this feels good. My cheesy scripted fantasy has dissolved in the steamy air. Now I’m stroking my cock to random images that flash through my mind—Demi sucking on me, Demi’s cleavage spilling from those tight tops she wears, her tanned legs…spreading for me. Ah hell, I wonder what noises she makes when she comes—

I go off like a bottle rocket. Holy hell. My hips grow still as a rush of hot pleasure surges through my body. I shoot in my own hand, breathing hard, black dots flashing in my field of vision and my cock tingling wildly.

I feel only slightly guilty that I fantasized about Demi. And I think she’d forgive me if I told her. I mean, it was bound to happen. I’m in dire straits, five endless months without sex. By the end of the month, I’ll be jerking it to fantasies of Mike Hollis.

I’m starting to get genuinely concerned for my sanity.

Loud pounding rattles the doorframe.

Startled, I almost wipe out in the tub.

“Hunter!” Rupi shrieks. “Get out of there already. You’ll use up all the hot water and I want to shower before bed!”

A groan lodges in my throat, which feels raw and achy from all the heavy panting I just did. I’m still gripping my dick, but it’s rapidly softening because that’s what Rupi’s voice does to penises.

“Go away,” I growl at the door, but there’s no negotiating with terrorists. If I don’t submit to her demands, she’ll probably go find a YouTube video on lock-picking, bust open the door, and forcibly pull me out of the shower.

I hate my roommates.