Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 89583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
“You’re my hero, Jersey.”
I just about die.
Chapter 14
Alice
“Am I picking you up tomorrow from the library or your dorm?” Reagan asks without even bothering to glance up, his attention fully on my camera bag. He’s already diving into it, investigating its contents, before I can answer.
We’re parked on the bleachers by the indoor pool, practice having finished only twenty minutes ago. I shift in my seat, raise my Leica, and look through the viewfinder.
Life is stranger than fiction. It really is. Five weeks ago I was alone in an unfamiliar place. The less than proud owner of a junker that was more trouble than it was worth, and a sprained ankle.
Now I’m the official videographer for the men’s water polo team––a dream come true. I have a posse of girlfriends. The ankle’s almost completely healed. And then there’s Reagan…my chauffeur…my dilemma…the object of my dirty fantasies. The guy I spend all my spare time with, which makes the prior statement a problem.
Immediately following our first taco night––what he’s calling Thursdays––the texts started coming in and most of them look like this…
Big Deal: jumping out of an airplane?
Me: Uhhh what?
Big Deal: you said you’d try anything.
Me: With a parachute?
Big Deal: yes bailey.
Me: Yes, then. But only after a thoroughly accredited instructor teaches me how. I don’t have a death wish.
Big Deal: yeah. you haven’t even had sex that’s better than food yet. might want to put that on the list before jumping out of a plane.
Me: Go away.
It hasn’t been dull.
“You don’t have to pick me up. The ankle’s almost as good as new.”
“I’ll pick you up from the library.”
We’ve had this conversation multiple times. It started with him insisting he drive me to each practice I filmed because I needed someone to “carry my precious camera equipment.” According to him, taking the shuttle would’ve “placed it in grave danger.” I couldn’t very well thwart all the effort he put into this harebrained explanation so I agreed.
After having spent every spare minute together for the past few weeks I can say without a shadow of a doubt that Reagan is one of the good guys. He’s not just a pretty face and a hot body. The man/boy is all heart. He’s sweet and understanding, and despite the fact that he sees me as an asexual amoeba with a dry sense of humor, I like him.
I like his company. I like his shitty film quotes and his curious nature. I like his upbeat attitude. But most of all, I like that Reagan doesn’t have a single mean bone in his body. Basically, he makes it impossible not to like him.
He said he’s not looking for a relationship. Translation: he wants to play the field. Got it. Message received. No judgment. He was warning me off. Except every hot stare I get from him says otherwise and the more time we spend together the harder it’s getting to ignore them.
Thus, the dilemma. Which is not really a dilemma for him. Only for me, the one in this “friends only” agreement who can’t seem to remember that.
“Can I see the camera?”
“No.”
I stick my leg out, stretch out the ankle. I’ve been doing a lot of rotational stretching exercises. It’s close to completely healed but I’m still being extremely careful with it.
The boys had a late practice today. A scrimmage. Four on four. I got tons of usable footage with my cinecamera and finished with stills.
I finally understand how physically and mentally taxing his practices are. This is only the third time I’ve filmed them and I’m still in awe. All that explosive energy being expended––I won’t mince words; it’s a major turn-on. Watching them do sprints alone makes me want to take a long nap…naked…with a friend.
Speaking of friends. The camera definitely loves his face. Slanted brows pulled low over focused emerald eyes. Mouth fixed in a pensive pout. Jaw scruffy. Reagan usually shaves so this is new, worth investigating. I take a picture.
“Are you taking pictures of me while denying me access to your toys?” I ignore his question, keep shooting. “C’mon, can I?” he persists.
He’s talking about my prized baby. “That’s like asking a mother if you can hold her newborn. It’s my Blackmagic––my precious. I have five grand invested in that camera. More with all the attachments.”
Reagan’s gaze meets mine. He’s seated two rows down from me, which puts us eye to eye. “I’ll be gentle.” His voice dips low, curves around me, and gets inside.
And so it goes. This constant flirtation. The heavily veiled innuendos that coming from anyone else would mean zilch. But they’re not coming from anyone else. They’re coming from him. And, no, I really don’t think I’m reading too much into it.
His sensual lips are pried apart by the mother of all sexy grins. This is exactly what I’m talking about. He shouldn’t be smiling at me like that. It’s just plain wrong. You know what else is wrong? Lusting after the one person I am forbidden to lust after.