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“Why didn’t you tell me your professor was so fucking hot?”
Megan snorts, rolling her eyes. “Because I know you. You’d try and fuck him like you try to climb everything else around here.”
I retract my arm from Meghan’s elbow immediately, offended. “Uh, first of all, slut shaming looks gross on you. Second, it’s not my fault that the guys our age are so obnoxiously immature. Is it my fault that the only decent male attention you can get exists in older men?”
“Yes,” Meghan remarks. “You’re wired wrong.”
It’s an old argument between us, and one we never see eye to eye on. Meghan is much more refined than I am. Prude, as Ana likes to say.
“Whatever.” Brushing it aside, I re-link my arm with hers. “I know my worth and I deserve a sexy older man to treat me right.”
And maybe, finally, I have the interest of one.
3
EMMA
“Thank fuck it’s Friday!” Ana throws herself backward onto my couch with a groan, somehow not spilling a drop of the prosecco carefully clutched in one hand.
“You treat every day like it’s Friday,” Meghan points out, closing her eyes while I add the last dab of mascara to her long lashes.
“I do not!” Ana pouts and props herself up on one elbow. “I’ll have you know I work hard all week and I simply appreciate the finer things in life.”
“The finer things?” I shoot her a glance; the mascara wand paused an inch from Meghan’s lashes. “And those are?”
“Drinks and hot guys, obviously.” Ana rolls her eyes and sinks down onto the multiple fluffy blue cushions that line my couch. She balances her glass against her leather-pant-clad thigh and sighs. “Some man is going to get so very lucky tonight.”
“All done.” A final brush of the wand and Meghan’s eyes are perfect.
With a flutter of lashes, she opens them and her face melts into a warm smile. She may be the more reserved of the three of us, but she’s never afraid to get a little dolled up for a good night.
“Thanks.”
“I gotchu.”
Standing takes a second since I’ve wedged myself in between the coffee table and Meghan but I manage it, much to the complaint of my thigh muscles.
“So, what’s the plan?” Looking over to the mirror hanging on the wall, I run my eyes over the red mini-dress I’ve secured for the evening. Complete with black fishnets and silver heels to match the fresh silver streak in my hair, I look good.
I know I do.
“Like, for tonight or for our futures?” Meghan leans past me to pick up her glass of prosecco. “Because my future is headed for disaster.”
“What?” I spin to face her, worry building in my heart. “Why?”
“Yeah, what’s going on?” Ana sits back up, poker straight this time, while Meghan lets out a deeply pained sigh.
“My final piece is a mess. I can’t draw straight for shit. I have nothing for my ‘practical application of art.’” She air-quotes the last part. “And every time I bring up my concerns to my Professor, his advice is to stop stressing about it because you can’t produce quality art under stress.”
Ah. Meghan’s hot as fuck teacher. I send Ana a knowing glance—after lunch earlier in the week, I’d called her and told her every single sexy detail of the teacher Meghan had been hiding from us, and she was of the same opinion as me.
We should switch to an art course.
“He has a point,” Ana says. “The more you stress, the harder it will be to let the creative juices flow.”
“Exactly.” I sipped my drink, wobbling over in my heels to perch on the edge of the sofa. “The more you stress, the harder it is to art, and then you stress more. The cycle continues.”
“Telling me not to stress doesn’t help when deadlines are bearing down on me,” Meghan snaps slightly. Then she winces. “Sorry. I just…I can’t relax. I’ve tried and now it just feels like everything sucks.”
