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“We lost the championship,” I remind her. It was the first one Lindell lost in decades, and there was talk around campus of the head football coach not returning next year.
“Before that,” she says, her voice highlighting her lie.
“You are such a liar.” I grab the pillow from the head of my bed and hurl it in her direction.
It falls two feet from her, and we both stare down at it sitting in the middle of the room.
A cackle rushes up my throat at the sight of it there. As much as I’d like to think I could defend myself if I were attacked like Donavan had threatened could happen, I can’t even get a pillow across the fucking room.
“We’re friends,” I remind her, and that’s truer now than it was when I went to her house for the Christmas holidays.
With the loss of Blaine, who hasn’t spoken to me in weeks and weeks, I’ve spent more time in my room, getting to know my roommate better.
“Tell me,” I urge when she darts her eyes away.
“You’ll make fun of me.”
“Probably,” I say, drawing a smile from her lips.
“Promise you won’t.”
“I can’t,” I tell her honestly.
She chews on the inside of her lip, and I know that she’s going to spill her guts before she even realizes it herself. She looks like she’s been dying to tell someone. I take a deep breath, preparing for disappointment. Something I’ve discovered in recent weeks is that everything seems duller than it ever has before. I don’t even feel the life of the world unless I’m walking home late at night by myself. Danger drives me now, and as stupid as that is, Donavan pushing me against the tree tonight proves what I’ve known for weeks. He hasn’t gotten his fill of me yet, and the notion of that thrills me beyond words.
“On a dare, one of the football players had to do a photoshoot with me.”
The mention of the football players reminds me she never told me what the rumors about Bradley were. I try to shove that in a box in my head so I can bring it up again later.
“You’ve done lots of photoshoots with the athletes.”
I fall back on my bed, yawning and growing bored already.
It’s not her fault she lives a boring life. Most people want boring. Most people would cringe if they had any idea of the things I crave.
“This type of photoshoot,” she says, turning her computer so I can’t see the screen before I have time to sit up fully. “You have to swear that you won’t tell a single soul.”
I hold up my hand. “Scout’s honor.”
“Swear.”
“I swear. Shit, get on with it.”
My jaw unhinges when she turns the screen around. “Holy shit.”
“Right?”
I stand from the bed and make my way closer.
“Jesus. It might have been a dare on his end, but you won the fucking lottery.”
“I was so embarrassed,” she whispers.
“Why?”
I can’t pull my eyes from the screen. Miles of tan skin fill the screen. The look in the football quarterback’s eyes is sultry, the definition of bedroom eyes if I’ve ever seen one.
“He’s naked,” she rushes out on a whisper. “And hard.”
“Did you fuck him?”
The images disappear, the folder minimizing on the screen.
“I take that as a no.”
“I’m a professional,” she growls.
“And the last ten images in that folder were of the money shot. You can’t lie to me and tell me you weren’t affected by photographing that.”
Her cheeks flare red just as realization smacks me in the face.
“There are at least twenty other folders there, Blakely!”
She slams her laptop closed and draws it into her chest protectively.
She holds her head a little higher.
“As embarrassed as I was to take those photos, he was just as eager to share them. I’ve done nineteen shoots since then, and I’m booked solid every weekend until the end of the semester.”
A huff of laughter escapes my throat as I stare at her.
My smile is slow and teasing, and she looks less than impressed at the sight of it.
“That’s so naughty. What would Mr. and Mrs. Corrigan think?”
Her mouth hangs open with the mention of her parents. They insisted on being called by their last name like the prim-and-proper socialite snobs they are. We literally had to get ready for dinner. Leggings or jeans weren’t allowed. It was the most uncomfortable visit I’ve ever experienced, and as much as I hated it, I knew Blakely hated it more.
“They can never know.”
“What are you charging for the shoots, and what would it cost me to get a look at those albums?”
“I shouldn’t have even shown you what I did.”
“That’s not a no,” I hedge as I cross back to my side of the room and sit down on my bed.
“I charge fifteen hundred a session, and don’t ask to see them again.”
