Page 11 of The Games We Play

“I never said it was Seth.” He arches his brow like I just damned myself.

“He’s pissed because he got the crap beat out of him at a party after trying to fuck me. He’s lying.” I shoot to my feet and pace the floor, my bag slipping off my shoulder, and I jerk it back up.

“I’ll remind you where we are, and you will watch what you say. I’m not turning you into the dean. I wanted to see if we could come to an understanding—”

I snort, cutting him off. Professor Brady has a reputation. Rumors floated around last year about him getting caught with a student. Shesurprisinglytransferred schools after that, and nothing ever came from it.

“I’m proposing you retake the test in my office, and I’ll sit right here while you do.”

“Perfect. Let’s go. Right now.” I say and plop down on the chair. I am going to kill Ryan for putting me through this. Why did he have to blow up at the party? I could have got a good fuck, and that be the end of it. Instead, I’m in this room with Beady-Eyed-Brady, whose stare lingers on my chest too long.

“Unfortunately, I need to prepare an entirely new test for you. Instead of fifty questions, it will be one hundred. I advise that you actually study this time.”

“This isn’t fair!” I jump up, and my chair falls back. I grab my books and whirl for the door.

“Ms. Wallace,” he says sternly, and I flip him the middle finger before striding down the hallway.

I’m going to kick Ryan in the dick when I find him. I walk the mile-long distance to my parked car and slam my door closed before screaming at my windshield.

Seth. Fucking. Wilson.

Why is he punishing me? I didn’t do anything.

The wind blows, and something flutters under my wiper blade. I start my car and roll the window down, reaching around and grabbing it.

A parking ticket is the only thing this shitty day needs to top it off.

I flip the paper over, and my heart stops.

Not a parking ticket.

For when you’re ready to pick up where we left off.

I flip it back over, and there is a phone number scrawled on the bottom of the paper. I search the parking lot for a sign of anyone watching me.

Hewas here. This isn’t a lucid dream. This paper proves that. He’s real, and there’s a phone number. I read and reread it until I’m pretty sure I have it memorized.

If life is going to fuck me, maybe it’s time to get some real action.

I type the phone number into the search bar, seeing if I can unmask my visitor. Oddly, I don’t feel threatened by him. He hasn’t done the first thing to hurt me.

I toy with the paper in my hand and chew on the inside of my lip. Pulling a cigarette from my center console, I light it and inhale deeply, relishing in the smoke that fills my lungs and the buzz that stirs in my mind. My nerves calm, and I lean back into my seat.

“Fuck it.”

I dial the number and put it on speaker, eyes scanning the other cars to see if anyone pops into view. It rings three times, and I move my thumb to hang up, losing what courage the nicotine worked up.

“Hello?” His voice is deep like it’s laced with sleep.

I stare at the phone in my hand and have to shake my head to clear my thoughts. “I got your note,” I whisper.

Something rustles from the other end, and I continue scanning my surroundings.

“And?” he drawls, causing me to shiver. “Use your words.”

“Who are you?” I question—doubts about what I’m currently doing creep in.

“That’s not why you called.”

---