Page 4 of Go Luck Yourself
Ibookedit this time. I fuckingbooked it this time.
It’s a big university. I get that I’m not the only one here. Like, logically, I know that other people have discovered that this study room is excellent, and doesn’t have that weird smell that the others do, but as I stand in the middle of the aisle between students typing away on papers like I should be doing, my vision goes red.
This is thefifth timein the past two weeks that I’ve come to use the room and found this same cursiveOCCUPIEDdrawn across the chalkboard. The first two times, bad luck on my part, whatever; I’d try again later. C’est la fucking vie. But by the third time, I realized that something about this jackass’s study schedule lines up exactly with mine, only they always get here before I’m able to no matter how early I shift things around, so today, I booked it in advance andthat study room is mine.
There’s something at Cambridge called the Week Five Blues: midway through a term, when the end isn’t in sight yet, the drag of slogging through the first half catches up to students and everyone goes a little droopy. Only I’m not having Week Five Blues right now; I’m having Week FiveBlind Fury.
I stomp the remaining space to the study room and bang my fist on the door. Which earns me a startled shush from a nearby guy who looks like he’s on the my-blood-is-now-energy-drinks end of the Week Five Blues spectrum.
There’s no response from the room thief.
I try the handle. Locked. Fucker.
Knock again. Louder. I get another shush and I concave my body around the door like that will muffle what is now full-on pounding.
Finally, there’s the sound of a chair creaking inside.
Then a voice. Masculine, annoyed. “Yeah?”
“This room is mine,” I say into the door’s seam.
A pause.
The lock clicks. The door cracks open a sliver, and a guy peers out at me.
Pale skin. Red hair poking out from under a gray beanie. High, sharp cheekbones. Freckles scattered across his face, full lips twistedin derision through his short red facial hair. Chunky headphones hang around his neck with the faintest pulse of music vibrating out of them.
I have several immediate thoughts:
I should send Iris a picture of this guy. He’d make a great character study.
And:fuck, he’s hot.
The latter one might as well be a mental ball gag for the way my throat closes over.
Aaaaaaand now there are two thoughts strangling me.
I legitimately cannot remember the last time I found anyone attractive outside of Iris. The people I dated as half-assed attempts to distract myself from her were more just… okay? And even the sight of Iris never choked me up like this.
I blink dumbly. I’ve been quiet for an unacceptably long time.
“The fuck you want?” the guy snaps in an Irish accent so thick my already teetering brain blacks out, resets, and barely registers what he said.
Stop thinking about ball gags.
I whip out my phone—Iris and Coal are still talking, now about how her sister almost had tiers of donuts instead of a wedding cake—and pull up the app to show him my reservation. “This study room is mine.”
The guy squints at the screen. “I got no idea what you’re showing me. Who the fuck is Lily and why does she hate—are those the wordscream filled?”
I yank my phone back. The texts popped down over the app.
My cheeks burn. “Not that—”
“Cream filled. Ya pervert.” Then he cocks his head and frowns. “Do I know you?”
I glower at him. “I don’t make a habit out of associating withthieves.”
His eyes roll. “Christ—”
