Page 30 of Kitty Season
“Woman’s Weekly?”
“Women’s Weekly.” He corrects with a nod that’s not cute at all.
“Whatever. I don’t know what that menstrual cycle inducing shit you’re reading is, and who the fuck reads skin mags anymore?”
“Jeez, mate. Don’t get your knickers in a knot. They’re just magazines.”
“No, mate. They’re not just magazines. They’re comi—” I force myself to shut the hell up, Chris and Dan know about my penchant for the illustrated arts, but here is no way Brady Fucking Basse, or anyone for that matter, can know what’s in this bag. “Forget it Skip.” I place my palm between his pecs and push him out the door. No easy task. “Yell out when Quinn gets here, otherwise stay out of my room.”
No way. My eyes must be deceiving me. They must. Because there is NO WAY.
Risking death, I compulsively pull out my phone as I cross the street to check Troye’s message for the umpteenth time.
Troyeby
Kitty. Come meet me at my new place.
I’m an idiot, but even to me that section is perfectly understandable. It’s what’s next that has me freaking the hell out.
3A. Messina West.
Troye is a Boston University student, the bad boy star of their beloved Bulldogs … at least hewasif what Brady said is true. Messina West, however, is not a BU dorm. It’s a BC dorm. And not just any BC dorm, but Brady Basse’s BC dorm. It’s all ofthatleads me back tothis… NO WAY.
My freshly cleaned, white Vans are practically smoking as I haul-ass to Brady’s. I’ve replied to Troye three times, but as per usual there’s a big fat zero response. That alone should force meto stop and reconsider my life choices. But instead, with a block to go before the dorm building, I give it one last shot.
Troye. Tell me what’s going on or I’m not coming.
It switches from delivered to read. Like my hope and pride, typing bubbles come and go and come go, and I wait, and wait, and wait and walk into a stop sign—fuck that hurt—but nothing.
Nothing comes through.
He’s totally playing me. I know he is. I should turn around and go home, or shit … was I supposed to work today? Oops. Well, since I’ve already screwed that up, I may as well go the whole hog. Besides, it’s too late to save me from myself. I may as well just start a-fresh. Make myself a whole new identity.
From now on I’ll be known as Marionette, Troye Freaking Becker’s puppet on a string.
As I approach Messina, I take a fortifying breath, push through the nerves and the double doors. This dorm is on the dork-side of campus which means mostly free of jocks and foot odor, and the large foyer filled with potted plants, a small drink station, and study spaces filled with people actually studying. And it’s quiet. Library quiet. I feel the need to tiptoe to the elevator quiet.
A few familiar faces wave as the polished silver doors slide closed, and then I’m all alone, nothing but my granted stellar reflection and troublesome thoughts for company.
Why didn’t I just text Brady?Is the first.
He would never send me a message like that, frightening the hell out of me then ignoring me. Brady’s a good guy. He has great hair too. Though, Troye’s is pretty hot. The way he slicks it back and that one bit that keeps falling onto his eyes like a young, Winona era Johnny Depp.
With a ding the doors part and my spiraling thoughts end. Inching forward, I step out, and dawdle the three doors down till I’m standing at Brady’s door, images of Edward Scissorhands still looping. The last time I was here Professor Plum was too. That riled me up to no end, but now, facing what I’m about to face, I’m not sure which scenario I’d prefer.
“This can’t be happening,” I mutter, my trembling hand knocking so softly the room’s inhabitants may not hear. “Troye living with Brady?” It’s a thought that’s equal parts titillating and terrifying and … reality. A miserable Brady opens the door and steps slightly to his left, revealing Troye who’s hovering behind him, a too-small BC Bears jersey stretching over his chest, and a smile as wide as the hole my exploding brain just left in my skull.
“Hey, Kitty.” He smirks, arms widening as if to greet me with a hug. “Welcome to our home.”
As a childI had this recurring nightmare that a witch shrunk, then trapped me in a massive jungle inhabited by giant chickens. Now that I think of it, maybe the chicken wasn’t giant, I was just Thumbelina size. Either way, the point is this, every time, I would wake drenched in sweat and cry for my dad to come save me. Nine times out of ten Mom rushed to my rescue because Dad was on the road. Still, it was always him I called for. His neck, I wanted to throw my arms around.
Right now, the same urge to wrap something around his neck is so strong I could almost identify its taste. “I’m going to throttle him.”
Troye, who’s sitting opposite me on the bed, shoulders lazily resting against the wall, snorts a laugh which is both cute andinfuriating. He dragged me in here once he’d had his fill of torturing poor Brady who could barely raise his pretty baby blues to look at me.
“It’s not funny, Troye,” I whine, picking up and slapping his pillow into his pretty face. “This is super awkward for me.”
“Great for me though. And the team. And, technically, it’s not your dad that’s to blame. If you had told him we were still hanging out like you promised, none of this would have happened.”
