Rule number one in college: don’t lose your friends at a house party . . . especially when you’re drunk.
Technically this is a loft party though, so . . . am I really breaking the rule?
My head falls back against the wall, my empty red cup rests in my hand and is clutched to my chest as I scan the giant loft space on the third floor of a renovated warehouse. I climbed up a fire escape in heels to get here, risked the safety of my ankles to be a part of something special, because apparently this is the place to be on the weekends.
The Baseball Loft.
As I’ve been told by my best friends, this is where you earn a golden ticket invitation to the exclusive but highly sought-after locker room—where dreams come true.
Don’t take my word for it.
But rumor on the street is: the best orgasms take place in the Brentwood Baseball locker room. Legends says one girl had a five-minute orgasm on the tile floors of the shower.
Five-minute orgasm in exchange for a week’s worth of ringworm. Not sure I’m interested.
But alas, I’m here, drunk off my ass, boobs practically spilling out of my shirt, and my mascara slowly melting off my eyelashes and onto my face, morphing me from new-in-town college girl, to trash panda from the racoon clan.
“Dottie, Lindsay,” I say weakly, moving my head from side to side. “Where art thou?”
“You need help?” a deep voice slurs next to me.
I look to my right through very blurry vision and make out what I’m going to assume is an incredibly attractive man. But then again, I’m drunk—the whole mascara melting off my eyesin full swing—and I’ve been fooled once before.
But hey, I think those are blue eyes. Can’t go wrong with that . . . reasoning that will be thought better of in the morning.
“Have you seen Dottie or Lindsay?”
“Can’t say that I have,” he answers, resting against the wall with me.
“Damn it. I think they’re making out with some baseball players. Have you seen any of those around?”
“Mm-hmm.” I nod, shutting my eyes for a second but then shooting them back open when I feel myself wobble to the side. The guy catches me by the hand before I topple over, but thanks to his alcohol intake, he’s not steady enough to hold us up and . . . timber. . . we fall to the couch next to me.
“Whoa, great placement of furniture,” I say, as the guy topples on top of me.
“Damn near saved our lives.”
I rub my face against the scratchy and worn-out fabric. “How many people do you think have had sex on this thing?”
“Probably less than what you’re thinking.”
The couch is deep, giving me enough room to lie on my side with the guy in front of me, so we’re both facing each other. He smells nice, like vodka and cupcakes.
“So, have you seen any baseball players around? I’m looking for my friends.”
“Nah, but if you see any, let me know. I can’t find my room.”
“You live here?” I ask, eyes wide.
“Yup,” he answers, enunciating the P. “For two years now.”
“And you don’t remember where your room is?”
“It has a yellow door. If the damn room would stop spinning I’d be able to find it.”
“Well . . . maybe if we find your room, we’ll find my friends,” I say, my drunk mind making complete sense.
“That’s a great idea.” He rolls off the couch and then stands to his feet, wobbling from side to side as he holds out his hand to me.
Without even blinking, I take it in mine and let him help me to my feet. “Yellow door, let’s go,” I say, raising my crumpled cup to the air.
“We’re on the move.” He keeps my hand clasped in his and we stumble together past beer pong, people making out against walls, the kitchen, to an open space full of doors. “Yellow door, do you see one?”
I blink a few times and then see a flash of sunshine. “There.” I point with force. “Yellow, right there.”
His head snaps to where I’m pointing. A beam of light illuminates the color of the door, making it seem like we’re about to walk right into the sun. I’m a little chilly, so I welcome the heat.
“Fuck, there it is. You’re good.” Together, we make our way to the door, pushing past a few laughing people and into the quiet den of his room.
Black walls, white trim, one window looking out over the water; the guy has a nice place. I scan the space, looking for any sign of my friends but come up short, only finding a large bed with a black comforter, a metal-looking desk, and a large white dresser with a giant TV mounted on top.
Not a friend in sight but what a cozy spot to take a little rest.
“I don’t see my friends.”
He looks around. “I don’t either, but fuck, my bed.” He throws his arms out to the side and bellyflops on the mattress, bouncing a few times before settling his head on his pillow.
I stare at him a few moments. Tight jeans shaping his ass and thighs, white shirt that shows off every muscle in his back, handsome face. Not a bad view. But that’s not what’s enticing me to move forward. It’s the warm and fluffy-looking pillow right next to the guy.
Like a cloud calling my name . . . Emory, come here, Emory, rest your head on me. I make one of the best decisions of my life.
Don’t mind if I do.
I propel my body forward like a dolphin slicing through the water and flop down on the mattress, resting my head right on top of pure heaven.
Oh, that’s nice.
Smells like fresh soap and feels like my head is being hugged by cotton.
See, best decision I ever made.
The mattress shifts next to me, and I peep my eyes open to see the guy with the nice ass hovering over me. He glances down with heavy lids and then back up at me.
I smile lazily up at him, a little nervous that I’m puckering my lips, but honestly, I can’t be in control of anything my body is doing right now.
He’s about to tell me I’m the most luscious and beautifully smelling girl he’s ever met—like a field of flowers on an epic spring day—
“Uh, your boob popped out of your shirt.” He points at my chest. What now? Spring flower—
That’s no spring flower compliment.
I must be completely and utterly exhausted, because instead of reaching up to stuff the wayward boob back in my shirt, I cry out, “Oh, no,” but make no attempt to fix the problem.
“Does it usually do that?” he asks, looking very concerned for me. “Try to run away?”
I shake my head, the softness of the pillow making my eyes heavy. “No, this is the first time the little lady tried to escape.” Barely able to lift my hand, I tap his forearm and say, “Be a dear and lecture the poor thing and stuff it back into place.”
“I’ve never lectured a boob before.”
“You got this. You’re a strong, confident man with a commanding voice. Give that breast a berating.” When he just continues to stare at me, I shift my head to the side and rub my cheek against the smooth fabric of the pillowcase. “Don’t be shy,” I encourage him. “Just lift it up and shove it back in.”
He rests his head next to mine, the mattress shifting and bouncing with his movements. Still staring at my boob, he reaches up and cups it in his hand. “Heavy,” he says quietly.
And utterly romantic.
I’ve never been told I have a heavy boob, but by God, it makes me smile. Good job growing, Emory.
His abnormal but delightful compliment is the last thing I remember before I drift off and fall into a deep slumber.
It’s the last thing I remember before I wake up in the middle of the night in a stranger’s room, passed out with my boob in said stranger’s hand. So much for tucking her back in.
Welcome to Brentwood U.