Page 28 of Forking the Billionaire

He chuckled, stared at me with an unblinking gaze and slid his phone into the front of his pants.

Not into his pocket.

Straight into his underpants, an unreachable abyss I could never ever enter.

“You just shoved your phone into your pants.” I said, dumbfounded.

“That’s right I did. I know you’re not going in for it. Now I can unleash my amazing lock-cracking skills without having to watch my back.”

Bastard.

“You better not wiggle too much or you’ll accidentally take way more incriminating photos of yourself than you did of me. And then your little swinging dick will send it to everyone you know. You think your brothers want to be woken up before sunrise tothat?”

“It’s not little.”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so,” he said with that smarmy smugness that made me want to smack him. “Easy to prove.”

Would he really whip it out right here, right now, just to prove a point? The look on his face said yes, yes he would.

“You’re stalling.” I nodded toward the locker.

“So you believe me?”

“Sure, I’m sure your dick is plenty regular, buddy. Exceptionally average and not a sad itty bitty cocktail frank,” I said because I couldn’t help myself. “Open that locker.”

“It’s better than average.”

I snorted. “Said every man and teenage boy ever. I’m done talking about it.”

“Tell me you believe me.”

He really wasn’t going to let this go. I rolled my eyes, did my best to take all the sarcasm out of my voice, and said, “I believe you. You, Jasper Carrington, surely have the world’s most gloriously dicktastic of all dicks, unrivaled in its mighty dickly grandeur.”

He nodded, seemingly appeased. “Was that so hard?”

“That’s what she said.”

He grinned with satisfaction and put his ear to the locker. Then he proceeded to open each of the lockers one after the other. It was actually pretty impressive, not that I would tell him that.

“Where did you say you learned to do that?” I asked, totally nonchalant.

“I didn’t.” He put his hands on his hips and looked over his handiwork—nine open lockers. “The private schools I attended as a boy were pretty brutal.”

“I’m sure. Too many gold-dipped truffles.”

“Just the right amount of gold-dipped truffles.” His playful expression dimmed. “I taught myself to open the lockers to free another boy who regularly was locked inside them.”

I stared at him, waiting for the punchline or gotcha. But he was serious. That made me feel a little bad about teasing him over it. I said, “That’s terrible.”

“Yes.” He turned his attention back to the lockers, digging through the contents.

But I was focused on his story. “Where were the adults? I mean, I know school can suck for all kids, but someone should have been looking out for that boy.”

“Yes, they should have.” He kept digging through things. “There aren’t glasses in any of these lockers.”

I was still stuck on Jasper’s story, stuck on the fact that he had to be the one looking out for the little boy when no one else did. He’d always been like that. Looking back, that’s how our friendship had started when we were kids.

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