Page 18 of Tenure

“Where are your underwear.” Lethal.

“In my bag,” she slurs, waving her hand again. “You got them too wet.”

I glance around but we’re still alone.

“You sure you’re okay?” I ask, trying to grab onto the rage boiling in my gut and shove it down, down, down.

“I just need to lie down,” she mumbles.

I stick her arm around my neck and try to help her stand, but she stumbles awkwardly, tripping on the step and losing her balance.

Fucking hell.

I sigh, sliding one arm under her legs and one around her back, lifting her up and tucking her into my chest as I carry her to my car. She’s light and limp and easy to maneuver as I load her into the passenger side, her head lolling, and do up her seatbelt. I touch both her knees, brushing the dirt off her kneecaps with my thumbs, before I stand up and shut the door, gritting my teeth as I walk back around to the driver’s side.

I stare at the house for a few minutes and seriously consider going inside. Someone would know who she was with.

Enough bad choices for one day, James. Just fucking get her home.

But by the time I get in the driver’s side she’s passed out, and I don’t know her address.

As we speed towards my apartment, I smack my head gently into the headrest of my car over and over.

Just one more bad decision, then.

14

Kiernan

My head is pounding.

I open my eyes slowly, groggily, before sitting bolt upright.This isn’t my fucking bed.

Snippets of last night flicker through my mind. Beer pong. Shots. Dancing—lots of dancing—hands on my hips . . .Fear.

And then a voice in my ear, and the smell of cedar and expensive cologne in my nose . . .

Oh God. This bed smells like cedar and cologne. Is this . . .

I sense movement and look up. James is standing in the doorway, arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe.

He looks pissed. I swallow. Hard.

“I’m really sorry—” I start but he holds up a hand, and I instantly shut my mouth.

“I made coffee. And breakfast.” His voice is hard, cold, and he pegs with me a stare telling me neither are negotiable before he disappears back down the hall.

I throw back the covers, wobbling a little as I’ve still got the spins, before I glance down at myself. I’m drowning in one of his T-shirts, falling just past my ass cheeks.

Cool. First time a boy sees me naked, and I don’t even remember it.

Except he isn’t a boy.

I sigh and take a risk, padding over to his dresser and opening and closing drawers until I find one with sweatpants in it, pulling them on and rolling down the waist multiple times. I walk down the hall barefoot, glancing around at his wholly impersonal apartment. It’s not shocking. Not really. He’s a fucking math professor. But I’d hoped for . . .

I don’t know what I’d hoped for. I try not to think too hard about why I’d been imagining his apartment in the first place.

His place is open concept, the kitchen all glass and chrome, floors shiny and black. He’s sitting at the kitchen table sipping a cup of coffee, the New England Journal of Mathematics open.

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