Page 92 of The Pretender

Apparently, I have always been willing to do whatever it takes to get Sebastian Carrington, whether that be to score a point on his competitive ass or to make a complete fool of myself, so he can win this competition and move far away from me. But no matter my intentions, my love for him has always been there, buried underneath excuses, pranks, and fake dates.

I loved him the first time my lips touched his and now…

My stomach knots.

And now, I’ll love him even when he leaves for California, after winning his half of the prize money. There is no doubt we will win this competition. Our secret is what movies are made of.

“I need my camera,” I say to Aspen, nodding my head to myself.

This is it. I’m doing it. I’m doing this insane stunt, so my asshole amigo, the bro to my bromance, and my own personal neighborhood demon can win this competition.

“Here you go.” She sets the camera in my palm. “Just set it up and tell me what button to push, and I’ll capture everything.”

Somehow, her words aren’t reassuring.

It takes me a minute, fumbling around with the settings, until I get them just right. “When I walk away, push this button.” I point to the one with the red dot in the middle—the one that will end me for the next three years. “Don’t stop until I come back.”

This all feels so death sentence-y. But I guess if I’m walking the green mile down dicks and divas’ alley, I might as well go out as the superstar I am.

“Got it,” Aspen says, her tone perking up quite a bit in the last few minutes. “There’s Maverick with Sebastian.” She points to a table where Maverick is getting food settled for Ainsley.

“He looks so sad,” notes Aspen.

I nod. “He won’t for long.”

I hand her back the camera. “Don’t stop recording,” I remind her one more time. “No matter what happens.”

Aspen grins. “I wouldn’t in a million years.”

Ugh.

“Now, go get your man!”

The smack to my ass startles me forward and my friends' muffled laughter keeps me from looking back. My friends might laugh, but they won’t let anything happen to me—at least physically. Mentally—only my future therapist knows.

The walk to Malcolm's table of shitheads is long and filled with so many deep breaths that, instead of feeling calmer, I feel a little lightheaded. Gah! That’s all I need, to pass out in front of his table and have the paramedics come. That would ruin everything.

Okay, no more breaths. Focus. You did this for months. Today is no different.

“Yo!” I holler, my voice sounding rough and gritty. “Are you Brock?”

Brick’s head snaps up, and he follows the sound of my voice. I know what he sees: dark cropped hair, sideburns, and pasted on eyebrows that should be banned.

“Uhh…” Brick scans the quad, hoping someone will come to his rescue, but they won’t, because if there’s one thing this campus loves, it’s good old- fashioned drama.

“Yeah, I’m talking to you, bitch.” My strides are stronger and more aggressive as I get closer to his table. “You think you can take my job without my permission?”

I can feel Sebastian’s eyes on me, but I don’t dare turn around and face him.

“Uh…” Brick stumbles out. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I scoff and try to make it sound like I’m hocking a loogie, but it ends up sounding more like a cough.

“Don’t you lie to me!” I yell, balling my fists like I’m getting ready to swing at the fool.

Clearly, I’m not, but that’s what dudes do. They fight for no damn reason other than to show who has the bigger dick.

Well, here I am, boys. See how big my peen is. Not really, because I don’t have a peen, but that’s the vibe I’m trying to pull off here.

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