Page 8 of The Pretender

Please, she may own a thong, but she’d have to vacation alone in another country to wear it.

With a groan and Aspen’s retreating footsteps, I stand and walk over to the bed and flop down face first like I wanted to earlier. If Drew and Bennett weren’t my best friends and like brothers to me, I’d blow off their party and spend the evening googling how to crack a combination lock.

But alas, such is not the case. Drew would drag me out of the house and Bennett would cut me that disapproving frown of his, ruining my night. So I’m going to this party whether I feel like it or not. Don’t get me wrong, I love Drew and Bennett, but knowing that I might have to go one more day without my nightly movie in my ratty chair, sends a level of anxiety through me that I only get with my waxer.

Do not side-eye me. I might wear flannel but that does not mean I have to rock a bush. I’m girly in all the right places, trust me. I just find flannel a little more comfortable than spandex or camisoles. Where do you keep your phone in those outfits? I’m certainly not stuffing it in my bra or carrying around a purse.

I have a backpack and that’s the extent of my accessories which—my phone dings and I roll onto my side and snag it. Huge mistake.

Apparently, his coffee and aspirin have kicked in.

Demon Douche: Quick! Do I have something on my face?

Ugh!I squish my head into the mattress and muffle a scream. If I text him back, he’ll like it. How do I know he’ll like it? Because I would like it and Sebastian is just as warped as I am with our back and forth.

Demon Douche: Hurry, T! I need to make a good impression.

Demon Douche: I mean V. Stupid Autocorrect.

Autocorrect…myass. This man needs an ankle monitor and a muzzle. I swipe the text away and hit the red button to delete. I’m not playing his game today. Sure, I want to—badly—but I’m not, because I’m better than that. And, unless he’s texting a drop point for the exchange of my chair for his pillow, I’m not interested.

Demon Douche: I was thinking the yellow shorts looked better than the red ones.

I gritmy teeth and clutch the phone in my hand. He knows those shorts are ridiculous.

Don’t do it, Vee.

You know better. You’ll just be egging him on. Don’t let him bait you.

Fuck it. I ease down to the floor and crawl to the window for one tiny look-see. Sure enough, the bane of my college existence is turning his head side to side in the window, as if he were directly in front of me, and I was his personal mirror.

Demon Douche: I’m serious, V. You might as well give me your opinion. What’s the range on those binoculars anyway?

If only Ihad a paintball gun, I would… do nothing because then I’d be scared that I’d shoot the annoying idiot in the eye and spend the rest of my life groveling for his forgiveness or—gasp—taking care of him. Not to mention he would retaliate, and I’d end up being the eighty-year-old woman still playing pranks with a single, immature old man. Yeah, no one is marrying that. A big dick ain’t everything. Not that I know if Sebastian’s dick is big, but something has to be going for him to keep women in his bed. I’m just saying thatif—and that’s a big if—Sebastian manages to keep a woman, I’ll admit I was wrong in my assessment. But I’m not wrong because this is Sebastian we’re talking about. He’s no prince.

And, apparently, I’m no angel because my fingers betray me, and I swipe up to reply to his message before my conscience can change my mind.

Me: Those shorts look like you sat in baby shit.

It’slike I can feel the smile that forms on his face. Why do we love to do this to each other?

Demon Douche: It’s mustard colored. Very trendy. You wouldn’t know since you never wear anything but hand-me-down dish towels.

Really?Dish towels? Please.

Me: If I recall, you enjoyed the feel of my flannel.

His reply comes quickly.

Demon Douche: Fuck you.

I’ll admithis response makes me smile, but then that stupid guilt creeps into my belly and I change the subject before we take this playful banter into asshole territory.

Me: Who are you trying to NOT impress?

Demon Douche: Now, now. That’s not how this game works anymore. Thanks for the chair, V. I don’t owe you one.

Not how thisgame worksanymore… my stomach drops. His text hits me right in the guilt. He’s right; the game has changed. Because, once upon a time, he would have told me who he wasnotdressing up for.

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