Page 15 of Phantom Faceoff
Julian and I are … having fun. We haven’t labeled whatever this is.
A relationship?
Casual sex?
A friends-with-benefits situation?
We do what feels good, and right now his weight hovering over my lap feels phenomenal.
“I think,” Julian whispers against my lips. “He might actually like you.”
“Who?” I’m too zoned in on the way our mouths move together, on Julian’s tongue stroking my own, to follow his train of thought.
He chuckles. “Mal.”
We separate, but Julian keeps close like he doesn’t plan for us to stay that way.
“The way he huffs and puffs when I bring you up, and the way you bicker about Taylor Swift of all things. Bold, by the way. Daddy is serious about his music.”
My libido is still in charge of my brain, so I shake my head to clear some of the fog.
“I’m not sure if I want to question you on Blanchard liking me”—which he absolutely does not—“Or the fact that you just unironically called himDaddy.”
Julian presses his lips together, brows dipping down. “Don’t worry about the second part,” he says with a dry chuckle. “It’s an inside joke.”
“Which brings us back to Blanchard liking me is about as likely as Ellis winning a face off against Micky. Which is statistically improbable, alright?”
“Malachi,” Julian says, extracting himself from my arms and planting himself back on the ground, “wants to believe that he’s better on his own. That if he doesn’t give anyone the power to hurt him, then they won’t.”
Julian is earnest. Caring. Fiercely loyal.
Safe.
“What I’m trying to say is,” Julian huffs out an exasperated breath. “He’s a great guy to have in your corner. If you ever get in a bind … Mal will protect you. Even if he thinks you’re annoying and hogging his best friend.”
It’s sweet. The way he wants us to get along.
“I’m pretty sure if I took a puck to the face he’d just stand there all broody and refuse to call an ambulance.”
Julian rolls his eyes and pushes at my chest, climbing to his feet and offering me a hand. “Stubborn.”
“Seems you have a type,” I say with a wink.
That’s all it takes to turn us back into a tussle of tongues and teeth, ravishing each other against the willow like the rest of the world ceases to exist.
These are the moments that I thrive in.
Messy. Passionate.
Wild.
Asher Roth can drink me under the table on his worst day, and while he may have called me out to fight a case of the blues, this is far from one of them.
With my first Music Theory paper due and my spot in pre-season on the line, I could use a little black out mind numb.
I’ve lost count of how man shots I’ve downed, but I know Asher is at least double. There’s a voice in the back of my mind telling me that he’ll be in no condition to get us back to campus.
Another voice tells me that the girls at this party are really fucking pretty, and I should see how many flavors of lip gloss I can rack up.
