The Play (Briar U Book 3)

“Lock it,” I order as my boyfriend Nico shuts the bedroom door behind us. Just because my sorority is hosting tonight’s party doesn’t mean my room is open to the public. The last time we threw a party and I forgot to lock up, I went upstairs to grab a sweater and walked in on a threesome in progress. One of the two guys had even committed the atrocity of using my one-eyed stuffed panda Fernando as a pillow to shove under the girl’s bottom. You know, to create easier access for the double penetration that was about to commence.

Never again, Fernando, I silently assure my childhood friend as I move him onto the nightstand to make room for my boyfriend.

Nico falls backward onto the bed, covers his face with his arm, and releases a weary breath. He missed the party because he had to work, but I appreciate that he made the effort to come over after his shift instead of going home to the studio apartment he rents in Hastings. The little town is a ten-minute drive from the Briar campus, so it’s not super far. But I know it would’ve been easier for him to go straight home and crash.

“Tired?” I cluck in sympathy.

“Dead,” is his muffled reply. His forearm shields his eyes from my view, which gives me the opportunity to admire his body without getting teased for it.

Nico has the long, lean build of a basketball player. Although he played point guard in high school, he didn’t land any college basketball scholarships, and he was never good enough to go to the NBA. I don’t think he cares much. Playing ball was something fun to do with his high school buddies; his real passion is cars. But though he doesn’t play sports these days, he’s still in great shape. He gets a good workout hauling boxes and furniture at the moving company where he works.

“Poor baby,” I murmur. “Let me take care of it.”

Smiling, I start at the bottom of his body and work my way up. Pull his sneakers off, slide his belt from its loops, peel his pants down his legs. He sits up to help me with his hoodie, then collapses back down. Now he’s bare chested, wearing boxers and socks, with his arm over his face again to protect his eyes from the light.

Taking pity on him, I turn off the main light and flick on the lamp on the bed table, which emits a pale glow.

Then I settle beside him, clad in the black silk nightie I wore for the party.

“Demi,” he mumbles as I start kissing his neck.

“Mmmm?”

“I’m way too tired for this.”

My mouth travels along the angular line of his jaw, rough stubble abrading my lips. I reach his mouth and kiss him softly. He kisses me back but it’s a fleeting caress. Then he gives another tired moan.

“Baby, seriously, I don’t have any energy. I’ve been working fourteen hours straight.”

“I’ll do all the work,” I whisper, but when my hand slides down to his crotch, there are no signs of life down there. His junk is a limp noodle.

“Another night, mami,” he says sleepily. “Why don’t you put on your creepy show or something?”

I swallow my disappointment. We haven’t had sex in more than a week. Nico works on the weekends and several nights during the week, but he has tomorrow off so this is one of the rare Saturdays when we could actually stay up late fooling around if we want.

But he hasn’t moved a muscle since he lay down.

“All right,” I relent, rolling over to grab my laptop. “The latest episode is Children Who Kill, but I don’t remember if I made you watch the one before that—Clowns Who Kill…?”

Nico is snoring softly.

Wonderful. It’s Saturday night, there’s a party raging downstairs, and it’s not even ten o’clock. My hot boyfriend is sound asleep in my bed and I’m about to watch a show about murderers. By myself.

Living the college dream. Woo-hoo.

To make matters worse, this is the last stress-free weekend we’re going to have in a long time. The fall semester starts on Monday, and my schedule is intense this year. I’m pre-med, so I need to excel and then some during my last two years at Briar if I want to get into a good med school. I won’t have nearly as much time to spend with Nico as I’ll want.

I shoot a quick glance at the snoring lump beside me. He doesn’t seem bothered by our impending lack of quality time. But maybe he’s right not to be. We’ve been dating since the eighth grade. Our relationship has had its ups and downs over the years, with some breaks along the way, but we survived every single hurdle, and we’ll survive this, too.

I crawl under the covers, a feat of skill because Nico’s heavy body is weighing down the other side of the blanket. I position the computer on my lap and load the next episode of my favorite show. I want to say I watch this series solely for the psychology component, but…who am I kidding? It’s fucked up and I love it.

Ominous music fills the bedroom, followed by the host’s familiar British monotone informing me that I’m in store for sixty delightful minutes of children who kill.

The rest of the weekend flies by. Monday morning brings with it the first class of my junior year, and the one I’m most excited about—Abnormal Psychology. Even better, two of my good friends are also taking this course. They’re waiting for me on the stone steps of the massive ivy-covered building.

“Gawd, you look hot!” Pax Ling throws his arms around me, pulls back to smack a loud kiss on my cheek, and then reaches around to pinch my butt. I’m wearing denim shorts and a striped tank top, because it’s a million degrees out today. Not that I’m complaining about the summer spilling over into September. Bring on the heat, baby.

“The things those shorts do to your legs, babe,” Pax gushes in approval.

Beside him, TJ Bukowski rolls his eyes. When I first introduced them, TJ wasn’t a fan of Pax’s outrageous personality. But he eventually warmed up to Pax, and now they have a love-hate friendship that makes me laugh.

“You look pretty hot yourself,” I inform Pax. “I love the shirt.”

He flips up the collar of his pea-green polo. “It’s Gucci, bitches. My sister and I were in Boston this weekend and spent a little too much money. But hey, worth it, right?” He does a quick spin to show off his new shirt.

“Worth it,” I agree.

TJ adjusts the straps of his backpack. “Come on, let’s go in. We don’t want to be late for the first class. I hear Andrews is a strict prof.”

I laugh. “We’re fifteen minutes early. Don’t worry.”

“Did you seriously just tell Thomas Joseph not to worry?” Pax demands. “That’s his default mode.”

He’s not wrong. TJ is a walking, talking ball of anxiety.

TJ glowers at us. He doesn’t like being made fun of, especially about his anxiety, so I reach out and take his hand, giving it a warm squeeze. “Don’t sulk, hon. I like that you’re a worrywart. Means I’m never late for anything.”

With a slight smile, he squeezes my hand back. TJ and I met in freshman year when we lived in the same dorm. My roommate had been absolutely unbearable, so TJ’s room became sort of a sanctuary for me. He’s not always the easiest person to get along with, but he’s been a good friend to me from day one.

“Waaaaaiittt!”

The female shriek pierces the breezy morning air. I turn my head to see a petite girl sprinting down the tree-lined path. She’s clad in a knee-length black dress with big white buttons running down the middle. One arm is thrust skyward, waving what looks like a plastic food container.

A dark-haired guy pauses near the steps. He’s tall and noticeably fit, even while wearing a bulky gray hoodie with the Briar U logo on it. A frown creases his handsome face when he realizes he’s being chased.

The girl skids to a stop in front of him. I can’t hear what he says to her, but her response is loud and clear. I think she might be one of the loudest people I’ve ever encountered.

“I made you lunch!” Smiling broadly, she presents the container as if she’s handing him the Holy Grail.

Meanwhile, his body language conveys annoyance, as if what she’s actually handing him is a bag of dog poop.

Seriously? His girlfriend made him lunch and he’s not throwing his arms around her in gratitude? Jerk.

“I hate that guy,” mutters TJ.

“You know him?” I can’t hide my dubious expression. TJ doesn’t hang out with many jocks, and the guy we’re looking at is one hundred percent a jock. Those broad shoulders are a dead giveaway.

“That’s Hunter Davenport.” Pax is the one who speaks, and I instantly recognize that tone of voice. Translation: oh-em-gee I want to lick that boy up.

Sure enough, he’s got a dreamy look in his eyes. “Who’s Hunter Davenport?” I ask.

“He’s on the hockey team.”

Nailed it. I knew he was an athlete. Those shoulders, man. “Never heard of him,” I say with a shrug.

“You’re not missing out. He’s just some rich prick jock,” TJ says.

I arch a brow. “What do you have against him?” TJ doesn’t normally bash student athletes. Or anyone, for that matter, aside from the occasional jab at Pax.

“Nothing. I just think he’s gross. I caught him banging some slut in the library last year. Fully clothed, but with his pants pulled down revealing half his ass. He had her right up against the wall in one of the study rooms.” TJ shakes his head in disgust.

I’m disgusted too, but more so with my friend’s rude representation of Davenport’s companion. “Please don’t use that word,” I chide. “You know I’m not into slut-shaming.”

TJ is instantly contrite. “Sorry, you’re right, that wasn’t cool. If anything, Davenport was the slut in that scenario.”

“Why does anyone have to be a slut?”

“I want to be his slut,” Pax says absently. His gaze remains glued to the dark-haired hockey player, who’s still bickering with his girlfriend.

The girl keeps pushing the Tupperware into his hand and he keep pushing it back into hers. I think he’s saying he won’t have time to eat, because her answering screech is, “There’s always time to eat, Hunter! But you know what, fine. Go hungry. Forgive me for trying to offer you nourishment!”

Grinning, I cup my hands around my mouth and holler, “Just take the fucking lunch already!”

Davenport’s head swivels my way. He gives me a deep frown.

The girl, on the other hand, beams at me. “Thank you!” She shoves the container in his hand one last time and flounces off. Her kitten heels snap like tap shoes against the cobblestones that comprise most of the historical campus.

Hockey Boy is glowering as he stalks toward us. “You have no idea what you just did,” he growls at me. His voice is deeper than I expect, with a cute rasp to it. He lifts the container. “Now we set a precedent. She’ll be making my fucking lunch all semester.”

I roll my eyes. “Wow, forgive her for trying to offer you nourishment.”

Sighing, he starts to move away. Then halts. “Oh hey, how’s it going, man?” he says to Pax.

My friend’s jaw drops to his white tennis shoes. They look new too, so I guess the shirt wasn’t the only thing he picked up in Boston.

“Hi,” Pax blurts out, clearly stunned to be singled out.

“You were in my Alternative Media class last term. Jax, right?”

To my disbelief, Pax nods stupidly.

“You in this Abnormal Psych class, too?”

“Yes,” Pax breathes.

“Cool. Well, see you in there.” Davenport claps Pax on the shoulder before sauntering up the stairs toward the building’s entrance.

I stare pointedly at my friend, but he’s too busy gawking at Davenport’s ass.

“Hey Jax,” I mock. “Earth to Jax.”

TJ snickers.

Pax snaps out of his trance. He gives me a sheepish look. “He fucking remembered me, Demi. I wasn’t going to correct him after he remembered me.”

“He remembered Jax!”

“That’s me! I’m Jax. I now live life as Jax. Hunter Davenport said so.”

I smother a sigh and glance at TJ. “Why are we friends with him again?”

“I have no idea,” he replies with a grin. “Come on, Jax, let’s escort our lady to class.”

I enter the lecture hall sandwiched between the two boys, my arms linked through theirs. The bulk of my friends are male, a fact that my boyfriend has come to accept. In high school he wasn’t too thrilled about it, but Nico’s never been a controlling boyfriend, and I think he secretly likes how well I get along with his friends.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got girlfriends too. My sorority sisters. Pippa and Corinne, who I’m meeting for dinner tonight. But my guy friends do outnumber the girls, for whatever reason.

Inside the cavernous room, the boys and I find three seats together in a row near the middle of the room. I notice Hunter Davenport one row ahead of us at the end of the aisle, hunched over his phone.

“Gawd, he is perfection,” Pax groans. “You have no idea how often I’ve fantasized about luring him over to the D-side.”

I pat my friend on the arm. “Maybe one day. I have faith in you.”

The room fills up, but all chatter dies when our professor enters at nine o’clock sharp. She’s a tall, slender woman with short hair and shrewd brown eyes behind a pair of square black frames. She greets us warmly, and goes on to introduce herself, her credentials, and what we can expect to learn this year.

I’m pumped. My father is a surgeon and my mother used to be a pediatrics nurse, so it was inevitable that I’d wind up in a medicine-related field. It’s probably programmed into my DNA. But surgery and nursing never interested me. Since I was a kid, I’ve been drawn to the mind. I’m especially fascinated by personality disorders. By destructive patterns of thinking and how they impact an individual when they interact with the world.

Professor Andrews discusses the specific topics we’ll be covering. “We’re going to see how abnormal psych was dealt with in the past and how modern approaches to it have evolved over the years. Clinical assessments and diagnosis will play a large role in our studies. Also, I believe in a hands-on approach to teaching. Which means I’m not simply going to stand here at this podium and spew facts about stress disorders, mood disorders, sexual disorders, and the like.”

I lean forward. I’m already enthralled. I like her no-nonsense tone, and the way she sweeps her gaze over the room and tries to look everyone in the eye. I’ve had a lot of classes where the prof reads off a laptop in a monotone and doesn’t seem to notice there’re other people in the room.

She says we’ll be expected to write summaries of the case studies she talks about in class, that there’ll be a few multiple-choice tests. “All test dates are in the syllabus that was emailed to you. As for your major research project, it requires a partner, and it will be an ongoing partnership, with the final research paper and in-depth case study due before the holiday break. Now this is the fun part…”

I notice several uneasy glances being exchanged throughout the lecture hall. I guess it’s a red flag when a prof uses the word “fun.” But I’m not concerned. Everything she’s described so far sounds interesting.

“You know that old childhood game—playing doctor?” Professor Andrews grins at the room. “That’s the gist of this research project. One partner will play the role of the psychologist; the other will be the patient. The former will be provided with diagnostic tools in order to make an assessment and write a detailed case study. The latter will be assigned a psychological disorder that they’ll be required to research and, for lack of a better word, play-act for the doctor.”

“I love it,” Pax says to me. “Please, please let me play the patient.”

“Why do you assume you’re partnering with Demi?” TJ objects.

“Boys, there’s plenty of me to go around.”

But Andrews throws us for a loop. “I’m assigning partners based on this alphabetized class list.” She holds up some sheets of paper. “When you hear your names, raise your hands so you know who you’re working with. All right, let’s start—Ames and Ardin.”

Two arms go up. A girl with bright purple hair, and a girl wearing a Patriots cap.

“Axelrod and Bailey.”

There are about a hundred people in the class, but Andrews is efficient. She whizzes through names at a fast clip, and we reach the D’s in no time.

“Davenport and Davis.”

I raise my hand at the same time as Hunter. He shifts his gaze toward me, quirking his mouth in a half-smile.

Next to me, TJ sighs unhappily. He leans in to whisper, “Do you want me to legally change my last name to Davidson to save you from the hockey asshole?”

I grin at him. “It’s okay, I’ll survive.”

“Grey and Guthrie,” Andrews is saying.

“Are you sure?” TJ presses. “I bet you can switch partners if you said something.”

“Killington and Ladde.”

“Babe, it’s fine. I don’t even know the guy,” I say. “You’re the one who doesn’t like him.”

“I love him,” Pax bemoans. “I want to play doctor with him.”

But then Andrews calls out, “Lawson and Ling,” and Pax brightens up when his partner raises a hand. It’s a guy with wavy brown hair and a killer jawline.

“He’ll do,” murmurs Pax, and I swallow a laugh.

“These packages,” Andrews says, gesturing to the stacks of orange manila envelopes on her desk, “contain detailed instructions about the assignment. One partner, please remember to grab one after the lecture. It’ll be up to each team to decide who assumes which role.”

Hunter twists around and gives me a finger gun, I assume to tell me I’m on envelope duty.

I roll my eyes. Already making me do all the work, I see.

Once everyone’s assigned a partner, Andrews resumes the lecture, and I take so many notes my wrist starts to ache. Shit, I’ll need to bring my laptop next time. I usually prefer writing notes by hand, but there’s a lot of material to unpack and she covers so much in such a short time.

After we’re dismissed, I head to the front of the room to grab a manila envelope. It’s got some heft to it. That might alarm some people, but I’m looking forward to this project. It sounds fun and comprehensive, even if I am paired with a jock.

Speaking of the jock, he wanders toward me, hiking his backpack over one broad shoulder. “Davis,” he greets me.

“Davenport.”

“Call me Hunter.” His gaze does a slow sweep of me from head to toe. It lingers a little too long on my bare legs, still nice and tanned from a summer spent in Miami.

“I’m Demi.” I notice TJ and Pax standing near the exit, waiting for me to finish up.

“Demi…” he says absently. He’s still checking out my legs, and he visibly gulps before wrenching his gaze back to mine.

“Yes, that’s my name.” Why is he shifting his stance like that? I narrow my eyes at his crotch. Does he have an erection?

“Demi,” he repeats.

“Uh-huh. Rhymes with semi.” I shoot a pointed look at his crotch.

Hunter glances down. Then he snickers. “For fuck’s sake, I’m not rocking a boner. That’s just my pants.”

“Surrrrre.”

He slides one big hand to his zipper area and covers it with his palm, and the tent in the denim does seem to flatten. “New jeans,” he grumbles. “They’re still kinda stiff.”

“Stiff, you say.”

“It’s the fabric. See? Touch it.”

Laughter sputters from my throat. “Oh my God, I am not touching your dick.”

“Your loss.” Hunter smirks.

“If you say so, bud.” I hold up the envelope. “So when should we meet up and go over all this stuff?”

“I dunno. You free tonight?”

I shake my head. “I’ve got plans. How about tomorrow night?”

“Yeah, I’ll be around. When and where?”Text © 2024 NôvelDrama.Org.

“Eight o’clock at the Theta Beta Nu house?”

“Huh, really? I didn’t take you for a sorority girl.”

I shrug. “Well, I am.”

Truth be told, I only pledged because I didn’t want to live in the dorms. Plus, my mother belonged to the Theta chapter at her college, and I grew up hearing about how her sorority days were some of the best days of her life. She was the life of the party back then, and still is.

“Okay then. I’ll see you tomorrow night, Semi,” he drawls before striding off.