Grace Reilly

“Be a good girl and come for me.”

“Fuck, princess. You look so gorgeous on your knees for me,”

“Good girl,” he praises.

“The last time I asked him for help with school, I almost stabbed him. He’s impossible.”

“With a pen.”

“I stand by my actions. It was an attempted stabbing and I’m not sorry.”

Bex’s text is three simple words: Can we talk?

I call her instead of texting back. This feels too important for a text, and fine, maybe I want to hear her voice.

“Waking up next to my girl can’t hurt.”

My girl.

And fine, maybe I like it. Just a little. I get out of the car and hum along as I pick up the phone, grateful no one is around. It wouldn’t do for McKee University’s new QB to make a first impression as a 2000s pop lover. I have a reputation from Louisiana State University to uphold.

“Just try it on. It’ll look gorgeous on you and make your tits look fabulous. All the boys will drool over you.”

Fuck, she’s pretty. An angel in white, complete with feathery wings and a golden halo. She’s leaning against the far wall, watching the mob of dancers, a red solo cup dangling from one delicate hand. Her hair, a strawberry-blonde, falls in waves around her face, framing big, dark eyes. Her heels make her legs look long and supple. I almost take a step forward, magnetized by the way she’s looking at me, but then I hear my name.

Tempting, but the bigger part of me wants to go back to the dance floor, find that little strawberry-blonde angel, and ask her for a dance.