The Score (Off-Campus #3)(16)

“Wait,” I blurt out before she can end the call.

“What is it?”

I stare at the rain that’s sliding down the windshield. Wondering what the hell is wrong with me.

Then I lick my suddenly dry lips and say, “I want to fuck you again.”

I can hear her breath hitch over the extension.

My body tightens in anticipation. I think about the sweet curve of her ass filling my palms. The way her nipples puckered when I flicked my tongue over them. The tight grip of her pussy squeezing my cock.

A silent groan shudders through my chest. Fuck me. I’m lusting hard for this chick. And now I’m holding my breath, waiting for her to answer.

After a long pause, her annoyed voice says, “Goodbye, Dean.”

I growl in frustration when the line goes dead.





5




Allie


My heart is pounding as I hang up on Dean. I hadn’t expected him to say that. At all.

“I want to fuck you again.”

Well, of course he does. I’m amazing in bed.

But there’s no way I’m sleeping with the guy again, not after I spent the entire day feeling like Hester fricking Prynne. Only, the self-judgment I’ve been hitting myself with is far more scathing than anything that poor woman ever got from those Puritans.

God, I’m not cut out for casual sex. I feel…defiled. Except that’s ridiculous, because if anyone was defiled last night, it was Dean. Not only did I seduce him, but I tied him up and rode him like he was my own personal amusement park ride.

I’m such a slut.

You’re not a slut.

Okay, maybe I’m not. Maybe I’m just a twenty-two year old woman who had some no-strings fun for once in her life.

The only problem is—I like the strings. Sex and relationships go hand in hand for me. I’m all about the snuggling and inside jokes and talking late into the night. I’m a card-carrying member of Team Boyfriend, and after last night, I can honestly say that Team One-Night-Stand sucks balls. The sex was incredible, but the shame it left me with isn’t worth the orgasms.

Sighing, I toss my phone on the couch cushion and pick up the script I’d been reading before Dean interrupted. The student-written play will be my final performance at Briar. I’m one of two female leads, and even though the material is a tad melodramatic for my tastes, I’m looking forward to rehearsals. Ever since my theater debut in Boston this summer, I’ve been itching to perform in front of a live audience again.

Which is just another contributing factor to the stress I’ve been under. I’m at a crossroads in my career, and I have no idea which path to take, damn it.

When I started college, I asked my agent to concentrate on only finding summer projects for me. It would have been too tempting to drop out of school if a juicy role came along, and I wanted my degree. Now that I’m graduating, all bets are off. Pilot season kicks off around January, and Ira has already sent me dozens of scripts for sitcoms and Glee-style dramedies, along with several romantic comedy screenplays that normally I’d be salivating over.

I always thought I was destined for comedic roles. I caught the acting bug when I was still in middle school, and all the bit parts I’ve landed over the years have been light and fluffy, highlighting my comedic timing and girl-next-door persona. I dreamed about being a rom com queen. The next Sandra Bullock or Kate Hudson or Emma Stone.

Until this summer, when a casting call went out for a super serious, super depressing play directed by Brett Cavanaugh, an Oscar-winning director and a fricking legend. Somehow my agent made it possible for me to read for Cavanaugh, and to my total astonishment I actually got the part—the heroin-addicted younger sister of the lead actress. The show only had a two-month run, but it was a huge success. Since then, I’ve received a ton of offers to read for more dramatic roles, both on stage and for television.

And someone told me Cavanaugh is developing another project for the stage, off-off Broadway this time…

Shit. Why am I so tempted to veer off the course I set for myself? Considering dramatic roles is one thing, but theater?

Hollywood means more money. More recognition. Oscars and Golden Globes and Rodeo Drive shopping sprees.

I stare at the stack of scripts on the coffee table. If I get hired for one of these pilots Ira sent over and the show gets picked up? Or if I snag a role in one of these films? I could actually break out in the business. So why am I fantasizing about stage acting?

I’m still lost in thought when my phone rings. I check the screen, and for a second I think it’s Dean calling, until I do a double take and realize it’s an S, not a D. Huh. My ex-boyfriend and my one-night-stand literally have the same name with one letter replaced. I wonder if that means something…

Sean’s calling you, you idiot.

Yeah, that’s probably the more pressing issue at the moment.

My chest fills with anxiety. I shouldn’t pick up. I really, really shouldn’t pick up.

I pick up.

“Are you okay?” are the first words I hear.

Sean sounds so frantic that I’m quick to reassure him. “I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I came by after class yesterday and you weren’t home. And I texted you all night.”

“I know.” I gulp. “I spent the night at a friend’s. I…” Another gulp. “I told you I didn’t want to see you.”