Stud in the Stacks (Girl Band #2)

by Pippa Grant

Autocorrect just autocorrected to autocunnilingus.

We close out “Hangin’ Tough”

This is suddenly way more awkward than it has a right to be, because all the pieces are clicking into place. Librarian. Knox. Romance novels. Judy. Judy’s sons. Whom I used to babysit. Fuck fuck fuck.

I briefly wonder if I were to dive into the urinal and flush it if I could make it all the way out to sea. Or at least to the Hudson.

I’ve masturbated to images of him every night for seven nights and I used to babysit him.

I can pull off a seven for my reunion, but you’re a solid eleven. And sevens and elevens only mix at corner grocery stores, and only when they’re coming together to sell slushies, and there’s no way you’re planning on making slushies with me, because even I know that’s a horrible euphemism, and it’s just my reunion, and—”

A doctor with a voyeuristic pet chicken thought I was lousy in bed.

His grip tightens in my hair, and I open my mouth to let his kiss all the way in.

Did I say full-mast? Because now I’m picturing myself showing her exactly how not fake orgasms can be, and my cock’s trying to show the whole fucking navy how you raise a flagpole. It’s not enough that she’s completely clueless as to how hot she is in that cut-off tank top, short shorts, and carrying her guitar. Or that her hair’s loose around her shoulders, teased and curly and thick, perfect to hold onto while I’m kissing the fuck out of her.

The fuck off from Parker. The can we please do her from my dick. The show her you’re not an asshole from my brain.

Sweet Valley High,

“That movie sucked. No happily ever after, even though Jack would’ve fit on that damn door and could’ve lived. It’s like Nicholas Sparks wrote the damn thing. Therefore, not a romance.” He straightens and grabs his phone. “You need a romance. A good one. Like…Wallbanger. Monster Prick. Or maybe Full Package.” I gape at him. Maybe he really is just a hornball.

Step right up, ladies and gentlemen. The Parker Elliott Self-Sabotage Show is live.

Also, I haven’t seen her since Tuesday, when her brother effectively cock-blocked me and taco-blocked her,

She reaches under the table and strokes a hand from my knee up my thigh, my pocket rocket fires its engines, and a satisfied smirk crosses her lips. “I think we can be very convincing.” I tug at my collar. “Is this an act, or can we go find a storage closet?”

“Tacos?” she says brightly. Shit. Fatal mistake. This is what her boobs are doing to me.

Which NKOTB member is your favorite?” “Um—” “You can have that Joey boy, but Donnie’s mine. Do you play Duck Hunt?” “Nana—” Knox starts.

Today, though, I care less about five more romance lovers in the world and more about snagging her wrist and leaning over the table to kiss her. Because I can. And I need to. As often as possible, for as long as possible, because there is not now, nor will there ever be, another man who can appreciate Parker for the beautiful, half-mess, half-goddess, all-perfect woman that she is.

“He flushed my trigonometry homework down the toilet once a week and dumped a carton of chocolate milk on me in the cafeteria,” I tell Brooks. Brooks hooks his chin at the crowd, where I suspect Rhett is watching us. “Swirly time,” he calls.

“No, but failing at one thing doesn’t mean you didn’t do a good job. It means you failed one thing. You learn from it, and if your boss can’t appreciate everything you went through last night, fuck him. You work too hard to take his shit.”

“You’ll keep me?”