“Atta girl,” I murmur, palm gliding down her back. It’s meant to be soothing, but I forgot she’s only wearing a sports bra, so my fingers dance over her bare flesh, and both of us go rigid.
Jennie pushes away at the same time I rocket backward, and I rip my hat off, burying my hand in my hair.
“I’ll, uh…” I thumb down the hall. “I’ll check the boxes in the spare bedroom.”
“Yeah.” She nods. “Yeah, cool. Good idea. You do that, and I’ll…stay.”
My casual stroll turns to a mad dash when I round the corner into the hall. Inside the bedroom, I press my back to the wall and breathe deeply. This is a disaster. The sooner I get out of here, the better.
There are only four boxes, and I go through the first two in no time. When I get to the third, the one labeled toys, I grin triumphantly, ripping at the tape.
“Aha.” This is it; this is the box. If this doesn’t put me in Jennie’s good books, nothing will. “Here I come, Princess Bubbleg—ah! Holy fuck!” I flip the top down and scream bloody murder. “Help!”
“What?” Jennie slides into the bedroom, breathless, eyes wild. “Did you find Princess Bubble—Garrett!” Her hands go to her face. She’s screeching. I think I’m crying. “What are you doing?”
“Looking for Princess Bubblegum!” I shout. The box I’m crushing against my chest, the one filled with dildos and vibrators, rumbles and shakes, coming alive.
“She’s not in there!”
“Spoiler alert, Jennie: I fucking know that!”
“This box is private!” Jennie charges at me, squishing the box between us. Something starts vibrating, trying to jump out, and I think I might be sick. “You shouldn’t have touched it!”
“Why would you label a box of sex toys toys?” I shriek back. My back hurts and my face feels really hot. I don’t like it.
“What else would you call them?” She tries to pry the box from my—for some reason unwilling—hands. A battle of tug of war promptly ensues, the box ricocheting between us. “Give…it…back!”
I yank the box closer—why?—and Jennie tumbles forward, plastering the three of us—me, her, and the box—against the wall. She huffs, puffs, and pulls. Hard.
The box rips apart at the seams, the most beautiful rainbow of dildos and vibrators flying through the air between us in—I swear to God—slow fucking motion. Jennie’s eyes lock with mine, wide and horrified, as a particularly meaty fucker with a suction cup base slaps me across the face. It clatters to the ground, the length of it—why the hell is it so damn long?—pumping up and down and winding in circles, spinning around the hardwood like a bad break-dancer.
Jennie’s shriek is nothing short of bloodcurdling. With both hands, she shoves me along the wall, out of the bedroom, down the hall. “Out!” Her tiny fists pummel my chest. “Get out!”
“I’m fucking going!” I trip over my hockey bag, colliding with the wall. Scrambling to my feet, I whip the door open, toss my shit into the hall, and all but throw myself out of Jennie’s apartment before the door can hit me in the ass on the way out.
“Holy fucking shit,” I mutter, swiping the damp hair off my forehead. I have no idea where my hat went, but I’m sure as hell not going back in to find it.
I’m almost to the elevator when a door creaks, and my heart hammers at Jennie’s timid whisper.
“Garrett?”
I glance over my shoulder, finding that faint flash of violet-blue peeking through the crack in the door. “Yeah?”
She licks her lips, drops her gaze, and I barely catch her words before she slams the door. “Thanks for the hug.”
I scrub my hands down my face. “Well, I’m fucking dead.”
CHAPTER 5
GOLDEN DICKING
JENNIE
I’m losing count of how many days I’ve sat mindlessly in a row lately, wondering what I’m doing with my life.
Here I am, in my last class of the day on a Thursday afternoon, ready for the weekend to start. I’m in my final year at SFU, about to graduate with a bachelor of fine arts, a major in dance, and the qualifications to teach it. I’m twenty-four years old, and the dream I’ve worked toward my entire life, poured everything into, is finally within reach.
And yet this life barely feels like mine. That future on stage? Not so sure I want it.
The only thing I’m certain about wanting is pizza. And maybe the cute corgi currently hopping around in the grass in the video on my laptop. A lot of my problems would also be solved by locating Princess Bubblegum too.
“That’s it, everyone. Have a great weekend.”
The YouTube compilation video of funniest dogs disappears as I shut my laptop and tuck it into my bag at my teacher’s wrap-up call.
“Miss Beckett.” Leah, my teacher, smiles and points to the door. “Can I walk with you?”
“’Course. What’s up?”
“My friend from Toronto was visiting last weekend.”
I wink. “Did you get a little wild?”
Leah rolls her eyes. She’s only four years older than me, and I once saw her in a bar after one of my brother’s hockey games. She was wasted and straddling a defenseman. Her glossy eyes were mortified when they met mine, and her entire face glowed a blushing brown. Apparently, You go, Glen Coco, wasn’t the right thing for me to say, though I still beg to differ. Watching your teacher faceplant as she scrambles to climb off a massive hockey player is funny as hell. She was still wearing sunglasses when she came to class the following Monday, and when I opened my mouth to say something totally uncalled for, she slapped her palm over it.
She’s my favorite teacher, and she’d be yours too.
“Okay, fine. I got a little wild.” She slips a hand over her mouth, leaning closer. “One word: quarterback.”
“Did you show him how flexible you are?”
“That is wildly inappropriate, Miss Beckett.” She stops me as I reach for the door to the dance studio, eyes wide and playful, and holds her hands out, a good foot between them. She pokes the inside of her cheek and mouths, Fucking massive.
I respond with a silent scream. Leah and I grip each other’s arms as we bounce excitedly in place. A pair of professors slow, casting curious glances our way, and Leah promptly releases me and clears her throat before we dash ahead into the studio.
It’s quiet in here, just the way I like it, and a happy hum starts in my chest.
I slip my shoes and sweater off before sinking down to a bench. “What did you wanna talk to me about, Professor Naughty?”
“So, Monica was down last week—”
“Monica? Monica from The National Ballet in Toronto, Monica? That Monica?”
“That Monica. They’re looking to add another teacher to their faculty.”
“Wow. That’s incredible.” I spent my first three years of this five-year program at the Toronto campus, following the teachers around like I was living in my own dreamland, dazed and in love with every moment of it. I never wanted to leave, but that’s how the program works: three years there and two here. Plus, my family was here. They are here. I loved Toronto but hated the ache in my chest. “Simon will be thrilled.”