The Games We Play - Chapter 4: Chapter 4

The breeze coming through the open window is pure bliss.
I stretch out on my bed, letting the cool air wash over my freshly showered skin, my favorite oversized T-shirt and tiny boy shorts my only armor against the late-summer heat. Music floats softly from my Bluetooth speaker, Frank Ocean's beautiful voice like a sweet lullaby.
My room isn't big, but it's mine. My bed takes up most of the space: queen-sized with a white wooden frame. It's layered with pink pinstripe sheets and a fluffy white duvet, with a whole department store's worth of pillows up against the headboard.
The huge window with white blinds is on the far wall, and my vanity-slash-study desk is against the wall opposite the foot of my bed.
There's a small wardrobe built into the same wall as the door—so guests can't see the absolute shit show that's stuffed inside.
On the walls, I've pinned up a collage of photos and memories, like a scrapbook brought to life. Polaroids, postcards, little doodles, photo booth strips, and white-gold string lights. Some framed art is up there too—from local artists and some that cost a damn kidney to buy.
The floor is a soft white carpet, and I've layered a fluffy white rug on it. It's often my final resting place after nights out when I'm too drunk to make it to my mattress.
I could say it's luck that got on our side when we secured this place—but it's actually Scarlett. She can be ruthless when she has her mind set on something, and the second I said I wanted this apartment, she did too.
It's in a decent building, part of a wider village of three. Four floors, six apartments on each floor. It has a gym, a communal swimming pool, and a few other shared spaces.
I don't even think the other applicants put up much of a fight. Not because she scared them—well, shit, she probably did—but because Scarlett was just so damned prepared for everything. All the paperwork, all our bank accounts—everything was prepped and handed to the agent when needed.
It's so fucking hot.
See? Who needs men when you have women like Scarlett Raleigh simply existing?
We meet freshman year when we're assigned as random roommates, and she terrifies me at first. She's tall, blonde, and so stupidly gorgeous that people stop to stare on the street. Her confidence is intimidating, but by the end of our first semester, we're inseparable.
I have no clue why she wants to be my friend. I've been nothing but a major pain in the ass for her these past two years. But she loves me, she puts up with me, and she's always there to deal with all my shit when it gets too much for me.
Well, not always. Otherwise, she'd stop me from sleeping with—
Oh. My. God.
Seriously. How the hell do I make the giant fucking leap?
Towards the end of summer, thoughts of him become less and less, and I finally feel like I'm cured. But then, after seeing him on campus yesterday—it's like every second thought is about him, or if not, I somehow make it about him.
I groan, throwing an arm over my face as the memory of him, of that night, sneaks back in.
My other hand has a mind of its own—I swear—as it slowly trails down between my breasts, over my stomach, and brushes the waistband of my underwear.
The faint pulse of heat between my thighs is hard to ignore, and before I can stop myself, I let my fingers slip lower, sliding over the fabric to rub slow, deliberate circles against my clit.
Dammit. He pisses me off.
The way his voice dips when he says my name. The rough drag of his hands on my hips. The heat of his body pressing into mine. It all pisses me off.
And turns me the fuck on.
The front door slams.
"Shit!" I yelp, jerking my hand out of my pants so hard I roll off the bed, hitting the hardwood floor with a loud thud.
"Jesus, Cam!" Scarlett's voice rings out from the hallway. "You good?"
Scrambling to my feet, I tug my shirt down like it might erase the sheer humiliation of what I'm just doing and quickly race out of the room. I brush back my semi-wet hair and slide into the open living space.
"Hey! Scar! Hi!" I greet wildly and out of breath with a big smile. "Howdy."
She's at the kitchen island with two paper bags in front of her, already in the middle of unpacking. She slows her movements as she eyes me suspiciously.
"Hi...?" she questions wearily before continuing to unpack. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a pony, and she's in a matching navy workout set. She looks like the poster girl for a Pilates studio.
"Need some help?" I ask, but I'm already moving into the kitchen before she answers.
"You're being weirder than usual... What happened?" she says a little too warily as I quickly shove my hands into the bags and pull out items.
"Nothing. I'm just happy to see you," I say as I place the vegetables in the bottom drawer of our refrigerator.
She puts a hand on her hip while turning to face me. "Bullshit."
"Wha—I am," I gasp when I turn back before heading back to the bags. "So, whatcha get?"
"Stuff for dinner," Scarlett replies, quickly moving on, and pulls out a jar of curry paste. "Panang curry with jasmine rice and spring rolls. I'm feeling ambitious."
"You. Are. A. Goddess. Mwah!" I say, grabbing her gently by the head and perking up on my toes to kiss her scalp. I then get back to unloading the groceries. Nothing too fancy. Just the usual cupboard suspects and the items for dinner.
Oh! And two blocks of Hershey's. If there's one thing about me and Scarlett, it's that we always gotta have a sweet treat after dinner.
"Damn right I am," she smirks before hitting me in the tit with a bunch of cilantro, "but don't think you're getting off easy. You're helping with the spring rolls."
I salute her. "Sir, yes, sir!"
Once the groceries are placed away, I put my hair back in a claw clip and tie my pink-check apron around me.
We wash our hands and get to work preparing this glorious meal.
As we work, Scarlett launches into a rant about her day.
"I swear to God," she begins, pulling out a cutting board. "My new professor is already on my shit list."
"OMG. Why? What'd he do?" I ask, pulling out a pack of tofu, hungry for dinner but also Scarlett's tea.
"He's a fucking pervert." Scarlett screws up her nose and begins to chop angrily. "Spent the whole lecture with his eyes on my tits. And if it wasn't mine—he was ogling the only other female in my class."
Scarlett, being the smarty-pants that she is, is currently studying Microbiology. It's not that there's not enough females in her class, it's just that there's not enough anyone in her class. It's an incredibly elite programme and only a few handfuls are accepted each year.
She stretches out her neck, "I thought maybe I had something on my shirt but nope—he was just being a damn creep."
"Ewwwww" I muttered, setting the tofu on the counter. "That's so nasty."
"It was vile," Scarlett agreed, slicing a lime with a little more force than necessary. "If I catch him doing it again, I'm reporting his ass after kicking it."
"As you should," I said, nodding in approval. "Need me to leave an anonymous review on RateMyProf? I can be real creative."
"I know you can be, honey." She pats my head with a soft smile before returning to the veggies, "But not yet—I feel like I need to get some evidence first. The joys of being a woman."
"Whoop whoop." I hoot sarcastically and swing the knife around in a small circle.
Before we could continue, my phone buzzed loudly from the sofa.
"That's where I left it!" I gasp in relief as I suddenly run across the room and pick it up.
I glanced at the screen and frowned.
"It's the tutoring program," I said, glancing quickly at Scarlett who gestures with her knife to answer it. I swipe up and put it on speaker, "Hey Will."
"Cam!" a familiar voice chirps on the other end, "How's it going?"
"Uh—great." I said, standing in the middle of the living room enjoying the soft feeling of the rug beneath my feet, "How about you?"
"Same old, same old." he said, his voice breezy. "Hey, listen, I know you said you were planning to take this semester off, but something's come up, and I wanted to run it by you."
"Okay..." I said slowly, glancing at Scarlett, who was now leaning on the counter and watching me with curiosity.
"We had someone specifically request you," Will said, his tone brightening. "Apparently, your reputation proceeds you and they're willing to pay big bucks."
That's got my interest peaked.
"How big we talking?"
"They said you could name the price," Will said. "I know you're busy, but I thought I'd ask since they've heard about your skills and are pretty damn keen . Apparently know one else is suited for them."
I hesitated, biting my lip. I'd planned to take the semester off from tutoring to focus on my own coursework.
Between classes and building my portfolio for the internship, I didn't want to stretch myself too thin.
Scarlett, however, wasn't about to let me turn it down.
But money...I like money...
"Do it." she mouths, nodding emphatically, but it's the way she's pointing the knife at me that has me answering quickly.
"Ah, fuck it. Sure." I said into the phone. "I'll do it."
"Sweet!" Will exclaims, relief clear in his voice, "Thanks. You're a real life-saver here, Cam."
I roll my eyes.
Of course he would say that.
Any fee a Colts tutor receives, a percentage of that goes back to the programme. Back to Will.
I smile, "No problem, Will."
"I'll get back to you with all the details. You have a great night!" He exclaims before hanging up the call. I slowly lower the phone to my side, feeling Scar's stare on me as I gaze into nothingness.
I throw my phone on the couch and tilt my face up to the roof with a pained groan, "Shit! Why did I say yes."
Scarlett scoffs at me with a hand to her hip, "Because it's money. And money is good."
"I feel like a whore." I mumble as I stomp back to the kitchen.
"Oh, no, baby. You're not a whore." Scarlett offers to me with a warm smile, "You're just a slut."
I give her a fake smile as I return to my tofu, "Oh, gee, thanks so much."
☆☆☆☆
The smell of sawdust and varnish fills the air, mingling with the low hum of conversation and the occasional buzz of a drill.
I lean over my workbench, the edges of my current project scattered with rulers, pencils, and wood samples.
Our first task is easy, just getting used to the new materials and tools we're given after the renovation over the summer.
It's nothing much, just a scaled-down model of a modern living room. While the layout is coming together, I can't stop second-guessing my choices. Is the accent wall too bold? Maybe. Does the furniture placement flow? Possibly. Will my professor dock me points for using a mid-century coffee table? Probably.
Am I overthinking like usual? Fuck yes.
"Cam," a voice calls from across the room.
I glance up to see Jen, one of my classmates, waving a piece of foam board at me. "Do you have the glue gun?"
"Yeah, hang on," I reply, fishing it out from under a pile of swatches and tossing it to her.
"Thanks!"
"No problem," I say, turning back to my model.
For a moment, I let myself get lost in the process—adjusting angles, sketching out details, mentally rearranging the space for the tenth time. This is my favorite part of interior design: taking something abstract and making it tangible.
It's not until I overhear a loud-ass conversation across the room about what they're having for lunch that I glance at the clock.
Shit.
I'm late.
It's a chaotic pack-down of my workstation, making it semi-usable for the next student, and I'm shoveling things that probably don't even belong to me into my bag. I quickly hurry out the door, banging into a body on the other side and only muttering a quick apology.
Thankfully, Stodden Library, where we agree to meet, isn't too far away from the School of Architecture, and I make it there in no time.
It's the largest library on campus—and the most well-known. It's a historic brick design on the exterior, but the interior was renovated a few years ago with smooth oak, glass, and modern furniture.
I take the elevator up to the third floor, which is mostly made up of private rooms. The common spaces are usually too packed to find a table, and when you can find one, it's too damn loud to hear someone sitting across from you.
Room 3B. Room 3B. Room 3B.
I locate it a bit further down the hall from the elevators, and I barge in without hesitation.
My bag slides off my shoulder as I push open the door, half-expecting to find some wide-eyed freshman sitting nervously at the table.
Instead, I walk straight into my personal nightmare.
Wesley Reed.
He's casually leaning back in his chair, arms folded across a tight gray Henley, and loose blue jeans sitting low on his hips.
He's clearly fresh and showered from morning football practice and—good Lord—the room smells heavenly.
He blinks at me, his mouth curved into that infuriatingly familiar smirk.
"Well, hey there, Teach," his southern tongue drawls.
I freeze, my brain short-circuiting. "What are you—ha, no."
"Nice to see you too," he says, sitting up and setting his phone on the table.
My pulse is still racing, and I look back to the door, expecting someone with a camera to scream, 'You've been pranked!'.
But no one does, and I glance back at Wes with a confused frown. "You? You're my student?"
"Indeed I am," he replies, his tone maddeningly casual.
"No," I force out a laugh, gripping the back of a chair for support, and shake my finger at him. "No, no, no. I tutor freshmen and sophomores only."
He shrugs with open arms. "I'm taking a freshman paper."
"You have an answer for everything, don't you?" I mumble under my breath, bringing up a hand to pinch at the growing pressure between my eyes.
"Actually, no. Which is why I've requested your help." Wes leans forward in his chair, his eyes taking their sweet, sweet time drinking me in. "Heard you're the best of the best."
This has to be some kind of sick joke. It just has to be.
I drop my bag onto the table and run a frustrated hand through my hair while the other sits on my hip. Wes remains quiet, but his jaw is set tight as he stares at me with something dangerous written across his sparkly blue eyes.
"What's the paper?" I ask finally, my tone clipped.
"Intro to Art History," he says.
I groan. Of course.
"Don't you have friends?" I snap. "Friends who could help you? Or, I don't know, the football tutors you're actually assigned that you don't have to pay for?"
"They're not you," he states simply.
I narrow my eyes at him. "You think you're cute, huh?"
"Don't just think it," he replies, his smirk never wavering.
I want to scream. I want to throw something. But more than anything, I want to stop noticing how annoyingly good he looks. God—he looks so fucking good.
This is so unfair.
"There are two other Colts tutors who take Art History and are just as good," I sigh out, pulling out the chair across the table from him and taking my seat.
Wes leans his forearms on the table. "Again, not you."
I chew on the inside of my cheek while I hold his heavy gaze over the table. My knee is bouncing a million miles an hour under the table—just itching to kick him in his stupid smug face.
But I can't.
"Fine," I say through gritted teeth, pulling out my laptop from my bag. "I'll help you. But only because you're paying, and I ran all the way over here and need to sit down."
"Why, thank you, Cameron," he says, his tone so sincere it borders on sarcastic.
I drop into the seat across from him, flipping open my laptop and trying to ignore the way he's looking at me. "So, tell me what you need help with."
"Everything," he says, leaning back in his chair. "The professor's a damn nightmare, the lectures are impossible to follow, and the textbook reads like it was written in ancient languages."
"That's probably because it was," I say with an unimpressed, tight-lipped smile. "It's called Art History, buddy."
He frowns. "Buddy?"
"Teach?"
"Alright, alright..." He nods with a large grin, his tongue smoothing over the front of his teeth in such an annoyingly attractive way.
I tilt my head to the side and observe him. "If you don't like it, why are you taking it?"
"It's a required GE paper that I need to graduate," he says with a shrug.
"And there weren't other options?"
Wes leans forward. "You really don't want to tutor me, do you?"
"What on earth would make you think that?" I gasp sarcastically, shocked that he's found me out so easily.
That makes him laugh, and the sound is a sucker punch right to my vagina. Jesus Christ.
"Look—I wouldn't want to stop anyone from graduating," I admit truthfully as I put my hands against my chest. "So, yes, I'll tutor you for this paper. But if you really don't understand it, then I'd suggest applying for a compassionate grant to take another paper."
"I'll keep that in mind," he nods slowly, his eyes still burning a wake of fire as they trail up and down the length of me—or at least the length of me not covered by the table.
Which is basically just my tits.
And the deep-scooping neckline of my Carolina blue cap-sleeve baby tee is doing absolutely nothing to help the tension.
I deflate my chest and turn my focus to my laptop. "Okay...let's start easy. What do you already know about Art History?"
"That it's the history of art," he says so casually, so indifferent, like it isn't the most stupid thing I've heard today.
But that's because he's not really listening to me.
He's still just staring at me—so many thoughts about not Art History sitting so clearly in his expression.
I try to keep my tense smile steady. "Anything else?"
"I've seen the Mona Lisa..." Wes mumbles, his mind a million miles away as he tilts his head slightly, his eyes roaming my face, my neck, my tits.
"And?"
He drags the pad of his thumb along his bottom lip. "It was cool."
I drop my head, realizing this is literally useless, before patting the table a little too hard.
"Okay—let's get this over with," I say, and Wes arches a curious eyebrow. "We...we've seen each other naked."
He inhales. "That we have."
"And we've had sex."
"Yep, there for that one too."
"And you're clearly not bothered by this conflict of interest?"
"Not at all."
"Wonderful," I grit out through clenched teeth. "But if this is going to work, we have to be professional and adult and agree that something like that will never happen again."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Wes chuckles at the idea. "Let's not get ahead of ourselv—"
"I'm serious, Wes." I stop him before his mouth gets both of us in trouble. "I don't sleep around. I definitely don't sleep with my students. And I don't sleep with anyone I'm not dating."
He pauses slightly before that sexy, sexy smirk stretches across his face. "And yet here we are."
"Oh my—"
No, this isn't worth crashing out over, Cam.
I ball my hand into a fist and press it against my chin before exhaling.
I turn to my laptop and bring up the backend of the Colts Tutoring webpage. "Y'know what—my schedule for this semester is actually quite busy, so I think I'll just transfer you over to the other tuto—"
"Hey—shit—I'm sorry." Wes leans forward with a hand on the back of my laptop to grab my attention. My gaze slowly slides to him, and I'm instantly stabbed in the heart with those damn baby blues of his.
He looks so earnest, so genuine, that I completely lock up in shock.
"I can be professional and adult about this, just—just help me out here," Wes pleads, and why the hell does he kind of look hot when he's begging?
Scarlett's the one who has a weird kink for pathetic men, not me.
My eyes narrow a smidge. "...Say please."
The corner of his lips picks up, and he rolls his eyes. Nonetheless, he follows instructions. "Please."
"Good boy." I smirk before returning to my laptop, feeling his gaze burn a hole right through me, but now I'm not so bothered by it.
My dad instilled in me the core belief that beating around the bush is a complete waste of time and tackling an issue head-on is always better for everyone.
But my mom also instilled in me the chronic need to be liked by people, so it kind of cancels it out.
At least not today though—and I actually do feel better now that we've cleared the air.
Wow—this must be what people who've never experienced a lick of anxiety feel like.
Could not be fucking me, but it's a nice little rush.
I flick a glance back to him. "So, you got your syllabus?"
"Syllabus?"