Ronnie barks out a laugh. “I can’t keep something this good from her. She’s family, bitch. And family spills the tea.”
Hard to argue with that logic. Besides, it would’ve been difficult to withhold this from Andie with the way the three of us are almost always together…and especially given how active the rumor mill is here on campus. Sometimes, I feel like I’m in high school again and not college.
Still, at least if Ronnie tells her, I won’t have to.
A sudden panic washes over my best friend’s face, and she reaches across the table, anxiously grabbing my hand. “Wait. I haven’t asked the obvious question. Did you consent? Do I need to go have words with that bastard?”
I wave my free hand dismissively at her. “Poor life choices aside, I consented.”
She releases me and sits back, her expression contemplative. “Can you really consent if you were wasted?”
“We werebothdrunk,” I point out, “and trust me…we both wanted it. Not saying that makes it okay, I’m just pointing out that it was as much my fault as it was his, so I don’t think you can hold that over him.”
Ronnie offers a noncommittal “Mm,” but looks unconvinced.
Leaning forward, I prop my elbows on the table and grip my head in my hands. “God, I am so pathetic. I’m officially never drinking again if these are the kinds of decisions I make when I surpass a 0.08 blood alcohol level.”
Ronnie giggles. “You’re such a nerd.” When I glower at her, she reaches across the table again, and lovingly pats my cheek. “Maybe we should just get you a collar that shocks you if Damian gets too close.”
“Ha. Ha.” I cross my eyes at her behind her gargantuan sunglasses, pulling a face.
“This isn’t a cry for help, right?” she asks after a moment, her tone and expression now apprehensive.
“What?”
“You aren’t, like, rehashing your fling with Damian for attention, or because you have PTSD or something, are you?” she clarifies.
While I do feel fairly traumatized by the events of last night, I don’t know if I would call it PTSD.
“I think that’s a little dramat?—”
“Post traumatic sex disorder,” Ronnie interrupts. “I promise you, Lexi, it’s a thing.”
Scoffing, I slump forward, dropping my head to the table, wishing for a swift death or, barring that, some Aspirin. “I don’t have post traumatic sex disorder, Ronnie. I’m just an idiot.”
“Well, yeah, you’re right about that. Was it at least good?”
I lift my head just enough to peek up at her. “Was what good? The sex?”
“No, your last gynecology appointment,” she deadpans. “Of course, the sex, you dummy! Was it worth knowing you sold your soul for a good dicking?”
“Classy.” I sit up, ignoring the throbbing in my temples when I reach for my coffee again. I nurse it for a beat before willing myself to answer. “Honestly, I don’t remember a lot of it. If it was anything like last time, well…” I bring one fist to the side of my head and thrust my fingers outward, making an exploding sound with my mouth.
Her face lights up with immediate understanding. “Mind-blowing. Typical.”
“Why are the assholes always so good at sex?” I whine. “It hardly seems fair.”
Ronnie clicks her tongue and tuts. “Because they get a lot of practice, duh. These frat jerks are vagina magnets, and our darling Damian is no exception. Did you at least manage to give him the slip before he woke up?”
My cheeks burn as I recall our interaction this morning and what I did prior to storming out of his dorm. I’m pretty sure I bruised my kneecap. “Not exactly…”
“Alexandria Renée Dornan,” Ronnie shrieks, “you didnotfuck him again, did you?”
The other patrons sitting within earshot shoot us curious looks, some laughing at Ronnie’s outburst, while others whisper behind their hands as they take in my disheveled appearance.
“No way in hell,” I growl. “And keep your voice down.”
She exhales a quiethmph. “Okay, then whatdidhappen?”
