Girl Abroad

WITH ONLY A COUPLE WEEKS LEFT IN THE SEMESTER BEFORE holiday break, I’ve become a near permanent resident in the library. My Tulley research project isn’t due until the end of spring term, so that’s resting on the back burner for now, a fact that’s caused me to dodge various invitations to meet up with Ben Tulley, who’s apparently back from Ibiza. Between writing essays and studying for exams, I can’t squeeze a single extraneous distraction into my schedule. Well, except for Jack, who’s been proving to be the best kind of distraction.

At first, our hookups were this little secret we carried around the house, acknowledged in winks and lingering glances. But then, when we weren’t found out, we started to test the boundaries of what we could get away with. Sneaking off to make out while Lee and Jamie sit unaware in the next room. Stealing a kiss or two when no one else is home. Quietly fooling around in my room after everyone’s gone to bed.

We’re still treading well clear of that hard red line, never going past third base. Somehow, without speaking about it, we both seem to understand that actually having sex would irreparably change the dynamic. If we take that next step and it ends badly, there’d be no way we would both stay under the same roof. I know I couldn’t stand it.

And as much as I enjoy cavorting like bandits around the house, there’s still a persistent voice that tells me I need to figure out what I want. Sooner rather than later. Even though Jack knows about Nate, and Nate doesn’t want to be exclusive, it isn’t fair to anyone involved to try playing the neutral party between two guys. Least of all myself. I don’t have it in me to protect my heart, the longer I let myself entertain the possibilities with both Nate and Jack.

After the holidays. By then, I’ll have had time to clear my head and get some perspective.

And then I’ll decide.

“After the holidays,” I assure myself.

“And what shall be transpiring after the holidays?” comes Mr. Baxley’s crisp not-interested-but-totally-absolutely-interested voice.

I grin as the bespectacled man settles across from me at my study table.

This has become our routine, reluctant as he likes to appear. I come in at my usual time to my usual table, spread out my study materials, and send him a wave. For a few minutes, he grumpily ignores me. Then he eventually gets up for his tea break and strolls up to my table to glance at my work on his way back with a steaming mug. He’ll brusquely ask about my Tulley research (or some such thing as a pretext to start a conversation), and I will happily update him until it inevitably turns into a recitation of my recent love life dramas.

Despite the disinterest he portrays behind his flat expression and smudged glasses, he stands and listens. Sometimes sits. But he never walks away.

Once or twice, I’ve extracted a personal detail or two from the man, and I’ve learned that he’s single and lives alone. Well, not entirely alone. He had a cat who died last week, a detail I managed to pry out of him after noticing he’d looked particularly distressed.

“I’ll choose between Nate and Jack,” I clarify. “Just pick one and date him. Only him.” A groan lodges in my throat. “Who do you think I should pick?”

Mr. Baxley sips his tea. “I cannot provide that answer for you, Ms. Bly.”

“Coward.”

He arches a brow. “Oh, I’ve no doubt in my mind as to which gentleman you will select.”

“Wait, really? You know who I’m going to choose?”

“Of course. It’s quite obvious.” His expression is mildly smug as he takes another sip.

“Oh my God. Tell me,” I order.

“Absolutely not. I feel a duty not to become involved in the love quarrels of university girls.”

My jaw falls open. “You traitor. I thought we were best friends. Oh, hey, I forgot—I promised you a picture of Hugh.”

I scroll through my photo album until I find a shot where our cat doesn’t look satanic and slide the phone across the table. Adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose, Mr. Baxley peers at the screen and nods in approval.

“Very handsome feline. That coat is marvelous.”

“It’s a pain in the ass is what it is. He sheds like crazy, which has Lee furiously vacuuming the house twice a day. I try to tell him it’s hopeless, but he’s determined to beat back the encroachment.”

“It helps if you brush them,” Mr. Baxley says, admiring the photo.

“I’m probably the only one who could get close enough. Hugh tolerates me okay, but he’s declared open war on the rest of the house. Lee’s entirely abandoned him at this point. Threatened to toss him on the street the other day when he stepped in one of Hugh’s cold hair balls he’d coughed up overnight.”

“The brushing will help with that too,” Mr. Baxley informs me, regaining his aura of superiority. “They make certain food and treats that can decrease hair balls. It’s important he get sufficient moisture content in his food as well as fresh water.”

And then, as I sit there agape, he proceeds to share a plethora of cat-rearing resources with me, going on about general cat maintenance and using more words than I’ve heard him speak all semester.

It appears I’ve found Mr. Baxley’s true passion.

After the library, I swing by the pub to grab a drink with Celeste for happy hour. It’s a big crowd for a weekday, but we manage to snag a couple stools at the corner of the bar and order some chardonnay.

“I’m knackered,” she says, slumping against the bar. “Last night, I was up till four in the morning reading for a two-hundred question exam only to realize I read the wrong book.” She takes a swig of wine and wipes her mouth. “Please, Abbey. If you value our friendship, stab me through the eye with the stem of this glass.”

I hoot out a laugh. Celeste is clearly at her wit’s end, her untouchable composure long since abandoned. It’s a condition we’re all suffering from with the semester coming to an end.

“You’re brilliant,” I remind her. I don’t think she’s seen less than ninety percent on an assignment since coloring inside the lines and writing her own name. “Chin up. It’s almost over.”

She takes another big gulp and waves for the bartender to top her up. “I’ll remember you abandoned me in my time of need.”

“Speaking of which, we’re getting everyone together for a small dinner at the house on Friday before we all scatter for the holidays. Nothing fancy. Just some takeout and drinks.”

She pouts. “Are you truly going back to America for the whole winter break?”

“Yup.”

“Come back early. You can spend a few days with me and Lee at our parents’. They’d love to meet you.”

“I would, but my dad is really looking forward to having me home.”

I’m excited to be home too. This is the longest Dad and I have spent apart since I was little. I’d been in such a rush to get out on my own, it didn’t occur to me I’d reach the point when watching football and cheesy holiday movies on the couch together is my idea of a perfect evening.

Besides, putting an ocean between myself and Nate and Jack is the best recipe I have for getting some perspective on everything.

I’m too close to the situation. To them. I’m too addicted to Nate’s adventurous, mysterious ways and Jack’s cocky grins and rampant sex appeal. And I feel guilty for being addicted to them both.

To make matters worse (or better, whichever way you want to look at it), I don’t know if this is solely about sex anymore. With either of them. Nate’s still in Dublin, but we text frequently throughout the day, exchanging more than just flirtatious words and pictures.

And Jack is being extra affectionate. Stealing me away for clandestine kisses at every opportunity. Watching TV with me even when I know he hates my shows. It’s sweet and demonstrates effort on his part.

To show some reciprocation, I decide to cook dinner for the flat when I get home from meeting Celeste. Well, I reheat some takeout and make a salad. But still. It’s the thought that counts.

“Is this when you tell me you’ve been joyriding in my car and tore the mirror off?” Jamie inquires during dinner, swirling his third glass of wine.

“Would this get me off the hook if I did?” I ask sweetly.

“Certainly not.”

“Then no, that mirror’s always looked like that.”

“I can’t get over these cucumbers.” Lee holds up a piece out of his salad. “It’s like each one is its own little adventure into avant-garde.”

“Hey.” I point my butter knife at him. “When you’re making dinner, you can cut your veggies any way you like. Besides, they’re mostly all the same shape.”

“That is not a shape known to science. Did you have to wrestle it out of the cat’s mouth?”

Jack all but licks his plate clean and sits back with his arms resting on his abdomen. “You aren’t about to tell us you’re dying, right?”

“Afraid not. I’ll be back to leaving dishes in the sink for a long time to come.” I glance at Lee. “How come you didn’t invite Eric? I told you he was welcome to join us.”

Lee is aghast. “And have him lay eyes on the demon cat? He’ll take one look at him and know he’s not a show cat.”

“Is that why you never bring him over? You’re ashamed of our cat?”

“I, personally, loathe our cat,” Jamie says glumly.

Jack nods. “Don’t we all, mate.”

“I like him,” I argue.

And so begins probably the hundredth discussion we’ve had regarding Hugh. Although the orange demon truly has grown on me, I don’t know if this living arrangement is sustainable. Poor Jamie has even reduced his nightly conquests to biweekly romps due to Hugh scratching outside his door every time he’s trying to have sex.

Luckily, Hugh seems to have respect for the other sexy things happening in the flat. Jack has snuck into my bedroom almost every night this week, and Hugh hasn’t made a single sound, thank God.

Around eleven thirty, I get a text.

Jack: Is the coast clear?

Me: Yes, but stay where you are. I’m coming to you.

Tonight, I’m switching things up. I rise from the bed and try not to jostle Hugh, who slits one eye open, then goes back to sleep at the foot of my mattress. A minute later, I’m skulking like a thief in the night toward Jack’s room.

“Plot twist,” he whispers when I crawl into his bed after closing and locking the door. “To what do I owe this honor?”

“Hugh’s snoring.”

Laughing, Jack slides his fingers through my hair and tugs my head toward him so he can kiss me. The moment our lips touch, he makes a low, tortured sound.

“What’s wrong?” I whisper.

“I miss kissing you.”

“You’ve kissed me, like, a dozen times already today,” I remind him, biting my lip to keep from laughing.

“I know. I’m saying I miss kissing you when I’m not kissing you.”

“By that logic, you’d have to be kissing me twenty-four seven in order to never miss it.”

His warm breath tickles my lips. “Oh no, having your tongue in my mouth all day and night? The horror.”

Our mouths collide again, and I can’t deny he has a point—I much prefer it when his tongue is touching mine than when it’s not.

In no time at all, our kisses go from sweet and lazy to breathless and greedy. When Jack tries to slip his hand between my thighs, I swat him away.

“What, I’m not allowed to touch you?” He narrows his eyes in outrage.

“I’m on a lady hiatus,” I confess. “It started this morning.”

I expect to see disappointment on his face, but all he does is kiss me again. “All good. Gives me more time to impress you with my make-out skills.” His lips brush mine. “What do you think? Five gold stars or six?”

“Out of ten?”

“Out of five,” he growls.

“Oh, in that case…” I pretend to think it over, which earns me the nip of his teeth on the side of my throat. “So violent,” I chide. “Know what that means?”

He rolls onto his back, smiling. “What does that mean?” he prompts, playing along.

“It means you have to lie there and not make a single sound while I dispense your punishment.”

“Punishment?” he echoes with a snort. “Abbey, luv, we both know you’ve not a single menacing bone in your— ”

He curses wildly when I cup his package over his sweatpants.

I smirk at him. “What part of don’t make a single sound didn’t you understand?”

Before he can answer, I tug his pants down, swallowing a moan when his erection springs up. He’s always so ready for me. Hard and eager. And my body always responds to it, heat pooling between my legs, inner muscles tightening with the need to clamp around him.

While Jack watches me through hooded eyes, I crawl my way down his long, toned body and curl my hand around his thick shaft.

“Still waiting for that punishment,” he taunts.

“Making you wait is part of the torture.”

I give him a firm squeeze, and he jerks on the bed.

Grinning, I lower my head and curl my tongue around his tip. This time, his answering jerk is accompanied by a strangled expletive.

I look up and find him eyeing me with anticipation. His broad chest rises on a ragged inhale.

“You okay?” I flick up an eyebrow.

“I will be once you stop teasing.”

“Oh, Jack, luv. I’m definitely not going to stop teasing.”

I keep my word, proceeding to torment him with long, languid licks and too-short sucks that soon have him squirming in agony. Each time I look up, more beads of sweat dot his forehead. His facial muscles grow more taut, as if it’s a physical struggle to maintain his control. And each time I release his hard length, he thrusts his hips, desperately seeking my mouth.

“Ask me nicely,” I mumble as I swirl my tongue.

“Ask you what?” he croaks out.

“To make you come.”

I tighten the suction of my lips and bring him nearly halfway down my throat.

“Holy bloody Christ.” His hips snap up again. “Goddamn fucking hell. Why are you so fucking good at that?”

I have no idea. I didn’t think I was anything special. But reducing Jack to a panting, cursing, shaking mess says otherwise.

“Make me come,” he pleads hoarsely, one hand moving down to cup my head. His fingers thread through my hair. “Please.”

I can barely contain the smile threatening to crack my face in half. I decide to have mercy on him. I give him what he wants, working him with my lips, tongue, and fist until he’s cursing again.

“I’m coming,” he groans.

His thrusts become erratic as he spills into my mouth and—

A knock raps on the door.

“Jackie, darling, you all right in there?”