93 Sampler

93% Chance I Don’t Hate You

By L. Taylor and Amy. H Lynn

© 2016 L. Taylor and Amy H. Lynn

All rights reserved.

Also by L. Taylor

Epic

Hunted

Also by Amy H. Lynn

Just One Night

The Game of Temptation

For anyone taking a chance on us and this book. May you have good tasting beer and an interfering best friend… and never name your child something as terrible as Chad Winston.

Gas station beer tastes like piss. I normally consider myself to be a smart man, so I’m not sure how my best friend and roommate, Sofia Cruz, managed to talk me into drinking this crap after we’d run out of the good stuff. However, the living room is currently spinning, my feet feel like they’re made of pudding, and for some reason, I cannot stop laughing at nothing in particular. So I guess the beer is having the desired effect.

Sofia is shaking her head at me and reaching a slender hand to take my beer bottle away. I cling to the bottle as tightly as I can, but Sofia wrenches it away from me. For such a small woman, she sure is strong.

“What are you doing?” I whine. I was nowhere near finished with my gross beer.

“You’re being cut off,” she claims, walking to the kitchen sink to pour out the rest of the beer. She then tosses the empty bottle into the trash can.

Why is she doing this to me? I’m not even that drunk. “Give me back my drink,” I attempt to respond, but my slurred speech sounds more like “gim ba muh drin.” With this, I realize that I actually
am
 quite drunk at the moment. This revelation causes another round of laughter to erupt from me. “Hey, Sof,” I call out to her, “guess what?”

She sighs loudly and yells back. “What?”

“It’s muh burfday and I’m druuuuunk,” I sing-song loudly. I sink lower into the couch and grab one of the decorative pillows, pulling it close to my chest. The fabric feels soft and cool on my hands and face. Sofia picked these out last year when we’d moved in together, insisting on buying them because they’re painted with skulls. I had made fun of her for sounding like a 2006 teenage mall rat. She hadn’t laughed at my joke.

“God, I wish I had a camera right now,” Sofia says as she comes back to the living room. “I could blackmail you into doing my laundry whenever I wanted.”

This is a joke and we both know it. While I don’t think Sofia is against blackmail, she knows that I suck at doing laundry, and trusting me with her clothes is a good way to end up with a bunch of pink clothes that used to be white.

It’s very quiet now, I notice. A nice break from the blaring music and laughter of the past few hours. We’d had a pretty small party earlier with a few of our friends from school, but now the apartment was empty again, save for Sofia and me. Most of the creative arts students at our university are actually rather boring, but there are a couple that run along the same lines as the two of us.

I look up at her large blue eyes and grin. She’s so pretty. I wish I had a pretty girlfriend. “Sof, I want a gi-” I pause to hiccup, “girlfriend.”

She chuckles and clicks her tongue at me. “Aw, come here, babe,” a nickname she rarely ever calls me. She pulls my head into her lap and begins stroking my hair. The television is on, a muted action movie playing, but right now all I can think about is how I’m smart and funny and hot, but still single. This blows harder than a twister in Kansas.

I can feel her soft fingers trailing close to my scalp and I close my eyes. This is relaxing. If I try hard enough, I can imagine that I’m getting a massage by tiny people on my head. Wow. I am
really
 drunk right now. Sofia’s voice breaks me from my thoughts. “Ashton Lewis wants to settle down? There’s something I never thought I’d hear,” she whispers.

I give a small smile but stay silent. I’m just months away from graduating college, it’s time to move on from the “different girl every night” way I’ve been living for the past three years. I have no problem getting a girl to sleep with me. Girls tend to gravitate to the sensitive artist types. But once my reputation of only being interested in hooking up started to spread around campus, I still had fun with girls who were into that sort of thing, but I didn’t attract the sort that made me feel like they were someone I could have anything serious with.

I want a girl I can make out with but who will also take my beer when I’ve had too much and let me rest my head on her lap. And who smells like cinnamon. I like the way cinnamon smells.

“Sof,” I begin, “I don’t like being alone. What if I’m alone after graduation?” Sofia is a year younger than me and will still be at Northwestern State University after I’ve graduated.

Her voice takes on a very serious tone. “Are you coming onto me?”

My eyes pop open and I stare at her. “Gross, no,” I say. She’s like a sister to me. It takes me a moment to realize she’s joking and I refrain from rolling my eyes at her. She hates it when I do that. “I’m gonna get a girlfriend this year,” I add on quietly. “A good, smart, cute one. I swear it.”

She doesn’t say anything for a little while. “Alright,” she pats me on the shoulder in a motion that tells me to get up. “Let’s get you to bed, Ash.” She raises my head up and the room spins in at least eight different directions. My stomach makes a few cartwheels and I place the back of my hand over my mouth. I think I might feel something coming up. “Oh no, please don’t throw up,” she begs me. “I don’t want to have to clean up your sickness.”

“I won’t,” I promise as she takes my arm and leads me down the hall to my bedroom. “I’m a lightweight, remember?”
Wait, that’s not right
. “I’m a heavy. A heavyweight.” I smile, proud of myself for getting it right.

My feet drag along the rough carpet for what seems like forever before we’re finally in my bedroom and I plop down on my warm, comfortable blankets. They are
so
 warm. I want to tell everyone how perfect they are but my mouth won’t form the words. I hear Sofia rummaging around somewhere and I groan when I think about the hangover I’m going to have tomorrow. Sofia returns and places a glass of water and aspirin on the bedside table. “Take that in the morning,” she orders me, inclining her head towards the aspirin.

“Okay, Sof” I tell her. “But now I’m gonna sleep because I’m in a bed. People sleep in beds. Usually.” I’m not sure how much of what I’m telling her is getting across because she’s looking at me with a lot of confusion in her eyes. “Your eyes look like two dark blue circles,” I say.

She laughs and reaches to pull a blanket over me. “Happy Birthday, Ashton.”

I smile at her. “Thanks.”

Sofia brushes her hand across my forehead and whispers, “Goodnight.”

I reach up to grab her hand, still resting on my face. “I want chocolate,” I whisper.

She moves my hand away, while laughing, and leaves my room, closing the door behind her.

How am I supposed to get my chocolate
now
?

I think girls are like chocolate. Some are milk chocolate, some are dark chocolate or white chocolate. But the rarest ones are those that have gooey stuff on the inside, like caramel, or that strawberry stuff that tastes less like strawberries and more like cough medicine.

Pulling the blankets tighter around me, I try to relax and fall asleep, but I can’t stop thinking about how I just want to find my caramel-stuffed chocolate girl.

I fully intended on going to sleep, but an idea has hit me out of nowhere, and I don’t stop to think about what I’m doing. I reach around and take my phone from my pocket, then open up the app store and search for dating apps. Maybe no girl at Northwestern State wants a serious relationship with me because they know I have a history of sleeping around, but online girls don’t know about my reputation. The bright light of the screen is harsh on my vision and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. I see that the most popular app is called
Blinder
, and it claims to set up blind dates.

“Ha,
Blinder
,” I laugh. I’m not sure why I think this is funny. The reviews are mostly five stars so I take a chance and install the app. I’m greeted by a message that I believe says something about filling out questions to be matched with someone.

I grumble and settle deeper into my bed. Some of the questions are basic.

Cats or dogs?
 
City or country?
 

Some are so weird I have to read them multiple times to understand them.

If you find twenty dollars on the ground, do you take it or leave it? What one thing do you want if you’re stranded on an island? Is love at first sight real?
 

What the hell are these questions? How are they supposed to help me find true love? No relationship has ever ended because the couple couldn’t agree on which item to have on a deserted island.

I sigh. “Dogs, city, take it, a boat, no,” I answer aloud while yawning. Just my luck, I’d get matched with a girl who thinks country lovers are a turn on.

These questions are stupid
, I think to myself, still answering the others I’m being asked before I remember that I want to sleep. I close out the app and place it on the table by my bed. My feet still feel like pudding and I’m going to sleep. I barely finish these thoughts before I’m completely out.

“You always want to look as though you’re completely natural, darling. You never know who’s going to see you, and when you’re out and about, you represent your father and I. And remember, we do what we have to do for the Redford name.”

        My mother’s words always seem to join me as I get ready. Every time I glance at the darker eyeshadow shades, or think about styling my hair in a new way, her voice comes to me and stops me from trying them, so instead I apply the lighter, nude-colored shades.

        It’s the same thing every morning, but it works. It reminds me of my purpose. I’m here at Northwestern State for my business degree. I will take over Redford Entertainment one day, and I will do my duty as Carter Redford, the only daughter, and heir, of the company my grandfather on my father’s side created.

        Before I leave my apartment, currently empty since my roommate and best friend, Jackson, is already attending his first class of the day, I continue my routine. I check my reflection, collect my book bag and ensure all the necessary equipment is ready to go, and spend a minute or so looking at a certain notebook on my desk; the one that has everything I wish I could do. Specifically, my web design ideas.

        However, I am always reminded quickly that it’s a hobby, one that I don’t have a lot of time to divulge in. The notebook remains motionless on my desk, a fact that always instills a quick pang of sadness, but I straighten my shoulders and walk away.

I’m a Redford, and we do what we must for our name.

So every morning, after my daily reminder, I quickly leave my room and aim for the kitchen to grab a protein bar.

And every Monday morning, like today, I make my way to Graphic Design Club, always shortened to GDC. While I know it’s something my parents would frown upon, especially since I had to tell them I was part of a Leadership group in order to be allowed to “waste my time on extracurriculars”, I know it’s the only way I’ll be able to even slightly spend time on what I like. After I graduate, that particular interest will have to be gone forever.

My apartment is just outside of campus, but it’s still considered student housing, so it doesn’t take long to arrive at the classroom where the meeting is held. As I enter the room, I’m greeted by a couple of other members.

“Hey, girls. How were your weekends?” I ask, and immediately they jump into their tales.

I listen as they tell me about some birthday party they went to, and I pay just enough attention to be able to discuss it with them. However, I never really understand what the big deal is. How do they have the time to party with a full-time class schedule? I’d probably have never wasted my own time at one if Jackson hadn’t forced me to go to one when I was a sophomore last year. It took a lot for him to get me to that one, and I’d promised him it would take even more to ever get me to go to another one.

“So how was your weekend?” Rachel, one of the girls, asks.

I grin at her. “Oh, same old. Who knew essays would be nearly impossible in junior year?”

In reality, the essays weren’t hard. But lesson number three of my parent’s world is “always understand how to relate to anyone you talk to”. And in this case, the way to relate was through the struggles of homework.

It worked like a charm. “Girl, I know! I swear, I’ve got about fifty pages total to write for five different classes, and they all seem to be due in two weeks. Is that even legal?”

 I find myself laughing, and as we’re talking I notice the final few members join the room. I give each of them a brief, but warm, greeting. Walking in behind them, the last to join, obviously, is the one and only Ashton Lewis.

Against my better wishes, I let years of my mother’s social training continue to influence me and I turn to him to give him a smile. Though it’s mostly fake, I’m sure he’ll never know that.