Sticking his head in the nearly empty refrigerator, Beckham scrounges around trying to find something to offer, but comes up empty. “I guess all we have is beer, and I know you don’t drink, unless you just want some water from the sink.”

The thought of drinking out of one of their glasses grosses me out. God only knows when the last time they were washed, or if soap was used at all.

“No, I’m okay right now. If I need something later, I may go on a coffee run,” I reply, hoping my face isn’t revealing the true level of my disgust with the place. Who lives like this?

“Sorry, I would’ve had some other options here if I’d known earlier you were coming.” Grabbing a Bud Light, he pops the top and brings the can to his mouth, guzzling down the horrible smelling drink. “Just let me know when you’re ready to take a break and we’ll go get something…maybe some food too.” Yeah, there’s no way anything in this place isn’t expired.

Backpedalling out of the kitchen, I glance around the living room, wondering where I should unpack my things around the clutter of magazines, video game controllers, and empty food and drink containers. I think that’s even a bra draped across the back of a recliner. Ewwww. Don’t get me wrong; I understand the whole bachelor pad thing, and it’s not like I expect Beckham to keep a Martha Stewart worthy apartment, but this is ridiculous. I’m going to have to take another shower as soon as I get home.

“I thought we’d set up in my bedroom, in case my roommates are here and try to distract us. It gets a little crazy around this place sometimes,” Beckham announces when he notices me surveying the room.

He nudges my elbow and signals for me to follow him into the small hallway. Cautiously, I trail behind him into the first room off to the left, and though his room is far from spotless, it’s a definite improvement from the main living area. The furniture all looks like it came straight from the Ikea showroom, and the platform bed, which has probably never been made properly, is buried in a heap of blue and gray linens. Clothes are littered around the floor and there’s a scrunched up Mickey D’s bag in the corner from who knows when. But it doesn’t smell too bad, and the windows even have curtains.

Exhaling a small sigh of relief, I drop my backpack onto the floor and find a spot to sit cross-legged on his bed, facing him, but not too close. Then, we both gather all of our review materials, spreading notes and books out around us on the navy comforter, and begin an intense study session.

A couple of hours into it, we reach a natural breaking point between the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries and I pull out my favorite rectangular case from my bag, snatching a joint from inside.

“Is there a good place to smoke in here, or should we go outside?” I ask while digging a lighter out of my pocket.

“In here’s fine. Let me grab a clean ashtray.” He stands up and grabs a small terracotta bowl from the top drawer of his dresser, then drops back down on the low mattress, this time flat on his back with his head angled close to my lap. I consider scooting over, but don’t want to be blatantly rude or make things uncomfortable, so I stay put.

Flicking the lighter, I take a nice, long, and steady hit from the spliff, careful not to cause any runs in the paper, and once I’m satisfied it’s burning evenly, I hand it off to him. For a couple of minutes, we sit quietly, sharing a stoned smile as we puff-puff-pass, back and forth. Then, the sound of some muffled voices followed by a door being swung open startles me, causing me to jump and swivel my head toward the hallway.

“Come on! I know you want to again!” a girl calls out from what sounds like another room as heavy footsteps in the hall grow near. “I got a Brazilian yesterday, just for you!” she adds with a giggle.

I watch intently, curious to what in the hell’s going on, ‘cause I thought we were the only people here. But nothing in the world could’ve prepared me for the sight of Crew walking by the open doorway, shirtless and barefoot, with hair still damp from a shower.

Or a really long, sweaty fucking.

“Please move,” I hiss through gritted teeth, glaring at the half-dressed girl blocking the door I’m trying to pass through. “I need to get my shirt from the dryer. I’m already running late.”

I don’t add that I’m late because she decided to join me in the bathroom while I was showering, uninvited, and then proceeded to get pissed because I still denied her after a ridiculous, over-the-top striptease. I’m not sure how else to prove to her I’m really not fucking interested, but she still seems unfazed.

“Just a quickie then,” Tasha purrs, pouting out her bottom lip as she runs her finger over the lace trim of her bra. “Do you want me to beg? Is that it?”

No, I want you to move your pathetic ass out of my way.

I really need to get the hell out of this apartment before I kill her. What the fuck was I thinking Monday, when I left the bar with her? This girl is the epitome of everything I hate. Annoyingly obnoxious, conceited—though she shouldn’t be, now that I’ve seen what she looks like first thing in the morning—lives in a pigsty, and clingy as fuck. No, no, no, and hell no.

Apparently, she was so drunk the first night we came home, she doesn’t even remember us hooking up—hence the mid-deed pass-out—and has been relentless on the pursuit of it happening again. Uh, no. I can’t stand the thought of another night on their nasty couch, with her douchebag cousin parading by with his latest piece of tail. Fuck, last night, he didn’t even shut his door, and I had to listen to her catlike howling until they finished ten minutes later. Longest ten minutes of my life. Thank fuck the guy has no stamina.

Which is where I’m headed now. To beg Rory to save my sorry ass from this hellhole I’ve landed myself in, at least for a little while, until I can save up some money and figure out my next move. I’d hoped to bail on Tuesday, the day after this horrendous decision, but Rory went MIA, and I’ve been stuck way longer than I wanted. Brody said he had to go out of town for an emergency and would be back in a couple of days, then Rory finally messaged me this morning that he was back, working a double shift.

Shaking my head with exasperation, I finally just pick her up and move her out of my way, setting her down on her bed. “No. I don’t want you to beg. I don’t want anything from you. I’m leaving.”

“Come on! I know you want to again!” she yells as I throw the door open and stalk out of her room. “I got a Brazilian yesterday, just for you!”

The minute I step into the hall, the pungent scent of weed smacks me in the face and my thoughts immediately drift to Hudson. A sharp ache of what might have been shoots through my chest, causing my breath to hitch and my entire body to tense. God, what the fuck has happened to my life?

Continuing my path to the laundry room, I casually glance inside Beckham’s room as I pass by, expecting to find him with one of the other Half Pipe waitresses he’s had on rotation. I freeze when my gaze lands on the crystal blue eyes that haunt both my days and my nights. Shockwaves rip through me, tearing me apart at the seams.

Hudson.

She’s here.

In his fucking bed.

I blink, enraged, and then my fists are pounding Beckham’s face over and over again. There’s a roaring sound filling the air. Me? My eyes focus and I realize what I’m doing, but I don’t stop. I can’t. How fucking dare he touch her? He’s not fighting back anymore, but I continue, my arms relentless. I feel nothing, say nothing, just bury my knuckles into his limp body again.

A piece of blond hair drifts across my eyes and I pause, shaking my head furiously. Hudson is clinging to my back with her lips pressed to my ear. I exhale harshly, trying to hear her words through the haze.