“Tired?” I cluck in sympathy.

“Dead,” is his muffled reply. His forearm shields his eyes from my view, which gives me the opportunity to admire his body without getting teased for it.

Nico has the long, lean build of a basketball player. Although he played point guard in high school, he didn’t land any college basketball scholarships, and he was never good enough to go to the NBA. I don’t think he cares much. Playing ball was something fun to do with his high school buddies; his real passion is cars. But though he doesn’t play sports these days, he’s still in great shape. He gets a good workout hauling boxes and furniture at the moving company where he works.

“Poor baby,” I murmur. “Let me take care of it.”

Smiling, I start at the bottom of his body and work my way up. Pull his sneakers off, slide his belt from its loops, peel his pants down his legs. He sits up to help me with his hoodie, then collapses back down. Now he’s bare chested, wearing boxers and socks, with his arm over his face again to protect his eyes from the light.

Taking pity on him, I turn off the main light and flick on the lamp on the bed table, which emits a pale glow.

Then I settle beside him, clad in the black silk nightie I wore for the party.

“Demi,” he mumbles as I start kissing his neck.

“Mmmm?”

“I’m way too tired for this.”

My mouth travels along the angular line of his jaw, rough stubble abrading my lips. I reach his mouth and kiss him softly. He kisses me back but it’s a fleeting caress. Then he gives another tired moan.

“Baby, seriously, I don’t have any energy. I’ve been working fourteen hours straight.”

“I’ll do all the work,” I whisper, but when my hand slides down to his crotch, there are no signs of life down there. His junk is a limp noodle.

“Another night, mami,” he says sleepily. “Why don’t you put on your creepy show or something?”

I swallow my disappointment. We haven’t had sex in more than a week. Nico works on the weekends and several nights during the week, but he has tomorrow off so this is one of the rare Saturdays when we could actually stay up late fooling around if we want.

But he hasn’t moved a muscle since he lay down.

“All right,” I relent, rolling over to grab my laptop. “The latest episode is Children Who Kill, but I don’t remember if I made you watch the one before that—Clowns Who Kill…?”

Nico is snoring softly.

Wonderful. It’s Saturday night, there’s a party raging downstairs, and it’s not even ten o’clock. My hot boyfriend is sound asleep in my bed and I’m about to watch a show about murderers. By myself.

Living the college dream. Woo-hoo.

To make matters worse, this is the last stress-free weekend we’re going to have in a long time. The fall semester starts on Monday, and my schedule is intense this year. I’m pre-med, so I need to excel and then some during my last two years at Briar if I want to get into a good med school. I won’t have nearly as much time to spend with Nico as I’ll want.

I shoot a quick glance at the snoring lump beside me. He doesn’t seem bothered by our impending lack of quality time. But maybe he’s right not to be. We’ve been dating since the eighth grade. Our relationship has had its ups and downs over the years, with some breaks along the way, but we survived every single hurdle, and we’ll survive this, too.

I crawl under the covers, a feat of skill because Nico’s heavy body is weighing down the other side of the blanket. I position the computer on my lap and load the next episode of my favorite show. I want to say I watch this series solely for the psychology component, but…who am I kidding? It’s fucked up and I love it.

Ominous music fills the bedroom, followed by the host’s familiar British monotone informing me that I’m in store for sixty delightful minutes of children who kill.

 

 

The rest of the weekend flies by. Monday morning brings with it the first class of my junior year, and the one I’m most excited about—Abnormal Psychology. Even better, two of my good friends are also taking this course. They’re waiting for me on the stone steps of the massive ivy-covered building.

“Gawd, you look hot!” Pax Ling throws his arms around me, pulls back to smack a loud kiss on my cheek, and then reaches around to pinch my butt. I’m wearing denim shorts and a striped tank top, because it’s a million degrees out today. Not that I’m complaining about the summer spilling over into September. Bring on the heat, baby.

“The things those shorts do to your legs, babe,” Pax gushes in approval.

Beside him, TJ Bukowski rolls his eyes. When I first introduced them, TJ wasn’t a fan of Pax’s outrageous personality. But he eventually warmed up to Pax, and now they have a love-hate friendship that makes me laugh.

“You look pretty hot yourself,” I inform Pax. “I love the shirt.”

He flips up the collar of his pea-green polo. “It’s Gucci, bitches. My sister and I were in Boston this weekend and spent a little too much money. But hey, worth it, right?” He does a quick spin to show off his new shirt.

“Worth it,” I agree.

TJ adjusts the straps of his backpack. “Come on, let’s go in. We don’t want to be late for the first class. I hear Andrews is a strict prof.”

I laugh. “We’re fifteen minutes early. Don’t worry.”

“Did you seriously just tell Thomas Joseph not to worry?” Pax demands. “That’s his default mode.”

He’s not wrong. TJ is a walking, talking ball of anxiety.

TJ glowers at us. He doesn’t like being made fun of, especially about his anxiety, so I reach out and take his hand, giving it a warm squeeze. “Don’t sulk, hon. I like that you’re a worrywart. Means I’m never late for anything.”

With a slight smile, he squeezes my hand back. TJ and I met in freshman year when we lived in the same dorm. My roommate had been absolutely unbearable, so TJ’s room became sort of a sanctuary for me. He’s not always the easiest person to get along with, but he’s been a good friend to me from day one.

“Waaaaaiittt!”

The female shriek pierces the breezy morning air. I turn my head to see a petite girl sprinting down the tree-lined path. She’s clad in a knee-length black dress with big white buttons running down the middle. One arm is thrust skyward, waving what looks like a plastic food container.

A dark-haired guy pauses near the steps. He’s tall and noticeably fit, even while wearing a bulky gray hoodie with the Briar U logo on it. A frown creases his handsome face when he realizes he’s being chased.

The girl skids to a stop in front of him. I can’t hear what he says to her, but her response is loud and clear. I think she might be one of the loudest people I’ve ever encountered.

“I made you lunch!” Smiling broadly, she presents the container as if she’s handing him the Holy Grail.

Meanwhile, his body language conveys annoyance, as if what she’s actually handing him is a bag of dog poop.

Seriously? His girlfriend made him lunch and he’s not throwing his arms around her in gratitude? Jerk.

“I hate that guy,” mutters TJ.

“You know him?” I can’t hide my dubious expression. TJ doesn’t hang out with many jocks, and the guy we’re looking at is one hundred percent a jock. Those broad shoulders are a dead giveaway.