“Whatever he wants me to do, I hope it’s quick or that it doesn’t have to be done tonight.” I glance at my watch. “I have a study group in less than an hour across campus.”
Bent narrows his eyes at me through a cloud of smoke.
“A group?” he asks. “Or a girl?”
I stiffen and cock a brow, silently asking what the hell. In the smoke-filled basement of Prescott Hall with these bluebloods, Bent may be a Pride legacy and I a mere prospect, but he knows I remember him as the lanky kid I met at freshman orientation. We’ve been tight ever since, and I’ve locked the door on most of the skeletons in his closet.
My face blank, I toy with an unlit joint. “What girl?”
There’s a war between reluctance and loyalty on his face before he releases a smoky sigh.
“Prescott knows you don’t study at the library.” The words slide from one barely open, hardly moving corner of Bent’s mouth. “He knows you study at the laundromat.”
His face and eyes sober.
“He knows about Banner.”
The air chills around me and a queasy feeling grips my stomach at the mention of Banner Morales. Dark, bottomless, espresso-colored eyes fringed with long, thick lashes. Full lips tinted by chocolate and roses. High cheekbones and one dimple on the right side. A bold nose dusted with exactly seven freckles. I blink to clear the mental image, sharpening my focus on my best friend’s worried expression.
“What does she have to do with this?” I strip my voice of the emotion struggling to break the surface. “She’s just my study partner.”
Bent tips his head and gives me a knowing look.
“Foster, come on. It’s me.”
I haven’t talked to anyone about Banner. How I think about her all the time. And how she makes me laugh without even trying. How my dick gets hard when I smell her shampoo. All of this is fodder for merciless ribbing, so no. I haven’t talked to anyone about Banner, except Bent, and even then not much. I maintain a blank face and level my mouth into a flat line.
“Dude, I’m clueless,” I answer evenly.
“Yeah, well you—”
“Benton, what are you and the prospect talking about?” Prescott demands from the other end of the table. “Care to share with your brothers?”
He addresses the question to Bent, but his eyes latch on to my face, and I don’t look away.
“Nothing,” Bent answers easily, lifting the joint to his lips. “Finals.”
“Ah, finals.” Prescott lopsides a phony grin. “That’s right. I remember from his application that our prospect is summa cum laude.”