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Copyright © 2017 by Addison Moore
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Two-Timing Twosome
Harper
Knox Toberman is a philistine.
“Say that again. I dare you.” I glare at his muscular frame as if it offended me, and believe me, on some intrinsic level, everything about Knox offends me. He’s your typical smug jock with a body that makes all the girls’ heads spin exorcist style, but for some reason the only visceral reaction he invokes in me is the urge to spew green vomit at a high-speed trajectory.
His dark brows pinch in a hard V as if he were having the very same thoughts about me. “I said, I think it’s a little much to have to look up and see a couple screwing while eating your breakfast cereal.”
A heavy groan works up my throat. “First of all, they are not screwing as you so indelicately put it. They’re making love—a concept that is apparently foreign to you—hence the name of the piece.” I point up at the plaque beneath the gorgeous oil painting in question that now sits prominently in the dining room of Kappa Gamma Gamma, the sorority my friends and I have just finished moving into. It’s the night of the Kappa G, Beta Kappa Phi’s official first summer mixer, thus the presence of the vulgar barbarian standing before me. It’s also the night of the charity auction set to help the Greeks who live on The Row put in a new green belt along the sidewalks in lieu of the asparagus plant thistles that bloomed and had to be weeded. I for one am thrilled they’re gone after having my ankles gnawed on by their thorny claws while trying to cross the street. The boys are gunning for ivy to fill those dirt runs that the snow left in its wake, but the girls are looking to put in something less vermin friendly like bushels of Queen Anne’s lace. Why would anyone in their right mind willingly plant ivy? Everyone knows it’s a hovel for rats and nocturnal marsupials. The next time I go on my morning run, if a raccoon wraps itself around my ankle and hitches a ride on the Harper Express, I’ll happily walk it right over to the first frat house I see. But that won’t happen. Judging by the turnout tonight, the girls will be the first to raise the funds needed to solve our landscaping dilemma.
Knox grunts up at the portrait comprised mostly of pastel shades of peaches and nudes. “Nope. They’re screwing. The artist is just trying to pass off the perversion in order to make a quick buck.”
“Ha!” I bark in his perfectly chiseled face. Ever since Knox arrived at Whitney Briggs University, his name has been whispered throughout the halls, more important, throughout the sororities, namely this one, so much so that it sounds like the constant clacking of castanets. “That’s where you’re wrong. I can happily tell you that the artist in question would never stoop to the use of crude and rude expletives, because the artist in question is a true lady who doesn’t give a damn about the almighty dollar.”
His features smooth out. His arms cross over his ginormous chest as he stands there judging me with those slits of blue trapped behind his lids. Knox has the Toberman family good looks, but, as comely as the entire lot may be, they’re all a little too matchy-matchy for my liking. Swear to God, they are an entire family of look-alikes—and I’m including Lawson in that equation even though they’re technically steps. From what I’ve seen, his brother, Rex, looks like a slightly older version of him. It’s unnerving having a replica on campus. Just last week, the two of them were in the Black Bear, a bar across from campus, and I swear it felt like an alien invasion—smoking hot aliens, but nevertheless.
“Are you the artist in question?” There it is again, that know-it-all tone, that sarcastic edge, and just hearing it makes me wonder what it is I ever did to deserve to have this walking jockstrap follow me around all night, indiscriminately accusing brilliant works of art of public coitus. There might be a hint of truth in there,