College Ruled

forty-one [part three]

TW: never really do warnings before chapters because I do those in the info/synopsis that usually does a good job at encompassing the whole book, but there is multiple mentions of vomit/the act of vomiting in the second half of this chapter so I figured I'd issue a fresh warning just in case (it's nothing insanely graphic, but still)

Without further ado—

41
———     

AT ONCE, THE PANTRY crowds with people. Preston, Wesley, and Christina press their faces into the doorway, trying to catch a glimpse of us around Maverick's wide build.

      My cheeks burn, but the embarrassment is distant. Dull.

     I smile and twist on Grayson's lap until my back is pressed to his chest, ignoring the grunt from the man beneath me, and issue a wave toward the gawking audience.

     "Hi, guys!"

      Wesley grins back. "Hi there, little Rem." Then to Christina, as if I can't hear everything that comes out of his mouth, he hisses, "I told you to watch her."

     "I was." Chris strains onto her toes to smack him in the back of the head. "You got distracted getting her a shirt and I had to go look for your dumb ass."

      Wes waves something between them—a faded, washed-out brown piece of fabric bunched in his hand. "I got her a shirt." 

      "You took too long—"

      "Mave," Grayson groans, finally peeling back from me long enough to cast an annoyed glare toward the door. "Why'd you bring them here?"

      "Well, we couldn't find you guys—"

      "No one asked you to look."

       "You did," says Mave, sighing. He runs a hand over the back of his neck. "You told me to keep you away from her."

      Oh.

       Grayson frowns. "That doesn't sound like me." Wesley tucks his head back, laughing. "You told me to go fuck off somewhere."

     "This is not what I meant."

     Grayson lets out another tired groan. His chin falls to my shoulder. "Leave us alone."

      "Come on, lad," Mave tries helplessly. "Get up."

      Grayson's lips curl against my skin, and his arms wrap around my waist to pull me tighter to him. "I don't think you want me to."

      Wesley's a full mess against the doorframe now—his breathless cackle a loud booming noise in the small pantry. He brings the t-shirt he brought for me up to his quirked lips, as if to muffle the noise.

      It doesn't work.

      "Leave us alone," Grayson attempts again, voice harder.

      "Yeah," Chris snorts. "I don't think we should."

      "Why not?" I pout. "We're fine."

      "Oh, I bet you are." She shoves Preston forward. "Help her up, please."

      Preston grimaces. "Yeah, like he'll let me."

      "I won't."

      "See?"

      Christina narrows her eyes at him. "Help her."

      "I don't need help—"