Under Her(9)

By: Samantha Towle

Jesus, her body is smoking.

She looks the same but different. Still fresh-faced. But, now, she wears a little more makeup than she used to in college. Pouty lips painted pink. Wide brown eyes lined with thick black lashes, staring back at me, not giving anything away, but they look a hell of a lot warmer than they used to look at me back in college. Her long, straight honey-blonde hair is down, falling around her shoulders.

She’s stunning.

She looks like she should be modeling our product, not selling it.

“It’s great to see you again,” I say. And it really fucking is.

Her smile widens, showing a slip of her white teeth. Then, she parts her lips to speak—hopefully to say, Please fuck me, Wilder, although that’s not likely, as my parents are here—when my mom’s voice slices through the air.

“Wilder! What is on the back of your shirt?”

I stop at the shrill tone of my mom’s voice, my eyes jerking in her direction. “What?” I ask, confused.

“Your shirt!” Mom starts to advance on me, clear anger in her eyes.

My shirt? What the hell is she talking about?

Before my mom can reach me, I turn to look at myself in the wall mirror on the other side of my office. As I move, I see Chrissy’s wide eyes, her lips pressed tightly together. I catch sight of my dad, and his fist is pressed to his lips. He’s clearly fighting laughter.

What the fuck is going on?

Then, I hear Morgan gasp. I swing my eyes back to hers, and the warmth that was in them has been replaced with barely concealed disgust.

What the hell is happening here right now?

Pulling my eyes from Morgan, I turn my back to the mirror, looking at it over my shoulder, trying to see what everyone else is seeing, and—

No. That can’t be. Surely not.

I squint my eyes, trying to take in what I’m seeing. I back up, so I’m closer to the mirror, my eyes glued to it, and all too soon, it becomes clear.

“What the hell?” I hiss.

How did that get there?

Well, I have a pretty good idea how it got there. I just don’t know when it was put there. Or why the fuck someone would do that.

How the hell did I not see this when I was getting dressed?

I know I was bleary-eyed, and the room was semidark, but it’s not like you can frigging miss it.

Because written there, on the back of my light-gray shirt, in clear black ink is…

Last night was incredible! You really are Wild. ;)

Call me if you want to fuck again.



Holy. Frigging. Hell.


Thirteen Years Ago

Sitting in my seat in the front row of the lecture hall, I try to listen as Professor George starts to talk, but my neck is sore and aching. I roll my head, hand pressed to the back of my neck, trying to ease the pressure.

It doesn’t work.

My neck is stiff because I spent the night on the floor of my best friend, Joely’s, dorm room—and not by choice.

Joely and I had gone to high school together, and we’d decided to come to Northwestern together. We’d agreed that we’d room separately, so we could meet new people.

Joely had gotten an awesome roommate—Hannah.

I’d gotten the roommate from hell—Tori.

And I had to crash on Joely and Hannah’s floor because Tori had locked me out of our room.

The thought alone makes me grind my teeth in anger, and I ignore the ache in my chest when I recall the reason she’d locked me out of our room.

Wilder Cross.

The guy I stupidly have a crush on. Not that he even knows my name. A girl like me doesn’t register on the radar of a guy like Wilder.

He’s ridiculously beautiful with a head full of dirty-blond hair and bright blue eyes, the kind that you just want to fall into, and along with all of that is a tall, muscular body that tells me he visits the gym often. He’s the full package.

He’s part of Northwestern’s elite. The rich, beautiful crowd.

And he spent last night in my dorm room, screwing my roommate.

It makes sense that he would go for someone like Tori. She might be a bitch, but she’s gorgeous. Thin, big boobs, long, dark hair, and olive skin. She looks like she just stepped out of a L’Oréal commercial. And she comes from a wealthy family. Her dad’s the head of some bank or something.

She’s Wilder’s kind.

I, on the other hand, come from a working-class family. My dad is an electrician, and my mom is a beautician. I’m here at Northwestern on a scholarship. I’ve always been too focused on schoolwork to care about boys, but the moment I saw Wilder, there was just something about him. Something I liked.

Until last night, that is.

Of course, I’ve heard the gossip—that Wilder is a player and a self-righteous prick—but I’ve always chosen not to listen to rumors.

My mom has always said that what people project isn’t necessarily a true reflection of themselves. She says most people will only ever show you what they want you to know, and if you want to know more, then it’s up to you to dig a little deeper and get to know them properly. So, I never make snap judgments about people.

Maybe that should change.

Because I was clearly wrong about Wilder. Not that I had known much about him before last night. But, in the little I’d gleamed from him in my time at Northwestern, I’d thought he seemed nice. He was always smiling and joking around with his friends. And I’d figured, even if he was a man-whore, it didn’t make him a bad person, so long as he was up-front with the girls he was man-whoring with.

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