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Campus Rules series book 4
Avery
I have a Dean Walker problem.
A stupid one. A hot one. A problem currently, ruthlessly ruining my sleep schedule, my dwindling sense of dignity, and the perfectly good vibrator hummed flat against my palm.
Which is deeply, monumentally inconvenient because Dean was supposed to be a strict weekend mistake. A fun little accident under the radar. A ridiculous, cocky, bleach-blonde hockey player with entirely too much mouth and not a single shred of shame. He was precisely the kind of guy you hook up with once, laugh about over iced coffees with Piper later, and then mentally file away under the permanent category of *Terrible choices, phenomenal execution.*
Except it has been three full days since I left Pennridge. Three. And I am still vividly, relentlessly thinking about him.
I am still thinking about the heavy, calloused drag of his hands. His mouth. The specific way he grinned down at me in the shadows of his bedroom, like he knew exactly how badly I wanted to bite that smug look right off his face. And then did. Repeatedly.
I let out a low groan into my pillow and roll onto my back, staring up at the ceiling of my bedroom like the drywall personally betrayed my trust.
This is pathetic. I am not a pathetic girl. I am explicitly the girl who dances on tables at three in the morning, holding a bottle of tequila like a prize. The girl who says an unhesitating yes to bad ideas before anyone even finishes explaining the legal or social consequences. I am the girl who can drink most grown men clean under the table, systematically steal their favorite vintage hoodie, and slide out the door before they even realize they’ve been emotionally robbed.
I do not obsess. I do not pine. I definitely do not lie awake in bed thinking about a defenseman from Piper’s boyfriend’s team.
And yet. Here I am. Naked under my white sheets, my skin burning warm, my thighs pressed tightly together, trying very hard not to remember the vibration of Dean’s voice against my bare ear.
Trying and completely, miserably failing. Spectacularly.
Right on cue, my phone lights up on the nightstand, casting a sharp blue glow across the dark room. I glance over, my jaw tightening. Piper.
> **PIPER:** Are you alive?
>
I stare at the message. Then I look down at the sleek, pulsing toy in my hand. Then I look right back at the screen. I clear my throat and type out a reply one-handed.
> **AVERY:** Unfortunately.
>
The three typing dots appear instantly.
> **PIPER:** That sounds incredibly dramatic.
> **AVERY:** I am a woman under severe emotional and physiological distress.
> **PIPER:** Is this explicitly about Dean?
>
I throw my phone face down onto the mattress with a frustrated huff.
Rude. Horrifyingly, devastatingly accurate, but entirely rude.
I close my eyes and force myself to think about literally anything else in my life. My class schedule. The pile of laundry in the corner. The marketing assignment I haven’t even opened. The fact that I should probably stop charging anonymous strangers money online to look at my premium lingerie pictures before my life gets wildly complicated.
Nope. Still Dean. Still his stupid, handsome grin. Still the intrusive memory of him looking down at me like he’d finally found the one girl reckless enough to keep up with his brand of chaos.
My hand moves beneath the sheets again before my logic can lift a finger to stop it. A slow, shaky breath leaves my mouth, my chest heaving.
Fine. Whatever. If my brain insists on being haunted by Dean Walker, then I might as well get something tangible out of the haunting.
The vibrator hums softly beneath the heavy sheets, the rhythmic pulse vibrating right against my center. My eyes flutter closed in the dark room, and immediately, my mind drags me right back to Pennridge. To the hockey house. To the messy reality of Dean’s bedroom. I can practically feel his breathless laugh vibrating against the skin of my throat, his large, heavy hands gripping my hips like he couldn't decide whether to hold me completely still or let me destroy him.
God.
I bite down hard on my bottom lip, trying to stay quiet even though I am completely alone in the room. Which is entirely stupid. No one can hear me. No one is here. But maybe that is the exact crux of the problem. Dean isn’t here. And somehow, for the very first time in my life, that absence feels like an actual, throbbing issue.
I hate him. I absolutely, unequivocally hate him. Probably.
The hum of the toy intensifies, a sharp wave of heat shooting straight to my gut, and my back arches slightly off the mattress as my internal muscles clamp down tightly around the sensation. Right as I'm on the edge, my phone buzzes violently against the sheets beside my hip.
I ignore it, my hips rolling against the friction.
Then it buzzes again. And again. A relentless barrage of notifications.
I snap my eyes open and snatch the device up with an irritated, breathless growl, my chest heaving.
> **PIPER:** You aggressively ignored the Dean question.
> **PIPER:** That means yes.
> **PIPER:** Oh my God.
>
I glare at the screen, my pulse hammering. Then, because the universe is apparently committed to ruining my peace of mind tonight, another notification slides down from the top of the bar.
Dean.
My entire body goes completely, utterly rigid on the mattress.
> **DEAN:** You coming back to the house this weekend or what?
>
I stare at his name. My pulse violently kicks against my ribs. Ridiculous. Absolutely, pathetically ridiculous. I should not possess this kind of physical reaction to a man who once tried to logically convince me that competitive beer pong counted as high-intensity cardio.
Another text appears a second later.
> **DEAN:** Piper misses you.
>
Then:
> **DEAN:** I miss you more, but I’m actively trying to be cool about it.
>
A sudden laugh bursts out of my throat before I can stop it, the tension breaking. God. He is so incredibly annoying. So stupid. So exactly my specific brand of trouble that it actually pisses me off.
I type back before my internal filter can overthink the ground I'm giving up.
> **AVERY:** You have literally never been cool a single day in your life.
>
His reply flashes onto the screen almost instantly, the typing bubble barely visible before sending.
> **DEAN:** You wound me, Monroe.
> **AVERY:** Good.
> **DEAN:** Come back to Pennridge and kiss it better.
>
My thighs press together with a sudden, violent ache. Traitorous. Awful. Immediate contraction.
I stare at the glowing text box for a long, heavy second. Then, I slowly drop my head back against the pillow with a defeated sigh. This is a problem. A real, heavy-duty problem. Because I know the type of guy Dean Walker is. I don't know him well—not enough to map his heart—but I know the outline. He is not the kind of guy girls are supposed to take seriously.
He is fun. Wild. Temporary. A literal sparkler in human form. He is bright, reckless, completely impossible not to look at, and absolutely, under no circumstances, meant to be held onto for too long.
Which is completely fine. Perfect, actually. Because I don’t do serious either. I don’t do emotional ledgers or labels. I do fun. I do easy, unattached nights that never have to transition into mornings. And Dean Walker? Dean Walker is exactly the kind of trouble I know how to handle.
Probably.
My phone buzzes again in my palm.
> **DEAN:** Avery?
>
I stare at his name, my lips slowly curving into a wicked smile despite my best efforts. Terrible. Dangerous. Perfect.
I type out:
> **AVERY:** Maybe.
>
The three typing dots appear the exact millisecond the text delivers.
> **DEAN:** That’s a definitive yes.
> **AVERY:** That’s a conditional maybe, Walker.
> **DEAN:** I’ll take it.
>
I should put the phone down on the nightstand. I should close my eyes and go to sleep. I should do literally anything other than smile at a glowing screen like a textbook idiot because some bleach-blonde chaos demon wants my body back at Pennridge.
Instead, I toss the phone onto the sheets, reach back down for the humming vibrator, and close my eyes.
Fine. One more time. Then I am completely, permanently forgetting Dean Walker exists.
Completely. Permanently. Probably right after this upcoming weekend.
