Mmm. Isabel Evans savored the taste of her martini as she finished it off, then plucked the strawberry off the side and bit off the bottom tip of it.

Beside her, her best friend Courtney declared, "You're gonna need another one of those." She raised her arm to get the bartender's attention, immediately wincing and putting it back down again. "Ow," she whined. "Eric made me really sore last night."

"Did you guys try the bondage stuff again?" Isabel guessed.

Courtney smirked. "Maybe."

Isabel rolled her eyes good-naturedly. Oh, Courtney and Eric . . . there was nothing they wouldn't try. Once in a while they bit off a little more than they could chew, but that never seemed to deter them from seeking out new deviant sexual habits all the time.

"You get your new martini," Courtney instructed as she gingerly slid off her bar stool. "I'm gonna hit the little girl's room." She quickly downed the rest of her own drink, grabbed her purse, and headed towards the back of the bar.

Isabel plucked the green top off of her strawberry and finished it off, debating if she really wanted another drink or not. She traced her index finger lazily around the rim of her glass and glanced up at the clock on the wall. Crap, she'd lost track of time. Her class was starting in five minutes.

"Hey, are you . . ."

She turned around when she heard somebody speaking to her. Some guy who was probably in college but looked like he was still in high school. Way too much gel in his bleach blonde hair and far too much acne on his face to ever be considered attractive.

"Oh my god, it's you!" he exclaimed, looking like an excited kid in a candy store. "You're Naughty Izzy!"

She slipped him a smile. "Yeah." This happened at least three times per week.

"From the Internet?"

She shrugged unabashedly. "That's me."

He laughed gleefully, then yelled to his friend, "Brandon, come here!"

She sighed, looking up at the clock again. Yeah. No way was she going to make it there on time.

"I'm Russell. I love your stuff," her fan raved. "Seriously, I watch it every night."

"Oh, I don't doubt that." It didn't take a genius to conclude that Russell's girlfriend was his own hand.

"Brandon, take a picture," he said, handing his friend his iPhone. As if it were an afterthought, he asked Isabel, "Is that okay, a picture? I'm your biggest fan."

She'd met seven 'biggest fans' in the past month alone. "Sure," she said, turning all the way around. She let Russell put his arm around her and plastered on a smile as he gave a dopey thumbs up and Brandon took the picture.

"Let me see, let me see," he rambled right away, seizing the camera back from him. "Oh, that's awesome. You're so hot."

"Thanks." She sort of had to be in her line of work.

All of a sudden, out of the blue, his lips were on hers, and he was trying to shove his tongue into her mouth. She whimpered and pushed him away, vehemently opposed to kissing him. "What the hell?" she snapped. "What makes you think you can just kiss me?"

"You're Naughty Izzy," he repeated. "You do porn."

She huffed. "With my boyfriend!" That didn't give him any right to slip her the tongue!

At that moment, Courtney reappeared at the bar. "What's going on here?" she chimed, eyeing the two boys. "Big fans?"

"Oh my god." The camera fell from Russell's hand as he stared at her in astonishment. "Slutty Courtney?"

Courtney grinned proudly. "Yep, that's me."

Brandon got in on the action, too, now, his mouth dropping open. "Holy shit," he gasped. "You're real?"

"Well . . ." Courtney squeezed her own breasts and shrugged. "Parts of me."

The two idiot boys looked at each other and high-fived, as if they'd just found gold or something.

"I gotta get to class," Isabel announced, getting to her feet, slinking off unnoticed now that Courtney had the boys' attention. Now they could get a picture with her, too, and unlike Isabel, she probably wouldn't mind making out with them.

...

"Slam poetry, you guys," Alex Whitman emphasized, wanting to make sure his students understood the point of the assignment. "Not whisper poetry. Not reading in the same boring, emotionless tone you used in middle school poetry. The words should be so powerful that they slam into the audience, rhythmic and relatable. We should be able not only to hear your passion . . . but to feel it." He liked that little glimmer of excitement he saw in a few students' eyes. Creative Writing definitely seemed to be the English class college students didn't dread taking, even if they were only taking it to fulfill a general requirement. That was why he'd lobbied like hell to be the grad student assigned to teaching it.

"Now, it doesn't matter to me how long it is," he said, never one to assign a length requirement. "Let's be real here: It definitely shouldn't be a haiku. But I just want you to write until it's done. And it'll be up to you to decide when it is. Now as far as topics go . . ." He trailed off momentarily as the door to the classroom opened, and in came Isabel, dressed in denim shorts and a white midriff. She had on big, oversized sunglasses that she didn't bother to take off as she slinked towards an empty seat.

Yep, there was always one student in every class who just couldn't ever get there on time. Unfortunately, Isabel was that student for him.

"I'd like you to write about a social issue," he instructed, returning his attention to the rest of the class, "but be creative with it. This is poetry, after all, not an essay."

Isabel pushed her sunglasses up on top of her head and raised her hand high into the air.

"Yes?" he called on her.

"How long does it have to be?"

A few of the other students, mostly girls, rolled their eyes at her.

"No length requirement," he answered. "If you'd been here on time, you might've already heard me say that."

There were a few light snickers, mostly from the eye-rollers, and she just stared at him for a moment but didn't argue.

"Alright, we're gonna get inspired by viewing a few videos of slam poetry contests right here in the Carlsbad area," Alex continued on, motioning to the student closest to the door. "Jay? Lights?"

Isabel put her sunglasses back on in disinterest as Jay reached up to the wall and flicked the light switch off.

...

It was so much easier for Michael to wake up when Sarah was the one waking him. So much better than an annoying alarm clock. He usually pretended to still be asleep, just because it was fun.

This morning, she drummed her fingers against his bare chest, then lightly grazed her hands against his skin. "Wake up, wake up," she whispered in his ear sweetly.

"Mmm," he murmured. Why would he want to wake up when it felt so good to lie here?

She kissed his cheek, then slid down a bit, pressing a few feather-light kisses to his chest.

"You're makin' it really hard to get outta this bed," he told her, eyes still shut.

She crawled on top of him, straddling his waist, and smoothed her hands up his sides.

Eventually, he could resist no more. He opened his eyes, appreciating how pretty she looked even in the morning. She had such thick dark eyelashes, so she always looked like she was wearing makeup, even when she wasn't. And her hair always looked thick and soft, even when she hadn't combed it yet. Plus . . . she'd slept in his t-shirt. So that was really hot.

"Good morning," she said happily.

"Morning."

She leaned in to kiss him, and he seized the opportunity to grip her waist and pull her body even closer to his. She squealed excitedly as he did so.

Once they'd gotten up and around, Sarah accompanied him to campus for some errands he had to run. The first was a stop at the financial aid office in the administration building. There was some scholarship stuff he needed to sort out.

"So I'm supposed to have 3,500 dollars in scholarships this year," he recapped to the lady behind the counter. "But when I checked my student bill, it only showed that 3,000 of it had been applied."

"Hmm, well, that is a little strange," the woman agreed. "Do you know what scholarship wasn't counted?"

"Probably this five-hundred dollar one I got from housing late last year," he speculated. "I just wanna make sure I get it, you know?"

"Oh, of course. Well, more than likely it'll be applied to your second semester bill," she assured him, "but I can look into it today and give you a call sometime this afternoon when I find out more."

"Alright, thanks." That had been easy enough.

"Have a nice day," she told him.

"Yeah, you, too." He stepped away from the counter, took Sarah's hand, and together they left.

"So . . ." she drawled as they walked back outside towards the rec center this time. "Yvonne's filling in for me tomorrow, so I get to go to the game."

"Good." It was one of only three night games they had this year. Those were always the best.

"Yeah, I'm excited," she said. "I can't wait to see Monk's girlfriend."

"Wanna make a bet?" he proposed, already envisioning what Monk's girl really looked like.

"Ten bucks . . . fat black man," she wagered confidently.

He shook his head. "Nope. Mexican transvestite."

"Oh, it's on then."

"It's so on."

"If I win, you better pay up right away."

"When I win, I'm exchanging my ten bucks for ten blow-jobs."

"You!" she yelped, whacking his chest playfully.

He laughed, loving that she pretended to be all outraged by the suggestion, when in reality . . . she'd totally be cool with it.

"Hey, guess what?" he said, changing the subject suddenly.

"What?"

"You know that stats test you helped me study for last week?"

"Yeah, did you get it back?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"What'd you get?"

He squeezed her hand in his. "Ninety-nine."

She gasped with delight. "Michael, that's great!" But then, she frowned. "Wait a minute. Does that mean your GPA's still higher than mine then?"

He grinned teasingly.

"God!" she groaned. "Why did I help you study again?"

"Because you love me. Because you can't resist me," he openly boasted. "Because I do things to you when you're naked that you like."

"Hmm, well . . ." She thought about it and conceded, "I do like most of those things."

He shot her an alarmed look. "Most?" Good lord, what the fuck was he doing she didn't like?

"I'm kidding," she assured him laughingly.

"Oh. Good." Sex was the one thing in the world he knew he was the best at, better than anyone else. It needed to stay that way.

"But seriously, if it hadn't been for that douchebag professor I had for philosophy class, I'd have a 3.9 right now," she lamented, letting her inner nerd flag fly. "He hated me."

"He didn't hate you," Michael said, putting his arm around her shoulders. She was so short that her head always ended up right in his armpit.

"And why do I need philosophy to be a pharmacist anyway?" she wondered aloud.

"Why do I need statistics to be a counselor? I don't know."

"Stupid general education requirements," she mumbled, pouting. "I know it's totally stereotypical for the Asian girl to be obsessed with her grades, but it's so frustrating. I know I'd have a 3.9."

"Sarah Nguyen, do you realize how many people would kill for your GPA?" he pointed out. There was nothing wrong with a 3.7. She pretty much had to get amazing grades, though. She didn't just have upperclassmen scholarships like he did; she had a full tuition scholarship for the score she'd gotten on the ACT.

"I guess, I guess," she relented, snuggling close to his side as they neared their destination. "Do you realize how many people would kill for your GPA, though? Or your athletic ability? Or your hair."

"Can't blame 'em," he said, threading his hand through his spiky mane. "I'm a catch."

...

It wasn't a pretty sight to see when Michael showed up at Tess and Kyle's place that afternoon: Kyle, planted in his wheelchair, trying unsuccessfully to get something out of an upper cabinet with the help of the walking cane he never used. He didn't even acknowledge Michael when he came in.

"What're you doin'?" Michael asked, but he already knew. He'd seen his dad do a thousand times growing up, just without the wheelchair or the cane. Same desperation, though.

"Tess hides the liquor up here," Kyle replied simply. "She thinks I can't reach it."

Michael couldn't help but state the obvious. "You can't."

Kyle was determined, though. "Well, I'm going to."

Michael hated watching this. It was painful. "You know, she probably hides it 'cause she doesn't want you to drink it," he said.

"Probably," Kyle agreed flippantly, frowning as he concentrated all his effort on trying to knock a whiskey bottle down into his lap. He reached up as high as he could, but his cane was just barely touching the tip of it.

"You know, you could just stand up," Michael pointed out.

Kyle looked at him impatiently, bringing his cane down. "Or you could just get it for me."

Michael thought about it a moment, then played along with it, nodding. He slipped in between Kyle's wheelchair and the counter, reaching up to grab the bottle without problem. It was only half full.

"Thanks," Kyle said, holding out his hand for it as Michael unscrewed the lid; but instead of handing it over, Michael took a drink himself and then sauntered into the living room. No way was he letting Kyle have a drink.

"So I thought of another reason why you should go to the game tomorrow night," he said, not about to give up on trying to entice his friend into coming.

Kyle reluctantly wheeled himself in after him, looking pissed that he wasn't getting to enjoy the whiskey he'd been so determined to get. "What game?" he muttered.

Michael flopped down on the couch. "The one I told you about yesterday."

"Oh . . ." Kyle shrugged. "I don't remember."

Sure you do, Michael thought. He was just pretending not to because he wanted the conversation to be over. "Fly's gonna be the mascot," he revealed. "That's gonna be entertaining."

Kyle snorted. "You know, Monk and Fly and Steve . . . they're your friends, man."

"They're yours, too," Michael assured him.

"No, they're not. Only reason they even know me is 'cause you dragged me around with you when we first got here."

"Yeah, well, you dragged me around for eighteen years, so . . ." He probably owed Kyle a lot more than anything he'd ever be able to give him or do for him. Kyle had always stuck by him, never wavered, not even when times were bad. Now Michael owed it to him to do the same.

"Well, I can't go," Kyle refused. "The Bama game's on TV. I really wanna watch it."

"So DVR it," Michael suggested, "watch it when you get home." Truth be told, he hated that Kyle still followed Alabama football so closely. It only made him more miserable.

"Alright, you can stop," Kyle growled.

"Stop what?"

"Stop trying to make me go to this stupid game. I don't wanna go." Kyle rolled his wheelchair down the hall, and seconds after he was out of sight, Michael heard the bedroom door slam shut.

He set the whiskey aside, sighing in frustration. Yeah, he'd stop trying . . . once Kyle started.

...

It might not have been Tuscaloosa, but still, the New Mexico State stadium was alive Saturday night. Carlsbad was a really small town, smaller than Roswell, actually, but it was a college town, and that was all that mattered. That was enough to make it lively. Everyone showed up at the game. The stadium wasn't much bigger than a lot of high school stadiums, but it was packed.

It was always a good atmosphere, always a sea of crimson. Not the crimson Michael had planned to wear when he'd first started college, but crimson nonetheless. Anyone who wasn't wearing that color probably wasn't wearing much of anything at all. There were a lot of girls who showed up in shorts and tube tops, and a lot of guys who were shirtless. A few who were practically spilling over the front row of the bleachers had painted AGGIES on their chests and looked very, very hammered.

As Michael and Sarah were making their way past the student section, they each ran into a few people they knew. A couple girls said hi to Sarah, and a couple guys shouted, "Michael!" and held up their hands for high-fives. "Go Aggies!" one of them yelled right in his ear. They bypassed the student section, though, because if you wanted to watch the game from there, you had to stand the whole time. At 5'3", Sarah was too short to see much of the action from there.

"Where do you wanna sit?" she asked him, looking up the bleachers.

He moved in close behind her and put his hands on her hips so as not to lose her in the crowd. "Wherever you want."

She started up the steps, stopping when she pointed out, "Look, it's Monk!"

He looked up to the very top of the bleachers, where usually only the old people sat, and indeed, there was Monk, returning to his seat with two hot dogs from the concession stand. "The girlfriend?" He peered closer.

"I don't know . . ." Sarah squinted, then proclaimed, "Ha!" as she spotted her. "Fat black man."

Indeed, Monk handed not one but both of the hot dogs over to a big, burly guy in a bright pink jumpsuit. "Damn," he swore. "You're good." He reached into his back pocket right away to take out his wallet.

"Oh, no," she said, peeking over her shoulder mischievously. "I'll be collecting my winnings later."

He grinned eagerly, liking the sound of that.

They started up the steps, and eventually, Michael spotted Steve in the middle section of the bleachers, standing up and waving to get their attention. "There," he said, pointing him out to Sarah.

"Steve!" she exclaimed, weaving her way through the cramped rows, managing to slip in beside him. "Hi!"

"Hi." He gave her a quick hug. "Sorry, I tried to save seats for you guys."

"Oh, it's okay," she said, sitting down. "We'll squeeze in." She scooted as far over as she could, and Michael sat down next to her. If it got too crowded, she could literally sit on his lap.

"How's Fly doin'?" Michael asked.

Steve motioned down to the track. "See for yourself."

It was quite a sight to see. Fly was wearing a crimson vest and chaps, cowboy boots, and a black cowboy hat. His usual faint mustache must not have been dark enough, because he was wearing a fake one. He had a holster and two fake guns, both of which he was holding down by his junk. He kept thrusting into the air. Apparently the guns were compensating for something.

"Pistol Pete!" Michael roared in support of his friend. "Yeah!"

Fly spun around, drawing his guns into the air, then spotted Michael and waved like an idiot. Even threw he looked like he was having a great time down there, though, someone up closer to the front through a plate of super nachos at him, and they splattered all over his costume.

"You want some of this?" Fly challenged, taking off both of his boots. He threw them back into the crowd, yelling, "What now, motherfucker? Yeah! Get some! Get some!" And that was followed by more exaggerated thrusting.

Michael chuckled. Oh, man, Fly made his old high school friends look downright normal.

"So no Cheryl tonight?" Sarah asked Steve.

"No, she didn't think she could squeeze through this crowd, let alone sit in the middle of it for the whole game."

"She's massive," Michael remarked.

"Michael!" Sarah hissed.

"What? She is." He'd last seen Cheryl during poker night at Steve's place last month, and even then, she'd looked like a gigantic bowling ball.

"Yeah, she's gained about forty pounds already," Steve revealed. "And she's not done yet."

"Well, when's she having her baby shower?" Sarah asked him.

"I don't know. Sometime in October."

"Well, tell her to call me as soon as she sets a date. I wanna make sure I can get off work for it."

"Will do."

"And as far as presents go . . ." she added leadingly. "Should I be buying something pink? Something blue?"

Steve smiled proudly. "Something blue would probably be a good bet."

"Oh my gosh!" Sarah squealed. "Congratulations! When did you guys find out?"

"Our last doctor's visit."

"Congrats," she said again. "Are you excited?"

Steve pushed his hair out of his eyes. "Yeah, pretty excited. I think every man looks forward to having a son, you know, teachin' him to play sports and all that stuff. Don't you think, Michael?"

Michael pretended like he hadn't heard the question. "What?"

Sarah put her hand on his leg and squeezed gently. Then she kept talking to Steve, asking if he and Cheryl had any ideas for names yet.

Michael seized the opportunity to let his attention drift to the actual game. They were almost at the end of the first quarter, and the Aggies were ahead 7-0, and they had the ball on the opponent's forty-five yard line. Michael watched them line up for the play, an obvious pass formation. The center snapped the ball too high, but the quarterback managed to hold onto it. The pocket around him collapsed fast, though, and he had to throw early. His receiver was well-covered, and even though he ran the slant route and leapt for it, the football bounced right off his fingertips and was almost intercepted.

The crowd groaned in disappointment, but almost instantly, they were hollering and cheering again.

"You could've caught that," Sarah said confidently.

"Yeah," he agreed. He probably could have. At least if Kyle had been throwing it.

The team went no huddle and lined up in a different formation. Still another obvious pass formation, though. Michael recognized it all too well.

...

It was so fucking loud there.

"Roll, Tide, roll! Roll, Tide, roll!"

Michael stood on the sidelines, listening to the crowd in amazement. Hundreds of thousands of people, all blasting their voices out at once. He'd never seen anything like it, never been a part of anything like it. Not even last year, when he'd gone to one of Alabama's home the games. Not when he'd come to the scrimmage in the spring. Being a fan was awesome, but being a player was surreal.

"Roll, Tide, roll! Roll, Tide, roll!"

The offense was still energized on the sideline, even though it was the fourth quarter. They were dominating the depleted Michigan team, and the score was 49-3. After a kickoff return right at the very start of the game, every drive had resulted in a touchdown. It didn't get better than that.

"Yeah, let's go, D! Get that ball back!"

Kyle was playing the best game of his life, and it showed. He was so animated as he jumped up and down on the sidelines, trying to keep everyone as pumped up and motivated to score as possible. It didn't matter that they were so far ahead. He wanted to score more. He'd already run it in for two touchdowns and passed for four.

There had been some debate leading up to this game about whether Kyle should be the starting quarterback, or if one of the more experienced seniors should have been. No debate now.

"This is awesome," Kyle raved, unable to stop moving around. If he wasn't bouncing around, he was practicing his throwing motion or stretching. "I can't believe we're here."

I can't believe I'm here, Michael thought. Kyle had always been meant for this. "Did you know you already set a record?" Michael asked him. "They showed somethin' up on the screen. Most passing yards by a true freshman quarterback."

Kyle's whole face lit up. Michael had never seen him look so excited before. "Man, there's still time. I'm gonna add some more to that."

As if on cue, the defense held up and stopped the Wolverines on fourth down. Kyle quickly put his helmet back on, and he and the rest of the starters headed back out onto the field. Michael could see the offensive coordinator and quarterback coach talking, probably talking about whether or not they wanted to leave Kyle in the game at this point. There was virtually no chance of them losing that game. They could rest him and give the backups a chance to clock some playing time. They'd probably give him this one more drive, just to see if he could bring the score up over fifty, and then they'd substitute.

Before the play could start up, Michigan's coach came barreling down the opposite sideline, shouting to the ref to challenge the spot on the prior fourth down. The crowd booed. To them, the runner had obviously been short. Kyle gathered the guys into a huddle while they were waiting, talking through the next drive. He'd had a lot of authority on the play calling during the third quarter. It was clear the coaches trusted his decision-making.

"Let's switch it up!" he heard his head coach bellowing. And the next thing he knew, while the officials were reviewing the previous play, a couple offensive linemen and the team's leading receiver were breaking the huddle and coming off the field.

"Guerin," he heard Coach say. "Get out there."

What the fuck was happening? He was actually gonna get in the game? He was a freshman, a walk-on. He'd barely managed to squeak himself into that college in the first place.

He didn't question it, though. He put on his helmet and ran out there with a few of the other backups. They probably weren't expecting miracles out of them. They just wanted to give them the experience, just in case the starters got hurt and they had to fill in for them in a game down the line.

But still . . . it was awesome.

He joined the huddle as the ref was making the obvious announcement that the previous play's ruling had been confirmed. Kyle looked elated to see him checking into the game.

He was really actually out there. On that field. In that stadium. In front of all those people. Somewhere in those stands, Kyle's dad and Tess were watching. Somewhere at home, his mom and maybe even his own dad were watching. And maybe somewhere else . . .

Michael was so overwhelmed, he didn't even really hear the play call. But he didn't have to. He'd played ball with Kyle long enough to recognize that look in his eyes instantly. Pass play. He was counting on him.

They lined up in a spread offense formation, hoping to confuse their opponent's already jumbled defense, forcing them to protect the pass but also attack the run. Kyle was under center, analyzing the defensive scheme, shouting out the necessary play adjustments as the play clock ticked down.

As loud as that stadium was, it was like sound all of a sudden just faded out for Michael, and all he could hear was his own breathing, his own heart beating.

He got into his stance and looked to his left, making eye contact with his best friend, the official starting quarterback. Kyle gave him the subtlest of head nods, and Michael knew what he was supposed to do. He was supposed to run the post route, get as open as he could, go vertical and make that grab in traffic if he had to. Screw the safety or anyone else who got in his way. He had to haul it in. Maybe Kyle could set some other record if he did.

With two seconds left on the play clock, the center snapped the ball to Kyle. Michael darted down the field, relying on instinct to tell him when he'd gone about twenty yards. He cut inward at a forty-five degree angle near the fifty yard line, aligned with the goal posts, and looked back over his shoulder.

Kyle lifted his right arm into the air to pitch him the ball, but right as it was leaving his hand a defender plowed into him from the front, and another swarmed from behind, ramming his helmet into his back. The pass was wobbly in the air, but Michael leapt up for it anyway. He secured it, brought it towards his chest, and fell down with it in his possession, the safety falling right on top of him.

It wasn't pretty. First down, though.

"Woo!" he exclaimed, springing to his feet. He quickly tossed the ball back to one of the refs and looked back to Kyle so they could celebrate their first completed college pass. Everyone was celebrating. The entire Alabama sideline was about to burst.

But Kyle was down. The two defenders who had tackled him were chest-bumping and drawing flags for unsportsmanlike conduct.

"Kyle?" Something wasn't right.

Michael raced towards him. A couple of the other players were looking down at him and holding out their hands to help him up, but he didn't move.

When Michael knelt down beside him, he saw the tears of panic in his eyes.

"I can't feel my legs, man!" Kyle cried.

Michael stared at him in disbelief. "What?"

"I can't feel my legs!" Kyle strained and grimaced, like he was trying to lift his legs up, but they didn't move at all.

Oh, god.

"Help!" Michael screamed, but the medical staff and trainers were already on their way onto the field.

...

Michael watched intently as the Aggies ran another pass play, and one of their receivers ran that same post route. The quarterback protection held up, though, and it was a nice, easy pass. Good catch, clean hit by the safety to bring him down at the thirty-five yard line.

Michael breathed a small sigh of relief and clapped his hands. "Alright, let's go, Aggies!"

...

A guy from one of Michael's psychology classes threw a party at his place off campus after the game, so Michael and Sarah went. Steve went home, but Fly and Monk accompanied them, along with Monk's "girlfriend," whose name turned out to be Dashaud. He said everyone called him "Big Cedar," though.

Monk was left to deal with Big Cedar all night, who seemed very needy for attention. Fly did his usual thing, flirting with every woman in sight and drinking every ounce of alcohol he could find on the premises. Michael had a couple drinks, but he had a feeling he was going to end up having to drive Fly home, so he didn't overdo it.

Hip hop music blasted from the speakers, and Sarah danced around in front of him a lot, even if he was just standing around. She been on her high school's dance team, so she had a great sense of rhythm. Watching her dance was one of his favorite things in the world. She usually tried to persuade him to dance, too, and once in a while he did; but it was pimp style dancing, which mainly just required him to nod his head like a boss, raise his right hand in the air, and point down at her to the beat of the music.

The party was fun, at least until two way too familiar blonde girls stood up on the couch and started dancing like they were in a strip club. It wasn't unusual to see Isabel and Courtney at these parties. Isabel was a student at the university after all, and she and Courtney were joined at the hip—sometimes literally, if a strap on dick was involved. Michael usually tried to ignore them, but it was hard to when they were making such a spectacle of themselves.

"Ugh," Sarah groaned as Courtney dumped beer all over Isabel and Isabel hollered in exaltation. "I hate it when your ex-girlfriends crash the party."

Yeah, so did he. It always seemed to put a damper on things. "Courtney was never my girlfriend," he reminded her. "She was just . . . my first."

"Hmm." Sarah made a face when Courtney took off her top and started whirling it around her head like a lasso. "Something tells me you weren't hers."

She was right about that. Courtney had pretty much always been a slut, so seeing her trash it up like this wasn't a big deal. But Isabel, on the other hand . . .

It wasn't fun to watch her to watch her strip off her shorts and start circling her hips around, baring her naked ass to all the guys who had crowded around to watch the impromptu show. She bent over, grabbed on to the back of the couch, and started doing booty claps in time with the music. A few guys reached out to slap her ass and slip money into the side of her thong.

"You wanna go?" he asked Sarah, sensing this party was taking a turn for the worst. She wouldn't be here if it was starting to get sloppy.

"Yeah," she replied. "Let's get Fly and leave."

"Alright." Michael pushed through Courtney and Isabel's audience towards the front, where Fly was down on his knees, practically salivating. "Come on, man," he said, lifting him up. "I'm drivin' you home."

"Man, let's stay," Fly suggested.

"No, we're gonna go." No way could Fly get behind the wheel tonight. He helped his friend walk away, well aware that Isabel had just seen him there.

As it turned out, they didn't need the party. After dropping Fly off at his and Monk's apartment, Michael and Sarah headed home, and just as he'd hoped, she followed through with her decision to collect her winnings from the ten dollar bet they'd made. But his girl knew him well, and instead of collecting dollars, she collected something else instead.

"Mmm," she moned as he slithered up her body that night.

He licked his lips, savoring the taste of her. "Gotta say, I think our party's better than their party."

"So much better," she agreed, tousling his hair.

"What am I at now? Three? Four?" he asked.

"Three."

Seven more to go. He grinned. "Then I got some work to do."

"I think three's about all I can handle tonight," she said, rubbing his cheek.

"Tomorrow night then." He kissed her, then murmured in her ear, "And the night after that. And the night after that."

She sighed happily, turning over onto her side, and he settled in behind her, draping his arm over her stomach, ready to fall asleep with her. It definitely hadn't been a mistake to leave the party early and come home.