Top Secret Read online

  Top Secret

  Sarina Bowen

  Elle Kennedy

  Tuxbury Publishing LLC

  Contents

  1. A Stranger for the Win

  2. Not Statistically Unlikely

  3. Oiled Up Co-workers

  4. My Own Mental Syria

  5. Your Manly Lobster Trunks

  6. The Cops Will Love That

  7. Sea Slug Sex

  8. It Gets Messy

  9. Really, Lobsterman?

  10. A Success by Any Measure

  11. Et tu, Judd?

  12. Too Bad I Hate Sharing

  13. So Generous

  14. Unfuckingbelievable

  15. Make a Wish, Honey

  16. So Many Uglies

  17. One More Thing

  18. Mr. President

  19. Gold

  20. The Universe Decided

  21. Punctuation Saves Lives

  22. Music. Loud Music.

  23. Not Sure of the Etiquette

  24. Embarrassed, I Guess

  25. Presentable

  26. It’s Always My Treat

  27. Turkey Sandwich Days

  28. A Brother Named Joe

  29. Carried Away

  30. My Best Idea Ever

  31. I Can’t Breathe

  32. My Brain is Full of Static

  33. Open to a Plea Deal

  34. Ebola

  35. As Thick as Your Hand

  36. Who Am I Kidding?

  37. Beef Jerky

  38. Our Superpower

  39. It’s a Sun Shelf

  Also by Sarina Bowen & Elle Kennedy

  Hi reader! Thanks for reading Top Secret!

  When you’re finished, don’t miss the bonus epilogue! You can get your copy right here.

  A Stranger for the Win

  Keaton

  “Look,” Annika whispers in my ear. Under the table, her small hand squeezes my thigh, while her cheek gently nudges my chin toward the doorway. “He’s cute.”

  “Subtle,” I tease before giving the object of her attention a cursory glance. He’s just a tall guy with brown hair, nothing special as far as I can tell. “How about we save this conversation for later?”

  She rolls her eyes. “We both know there won’t be a conversation, Keaton. You like playing along, but you won’t actually go through with it.” This time she forgets to lower her voice.

  “Go through with what?” one of my frat brothers asks from across the table. Tanner, Judd, and I had popped into the campus Starbucks for a caffeine fix after practice. Annika’s next class is directly across the street, so she’d come to say hi before class.

  “Nothing,” I tell Tanner.

  If you can call your girlfriend wanting a threesome with another dude “nothing.”

  Yup, my girlfriend wants a threesome. And here I’d thought that, after six years together, Annika couldn’t surprise me anymore.

  She and I have been inseparable since junior year of high school. I know every last detail about her, from her food preferences to her pet peeves. I know she gets anxiety in long lines, that she sneezes any time she gets a whiff of cinnamon, that she loves the beach but hates skiing.

  What I didn’t know was that my girlfriend fantasizes about threesomes. The first time she brought it up, I thought she was kidding around. Annika Schiffer, heiress to a home-furnishings fortune, wants to bang two guys at the same time? Yeah right.

  My girl is the president of her sorority, wears a pearl necklace (and not the fun kind) on a daily basis, and made me wait until we were eighteen to lose our virginities to each other. Don’t get me wrong—she’s not some uptight rich bitch with a stick up her butt. She’s fun and warm and fierce when someone tries to mess with her or her loved ones.

  But she’s also… I’ll just say it: vanilla.

  I didn’t think she was serious about the threesome thing until last week, when I’d asked her what she wanted for her birthday and she brought up the idea again.

  I move my lips to her ear so Tanner and Judd can’t overhear. “Don’t you worry, babe, there’ll be more than just a conversation,” I rasp.

  She shivers, and then flashes me a dazzling smile. Her face is flawless. Classic features, pouty lips, and smooth skin that’s just the right amount of dewy. She works hard and spends a lot of money for that skin. I’ve been in her bathroom at the sorority house, so I’ve seen all the products she puts on her face to keep it looking so perfect. Not to mention the monthly facials, which require her to fly to New York every month because this little college town we live in doesn’t have a “competent aesthetician”—her words, not mine.

  It helps that her father owns a helicopter that can accommodate her monthly treks. I’m not one to judge, though. My dad has his own jet.

  “I can’t wait,” she says before hopping off my lap. “Come over tonight after practice, okay, baby? I have to go to class now.”

  “I’ll see you later.”

  “Bye, boys.” Annika’s hand flutters in a wave on her way to the door.

  “Later!” Tanner calls after her. And if I’m not mistaken, he takes a longing look at her ass.

  “Dude,” I say. “If you’re going to eye-fuck my girlfriend, you could at least be subtle about it.”

  “Why?” Tanner argues. “She’d be flattered. And you should know how good you’ve got it. Besides, I’m harmless.” He flashes me a big smile. “What are we doing this weekend, anyway?” Tanner asks. “The Presidential Dance-off, right?”

  I shake my head. “That’s, like, in two weeks, man.”

  “Really? Why did I think it was sooner?”

  “Because you’re stupid,” Judd offers helpfully.

  Tanner gives him the finger, before turning back to me. “Do you know what you’re doing for yours yet?”

  I have no clue. And no, dancing isn’t an actual requirement for our fraternity’s presidential race. But it used to be. A few decades ago, the candidates running for frat president decided a dance-off was the only way to decide who was more fit to lead. Hence, the Presidential Dance-off was born. On our living room walls, there are old photos of well-dressed men with slicked-back hair and girls in poodle skirts on their arms.

  My fraternity has long-held traditions that began well before the invention of the red Solo cup. But these days, Alpha Delta has evolved. Or devolved, depending who you ask. Instead of perfecting his twist and his mashed potato, the presidential candidate is expected to dazzle the other members by planning a kickass event. I’m talking epic. Monumental. The kind of party that will be remembered for years to come.

  Although, like dance moves, I’m not entirely sure that party planning is a solid indicator of what makes a good president. Sure, frats throw a lot of parties, but there’s a social committee for that.

  The role of president is actually pretty lame, according to Reedsy, our current prez. He pulled me aside after I threw my name in the race and admitted that it’s a boring gig and that I should reconsider. “So much fucking responsibility on your shoulders, dude,” he’d bemoaned.

  For a moment, I’d almost bailed. To be honest, I’m only running because my dad was president of Alpha Delt in his heyday, and my granddad before him. But that’s also the reason I couldn’t bail. My father would lose his shit if the Hayworth legacy ended with me.

  So I have ten days to plan a legendary party.

  “Maybe I can just hire an event planner?” I suggest.

  “No way.” Judd’s response is immediate. “If that fuckhead Bailey finds out, he’ll have you impeached.”

  “You can’t impeach someone until he’s elected,” Tanner points out.

  Still, I don’t want to be accused of cheating. What a pain in the ass this whole thing is. �
�We can brainstorm about this on Sunday night. We have a game to win on Saturday.”

  “Oh, we’re going to win,” Tanner promises.

  But I’m not so sure. Not only am I worried about the Northern Mass offense, I think my father is driving up for the game. So winning isn’t even enough. If the Northern Mass players aren’t crying into their helmets after the fourth quarter, my father will still give me hell at brunch the next day.

  And here I thought weekends were meant to be relaxing.

  “Fine,” Judd says. “We’ll talk about your campaign after the other meeting on Sunday night.”

  “What other meeting?” I search my brain and come up empty.

  “Pledge Committee,” he says, gulping the last of his coffee.

  Oh, phew. “I don’t have to go to that one. I’m not on PC this year.”

  “But I sent you that email?” Judd whines. “I told you I need you there. Initiation night is coming up and my committee is lame.”

  “Who’s on it, anyway? What do you have planned?” Note to self: be conveniently unavailable on Sunday night. There is no way I’m sitting on the Pledge Committee again. Dealing with last year’s pledge class was a total pain in the ass.

  “There’s Ahmad, who’s smart but boring. Paul, who’s just boring. Owen, who’s fun but not exactly creative. And Paxton, who’s just a tool.” He sighs. “Whatever. At least Bailey isn’t on it this time. Remember what a buzz kill he was last year? I fucking hate that guy.”

  No big secret there. Judd’s had it in for Luke Bailey ever since the guy rushed Alpha Delt sophomore year. And say what you will about Judd, but he’s not an asshole unless he feels you’ve given him a reason. He’s a bro to the core—he believes in male bonding, high fives, and, in his mind, a friendship isn’t official unless you’ve bled together, partied together, and nursed your twin hangovers the morning after.

  Luke Bailey doesn’t subscribe to this philosophy. The moment he scoffed at Judd’s attempt at a fist bump, he earned himself an enemy in Judd Keller.

  Since then, their tumultuous acquaintanceship has only gotten worse. Luke is a cocky ass when he wants to be, and Judd hates feeling like he’s being mocked or judged.

  Oh, and then Bailey banged Judd’s ex. So there’s that.

  “You exert too much mental energy on that guy,” Tanner informs Judd. Tanner’s a psych major, so he’s constantly dishing out (pretty good) advice that everyone mostly ignores. “Holding onto anger isn’t conducive to robust mental health.”

  “First of all, say the word robust one more time and I’ll clock you. You know how I feel about that, bro.” Indignation flashes in Judd eyes. “And second of all, Luke Bailey screwed my girlfriend! I’m never not gonna be angry at that prick.”

  “Ex-girlfriend,” I hedge, but it earns me a deep scowl from Judd. The two of us are teammates, and I do feel loyalty to him, but I’m also not afraid to call it like it is. “You and Therese were broken up for months.”

  “Me and Therese are never broken up. Sure, we take short breaks, a hiatus or two. But she’s my girl,” Judd says tightly. “Everybody knows that.”

  “Bailey says he didn’t,” Tanner says.

  “That’s bullshit. He’s a liar. And now he’s trying to screw K over!” Judd growls. “He joined the presidential race to get back at me. I just know it.”

  “You think?” Tanner looks skeptical. “Because that would be sociopathic lengths to go to just to spite you.”

  “Yeah,” I agree with a chuckle. “Bailey’s a prick, but I can’t see him taking on the huge responsibility of running a fraternity just to flip you the metaphorical bird.” Although if I’m being honest, I don’t know why Luke Bailey is running for prez. The guy hasn’t shown much interest in frat activities since he joined us.

  “He totally would,” Judd argues.

  “Hey, we got class now,” Tanner reminds our sulking buddy. “We should book it over there.”

  “Fine.” Judd scrapes his chair back and gets to his feet. His cloudy gaze meets mine again. “I’m serious, man. Bailey is bad news, and we need to kick his ass in this campaign. There’s no way I’m letting him be our president.”

  “Don’t worry. He won’t be.”

  Once my friends are gone, I let out a tired sigh. I don’t particularly care about Judd’s beef with Bailey at the moment. I have a football game to win, a campaign to plan, and a father to impress.

  And a girlfriend to please.

  I go up to the counter to get a refill, then settle in my cozy corner of the coffeehouse and open the app I downloaded last night. I hadn’t lied to Annika earlier—her birthday request is in the forefront of my mind. I just need to do some investigating first.

  Welcome to Kink!

  Add a profile pic.

  Add bio.

  I’d wanted to fill all this out last night, but my frat brothers suckered me into an epic session of Red Dead Redemption that lasted till three a.m. Now I quickly scroll through the camera roll on my phone until I find a suitable one. It’s of Annika and me, taken in Easthampton last summer. She looks smokin’ hot in a teeny string bikini, and my abs are looking tight, if I do say so myself. I crop out our faces and load the photo.

  I skip the bio for now, because I’m feeling impatient. I want to see what this app has to offer more than I want to break my brain thinking of one hundred and forty-five characters to describe how my girlfriend wants to bang two men at the same time.

  Actually, that’s pretty much the gist of it.

  Still, I’m curious to check out the goods. Kink is more hookup app than dating app, and I’m pleased to discover it lets you search for users who’ve expressed interest in certain arrangements.

  I click on the threesome box in the search section. There are an eye-opening number of options, combinations that hadn’t even occurred to me. Annika wants another guy, though, so I ponder the easiest combos.

  m/f/m

  m/m/f

  My finger hovers over the m/f/m button. The other option means the men are allowed to touch, I think. It’s the moment of truth. Some guys would hate this idea. I don’t, though. I’m a scientist. Experimenting is what I do.

  I even dreamt about sex with men once. Or twice. I never mentioned that to Annika. But why would I? I’ve also dreamt of meeting a dragon who smoked clove cigarettes. The things my brain invents while I’m sleeping aren’t newsworthy.

  But I’d be lying if I said that Annika’s shocking birthday request turns me off. I’ll try anything once. And the app lets you click as many boxes as you want. So after looking over my shoulder once more just to make sure nobody I know is watching, I tap both options and usher in the possibility of taking a walk on the wild side.

  The threesome has to be with a stranger, though. I’m certain that any one of my frat brothers would be down to help me give my girl a night to remember. Well, except Dan, who’s only down for dudes. And, well, Bailey, who thinks I’m an ass. I think he’s an ass, too, so I guess we’re even.

  But I can’t do this with someone I know. What if the whole night is awkward as fuck? If it’s a brother, I’ll still have to live with him. If it’s a teammate, I’ll still have to see him in the locker room.

  And then there’s the opposite scenario. What if it’s not awkward as fuck? What if I like it a whole lot?

  Yeah, I don’t want my buddies judging me. A stranger for the win, then.

  I lean back in my chair and start swiping.

  Not Statistically Unlikely

  Luke

  I’m questioning all my life choices tonight. And all because of a vending machine.

  Here I stand, starving in the student center at eight o’clock on a Thursday. I don’t work another shift at the club until tomorrow night, so cash is tight. So I put my last two singles in the snack machine and punch the button for the peanut butter pretzels. The metal coil turns, and the bag begins to move.

  My stomach gurgles in anticipation. Skipping dinner to geek out in the statistics lab wasn’
t my smartest move, I suppose. But I’m trying to save both money and time—two things in short supply in my life.

  I’m not a lucky guy, though. So before my meager dinner has a chance to fall into my hands, the coil stops turning. And my pretzels are caught there, drooping from the rack, hanging by a corner of the plastic bag. Stuck.

  “Shit,” I mumble. I give the vending machine one swift thunk with my fist. And nothing happens. Figures. “Fucking shitty luck!”

  “It is unlucky…” a faint voice agrees with me. “…but not statistically unlikely.”

  I turn around to see a skinny girl in giant glasses waiting for her turn with the goddamn machine. “Any chance you were going to buy peanut butter pretzels, too?”

  She shakes her head. “Peanuts put me into anaphylactic shock.”

  “Bummer. That’s also bad luck, but not statistically unlikely.”

  She grins. “Want to borrow a couple dollars?“

  “No thanks,” I say quickly. I make it a point to never borrow anything from the rich kids I go to school with. That way, when I graduate summa cum laude and then snag the best possible job, nobody will be able to say that I won it because of their help.

  I wish her luck and leave the library. My only choice is to go home to Alpha Delt and make myself yet another cheese sandwich. So I hike my backpack strap a little higher on my shoulder and head for the door.

  Crossing the leafy campus always makes me feel like a guy on a movie set. The red bricks. The vintage gas lamps casting yellow circles of light on the pathways. The young Rockefellers and Carnegies, and whoever-the-fuck-else-is-worth-a-mint, crossing past me in their preppy dock shoes.