Home > The Legacy (Off-Campus #5)

The Legacy (Off-Campus #5)
Author: Elle Kennedy

 


Part I

 

 

The Pact

 

 

1

 

 

Logan

 

 

“She’s totally checking me out.”

“Suuuuuure, bro.”

“She keeps looking over here! She wants me.”

“There’s no way a hot young thing like her is checking out an old man like you.”

“I’m only twenty-eight!”

“Seriously? That’s even more ancient than I thought.”

I smother a laugh. I’ve been eavesdropping on this trio of stockbrokers for the past twenty minutes. Well, I don’t know if they’re actually stockbrokers, but they’re wearing tailored suits and drinking expensive liquor in the city’s financial district, so chances are they work in finance.

Me, I’m the lumbering jock in ripped jeans and an Under Armour sweater, nursing a bottle of beer at the end of the bar. I was lucky to find an empty seat; the place is packed tonight. With the holiday season in full swing, Boston bars are overflowing with patrons taking time off from work or school.

The three dudes I’m spying on barely glanced my way when I slid onto the neighboring stool, which makes it easier to listen in on their douchey conversation.

“So what’s the final score for Baker?” one of the men asks.

He and his blond friend study their dark-haired friend—the ancient one. “Eight percent,” the first guy says.

The blond is more generous. “Ten percent.”

“Let’s split the difference and give him a nine. That’s nine-to-one odds.”

Although, maybe they’re not finance guys. I’ve been trying to figure out their calculation process, but it seems completely arbitrary and not based in any real mathematics.

“Fuck you both. I’ve got a way better chance than that,” Baker protests. “Have you seen this watch?” He flicks up his left wrist to show off a shiny Rolex.

“Nine to one,” the first guy maintains. “Take it or leave it.”

Mr. Rolex grumbles in irritation as he slaps some money on the counter. The other two follow suit.

From what I’ve gleaned, their game goes something like this:

Step 1: One of them picks out a woman in the bar.

Step 2: The other two calculate (I use that word loosely) the odds of the first guy getting her number.

Step 3: They drop oodles of cash on the counter.

Step 4: The guy approaches the girl and inevitably gets rejected. He loses the money he bet, only to get it back in the next round when the next guy also gets rejected.

This entire game is both pointless and stupid.

I sip my beer, watching in amusement as Mr. Rolex saunters over to a stunning woman in a skintight designer dress.

Her nose wrinkles at his approach, which tells me that his buddies are about to win some cash. These guys might be wearing expensive suits, but they’re still nowhere close to the same league as the women in this bar. And classy women tend to have no tolerance for immature jackasses, because they know they can do better.

Mr. Rolex’s jaw is tight when he returns to the group. Empty-handed. His friends hoot and rake in their winnings.

Just as the blond guy is about to pick a new target, I set my pint glass on the sleek counter and drawl, “Can I play?”

Three heads swivel my way. Mr. Rolex takes in my casual clothes, then smirks. “Yeah, sorry, pal. You can’t afford this game.”

Rolling my eyes, I slide my wallet out of my pocket and riffle through it—giving them a clear view of all the cash inside. “Try me,” I say graciously.

“You’ve just been sitting there this whole time listening to us?” the blond one demands.

“It’s not like you were being quiet about it. And anyway, I like to gamble. Doesn’t matter what we’re gambling over—I’m there. With that said, what are my chances with…” My gaze conducts a slow sweep of the crowded room. “Her,” I finish.

Rather than follow my gaze, three sets of eyes remain glued to me.

They appraise me for several long beats, as if trying to decide if I’m fucking with them. So I hop off the stool and ease closer to the trio. “Look at her. She’s fire. Do you think a bum like me could get her number?”

Mr. Rolex is the first to relax his guard. “Her?” he says, nodding not so discreetly at the pretty girl who’s ordering a drink with the bartender. “You mean Little Miss Innocent?”

He’s not wrong. There’s definitely an air of innocence to her. A delicate profile reveals a smattering of freckles on her nose, and her light-brown hair is loose around her shoulders rather than up in a complicated style like some of the other chicks in this place. Despite her tight black sweater and short skirt, she’s more girl-next-door than sex kitten.

The dark-haired friend snorts. “Yeah, good luck with that.”

I flick up my eyebrows. “What, you think I don’t have a shot?”

“Dude, look at you. You’re, like, a jock, right?”

“Either that or he’s on ’roids,” the blond guy cracks.

“I’m an athlete,” I confirm, but I don’t offer more details. Clearly these guys aren’t rabid hockey fans, otherwise they’d recognize me as Boston’s latest rookie.

Or maybe they wouldn’t. It’s not like I’ve been seeing a crazy amount of ice time since I was called up from the farm team to the pros. I’m still trying to prove myself to my coach and teammates. Though I did get an assist last game, which was cool.

But a goal would’ve been cooler.

“Yeah, a sweet thing like that would be too intimidated,” Mr. Rolex informs me. “Odds of you getting her number are…twenty to one.”

His buddies agree. “That’s a twenty-five percent chance,” one says. Because again, their math is nonsensical.

“What if I want more than her number?” I challenge.

The blond snickers. “You want to know your odds of going home with her? A hundred to one.”

I gaze at the brunette again. She’s wearing black suede ankle boots with chunky heels, one leg crossed over the other as she daintily sips her drink. She’s cute as hell.

“Two hundred bucks says I get her to stick her tongue down my throat in less than five minutes,” I boast with an arrogant smirk.

My new friends bust out in incredulous laughter.

“Uh, sure, bro.” Mr. Rolex chuckles. “In case you haven’t noticed, the women in this joint are pure class. Not a single one would hook up with you in public.”

I’m already dropping two hundreds on the counter. “Scared of my sexual prowess, huh?” I mock.

“Ha! Fine then. I’ll bite,” the blond guy says, placing two bills on top of mine. “Go ahead and get your ass rejected, Loverboy.”

I pick up my glass and drain the rest of my beer. “Liquid courage,” I tell the trio, and Mr. Rolex rolls his eyes. “Now watch and learn.”

Winking, I amble off.

Instantly, her attention fixes on me. A hint of a smile, albeit soft with shyness, tugs at her mouth. Fuck, she’s got nice lips. Full and pink and glossy.

When our gazes lock, it’s as if everyone else in the bar disappears. Her brown eyes are pretty and expressive, and right now they’re expressing a sweet hunger that quickens my pulse. I’m trapped in her orbit, my legs speeding up of their own volition.

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