CH - 12 FITZ

Monday is the first day of the new semester and I'm up before the

birds. The sky is a navy-blue brushstroke across a black canvas. A

tiny glimmer of light begins to peek through the darkness as I stare

out the kitchen window waiting for my coffee to brew. I'm looking forward to

my classes today. I've heard nothing but phenomenal things about

Cinematography for Games, and Fundamentals of 2D Animation sounds bomb.

I'm a double major in Fine Arts and computer programming—which my old

man never fails to lecture me about. He thinks it's an unnecessary burden, that I

should focus only on the latter. "Computers are the future of art, Colin," is his

go-to argument.

He has a point; graphic design does operate mostly in a digital sphere these

days, with people drawing directly on their computers or tablets. I'm guilty of it

of myself.

But for me, there's nothing better than feeling the firm surface of a sketchpad

under my hand, hearing the scrape of a pencil or the rasp of charcoal moving

across the page. Drawing on paper and painting on canvas is so ingrained in me

that I can't imagine ever relying solely on technology.

I'm sure eventually museums will display only digital screens instead of

canvases, and maybe it makes me a dinosaur, but that notion is a real bummer to

me.

Since my first class isn't till ten, and practice isn't till eight, I have plenty of

time to monitor the beta progress of my game. I take my coffee upstairs and

settle at my desk. Or, what Hollis likes to call Space Command Central.

My gaming setup is a bit intense for a college student, complete with three

hi-def monitors, a programmable keyboard, a fully customizable gaming mouse,

and a graphics card that cost more than I'd like to admit. But frickin' worth it.

I reach for the black-and-neon-green headphones hanging off the external

speakers and slide them on. I watch a couple of streams, then check the private

message board I set up for my beta group. Access to the game was by invite

only, so the only people playing Legion 48 are the ones I chose and approved.

On the chat feed, there are a few requests for cheat codes that make me roll my

eyes. I skim those and search for usable data. The point of this version is to get

the bugs fixed so that the final product is fully functional.

Nothing jumps out at me. I sip my coffee as comments and questions pop up

on the screen, the feed scrolling itself with each new line of text. I'm not

surprised to see so many of the players online this early. Chances are, they never

even went to bed.

When I hear footsteps in the hallway, my head jerks warily toward the door.

Someone enters the hall bathroom and closes the door. A few minutes later the

shower comes on.

I wonder if it's Summer. Part of me hopes it isn't and that I'll be able to

escape the house and go to practice without seeing her at all. Every interaction

she and I shared yesterday had been beyond awkward. And don't get me started

on the night before, when I had to fireman-carry her drunk ass upstairs.

Her drunk, very fine ass. I'm talking smoke show, unbelievably firm,

mouthwateringly round, I-want-that-ass ass.

I liked you.

I've been trying not to dwell on the three words she'd hurled my way. She'd

been wasted when she said them, and I don't take much stock in alcohol-fueled

declarations.

More footsteps echo outside my door. This time I know for sure who it is—

Hollis. He's mumbling to himself about how badly he needs to piss.

I'm suddenly reminded of Brenna making that same walk down the hall.

Hollis couldn't shut up yesterday about their hookup, acting like he'd scored a

winning lottery ticket. I guess that's not far off the mark, since I'm fairly certain

this is the first time Brenna's hooked up with one of us. Normally she avoids us

like the plague, though I don't know if that's because she doesn't like hockey

players or because she's smart enough to know what Coach would do if one of

us ever touched his precious daughter.

Hollis, sadly, isn't smart. Fearless, yes. But not smart. Because if Coach ever

finds out what he did, he'll tie him up naked and spread-eagled to the net and

practice his slap shot.

"Eeeeeeeeee!"

I almost fall out of my chair as an ear-splitting scream pierces the quiet

house. My blood runs cold and I'm on my feet in a heartbeat, lunging for the

door.

My brain goes caveman on me.

Summer scream.

Summer danger.

Save Summer.

Fists up, I throw myself into the hall and then skid to a stop when the

bathroom door flies open. A boxers-clad Hollis is unceremoniously dumped at

my feet.

"No!" Summer shrieks. "You can't just come in here when I'm in the

shower! That is UNACCEPTABLE!"

Oh boy.

She stumbles out, her blonde hair soaked and dripping water all over her wet,

golden skin. Soapsuds run down her bare arms, and it's obvious she grabbed the

wrong towel because this one is too small—the top of it barely contains her

breasts and the bottom barely covers her thighs. If the white terrycloth slides one

inch in either direction, we'll all be in trouble.

My mouth goes bone dry. Her legs are impossibly long and they're so

fucking sexy I can't help picturing them wrapped around my waist.

I gulp. Hard.

Meanwhile, Hollis looks dazed. "I was just taking a leak," he protests.

"I was in the shower!" she screeches. "And I locked the door!"

"Lock's broken."

"Now you tell me that!"

He rubs his eyes. "Don't see the big deal here, babe."

"Don't call me babe."

Hunter's door swings open. "What the hell is going on?" His eyebrows shoot

up when he takes in the scene. "What did you do?" he growls at Hollis.

"I didn't do anything," Hollis grumbles.

"He walked in on me in the shower!"

"I was just pissing! It's not like I got in the shower with you."

"That's not the point!" She points at the bathroom door. "See that room? It's

a sacred room! It's a temple, Mike! It is meant for one person, and one person

alone. Like solitary confinement."

"So is it a prison or a temple?" the bonehead asks.

"Shut up," she snaps. "And listen to me, Hollis. Unlike you, I don't have a

penis."

"Well, thank God for that."

"Hollis," I warn in a low voice.

He slams his mouth shut.

"I am a woman," Summer continues. Her fingers tighten over the top of the

towel to keep it in place. "I'm a woman living with three men, and I have a right

to privacy. I have a right to take a fucking shower without you barging in and

pulling your dick out!"

"You didn't even see my dick," he argues.

"That's not the point!" She throws her arms up in frustration.

And just like that, the towel drops.

Oh sweet mother of Moses.

I catch one glimpse of full, creamy tits with pale pink nipples. One

incredible, tantalizing glimpse, before Summer slaps a hand and forearm across

her chest. She manages to catch the towel before it falls, using her other hand to

hold it over her lower body.

Hollis looks stunned.

Hunter's eyes are on fire.

Me, I'm doing everything in my power not to look at her. I focus my gaze on

a random spot above her head and speak in a surprisingly steady voice. "It won't

happen again, Summer. Right, Hollis?"

"Right," he assures her.

I nod in approval. "First thing we'll do is get the lock fixed—"

"Why are you talking to the ceiling?" she demands.

Swallowing a groan, I force myself to meet her eyes. Those big green depths

reflect nothing but unhappiness and embarrassment back at me. She might be a

drama queen, but she's right. She's living with three dudes and she deserves her

privacy.

"This is the worst bathroom ever," she moans miserably. "There's no counter

space. The lighting is so terrible I can't do my makeup. And now I can't even be

alone when I'm taking a shower?"

"Summer," I say softly. She looks like she's going to cry, so I slowly walk

toward her.

Don't touch her. Don't touch her. Don't touch her.

I touch her.

Just my fingertips on her shoulder, but the contact sends a hot shiver up my

spine. "I'll fix the lock. I promise."

Her body relaxes as she exhales. "Thank you."

She spins around and marches into the bathroom. The door slams in our

faces. A moment later, the shower comes back on.

Hunter and I exchange a quick look before turning to frown at Hollis.

"What?" he says defensively

"Dude, you have two sisters," Hunter accuses. "How do you not understand

bathroom etiquette? Me and Fitz are only children and we know goddamn

bathroom etiquette."

"My sisters and I never shared a bathroom." With an irritated huff, he stalks

toward my room.

"Where are you going?" I demand.

"To use King Colin's john." He scowls at me. "Or would you rather I piss

downstairs in the sink?"

I quickly hold my arms out in a welcoming gesture. "It's all yours, bro."

2-D ANIMATION IS AS FUN AS I EXPECTED IT TO BE. AFTERWARD, I LEAVE THE

computer lab with my two buddies, Kenji and Ray. Since they're major gamers,

they were at the top of my list for beta testers, and they can't stop talking about

Legion 48 as we head outside.

"It's brilliant, Fitz," Kenji is saying as he zips up his parka.

I pull a black wool hat over my head and shove my hands into a pair of

gloves. I feel like January is never going to end. I swear it's like the planet goes

into some fucked-up time loop every year to make January a hundred days long.

And then the loop snaps apart and the rest of the year flies by in about four

minutes.

"Brilliant," Ray echoes.

We push open the exit doors and are greeted by a gust of icy wind. Frickin'

January.

Despite the cold, I can't contain a burst of excitement. "You're really not

having any major issues so far?"

"None whatsoever."

"Come on, there's got to be something."

We descend the wide steps toward the frost-covered sidewalk. The Fine Arts

buildings are clustered together on the west side of campus, so almost all of my

studios and lecture halls are located here.

"I'm telling you, there's nothing," Ray says.

"Nada," Kenji agrees.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and frown at the words Private

Caller.

Kenji and Ray are still engaged in an animated conversation about the game,

so I signal that I'm out and they take off walking.

"Please hold for Kamal Jain," a brisk female voice snaps in my ear.

I freeze for a beat, then give a hasty laugh. "Right. Nice try—"

But she's already clicked off.

This has to be a joke. Yes, I did apply for a position at Orcus Games, the

billion-dollar game studio owned by legendary geek-god Kamal Jain. But if this

woman actually works for Orcus, I highly doubt she'd be transferring me to the

founder and president of the company. That's like Mark Zuckerberg taking

customer services calls at Facebook.

I'm half a second from hanging up when a new voice fills the line.

"Colin, hi! Kamal. So I'm sitting here looking at your résumé. Gonna be

honest with you, Colin—you were a no for me."

My pulse quickens. Either I'm hallucinating, or that's seriously Kamal Jain

on the line. I've seen hundreds of interviews with the guy, and I'd recognize his

fast-paced, nasally voice anywhere.

"NCAA hockey? I won't lie, brother. It was an easy pass, on account of the

jock thing. I mean, most jocks I've met don't even know the difference between

Java and C-Sharp."

I'm glad he's not in front of me so he can't see the frown that creases my

lips. I'm sick to death of the dumb jock stereotype. It's so archaic, not to

mention completely false. Some of the most intelligent people I know happen to

be athletes.

I keep my mouth shut, though. This is Kamal Jain, for chrissake. He

designed his first multiplayer RPG at the age of fifteen, self-published it, and

then saw it take off to rocket levels of popularity. He sold the game for five

hundred million dollars, used the money to start his own company, and has been

raking in the cash since then. This kind of trajectory in the gaming industry is

virtually unheard of. The creator of Minecraft has nothing on this guy.

"But one of my interns came to me this morning, told me I needed to play

this game of yours. Got to tell you, Colin, as far as code goes, it's more

simplistic than I'd like—though let's get real, to me anything is simplistic if I

haven't coded it myself. What got me? The assets. Oh lordy lordy, the graphics!

All you?"

It's hard to keep up with Jain's rambling, but somehow I manage to answer,

"Yes. All me."

"Visual Arts major at Briar."

"Double major," I correct. "Computer programming as well."

"Ambitious. I like it. Don't like the hockey background much, but I assume

you're done with that, seeing as how you're applying to work for my studio. No

plans to go pro after graduation?"

"No, sir."

A high-pitched laugh pierces my ear. "Sir? Give up that habit right now,

Colin. Call me Kamal, or KJ. I prefer KJ, but whatever makes you more

comfortable. All right. Let me look at my calendar." Papers rustle over the line.

"I'm in Manhattan next Friday. I'll tell the pilot to make a stop in Boston first.

We'll meet at the Ritz."

"Meet?" I echo in confusion.

"I personally interview every potential designer, and I do it face-to-face.

You're on a shortlist with six other candidates. This will be competitive," he

warns, but there's a note of glee in his voice. I get the feeling he might enjoy

pitting candidates against each other. "So, two weeks from now. Friday. Yes?"

"Yes," I say immediately. Working for Orcus Games would be a goddamn

dream. It was my top choice, and I honestly didn't expect an interview. Like he

said, it's competitive. Everyone wants to work for Kamal Jain, self-made

billionaire.

"Good. I'll have my assistant email you the details. Looking forward to

meeting you, brother."

"Looking forward to it too."

I'm shaking my head in amazement as I hang up. Did that really just happen?

I have a job interview with Kamal Jain?

Holy shit.

I open my text window to send a message to Morris, but before I can start

typing, my phone rings again. Not a private caller this time, but my father.

As always, uneasiness starts circling my gut. You never know what you're

gonna get with my folks.

"Colin," he barks when I pick up. Dad has this brusque, no-nonsense way of

speaking that comes off as rude if you don't know him, and grating if you do.

"Hey, what's up? I only have a sec before my next class," I lie.

"I won't take up much of your time. Just wanted to tell you that I'm bringing

Lucille to your home game this weekend. She's been dying to see you play."

Lucille is my dad's new girlfriend, though I don't imagine they'll date for

more than a few months. The old man goes through women with a speed that is

both impressive and disgusting.

On the flip side of that, Mom claims to have not dated anyone since the

divorce, and that was twelve years ago. And while Dad has no qualms bragging

about his conquests to me, Mom equally has no issue bemoaning her life of

celibacy. It's Dad's fault, of course. He shattered her trust in all of mankind,

emphasis on the man. And according to him, Mom is to blame for his revolving

door of girlfriends, because he too can never trust again.

My folks are exhausting.

"Nice. Looking forward to seeing her." Still lying.

For a moment, I consider telling him about my interview with Kamal Jain,

but I swiftly decide that needs to be done in a joint email to both my parents. If I

tell one before the other, the world will end.

"Will your mother be at the game?" He says the word mother as if it's

poisonous. "If so, you should warn her that I'm bringing Lucille."

Translation: you should make a point of telling her so I can rub it in her face

that I'm seeing someone.

"She's not coming," I answer, happy to defuse that bomb.

"I see. You must be very disappointed."

Translation: she doesn't even care enough to watch your games, Colin. I love

you more!

I suppress an annoyed sigh. "It's fine. Neither of you need to come to my

games. Anyway, I have to go. I'll see you this weekend."

The moment we hang up, the pressure weighing on my chest eases slightly.

Dealing with the folks takes an actual physical toll.

"Colin, hey!"

I turn to find Nora Ridgeway approaching. Nora was in two of my art classes

last year, and this semester we have Advanced Figure Drawing together. She's a

cool chick. Double major like me, in Visual Arts and Fashion Design.

"Hey," I greet her, eager for the distraction. It always takes a few minutes for

the tension to completely drain from my body after a parental encounter. "Class

isn't until two. You know that, right?"

She smiles. "Don't worry, I'm aware." She nods toward the building across

the lane. "I've got History of Fashion in ten minutes. I saw you over here and

just wanted to come and say hi." As she talks, her breath comes out in a visible

white cloud.

"You need a hat," I tell her, noting that the tips of her ears are red.

"Eh, I'll live."

I can see why she doesn't want to cover her hair. Cut in a pixie cut, it's jet

black except for the ends, which are bright pink. She's got a cool indie vibe to

her that I've always appreciated. Plus, she has tats, a definite checkmark in the

pros column for me.

"How was animation?" she asks. "My friend Lara is taking that course, and

she was so pumped about it."

"It was awesome." I grin at her. "I guarantee it's more fun than History of

Fashion."

Nora lightly punches my arm. "No way. Clothes are way more interesting

than computers."

"Agree to disagree."

"And this course is taught by a legend." Her light gray eyes sparkle in the

winter sun as they fill with excitement. "Erik Laurie."

My blank look makes her laugh.

"Former fashion editor for Vogue, GQ, Harper's. And he's the co-founder

and former editor-in-chief of Italia, probably the most innovative fashion

magazine for men. He's like the male version of Anna Wintour."

I draw another blank.

"Editor-in-chief of Vogue, and total goddess. She's my idol. And so is Erik

Laurie. He's teaching two classes at Briar this year, and he's the director of the

year-end fashion show. I'm beyond excited. We're going to learn so much from

him."

I wonder if Summer is in Laurie's class today. I can't remember if she's

majoring in Fashion Design or Merchandising. I suppose History of Fashion

lends itself to either one, though.

And speak of the devil.

Summer appears on the cobblestone path, bundled up in a knee-length coat

and a thick red scarf looped around her neck and hair. Her easy gait stutters for a

step when she notices me. The moment our eyes lock, I remember her tiny towel

sliding off her delectable body. That split-second glimpse of her wet, naked tits.

A fleeting, dick-hardening tease.

I don't call out a hello or raise my hand in a wave. I'm waiting for her to

initiate the greeting. Only, she doesn't. A few seconds tick by. Then she frowns

at me and keeps walking. I don't know if I feel offended or ashamed. Maybe I

should've greeted her first.

"Do you know her?" Nora has realized my attention's been diverted. Her

suspicious gaze rests on Summer as she awaits my response.

"Yeah. She's a friend's sister," I say vaguely, deciding not to mention that

we're roommates. I feel like that'll just open a conversation I'm not in the mood

to have.

Nora relaxes. "Oh, cool. Anyway, I have to run, but I'm thinking maybe it's

time we grab that elusive drink we've been talking about for a year?"

I laugh. "Maybe we should." We'd talked about it last year in Color Theory,

but my schedule makes it hard for me to date. We played phone tag for a while,

and by the time I finally had a free evening, Nora was dating someone else.

Clearly she's single again. "Do you still have my number?" she asks.

"Still got it."

She looks pleased by that. "How about tomorrow night at Malone's? Text

me during the day to confirm?"

"Sounds great."

"Perfect. See you then." She squeezes my arm briefly, then hurries toward

the same building Summer just disappeared into.

I guess I have a date tomorrow night.