Free James Games by L.A Rose

shut, nearly taking off my hand, and puts her hands on my shoulders. She’s genuinely concerned about me. It’s kind of cute. “How much do you trust this guy not to make it obvious that you two have slept together?”
    I remember the fire alarm. James saw what he wanted, and he took it. And there’s no way he wouldn’t want me tonight. “Not very.”
    “Then you have to hide.” She pushes me toward the staircase. “Upstairs. Now. You’d be better jumping out the window than Sigrid seeing James hit on you. I’ll text you updates for what’s going on downstairs.”
    For once in my life, I have to admit that she’s right. I head up the stairs as sneakily as I can and dart into the nearest bedroom, shutting the door behind me. The smell hits me in a wave of gross old socks and Axe. I choke, kick a pile of dirty laundry into the closet, and shut the door. The owner of this bedroom will thank me later.
    I’m a little drunker than I thought. I weave toward the open window and look down. The drop wouldn’t kill me. Probably. There’s a lovely bush I could land in.
    Text from Iris: Okay, Sigrid is demanding all the girls assemble downstairs so she can keep an eye on them when James gets here. She’s asking where you are.
    There’s no way I can hide in the closet. I just kicked a pile of dirty laundry in there. If anyone comes looking for me, I won’t have anywhere to run.
     
    ~8~
     
    Life is all about making choices.
    At this particular moment, my choice is between A: jumping naked into a bush from a second-story window and B: getting torn to shreds by a gorgeous girl in Prada.
    The devil really does wear it.
    Text from Iris: Amber says that if you’re not downstairs in 3.5333 seconds she’s coming to get you.
    It’s funny how jumping out of a window suddenly becomes a good idea when you’re drunk. I run one finger under the sill. Mildew. That’s the problem with frat houses. No upkeep. Dust and mold and debauchery piling up everywhere.
    Text from Iris: Don’t jump out the window yet.
    Even the music pulsing from the living room has dimmed. The mockingbird in the tree across the yard has shut up. Anticipation is as thick in the air as pot smoke. He’s coming. He’s selected this particular house party on this particular night to attend, and we’re all more important because of it.
    Text from Iris: Okay, no, she’s leaving to find you. Window is best option. Tuck and roll .
    I squint at the bush. Maybe it’s the darkness and the drunkenness, but it doesn’t look too uncomfortable. I bet California hobos sleep there all the time. With any luck, not right now. 
    I close my eyes and count to twenty.
    On twenty-one, someone pounds on the bedroom door.
    “Uh, we’re having hot drunk sex in here,” I grunt in my best impression of a wasted frat boy.
    “Fiona, I know that’s you. Open the door or I’m breaking it down. This is not behavior worthy of our sisterhood.”
    Neither is breaking down doors, but that’s not going to stop her. Keeping my eyes shut, I imagine the bush as a large, comfortable creature, somewhere between the Cookie Monster and the Pillsbury Doughboy, waiting to catch me with open arms. No Prada in sight. I swing my other bare leg over the sill and jump the only way I know how—all at once.
    I’m falling and pinwheeling and realizing at the worst possible moment that I forgot to take off my stripper heels, and then the bush catches me. Except it’s less Pillsbury Doughboy and more Hardbury Muscleman. And it’s less of a catch and more of a smashing both of us into the ground.
    “Fuck,” someone groans beneath me. It’s not a bush, it’s a man, and to my endless regret, it’s not the first time I’ve straddled him naked.
    James Reid.
    Even with my life in dire peril, the sensation of his body beneath me turns my thighs to jelly. His dark blonde hair is swept off his forehead, his eyes a reminder of what a stormy sky looks like when it’s noon in Colorado. My hands are on