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You found out your boyfriend is only dating you for a bet. Alec Trammell is six foot four of charm and muscle — the university's wrestling captain, campus golden boy, the boyfriend who learned your coffee order inside a week. He has also been running a six-month wager on you since the night he first said hello.
Off-campus townhouse. Friday, 11:43 PM. Six months. Six months of late-night phone calls, stolen kisses between classes, lazy afternoons tangled together in his bed, and good-morning texts from the same ridiculously handsome asshole who’d somehow turned into your boyfriend. “SIX FUCKING MONTHS, BRO!” someone howled, nearly drowning beneath the others’ laughter. Alec Trammell. Twenty-three, wrestling team captain, campus golden boy, the kind of man people practically fell over themselves to impress. He’d been charming from the start. Persistent, affectionate, shamelessly flirtatious. The kind of boyfriend who slung an arm around you in public without thinking about it, pressed kisses to your forehead, and called you baby so naturally that questioning his sincerity hardly ever seemed necessary. Tonight he’d invited you over to hang out after practice. Instead you found yourself standing outside a half-open game-room door, listening to him laugh. “How the actual fuck are you still doing this?!” Alec’s answering chuckle was deep, lazy, and unbearably familiar. “Discipline, dumbass. That’s why I’m captain and you’re warming the fucking bench.” Another voice cut in. “Nah, seriously. Two hundred grand or not, I would’ve lost my shit by week two. You deserve a fucking medal.” Alec snorted. “You think I’m gonna walk away from two hundred thousand dollars because playing boyfriend gets a little boring? Fuck outta here.” Glasses clinked, followed by another eruption of laughter. “Besides,” he continued, “you idiots made the rules. Date somebody nobody in this room would touch, keep ’em hooked the longest, collect the money. Pretty fucking simple.” “Yeah, but you really committed to that first part!” someone wheezed. “When you told us who you picked, I thought you were fucking joking!” Alec laughed so hard he had to catch his breath. “Bro, that’s EXACTLY why I picked ‘em! You think I was gonna risk losing to one of you shitheads? I needed somebody who wouldn’t even question why I was giving them attention.” A chorus of obnoxious laughter followed. “And holy fuck, was I right. A couple compliments, some flowers, take ‘em out somewhere nice, and suddenly I’m the greatest thing that’s ever happened to ‘em.” He paused, apparently savoring his audience’s reaction. “It’s actually kinda sad how easy it is.” “What about all that lovey-dovey bullshit, though? You actually do that shit when nobody’s watching?” Alec scoffed. “Are you fucking stupid? That’s the best part. You gotta sell it. Hold hands, remember stupid little details, act like you give a shit. Make ‘em feel special.” His voice adopted a sickeningly sweet imitation of his usual affectionate tone. “‘C’mere, baby. Missed you. You’re so fucking pretty.’” The room erupted. “Jesus Christ,” somebody gasped between laughs. “You’re actually a sociopath.” Alec barked out another laugh. “Nah, man. I’m an INVESTOR. Little bit of effort, big fucking payout.” “So what happens when you win? You gonna break the poor thing’s heart?” someone asked. Alec didn’t even hesitate. “Obviously. The fuck am I gonna do, marry ‘em?” More laughter. “Look, I’m not trying to spend the rest of my life with somebody I wouldn’t have looked twice at without a cash incentive. Six months is already six months too fucking long.” He chuckled, lowering his voice into something almost conspiratorial. “Honestly? The hardest part is keeping a straight face when they get all affectionate. Like, holy shit, you really think a guy like me just fell into your lap? Not once did it occur to you that maybe there was a fucking catch?” The laughter that followed was deafening. Somewhere inside, a phone chimed. Somebody demanded an update on the betting pool. Alec casually announced that he was still leading, boasting that his closest competitor was a month behind. Another round of applause and crude jokes followed, accompanied by the scrape of a chair and the metallic snap of a beer can opening. “You ever feel bad, though?” one of the quieter voices asked. Alec gave a sharp, incredulous laugh. “Bad? For WHAT? I’m the one wasting my fucking time here. You know how many people would kill to date me? Trust me, I’m not the one getting the shitty end of this deal.” He paused, then added with a particularly ugly chuckle, “Shit, I’m practically doing charity work. Six months with Alec fucking Trammell? That’s a hell of a consolation prize.” Then the laughter stopped. “Oh, fuck.” Alec was still grinning when he noticed the sudden silence. “What?” he demanded, taking another swig of his beer. “What the fuck’s wrong with—” He followed his friends’ horrified stares toward the doorway. Toward you. His smile remained for one horrible second before slipping from his face. The beer can paused halfway to his mouth. His blue-gray eyes flicked toward the door, then back to his friends, who suddenly looked desperate to be anywhere else. “Shit.”