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  Nerdy Little Secret

  Carrie Aarons

  Copyright © 2020 by Carrie Aarons

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Editing done by Proofing Style.

  Cover designed by Okay Creations.

  I wrote this in the time of quarantine, six months pregnant, while watching my two-year-old.

  This is for all the mothers.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Epilogue

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  Also by Carrie Aarons

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Mick

  “You have to keep it down,” I whisper in her ear, stopping the pump of my hips.

  “Well, if someone would stop doing that swirl thing with his finger, maybe I could.”

  Jolie chuckles, but it’s half-hearted and more a breathy moan than anything. Insider her, my cock pulses, impatient as a petulant child and wanting me to move again.

  “I can’t help it when you make that noise.” I bury my nose in her mocha waves and inhale the scent of sunscreen and citrus vanilla body wash. “But if you don’t stop, we’re going to wake up every cabin in the vicinity. And then we’ll really be in trouble.”

  Miranda, one of the head counselors at the summer camp we’ve both worked at for the last three months, has already caught us making out in the barn. Twice. I was so embarrassed; I was beside myself. Of course, Jolie just shrugged it off and said we could ask her to join next time. My jaw almost unhinged when she’d said that.

  Never in a million years would I have believed you if you told me this is how I’d end the summer going into my junior year of college. I mean, I’d believe the part about working at a summer camp, because Camp Woodwin is one of the best-paying jobs a college kid could ask for. Sure, it’s demanding work with twenty kids rotating through your cabin each week, and dealing with their fights, homesickness and so on, but it’s not all bad. There are the endless hamburgers and hot dogs, which for me is great, the fun games and relays we run during the day. There’s also a lake and an Olympic-size lap pool, so I get to not only swim myself but teach swim lessons. Plus, as I mentioned, I’m walking away from this summer with over two thousand bucks in my pocket. That’s going to make a hell of a difference during the semester and allow me to not have to look for a part-time job and focus on my studies.

  But the part about hooking up with the hottest girl I’ve ever encountered in my life? I’d have laughed in your face and asked which fan-fiction you’d been reading recently.

  See, I’m a nerd. No, it’s not a stereotype, I really am. In high school, I took every honors course available. I played the tuba in the marching band. My friends and I had weekly get-togethers to watch The Big Bang Theory, and we played Pokémon long after it was deemed not cool anymore. Medical textbooks and YouTube videos of surgical procedures interested me more than porn, and I wore a tie with the periodic table on it to my prom.

  The only saving grace I have in terms of coolness factors is that I can swim and am damn good at it. I’ve won multiple regional competitions and hold the one-hundred-meter butterfly record at my high school. It’s why I have some muscle tone to me, and the tan I’ve unconsciously worked on throughout the summer helps, I guess. Otherwise, I’ve still got the black-rimmed glasses and Star Wars T-shirts.

  I have no problem with how I am, or where that puts me in terms of lunch tables or friend groups. I never have. I honestly really like myself and my life.

  But this is all to say that a girl like Jolie Kenner would never go for me. Not in a million years. Not unless the stars aligned, we were stranded on an island together, or by some miraculous chance of fate, she decided she had nothing better to do.

  Thankfully, for me, it was the third option.

  We both started at Camp Woodwin the first week it opened in June, as one half of a pair of boy counselors and girl counselors in our respective cabins. The camp was co-ed, had twenty cabins in all, and housed a whopping forty-five camp counselors to watch after the rascals that were shipped in each week.

  I met Jolie the third day in on the archery course since our cabins had recreation time together that day. My God, was she the most gorgeous creature I’d ever seen. Waves of chocolate hair down to the middle of her back, eyes to match that glowed like dark diamonds in the moonlight. On the day we met, she was wearing the tiniest jean shorts I’d ever seen, and her long, slim legs led up to an ass so perky, I had to keep sending my eyes skyward to avoid looking at it. Same with her chest, which looked far better than anyone else who was wearing the standard issue forest-green Camp Woodwin T-shirt that day. But it was more than just her looks; Jolie Kenner is the type of girl who effuses personality, sexiness, and something indescribable. She is the girl in every high school rom-com movie that walks down the halls and turns heads. You can’t not look at her, and there is no way you can stop yourself from going up and talking to her.

  Something I said that first day must have caught her attention, because from that point on we developed this flirty sort of banter that I ruminated on whenever I laid my head on my pillow. She’d tease me about my big brain, and I’d pretend to get her name wrong, calling her Julia. We sat at the same table for dinner each night, overlooking our campers but also having a fun battle of words ourselves.

  And then, one night when we were loading the dock equipment and kayaks into the shed down by the lake, she kissed me. Backed me right up against a wall and kissed me.

  Before Jolie, I’d only ever had sex with one other girl. Brenda McClure took my virginity our senior year of high school in a basement closet at a friend’s house. She had braces and the frizziest hair that kept getting in my mouth, and I’m pretty sure it took me fifteen minutes just to put a condom on.

  That demonstrates just how finessed and experienced I am when it comes to members of the opposite sex. Sheesh, I had to write a snail mail letter to one of my buddies to make him send me a package of condoms since I couldn’t leave the camp. I never even kept a stash in my wallet, that’s how much I wasn’t anticipating getting laid as a twenty-something male.

  From that first kiss, things only escalated. For the last two months, we’ve been s
neaking out at night, rendezvousing during our breaks, and hooking up any time we can be semi-alone. We’re like addicts, two of those lovebug flies that attach together and can’t seem to separate. I’ve taken more risks trying to have sex with Jolie than I’ve ever taken in my life. Danger is the furthest thing associated with my name, but this summer, I’ve let myself look it straight in the face.

  Not only has she taught me so much about what women want, but Jolie has taught me not to be so serious. To take life in moments as it comes, no matter the consequences.

  “Oh, Mick …” She groans, as I bend her over the counter in the canteen.

  It’s a favorite meeting spot of ours, because it’s always dark after eleven p.m., and we can sneak a candy bar from the stash in the back after we’re done.

  Her ass slaps against my groin as I pound into her, my hands flexing at her hips. All of that chocolate hair is laying over the counter, and she’s looking up at me, almost daring me to make her be noisier.

  God, this girl.

  My hand slides past her hip, down to where we’re joined. Flattening my finger, I press the tip against her throbbing bud, swirling it around in circles just the way I know sets her off. As I jut my hips and try to hold off my own climax, I press harder, rub faster, and try not to think about how this will be the final time.

  I feel Jolie tense up, her body giving all of its telltale signs of orgasm. And when she lets out a careening wail, I cover her mouth, absorbing the sound in my palm.

  I’m not far behind, seeing stars as my knees buckle and I spill into the condom.

  When I fold in half, covering her body while we stand, still connected, I plant kisses on her cheek. A second later, she taps my arm, silently radioing me that she’s uncomfortable and wants me to get off. I pull out, already missing the feeling of her.

  “What now?” I ask, breathless, as I zip my khaki shorts up.

  Jolie slips her camp-issued khaki skirt back into place, and I bite my tongue in disappointment. Never again would I see her beautiful body, hear her chuckle in my ear as my hands roamed in places they’d never be again, or talk with her until the wee hours of the morning. This had become more than a hookup to me, which both surprised and saddened me. I never thought Jolie would be the kind of girl who I’d be able to have a connection with aside from the physical, but she’s really become a friend. We talk about fears, feelings, and have a real humor between us.

  “We go back to real life. We call this the perfect summer and put a bow on it.” She shrugs, as if none of this affects her.

  I have to shut off the part of me that cares, the one that wants to ask to keep in touch or figure out how to continue this. Because she’s right, though she doesn’t know why she is on my behalf. This was my last hoorah, the perfect end to a summer that was about living carefree and taking risks. I’m not this guy, but I allowed myself a short break to pack some fun in before my life turns serious and studious.

  In the fall, I’m off to a new university, one that will propel me, hopefully, into medical school and the career I want beyond. I have no time for distractions, for sex or love or anything that I know Jolie would provide.

  So, I pack those feelings away. I’ve been prepared to do that for six years now, dedicate my life to a cause greater than me. Jolie, or any relationship with a woman, would just be one more thing I’d have to give up.

  “It’s been nice coming with you.” I extend my hand for a shake.

  Her palm meets it, and the tinkle of her laughter is the soundtrack I’ll play in my ears for months to come.

  1

  Jolie

  Someone curses down the hall, and I wake to the smell of burning hair and last night’s tequila.

  “Ugh,” I mumble, my mouth tasting like ash and bad decisions.

  Pulling myself from bed, I inspect the mess and assess the damage. Well, I managed to get myself into some semblance of pajamas, even if that means I’m wearing a T-shirt from my eighth grade soccer team and the bodycon skirt I wore to the bar last night. On my bedside table is a glass of water and a half-empty bottle of Advil, which explains why, bless the universe, I have no headache this morning. My room is its usual clutter of discarded outfit ideas, disregarded textbooks, and too-sophisticated decor for the dump of a college house I live in. I told my mother as much, but she insisted on shipping in some comforter from Paris and a desk chair from Sweden, so here we are.

  “Maddy, did you burn yourself again?” my roommate Christine yells down the hall from somewhere else in our house.

  “This fucking curling wand gets way too hot, and now it looks like there’s a hickey on my forehead,” Madison, our third roommate, whines into the dark hallway.

  My feet feel like sludge as I trample over high heels and silk blouses to get to my doorway. “Put some Neosporin on it, it should go away within the hour.”

  “Ah, look who’s joined the land of the living. Didn’t think we’d see you until noon.” Christine whizzes by me, smelling like lavender and toting a breakfast pastry.

  I almost try to take a bite out of it before she scoots around me. “What the hell happened last night?”

  “Too much tequila and a last-minute decision to go to the hookah bar,” Maddy yells from our one bathroom.

  Which explains the taste of ash in my mouth. My stomach whines as I head for the kitchen.

  The three of us met freshman year and were instant best friends. Madison is the music major, destined for concert halls and fame. She plays the harp, and it’s so beautiful, it’ll make you cry. She’s also the nicest of our bunch, always reaching out to make plans or get us into the best parties or places. Then there is Christine, the shrewd businesswoman. I swear, she’ll be biting her male employees heads off like a praying mantis one day. She’s the smartest one, the friend who uses common sense and makes sure we pay our cable bill on time or don’t get evicted.

  Then there is me, the glue that holds us together. I wouldn’t say I’m smart or talented, unless it comes to kissing or clothes. If you need help in the beauty department, I’m your girl, which is why I’m majoring in business with a branding minor. If I could get into a beauty company, make my own products or market theirs, that’d be the best fit. If I have to work, I might as well do something I like.

  I’m also the wild one, the friend who forces us to take risks so that our memories during this time don’t just shine, they sparkle.

  But of us, I’m the most reckless, the most irresponsible. Which is why my best friends are already up and at ’em for the first day of junior year courses, and I’m still working off a hangover.

  Our kitchen is surprisingly clean, which I’ll attribute to Christine. She’s always drunk tidying, which works well for me. If I lived in our three-bedroom ranch alone, I’d have burned the house down ages ago while trying to make nachos at two a.m.

  “Don’t steal any of my Frosted Flakes!” Madison scolds me, still in the bathroom.

  I put the box back, cursing her in my brain, and take down some of my Special K strawberry cereal instead. It’s just not as sugary, and I need some massive comfort food to power through this bad decision.

  “What time are your classes?” I ask, trying to gauge how creative I have to get with my day.

  “I have a nine a.m., eleven a.m., and a two p.m., so I’ll be on campus most of the day,” Christine answers from her room at the back of the house.

  “And I have almost the same plus heading to the gym after. Anyone want to come to Pilates with me?” she asks hopefully.

  Christine and I both make non-committal grunts, which is how our conversations about exercise usually play out. Maddy asks, and we rebuff.

  “How about you?” Christine asks, referring to my class schedule.

  I’ve thought about this all summer, how much I’d have to hide or sneak from them. I thought it’d be easy, but now that it’s here, I’m not quite sure how I’m going to do this. They’ll be all over campus all day, and while we swim in a sea of ten thousand student
s, there are still likelihoods they’ll ask me where I was all day.

  Our ranch sits on a street about two minutes from the Salem Walsh University campus in North Carolina. It’s a road lined with college houses, each one fixed up just enough by its owner to be trashed and then recycled to the next college party kids next year.

  I’d picked Salem way before I ever graduated high school. Basically, before I’d even gotten to the seventh grade, for several reasons. One, it’s my parents’ alma matter. Two, the university was one of the best in the state, not to mention country. And three, it’s twenty-five minutes from the beach.

  Salem Walsh University has all the crawling ivy on its buildings and a sun-drenched quad to look like one of those picturesque colleges in a movie, but with a beach town feel. After class most days, students head for the shores to surf, study on the sand, or play a little volleyball before the bars open for the night.

  Except this semester, I wasn’t technically one of those students.

  How am I going to hide this from my best friends? From everyone? What if they ask which buildings my classes are in this semester, or want to meet up for lunch?

  I got myself in a world of trouble, being as reckless as I am. But I’ve done half my time. This summer at camp was the first part of my sentencing. Now I just have to get through this year, and senior year would be golden.