Adrian Lessons Read Online Free Page B

phone. No calls from Dreamboat, although it’s very possible that he could be sweet-talking a Netflix service representative at this very moment. I do, however, have a new email.
    And that email contains some very bad news.
    Dear Ms. Reynolds,
    I hope you enjoyed a refreshing summer break. We are emailing concerning the Cosmann Grant, of which you have been a previous recipient. Unfortunately, budget cuts to the school this year have required that we reevaluate our financial aid distributions to some of our students. We thought it best to notify you that the Cosmann Grant has been removed from your aid package for the upcoming spring semester, as part of certain unavoidable changes to our budget. We hope you are not inconvenienced.
    Sincerely,
    Eleanor Golding
    The Office of Student Financial Aid
    Well, fuck me with a hot buttered scone.
    The Cosmann Grant covered a huge chunk of my tuition. Without that, I really need my portion of Marie’s advance…or I won’t be able to come back to Statham next semester.
    I stare at the random Spanish phrases etched into the wooden table. How could they do this to me? My GPA hasn’t dropped at all. But—no. I know exactly why they did this. They’re cutting the aid of seniors, knowing we’ll do whatever it takes to cough up that extra couple thousand because it’s too late in the game for us to transfer.
    Goddamn rich academic asshole bureaucrats…
    I sniff, wishing I could blame it on my cold and not the moisture in my eyes. I can handle any stress but the money kind. I reach into my bag, but I’m out of tissues. My fingers close around a crumpled piece of paper. Marie’s stupid submission to the Sex King.
    I bring it to my face, intending to tell it exactly what I think of it by dousing it with snot, but my stupid eyes betray me and I read it instead.
    Dear High and Dry,
    It sounds like you need a serious wake-up call. Possibly, get one of your friends to slap you in the face. So you dated some loser for three years and now you’re free? Don’t talk about this like it’s some difficult thing for you—when you’re forty and miserably married to some other loser, these will be the days that you look back on when you please yourself at night (because your husband definitely won’t). Take advantage of this, full throttle. My advice? Fuck the nearest thing with legs. You need a good time.
    Email me with any follow-up questions: [email protected]
    Best of luck.
    Fury surges up and makes itself a comfy home in my stomach.
    What an arrogant, idiotic, self-assured piece of—
    Because I need to take my annoyance out on someone, and possibly because my margarita is already half gone, I decide to let him have it. I use my kiddie hotmail account, the one with ‘Princess Ariel’ as the username in case he decides to track me down.
    Dear Sex King, if that is your real name,
    First of all, you should know that I’m not even the one who submitted that letter to your stupid column. My friend did it on my behalf, because she’s an idiot. She is a minor league idiot compared to you, though. ‘Fuck the nearest thing with legs?’ The nearest thing to me with legs happens to be a statue of Pancho Villa, so yeah, I’ll get right on that. Also, I do not EVER plan to be ‘miserably married’, at forty or otherwise. Now excuse me while I go scrub off the residue of your arrogance with industrial-strength soap.
    Sincerely,
    Screw You
    I hit send. A little harsh, maybe, and not my greatest work, but I’m steaming.
    When my tacos arrive, I tear into them like I’m on a time limit. Which I am. I have to get home tonight and hammer out that sex scene, inspired or not. Or I won’t be getting my degree come fall.
    The Sex King must have been sitting at his computer, because not less than five minutes later, my phone lights up with an email notification.
    Dear Screw You,
    I’d be happy to. Just give me a time and place.
    My fingers flex. This guy is probably not half as attractive as he