Smart Tass

  “Please, Tassie?”

  I look at my pink low-top Converse, then at him, and back to the shoes. “Give me one good reason why I should help you?” Because I really, really need one. Especially since I feel like a complete moron for actually wanting to help him. It’s like I can’t resist rescuing the stray puppy who’s bitten me a thousand times.

  “We’d be helping each other,” he explains. “I need a much cheaper place to live and you want to get into the Tri-Kapps.”

  “Ah!” I say, holding up my index finger. “But do I want it badly enough to let everyone think you’ve taken my pristine chariot out for its maiden voyage?”

  “Your…chariot?”

  “What would you like me to call it? My vaginal membrane? My cherry? My flower of purity? The winner’s ribbon for my hump-day race?”

  His handsome face contorts. “Chariot works.”

  “Great. And you’re still not riding it.”

  “I didn’t ask to. It’s just something we’ll let people think so I get the points. In exchange, for the next few weeks, I’ll dote when we’re around your uptight, intellectual elitist sorority sisters. And then you dump me. Simple.”

  I give it some thought—what it would mean to allow the blemish on my reputation.

  “Come on, Tass. You know this is the best option for us both. Paweeeze?”

  I look at Hunter, who has giant blue, anime-saucer eyes and a lower lip that’s pouting for its life.

  “No.” I shake my finger at him. “Not the puppy face, Hunter.”

  He tugs on the hem of my T-shirt, his lower lip quivering. “Tassie…”

  “Ugh. You are so juvenile. You know that, right?”

  His face returns to its normal, annoyingly handsome perfection. “Yes. And thank you. You’re making the right choice.”

  “Wait. I didn’t agree to—”

  He leans down and plants a big wet, closed-mouth kiss on my lips.

  CONTENTS

  About the Book

  Other Works by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Author’s Ramble

  About Oh, Henry

  Mimi’s Play List

  Acknowledgements

  Coming Soon: Mr. Rook

  About the Author

  OTHER WORKS BY MIMI JEAN PAMFILOFF

  COMING SOON!

  Oh, Henry (Book 2, The Ohellno Series)

  Mr. Rook (Book 1, Mr. Rook’s Island)

  Pawn (Book 2, Mr. Rook’s Island)

  Skinny Pants (Book 3, The Happy Pants Café Series)

  The Goddess of Forgetfulness (Book 4, Immortal Matchmakers)

  THE FATE BOOK SERIES

  (Standalones/New Adult Suspense/Humor)

  Fate Book

  Fate Book Two

  THE FUGLY SERIES

  (Standalone/Contemporary Romance)

  fugly

  it’s a fugly life

  THE HAPPY PANTS SERIES

  (Standalones/Romantic Comedy)

  The Happy Pants Café (Prequel)

  Tailored for Trouble (Book 1)

  Leather Pants (Book 2)

  IMMORTAL MATCHMAKERS, INC., SERIES

  (Standalones/Paranormal/Humor)

  The Immortal Matchmakers (Book 1)

  Tommaso (Book 2)

  God of Wine (Book 3)

  THE KING SERIES

  (Dark Fantasy)

  King’s (Book 1)

  King for a Day (Book 2)

  King of Me (Book 3)

  Mack (Book 4)

  Ten Club (Series Finale, Book 5)

  THE MERMEN TRILOGY

  (Dark Fantasy)

  Mermen (Book 1)

  MerMadmen (Book 2)

  MerCiless (Book 3)

  THE ACCIDENTALLY YOURS SERIES

  (Paranormal Romance/Humor)

  Accidentally in Love with…a God? (Book 1)

  Accidentally Married to…a Vampire? (Book 2)

  Sun God Seeks…Surrogate? (Book 3)

  Accidentally…Evil? (a Novella) (Book 3.5)

  Vampires Need Not…Apply? (Book 4)

  Accidentally…Cimil? (a Novella) (Book 4.5)

  Accidentally…Over? (Series Finale) (Book 5)

  SMART TASS

  The Ohellno Series

  Book One

  Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

  A Mimi Boutique Novel

  Copyright © 2017 by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the writer, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks are not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Cover Design by Earthly Charms (www.earthlycharms.com)

  Creative Editing by Latoya C. Smith (lcsliterary.com)

  Line Editing and Proof Reading by Pauline Nolet (www.paulinenolet.com)

  Formatting by bbebooksthailand.com

  SMART TASS

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Jesus, Hunter. You’re a bigger piece of shit than I thought,” I snap, standing in the middle of the library at Austin U, with the star quarterback kneeling in front of me, his beefy arms wrapped around my legs.

  What is he even asking for? Because he hasn’t said and I don’t know.

  “I’m not leaving until you say yes, Tass,” he mumbles with his head pressed into my kneecaps. Okay, really his mouth is wedged between my thighs—not cool!—so I just pretend we’re engaging in kneecap contact.

  “Come on, Tassie. It’s just one little yes, and I’m gone.” His sky-blue eyes gaze up at me with the sincerity of a blow-up doll while the student body chuckles and snaps off pictures.

  Wonderful. Let’s make a historical record of this mortifying moment.

  “Get off me, Hunt! I have to get to class.”

  He tightens his iron grip, biting down on a shit-eating grin. “Not until you say yeeees,” he sings.

  I have no clue what he wants, but God, I loathe jocks. I hate the way they laugh at each other’s douche-bag jokes. I hate how they strut around like they’re God’s gift to the universe herself. I hate their obsessions with cheap beer, pickup trucks, and blonde girls in short skirts.

  And I especially hate this guy, Hunter Johnson. Aka Hunt. Also referred to by himself and his followers as “The Hunt,” “The Man,” “Mr. Amazefootball,” and my own creation, “Dickhead.” Okay. Mine isn’t so original, but neither is the dipshit hugging my knees for no other reason than after all these years, he still hopes he’ll get a rise out of me. But I wouldn’t queef in Hunt’s general dire
ction to save his life. Not that I’ve ever queefed. Or had sex. Or…anything. But, hey, I have my “better than you” scoreboard. Hunt – 1. Tassie – 562.

  And just why is my score so high? This game has been going on for as long as I can remember, starting in preschool all the way through high school. Hunter and I were neighbors. Technically, we still are since our parents continue living next door to each other back home.

  Lucky me. But imagine my delight when I learned that Hunter and I would be going to the same university.

  Both on full scholarships.

  Unbelievable. I worked my entire life for straight As. I made sacrifices—mostly to my social life and girlish figure since studying didn’t leave room for much else. Hunt, on the other hand, just threw around a ball while wearing tight pants and humping his way through the cheerleading squad.

  Fed up with his little game, I reach down and grab a fistful of Hunter’s dark brown hair that skirts his annoyingly strong jawline. His hair is longer than he used to wear it back in high school, and it’s surprisingly soft, too. I can make nice earmuffs out of it after I scalp him.

  “Ow! Hey,” he squawks, but goes right back to locking up my legs the second I release his silky hair.

  “All right,” I say through clenched teeth. “What do you want, Hunt?”

  “Say yes. That’s all. Please, Tass?” His callused fingers press into my bare calves underneath my floral, knee-length skirt. Strangely, his hands feel satisfyingly rough.

  What? No. You are not enjoying this.

  Hunter’s thumbs make tiny circles behind my knees, almost like he’s heard my thoughts and agrees with them: “Yeah, giiiiirl! You know it.”

  A silent cringe tears through me.

  “Dammit, Hunter,” I say, doing a wiggle-step, trying to keep my balance. I’d prefer not to fall over and show the world my Hello Kitty Friday underwear beneath my skirt. “Get off!”

  “Would love to.” He laughs, wiggling his dark eyebrows. “My place or yours?”

  “Har, har, asshole,” I say.

  “Ouch. Such words, little Tassie.” He chuckles and his breath tickles my inner thighs. It feels oddly intimate, and I don’t like it one little bit. “Now, you really have to say yes.”

  “Yes to what? Use your words, tiny man.” Tiny refers to his brain, not his body. In the size department, he’s a tall, lean, mean football machine. A complete waste of a nice male body.

  “I need your help.” He makes a pouty face that quickly turns into—

  “Nooo. Don’t you do it! I’m so not in the mood. Don’t you dare use the—”

  “Paweeez, Tassie…” His blue eyes are super big and the tip of his pink tongue darts out the side of his mouth.

  Oh God. Not the puppy face. I refrain from cracking a smile. He first used it on me when we were five to wheedle a graham cracker. Over the years, he’s used it to convince me to do things like lie to his parents—“Yes, Hunt was with me, studying”—or to tutor him with algebra when he was failing. I never understood why I helped him because the guy made my life a living hell. It’s totally the puppy face. Case in point, it still gives me the uncontrollable urge to laugh. It’s just that stupid.

  “Hunter, I swear you’re the biggest…” Trying not to smile, I notice a few of his football buddies doubled over, cracking their shit up behind a row of books.

  My smile vanishes like a wisp of steam over morning coffee—fair trade, French roast—in case you’re wondering what I’m imagining dumping over his head at this very moment.

  “You bastard,” I curse under my breath. “This is some sort of dare, and you’re still living in high school. Well, here’s a blast from the past!” I manage a small jab-kick just above his knee, which creates enough space for me to land a real kick into his rib and—ouch! My foot!—rock-hard abs.

  “Tass.” He laughs, releasing me and rolling on his side. “Come on…”

  There is no justice in this world. Not for women like me who reject this form of juvenile henpecking, just like I reject push-up bras, oppressive dictatorships, and football—okay, basically any sport that pays its athletes millions of dollars while people go hungry. Intelligence is the only currency that matters.

  And Hunter Johnson is dumbass broke!

  Okay, right about now you’re probably asking yourself if I’m one of those nerdy girls who had a crush on the quarterback back in high school and got her heart decimated every time she saw him walking down the hall, because he didn’t actually see her.

  Oh hell no.

  My father is a software engineer who’s created six different algorithms to track global-warming patterns, my mother is an award-winning bioengineer working on a cure for cancer—I want to be her someday—and my brother is a tech CEO and millionaire at the ripe old age of twenty-nine. Don’t even get me started on my aunts, uncles, and cousins—all doctors or scientists. With my 3.99 GPA and full scholarship to a university that is not Harvard, Yale, or Princeton, I’m the black sheep of the Summerset clan. But for better or worse, that’s my family, and I love them. Even if their standards are incredibly high. Either way, there is zero, and I mean zero interest in sports or men of sports on my part.

  Hunter especially.

  So exactly what is the rub between me and him? I’ll have to get to that later, because right now, I need to flee from this giant, six-foot-two turd who’s determined to latch onto my crotch zone and embarrassed the hell out of me.

  I push my glasses back up my nose and head quickly for the exit, praying that no one in my chemistry club has witnessed the altercation, but knowing the library is their turf and the chances of this moment not coming up at tomorrow’s study group are nil.

  “Great. Just great,” I mumble to myself and throw my weight into the heavy steel door to go outside.

  “I just want to fuck you, Tass! I need a virgin!” Hunt yells out.

  A gust of hot sticky September air flows over me as I pause mid-step in the doorway, wondering if I’ve actually heard his words correctly.

  No, the boy who beat the hell out of Kurt Lipmann in the eleventh grade, defending my honor, would not sink so low. But I’m not stupid, hard of hearing, or delusional. Yep. This cave-dwelling crustacean actually said what I think, and from the roaring laughter radiating inside the library, I know everyone else heard him, too.

  Wow. Now I’m pissed.

  I slowly turn to face my nemesis, who’s standing with a gloating grin baked onto his piehole. He thinks he’s got me. He thinks I’m going to lose it right here in front of all these people.

  Not today, Huntie baby. My self-worth doesn’t come from his approval or my sexual status. I am a strong, smart woman.

  I take a deep breath, let it out, and return with a lifted chin and confident strides. “But Hunter, did your concussion-warped mind forget? You already fucked me. You did it to me in kindergarten and every year of my life since.”

  Ewwws! and yucks erupt from the theater of onlookers. Yeah, I know I made it sound like he had sex with me when I was six. Nasty! And point for me. Tassie – 566.

  I go on, using a sweet, calm voice to twist the knife, “So now that we’ve established you’ve achieved your perverted goal, I think you should consider fucking yourself next. In that giant asshole of yours. Oh, but wait. Your shrimp dick won’t reach.” I make a pouty face and hold up my pinky. “Poor Hunter. But at least I’m technically still a virgin because of it, which allows me to be deflowered by a real man someday.”

  His cocky grin morphs into a flat pair of lips and twitching blue eyes.

  He’s pissed. Another point me.

  I sigh contentedly, turn, and exit the library.

  Brains beat brawn every time.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Tassie, ohmygod. Where have you been?” my new dorm-roomie, Elle, nearly trips on her own two feet as she rushes toward me the moment I enter the bustling Kappa Kappa Kappa House for the wine-spritzer-Scrabble-thon. Tonight is a big to-do for us pledges because it’s the last ste
p in the process to become a member, and I’ve wanted to be a Tri-Kapp since I was a little girl. My mother was a Tri-Kapp, and so were two Nobel Prize winners along with a slew of famous scientists. They are the most well thought of female brains in the world and are invaluable to my future—job recommendations, career networking, and grants. So even though my mother belonged to the Yale chapter, this is my legacy, which is why I’ve taken special care this evening to look like a respectable Tri-Kapp. I have my dark hair pulled into a bun and have on sensible flats to go with my blue pantsuit. I even wore my thick-framed glasses to show everyone that I’m not afraid to fly my nerd flag high in the sky.

  “I had some studying to do for chemistry,” I tell Elle, who is a honey blonde with a huge brain that rivals the gap between her front teeth. She has an IQ that’s off the charts and is the likeliest person on the planet to solve world hunger. Tonight, she’s wearing a black skirt and a blouse with formulas printed all over it. Classy! We’re both science geeks, but she’s majoring in physics, not bioengineering.

  “Well,” Elle says, “Lainey and Jessica were just asking about you. What happened in the library today?”

  Lainey and Jessica are the Tri-Kapp leaders, so my pulse rate soars.

  “It’s nothing,” I say. “Some stupid jock I knew in high school.”

  “Well, it’s not nothing,” Elle whispers just as I notice the other pledges glancing at me and smirking. “Everyone’s saying you slept with that nauseating football guy.”

  My jaw unhinges, knowing that this could do me in. Tri-Kapps don’t date football players. Ever. It’s a long-standing, unwritten tradition. We hate them. They hate us.

  Kind of silly.

  “But that’s not true,” I hiss. “I was only trying to embarrass him so he’d stop—”

  Elle pulls out her phone from her over-the-shoulder purse and shows me a video clip where I’m declaring to the world that Hunter Johnson and I “fucked.”

  Oh God. I screwed myself on this one. Deduct Tassie point. Award to Hunter.

  The clanking of a spoon against a wineglass chimes through the air, silencing the group of pledges. It’s Lainey, president of the Tri-Kapps. She’s wearing her frizzy blonde hair in a ponytail and has on a blue blouse with giant homemade Scrabble pieces safety pinned to the front. The letters spell out G-E-N-I-U-S.