B00AAOCX2E EBOK (3 page)

Reading the turmoil in Ian’s eyes, I reached out and touched his face, rubbing my thumb against the scar hidden beneath the facial hair on his chin. A cracked jaw and seven stitches was his reward for one of Pete’s slips, and it was far from the only physical evidence of Pete’s temper. “How many times are you going to do this to yourself?” I whispered.

His nostrils flared and he jerked his head away. “I haven’t decided if I’m doing anything yet.”

“Haven’t you?” Despite what he said, I knew it wasn’t a matter of
if
he’d go see him, but
when
. He didn’t need my approval – Ian was going to do what Ian was going to do – and he wasn’t really asking for it. I think he just wanted my reassurance that I would be there for him when Pete went down in flames again. And I would.

“You know what? Fuck him.” Ian rolled his shoulders, like he was squaring off with someone. “Besides, we did sign up to do SHAZ-Fest, right?”

I could see in his eyes that nothing had changed. He’d still see his stepfather and get his hopes up, just not right away. The delay was of some consolation to me.

My mouth curved. “
I
signed us up.”

“Yep, and I’m not gonna let you down. I’ll be there for… at least the first hour.”

“Stay for the whole two hours and I’ll treat you to lunch afterwards,” I said in a singsong voice. When he still looked reluctant, I gave him a coy look and dangled the ultimate bait: “Luna’s?”

He narrowed his eyes at the mention of our favorite restaurant. “You’re evil.”

I giggled, knowing I had him. “That’s why you love me.” I leaned in and pecked his cheek. “Sleep tight. Drive safe.”

I jogged toward the A-frame building I shared with my roommate, Chelsea Prince. I took the steps to the third floor two at a time and waved down from the balcony rail when I reached the landing. Ian wouldn’t leave until I was safe inside. His motorcycle roared in answer only after I closed the door behind me.

I found Chelsea sitting at the computer off the kitchen. Even in the middle of the night, she wore her typical business casual best: smart black slacks, a burgundy shell with a ruffled neckline, and a polished pair of black leather flats. Her narrow face was still in full makeup, but she’d let down her long hair from its usual French twist. It hung to the middle of her back in dark, unruly tangles from twisting it up while wet.

At five-foot-two and ninety-five pounds, Chelsea went the extra mile to make herself look professional and presentable at all times, because, as she often told people: “You never know when you’ll need to make a good impression.” But to me, she’d confided: “And in casual clothes and no makeup, I look like a twelve year-old.”

I didn’t disagree.

“Hey, what are you still doing up?” I asked, eyeing the microwave display. It was nearly two. Chelsea liked to get at least eight hours of sleep a night, and we both had classes at nine.

Chelsea glanced up from the screen. “I’m working.”

“You’re not still working on your Winter Queen speech, are you?” She’d been working on it when I set off to chew Ian out earlier that evening.

Chelsea’s petite fingers tapped a few keys on the keyboard. “No, my organic chemistry report is due tomorrow.”

“Didn’t you finish that last week?” I had a vague recollection of her mentioning it.

“I did, but the conclusion has been bugging me, and I wanted to check it for any errors.”

I was tempted to tell Chelsea that I was sure the paper was A-plus material, but why waste my breath? Chelsea wasn’t just a perfectionist, she was a borderline obsessive-compulsive, and wouldn’t be able to rest until she’d checked the paper twice-over. Or twentieth-over.

I stopped at the refrigerator for a Caffeine-Free Diet Coke. “Do I have any messages?”

“On the pad.”

I popped the top of my can and took a sip as I crossed into our tidy living room. Our apartment was a two-bedroom, two-bath, with a rectangular great room that housed the kitchen and living room, and bedrooms flanking the east and west walls. Our shared living areas were decorated in neutral shades: off-white walls, beige micro-suede furniture secondhanded to us by Chelsea’s parents, and a set of glass-covered coffee and end tables. Wrought-iron candle sconces and paintings of white flowers hung on the walls, and our 19-inch television sat on a stand I scored outside the dumpster after last year’s crop of seniors graduated. The only true splashes of color in the room were a rattan Papasan chair with a cardinal-red cushion, and a like-colored blanket that sported Rocky, our college’s beloved razorback, folded neatly over the back of the sofa.

The whole place had a very adult feel and didn’t represent my more eclectic tastes, but I wasn’t about to complain. One of Chelsea’s many scholarships paid three-quarters of the apartment’s monthly rent, so my share was dirt-cheap. Good thing, too, since my work-study position at the student health center had been axed due to budget cuts at the end of the last semester, so I was living on my partial tuition waiver and student loans.

I retrieved the notepad from its place by the phone. The first message was from my mom, reminding me of dinner on Thursday with her latest boyfriend. Not that I’d forgotten; visits home meant free access to the washing machine and I was running desperately low on clean panties. The second message was from the mechanic at Gallo’s Garage, informing me that my car would be available for pickup in two days. “What the…? Hey, did the mechanic mention why he needed to keep the car longer?”

My VW Golf had been in the shop for over two weeks, taken in for what I’d been told was a simple recharge of the air conditioner. Every other day since, I received a call reporting problems with the compressor, then the condenser, and most recently, the evaporator. The words were gibberish, but one thing was becoming alarmingly clear: my bank account was about to take a serious hit, and it was still only the beginning of February. I wasn’t just going to be living lean for the next four months, I’d be living anorexic.

When Chelsea failed to answer, I looked over my shoulder to find her staring at the computer screen with single-minded focus. “Chelsea? Hey, Chels!”

Chelsea jumped, upsetting the keyboard on the pull-out drawer. “
What
?” she asked, her voice ringing with exasperation. She flicked back a lock of brown hair from her forehead.

“The mechanic?” I waved the notepad. “Why does he need more time?”

“It didn’t occur to me to ask. I’m just the messenger.”

I flung the pad down.
The one time I try to be proactive by fixing the car before lack of A.C. became a critical issue and it bites me in the ass.
“This is getting ridiculous. This guy has got to be taking me for a ride.”

Chelsea’s willowy shoulders rose and fell. “So, drag Ian down there and make sure everything’s on the up-and-up.”
And,
please
, let me get my work done
, was the unsaid statement trailing her words.

I didn’t take offense to the undercurrent of irritation in my roommate’s voice. Chelsea lived a regimented life, full of structure and schedules. Being up this late meant she was off her schedule, which tended to put her on edge. She was normally sweeter than pie.

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll leave you to fondle your keyboard.”

Chelsea gave me a sarcastic smile. “Thank you.”

Walking into my bedroom was like walking into another apartment – one representative of me. A patchwork quilt done in primary colors was thrown over my bed. Curtains I’d knotted together out of multi-colored squares of organza hung over the window, dark for now, but during the day they painted my room like a stained-glass window. I had an old white dresser by the door, with my stereo, docking station, and jewelry box on top. A small desk stacked with textbooks and my ancient laptop –
1999, baby!
– was positioned by the window to give me a view of the White Mountains. My favorite art print, Hieronymus Bosch’s
Garden of Earthly Delights
, hung over the length of my bed.

Mine was the smaller of the two bedrooms, not much bigger than a prison cell, really, but it came with its own private bath and was on the end of the building. Chelsea’s room was almost twice as big as mine, but hers was the bathroom guests used and her wall backed a quartet of noisy soccer players, hence her computer setup off the kitchen.

Yawning, I tossed my bag on my bed and stripped, leaving a trail of clothes on the carpet on my way to the bathroom. Pandora, my grumpy Russian Blue rescue cat darted out from beneath my bed to pounce on one of my socks, almost knocking me over.

After washing away the day’s dirt, I threw on an oversized Riordan Athletics XXL Tee and climbed into bed. I had to be up for class at eight. Unfortunately, sleep didn’t come easily. It never did after a show. I fleetingly considered engaging in a little
ménage a moi
, knowing it was a surefire way to help me fall asleep, but the truth was, masturbation was becoming less and less satisfying. Plus, I was pretty confident I was starting to feel the first pangs of carpal tunnel in my wrist.

I snuggled deeper into the blankets and released a wistful sigh, thinking about what I really wanted: an active sex life. I missed the feel of warm skin, of heated kisses and large hands on my flesh. I missed the euphoric, frenzied rush of joining together with someone who stimulated my mind, heart and body.

Eight long, dry months had passed since I last had someone in my bed. Not for a lack of offers, mind you; I was just very particular. And cautious. Too often I encountered the kind of opportunists who simply wanted to nail the campus sex-guru. And on the rare occasions I met someone whose interest seemed genuine – like Brian’s had seemed to be – Ian managed to get in the way, even when that wasn’t his intent.

I punched my pillow and rolled onto my side. Ian
had
run some of my prospective dates off, but some guys were just too insecure to accept that I had a male best friend, especially one as… okay,
hot
as Ian. Oliver, my last serious boyfriend, had even given me an ultimatum. I chose Ian – no contest.

Boyfriends would come and go, but Ian Hollister was a permanent fixture in my life.

Still, it would have been nice to find a way to have both.

The following morning, I smiled as I read the handout my Sociology of Gender professor passed around the room, outlining the independent project we were to complete by the end of the month.

Objective: Write a case study using yourself as the subject, detailing an instance in which your life has personally been affected by gender inequality, citing the sexual archetypes and gender stereotypes that have influenced this instance.

I had this one in the bag.
All I had to do was look to the radio program.

Case in point: When Ian talked about relationships and sex on the air, he was romanticized as “enlightened” for giving women a candid look into the male-psyche. When I did it, I was derided as a radical female with questionable values and loose legs. It sucked that even on Riordan’s relatively liberal campus, female sexuality was still considered “an improper and unwholesome topic for a young woman to talk about,” and any woman who did so was regarded as “an agenda pusher attacking the values of Riordan’s students.” Yeah, that was a direct quote from “a terribly disappointed and extremely disgusted [sic]” alumnus’ letter to the school’s newspaper.

I tried not to let that kind of attitude bother me. Just as I tried to laugh off the common misconception that I gained all my “sexological” know-how between the proverbial sheets. If anyone bothered to ask me – which they never did – they’d learn that most of my knowledge came from academic study and secondhand accounts in the sociology department.

“Okay, ladies and gentlemen,” Dr. Wilkinson said, “if there are no further questions, I’ll see you on Friday.”

After sliding my notes into my bag, I stood and patiently shuffled down the steps of the small, sixty-seat auditorium. My feet had just hit the ground level when Dr. Wilkinson’s eyes caught mine. “Miss Rossini, please stay behind a few moments.”

My brows drew together as I stepped aside to let my classmates file past. I was pretty sure I knew why I was being asked to stay behind. I
’
d kind of fudged my way through the bibliography on the paper I’d turned in at the end of the previous week.

When everyone was gone, I approached the lectern where the tall, slender woman was packing away a steno pad into her stylish leather briefcase. Dr. Wilkinson was in her mid-forties, with a short auburn shag haircut and premature lines etched around the corners of her mouth. I would have guessed they came from tobacco use, but there was no way; the woman had the most blinding set of teeth I’d ever seen. I was ashamed to admit that there were times when I got so distracted by her smile that I missed huge chunks of the lecture. They were that white.

I cleared my throat. “You wanted to speak to me?”

Dr. Wilkinson removed her aquamarine blazer and laid it over her arm. “Yes. I wanted to–”

“It’s my paper, right?” I blurted, thinking it was better to fess up before I was called out. “Because I know that I only directly quoted from four of the five sources, but I was using the fifth as more of a… general reference.”

Dr. Wilkinson held up a placating hand. “Your paper was
fine,” she assured me with a toothy smile, much to my relief and confusion. What else could she want to talk about? “Actually, I’ve asked you to stay behind because I have a favor to ask.

“I teach an Introduction to Sociology class on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. Next week we’re delving into the chapters focusing on human sexuality, and I’m hoping I can entice you and Mr. Hollister into doing a panel for the class. It would be an hour of your time, tops, and I’ll be able to pay you each a stipend of three hundred dollars.”

“Wow.” I was so gobsmacked by the request that I actually jumped. “You know about our program?”

She flashed one of her blinding grins. “Are you kidding? I’ve rarely missed a night since Scott told me about it.”

I raised my brow. Who was this Scott? I wanted to hunt him down and kiss him for opening the professor’s eyes and bringing this opportunity to us. Three hundred dollars!