B00AAOCX2E EBOK (4 page)

“I’m sorry; Dr. Quinn,” Dr. Wilkinson clarified.

Eww, cancel the kiss.
Dr. Quinn was the faculty advisor and head program director of the otherwise student-run radio station. He was also in his fifties and a complete ass, if I ever met one.

“Oh! Are you and he…?” My eyes widened at the realization of what I had been about to ask. “Wow, that is
so
none of my business.”

Dr. Wilkinson’s eyes glinted with amusement. “It’s okay. Let’s just say we’re not exclusive, but a woman has her needs, as you well know.”

I grinned, only a little surprised by the woman’s confession. In my short time as a “sex-edutainer” I’d discovered many people felt free opening up and sharing details of their personal lives with me, invited or not.

What really surprised me was that someone as cool as Dr. Wilkinson would be involved with Dr. Quinn. Not only was he a jerk, but he always struck me as the quintessential white male Dr. Wilkinson often maligned in class for perpetuating the social status-quo.

“But really,” Dr. Wilkinson continued, “I think your program is brilliant. It’s smart, it’s sexy, but most important, it’s honest. The students can relate to it because the information is coming from their peers. Plus, you and Mr. Hollister have wonderful chemistry. The battle-of-the-sexes debates are a total crackup.”

I flushed with pleasure. “Thank you, I’m flattered… and a little amazed, I must confess. Some of the professors in the department have made it clear they don’t approve.” That was an understatement. The application I’d submitted for a student research position the month before had been turned down before I was even allowed to interview. When I questioned Dr. Gladslow, the professor in charge of student research, he told me that he just didn’t feel confident I wouldn’t use the very serious and private information I was made privy to as fodder for “that radio program of yours.” No amount of assurances was able to change his mind.

Dr. Wilkinson tossed her hand. “Stuffy old prudes. Believe me, I have to work with them. Don’t let their narrow-minded views discourage you.”

“I don’t.” I tried not to, at least.

“I’m glad to hear it. So, what do you say?”

“Well, I have to talk to Ian, first.”

“Of course.” Dr. Wilkinson pulled a sheet of paper out of her briefcase. “I’ve jotted down all the details. If you could speak with Mr. Hollister and let me know on Friday, I’d appreciate it.”

***

By the time I reached the central union, where Chelsea and I routinely met after morning classes, I was practically gliding. Who would have thought our program would impress a professor so much that she would ask us to appear live in front of one of her classes? And for three hundred dollars! My upcoming mechanic’s bill suddenly seemed a lot less nerve-wracking.

With my spirits soaring even higher at that stroke of luck, I broke into a wide grin and quickened my stride. I caught sight of Chelsea pacing by the entrance of the dining hall, studying a stack of index cards in her hand.

“You know,” I said as I approached, “you’ve reviewed your speech so many times in the last few weeks that even
I
have it memorized.”

Chelsea slid her cards into the pocket of her taupe pantsuit. “There’s no harm in giving it one more read-through. One can never be too prepared.”

“So you always tell me. Sorry I’m late.”

Chelsea pushed up her sleeve and glanced at her watch. “No, you’re right on time.”

Which in Chelsea-speak meant she wanted me to be early.
“I do have a good excuse, though,” I said as we made our way into the food court. I filled her in on Dr. Wilkinson’s request as we took our places in the line at Starbucks for our daily breakfast of coffee and scones.

“What kind of panel?” Chelsea inquired as she grabbed an orange from the case.

“A sex-education panel. It’s basically an on-location gig. And the sweetest part is she’s going to pay us.”

“That’s great, but what’s the connection between her intro class and your…” Chelsea’s eyes darted left then right, “sex show?”

I chuckled when Chelsea’s face turned an attractive shade of pink. “It’s so cute the way you whisper the word ‘sex’. And to answer your question, sexuality is an entire subfield of sociology, and our show
is
about relationships and sex.”

“But I thought sociology had to do with
scientific
studies of human relations?”

My cheek twitched. “I’ll have you know that Ian and I have invested many hours in researching scientific studies so the advice we give is accurate.”
Which you would know if you bothered to listen
.

“Sorry.” Chelsea flashed me an apologetic smile. “I didn’t mean to imply—”

I lifted my hand to stem the tide of words spilling from her mouth. “It’s cool, Chels.” I shrugged it off with a resigned smile. I knew she didn’t approve of my program. She’d let enough words slip here and there to indicate she thought it was no more than a tawdry novelty show, and that the advice we gave was steeped in neither hard facts nor research. It didn’t matter how many times she’d actually seen me doing research around the apartment. It had been drummed into her head by her controlling boyfriend, Parker Cavanaugh III, that our show was trashy and inappropriate, so she didn’t listen. She wouldn’t want to face his disapproval.

We stepped forward in line and I beamed at the familiar face behind the counter. “Shekita Banana Girl!”

Skekita Reed, my ex-neighbor from my freshman days in the dorm, grinned. Her white teeth were a sharp contrast to her flawless cocoa skin. “Hey, girl!”

“So, I’ve been on tenterhooks.” I leaned far over on the counter. “How’d the trip home go?”

Trips to Starbucks doubled as my bi-weekly dose of the Shekita Saga. Two months before, Shekita came out as a bisexual to her conservative military family, and this past weekend, she had decided to shake things up even more by bringing along her Caucasian girlfriend, unannounced.

Shekita chuckled, her brown eyes lighting up. “It was tense, at first. Grandma Jo refused to even acknowledge Beth-Anne’s presence, but Bethy charmed the hell out of my dad by laughing at all his military anecdotes, and my stepmom even let us sleep in the same bed on the second night.”

“You’re kidding!”

“I know, right? Now, we’ll see how it goes with Bethy’s parents in a few weeks.” Her eyes glittered with anticipation. “Should be interesting.”

From what I’d gleaned, Beth-Anne hailed from a small town in Alabama, where old attitudes had gone behind closed doors, but racial tensions were still palpable – none more so than in her own home. “I look forward to hearing all about it,” I said, thinking “interesting” was probably a mild estimation of the situation.

Shekita held up a plastic cup. “Same as always?”

“Yes on the Macchiato and the scones, but…” I looked to Chelsea in question.

She put her orange on the counter. “I’ll take a Decaf Mocha Java.”

“Decaf?” Shekita’s brows rose in question.

Chelsea put a hand to her stomach and nodded. I didn’t doubt she was feeling a little nervous, which was ridiculous because she could give a perfect speech standing on her head.

I put my arm around Chelsea’s shoulders. It may have been against her nature to show pride in her accomplishments, but I was proud enough for the both of us, and had no such qualms. “Our girl here has been nominated for Winter Queen, and is speaking before the selection committee today, so her tummy is feeling a little tender.”

“That’s great! You’re probably making a good call on the caffeine, then.” Shekita winked at Chelsea as she penned the orders on the cups. “This stuff rots your gut.”

I raised my brow. “Why do you work for Starbucks, again?”

“What can I say? I hate the taste, but I am addicted to the smell.” She sniffed the air, then rolled her shoulders back and shimmied her hips in delight. “Good stuff.”

I laughed as Shekita rang up our orders and swiped my student ID in the machine. “Good luck on your speech, Chelsea,” Shekita said. “When the time comes, you’ve got my vote.”

Chelsea thanked her and we stepped aside to wait for our drinks.

“You’d think they got involved to spite their families,” Chelsea observed, studying Shekita with a pensive frown.

“It does seem to be part of the appeal,” I agreed. “But don’t let her fool you. She’s crazy about Beth-Anne. The family rebellion is just a bonus.”

We took our drinks a moment later and were making our way over to the condiment center for napkins when I heard a simpering voice behind me.

“Look who it is, girls: Dr. Fellatio and her Sandra Dee sidekick.”

I groaned and turned, pasting a smile on. “Why, Mallory, it’s been a while,” I exclaimed with false sweetness. “Finally decide to come up for air?”

My ex-roommate rolled her icy blue eyes and lifted her paint-enhanced brows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Oh, I was hoping you’d ask.
My arch-nemesis may have drawn first blood with that “Dr. Fellatio” crap, but I was determined to have the last laugh. “Well, you do spend an awful lot of your time with your head buried in some frat boy’s lap.”

The three Zetas backing Mallory snickered but simultaneously gasped when Mallory turned to glare at them.

What drones.

Mallory’s nostrils flared in a way that ruined her porcelain beauty. “Cute. But coming from someone who has sucked off the remainder of the unwashed tools on campus, I guess I should take that as a compliment. At least frat boys bathe.”

“Now
there’s
a ringing endorsement for whoring it up with the Greek boys.” I looked at Chelsea and held my hand over my mouth, speaking in a stage whisper. “I guess someone forgot to tell her that baths don’t wash away herpes.”

Mallory sneered, then flicked her glossy strawberry blonde hair back and set her sights on a weaker target.

“Wow, Chelsea, I just love your outfit. That drab, power dyke look is so… you.” She lifted a hand to Chelsea’s shoulder, but pulled it back at the last possible moment, as if doing so would cause her to catch bad fashion sense. Her nasty smirk caused her “sisters” to cackle like a pack of hyenas.

Chelsea’s body tensed and her chin rose. I rushed to intervene, knowing my roommate was too timid to defend herself.

“And I just love your outfit… or outfits, I should say,” I amended, including the entire group of similarly-dressed girls in my assessment. “I see the sisters of Zeta Beta Bimbo have cloned the Kardashian-look this season.”

“What’s wrong with the Kardashians?” one of the girls demanded. I couldn’t recall her name. They all looked the same to me. “They’ve got more style than a fashion victim like you has any day.”

Mallory’s smirk deepened, as if I had been put in my place.

Such a typical Sorostitute slam.
It was all about partying, money, and fashion to these girls. I tried to remember that there were plenty of quality girls in Riordan’s Greek system, but that was hard to recall when facing Mallory and her acolytes. “Fashion victim I may be, but I
like
leaving the house without having to powder a second set of cheeks.”

I almost laughed at the looks of puzzlement that came over the girls’ faces. They were just too clueless to function. I leveled a hard stare at Mallory before turning to grab my coffee. I nudged Chelsea’s shoulder. “Come on, Chels. The overwhelming stench of
eau du skank
is giving me the vapors.”

We made it halfway to the exit when I heard Marisol Vera Cruz, the only one of Mallory’s followers I did know – and only because we were both majoring in Sociology – squawk. “Ugh! What a stupid gash!”

“Guess it finally connected,” I murmured with a low, satisfied chuckle.

Chelsea shook her head, disapproval clear on her face. “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Lower yourself to their level? You should turn the other cheek.”

“You mean let them walk all over me, like you do? Girl, you need to learn to stand up for yourself.”

Chelsea shrugged. “Why should I care what those girls say? It’s pathetic really. I mean, their collective IQs rival my shoe size.”

I laughed. It wasn’t the most original comeback, but Chelsea’s displays of petty humor were so few and far between that each one was to be congratulated. “Now, why didn’t you say that back there?”

“What’s the point? They’re just spiteful, spoiled princesses who deal with their own insecurities by putting others down. Why let them know they’re getting a rise out of you?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “It’s weird, you know? I can easily ignore every other holier-than-thou bitch on campus, but when it comes to
Mallory
…” I growled the name with every ounce of animosity I felt for its owner. “Every time I see her I want to rip her hair out by the roots.”

Chelsea shook her head. “But why her? You hardly know each other. You lived together for what, like three weeks, three years ago? Yet every time you two come within a fifty-foot radius, you both come out with your guns blazing.”

“I’m sorry, was there a question in there?”

“Yes.
Why?
Why all the animosity?”

I exhaled noisily, coming to a stop just a few feet before the student activities board. “Mallory blames me for almost jeopardizing her chance of getting into Zeta.”

Chelsea’s face twisted in confusion. “How’d you do that?”

“It wasn’t intentional. She blew off some rush activity, telling the Zetas she had a cold, when she was really hooking up with some guy. She didn’t share this with me, of course, so when one of the Zetas called to check on her, I told her where Mallory was. I mean, how was I supposed to know?”

A sympathetic smile appeared on Chelsea’s face. “Okay, that explains why she hates you, but why do you hate her?”

“Well, the following day they threatened to cut her from the pledge list. She came home that afternoon and laid into me, saying I did it on purpose, that I didn’t want her to get in because I was jealous. I apologized and told her it was an honest mistake, and I would have covered for her if she’d only told me, but she wouldn’t listen. She kept ranting and making all these absurd accusations, and then she grabbed the crystal music box Nonni Rossini gave me when my dad left, and threw it at the wall, shattering it into a million pieces.”