Beneath The Skin
Date: 2016-09-11 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: New Adult; College; Romance
Description: They call me a player, but really I'm a lover.I fall in love seven days a week.Give me a few minutes and I'll charm my way into any woman's heart. Give me a few hours and I'll have her flat on her back, headboard dented, panties on the lampshade, and begging for more - guaranteed.Until I'm knocked off my feet by Nell, the bangin' art school chick with the killer bod.No, it isn't some love-at-first-sight kind of thing. In fact, I hate how she looks at me with those sharp, gorgeous eyes and I'm tripping over my feet, my swagger lost.What is it about this woman that drives me crazy?She deflects a
Publisher: Frozenfyre Publishing

by

Daryl Banner

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NOTE: This Kindle edition of Beneath The Skin ends at 50%, as it also includes Read My Lips with a previously unreleased bonus epilogue. Make sure to continue reading afterwards for a sneak peek at book 3 of the College Obsession Romance Series!

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Happy Reading!

xxoo

Daryl

www.darylbanner.com

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Beneath The Skin
A College Obsession Romance
#2

Copyright © 2016 by Daryl Banner
Published by Frozenfyre Publishing
All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including but not limited to being stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the author.

This book is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, groups, businesses, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover Artist : Kari Ayasha at Cover To Cover Designs
Interior Design : Daryl Banner

Beneath The Skin
(A College Obsession Romance #2)

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

Epilogue

Author’s Note

Sneak Peek

Read My Lips

Other Works By Daryl Banner

Read My Lips Bonus Epilogue

Thank you for picking up this book and braving another college obsession romance with me. It was different stepping out of the theater and into the art school, but I had some scandalous fun with Brant & Nell nonetheless, and I hope you do too!

I’ve had a few forays into and out of the art world throughout my life, but there was one experience in particular that changed me forever, though I didn’t know it at the time. It was an art class in middle school during a very tough and awkward time in my life. I had suffered a lot of bullying and ostracizing in sixth and seventh grade, being called the 3-or-6-letter F word before I even knew what it meant, with teachers who did little to nothing about it but turn a cheek. I reacted like any oddball kid would: I decided to make fun of myself first to take all the fun out of it for my bullies. Self-deprecation became my armor, and I grew out my hair and wore only black for my entire eighth grade year.

And I also enrolled in Art.

Unlike many of my other teachers, my Art teacher did not judge me for my odd choice in clothing, or my random black lipstick, or my strange bracelets and scary boots. I created a grotesque papier-mâché winged creature with blood on its fangs and called it Black Omen. To that, my teacher oohed at my creature’s sharp jawline and patted me on the back. I created a clay sculpture of a hand, blood pouring out of its palm and cascading down a golden wristlet it wore. To that, my teacher oohed and complimented the details in the fingernails.

She may not have realized it then—or maybe she did—but over the course of the year, she paved for me a very, very important foundation of trust upon which I’d build all of my future creative relationships upon—throughout my high school career, to my college career, even to this day in my adult life. She gave me the artistic freedom to express whatever it was that lived within me without judgment or concern. She didn’t call my parents and warn them that I was a troubled child. She didn’t urge me away from the darkness I was so clearly exhibiting. She never once shied away or recoiled from my work; she fucking embraced it. And with a cheery smile. And with a warm, grandmotherly shake of encouragement on the sleeve of my Nine Inch Nails shirt and my black wrist cuffs.

Maybe I didn’t even know the lesson she was teaching me. But she taught it nonetheless, and I am forever grateful for the freedom of creativity she allowed me to have.

Never say no to those dark demons inside you. Move in and make friends with them. Pour a few cups of tea and learn from them. Let them out to play now and then and learn to love the way they are for what they are. Even if they’re winged and fanged or have blood oozing from their palms. Maybe an Art teacher somewhere will look over your shoulder and smile approvingly.

This is for all you misters and mistresses of darkness out there. You’re not just loved in this world; you’re needed.

With so much love & Happy Reading,

Daryl

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

This Kindle edition of Beneath The Skin ends at 50%, since it also includes Read My Lips, the complete first book in the series – now with a previously unreleased bonus epilogue!

It is still recommended to read Beneath The Skin beforehand, as the bonus epilogue takes place after the events of the second book – and you won’t want to miss it. Also, make sure to continue reading for an exclusive sneak peek at book 3 of the College Obsession Romance Series!

And as always, happy reading!

~ Daryl

BRANT

They call me a player, but really I’m a lover.

I fall in love seven days a week.

Give me a few minutes and I’ll charm my way into any woman’s heart. Give me a few hours and I’ll have her flat on her back, headboard dented, panties on the lampshade, and begging for more—guaranteed. It’s all a game, and when I play, everyone wins.

Until the day I’m knocked off my feet by Nell, the bangin’ chick with the killer bod from the art school.

No, it isn’t some love-at-first-sight kind of thing. In fact, I hate how she looks at me with those sharp, gorgeous eyes and suddenly I’m tripping over my feet, my swagger lost. With just a flick of her long, dark hair, she deflects all my advances. She doesn’t laugh at my jokes. She makes me feel like I’m the joke. She’s playing the same game I do, but all the rules are different—and not in my favor.

What is it about this woman that drives me crazy?

I want to slip beneath her skin the way she’s so deftly slipped beneath mine.

Now, she’s got her hands on a new art project.

I’d rather she had them on me.

BRANT

Every chick who passes through my bed, I love her so hard.

So, so, so hard.

“You look pretty today,” I would tell the girl straddling me … if only her hand gripping my neck let up any.

“Harder!” she cries out, her hair thrashing everywhere as she twists and writhes atop me as if some ancient sex demon were possessing her. I’d happily take credit for her otherworldly pleasure if I thought I had anything to do with it. This crazy chick’s in another dimension.

“I can’t breathe,” I try to tell her through the chokehold.

“Oh, God, I’m so close,” she moans for the eighth time since she ripped off my favorite shirt—which I will mourn later—and threw me onto the cold, tiled floor of the art studio. If it weren’t for the privacy screen we’re behind, we’d be in full view of the empty studio, which I’m pretty sure is about to hold a class in less than ten minutes.

It’s okay; I’ve handled worse time constraints. “Keep it down,” I rasp through her clenching hands. “Someone will hear—”

“Harder!” she commands anyway. This crazy woman has the brute strength of a she-monster with eight vaginas.

Am I fucking her, or is she fucking me?

But I’m not one to back down from a challenge, even if I’m being slowly strangled to death. I make do, gripping her hips and performing a series of thrusts that beat any ab workout I’ve ever done. I’m getting close, too. I don’t know what the hell kind of flying horny mantis yoga position we’re in, but this shit’s not for beginners. Seriously, I think I’ve already herniated my spine in three places.

“Oh, GOD! Brian! Oh, Brian, fuck!”

“It’s Brant,” I choke out.

When she comes, her grip on my throat tightens so much, I feel veins popping, and tears of exasperation flood my eyes. And as my face becomes a roadmap for the blind, the woman emits an inhuman shriek (of pleasure, I hope?) that might have just rattled the privacy screen and made every nearby brush quiver in its jar.

We just exorcised a demon here.

“Thank you,” she murmurs vaguely, eyes closed. Then she mercifully lets go of my throat and I suck in my first breath in an hour. “Oh, that was so good. That was so, so, so good.”

I’m still moving my hips, trying to get myself there now that I have a supply of oxygen to my brain. “I’m pretty close myself.”

“So, so good,” she finishes, then slides off my body.

My hard, wrapped cock pops out of her, wagging desperately in the open air. “Baby … You’re not gonna leave me hangin’ here, are you?”

“It’s just that this class is about to start, and I need to be down the hall for my own,” she complains after giving her phone a smirk. “Fuck, I’m gonna be late, too.”

She slips on her top, but only pulls up her jeans halfway before I’m at her back, gently running a finger down her arm.

“You gonna be so cruel to me, sweet thing?” I murmur in her ear, feeling her arm prickle at my touch. “My big guy’s feelin’ all left out. Don’t you want him to cross the finish line too? Hear the whistles and the roar of the crowd?”

“We’re about to hear the roar of a classroom.”

“My big guy’s still excited to see you,” I point out, poking her with it.

She giggles, then peers down, as if needing to check. Yeah, all eight inches of my “excitement” are pressed firmly against her thigh. I can see her eyes counting them.

She turns to me, that crazy hunger filling her face again. I smile back, despite a sudden concern that she could legitimately turn into a savage cat and pounce on me for lunch. “You didn’t come?”

I suppose it’s tricky to come when all your energy’s spent resisting a fight-or-flight response due to a very genuine fear of being fucked to death. “A real man always gets his lady off first,” I tell her instead, bringing my lips to her ear for a nibble. “A real man makes sure his lady is satisfied, smiling, and all full-up.” I know just how to work her; I could talk her right back out of those clothes and into round two if I wanted.

“Your lady?” Her eyes glimmer with hope.

I give her my signature crooked smile, slipping even closer to her, and our hips reconnect. “All mine.”

“And you make sure your ladies are … all full-up?”

“All full-up of me,” I amend.

The next instant, her hands clutch my bare ass cheeks and she pulls me against her. Message received. I reach under her thighs, lifting her up and slipping myself inside in one smooth motion. And it’s against the wall behind that rickety privacy screen that I empty myself inside her as her wails fill the room yet again. After I’m finished, I keep going, ensuring she gets her seconds.

She does.

“Y’know, you’re not as bad as they say,” she says when her clothes are, in fact, completely on.

I pull off the condom and tie it off, looking around for somewhere to dispose of it. Then I suddenly realize what she just said. “Wait a sec. Bad?” I ask, leaning against the wall, still naked, and folding my arms.

“Tammy warned me about you.”

“Tammy?”

“Yeah.” She smooths out her wrinkled top as she goes on. “As did Lindsey and Laney and Mira and Mark.”

“Mark?”

“Your ex Nicole Pressley. He’s her brother—and a friend of mine.”

I squint. Who the fuck is Nicole Pressley? “Ah, I see,” I say instead.

“They say nasty things about you. You’re a player. You use women. Nicole’s brother told me how you broke his sister’s heart right after you broke her foot. Y’know, when you dropped a bowling ball on it.”

Oh. That Nicole. “I see my reputation precedes me.”

“But you’re sweet,” she says, smiling so tight that her eyes scrunch up. She runs her hands through her chin-length auburn hair, trying to make an arrangement of it. “Do I look presentable?”

“Angelic,” I answer, still trying to remember Nicole’s face.

After giving me a shrug and a blushing smile, she sweeps out from behind the privacy screen, leaving me alone with my thoughts. Even as my heart rate slows, I already feel horny again. My sexual appetite is insatiable; it’s like going out for dinner, eating the whole menu, then leaving the restaurant hungrier than you were when the hostess first greeted you with her big eyes and saccharine voice.

You know it’s bad when you’re bored not a minute after you come.

I’m drawn out of my thoughts when I realize my clothes aren’t in front of me. Then it hits me: She tore off my favorite shirt by one of the easels. That’s also right about when I feverishly kicked off my pants and underwear. It was all done in a scuffle while we were on our lip-locked way toward the privacy screen.

At the same moment that I realize where my clothes are, I hear a pair of innocent footsteps in the room. A student has arrived. Fuck. Then I hear more footsteps, followed by more voices. Two students have arrived. Double fuck.

Don’t worry. This isn’t some extraordinary situation I’m in. Really, it’s just another day in the life of Brant Rudawski.

I look for my phone, then realize it’s in my pants, slapping my bare thigh in the discovery. I breathe slowly, listening to the commotion on the other side of the screen as it steadily grows with the accumulation of more and more students. Gnawing the inside of my cheek and staring at the wall in front of me, I wonder at which point I should start to panic or calculate some way out of this.

“Pencils at the ready,” comes a voice, echoing through the studio.

The chatter seem to cease at once, replaced with the shuffling of pencils and scraping of stools and chairs along the floor.

Class has started.

This is a great day.

I try to picture the room as I strategize my way out of this. The easels all faced me when I got behind the screen, if I’m recalling correctly. That fact leads me to assume that, currently, everyone’s back is to me. Right?

With a silent breath and at the precise speed of paint drying, I creep an eye around the edge of the privacy screen.

Confirmed: Everyone’s back is to me.

Also confirmed: My discarded pants are squished against the wall not five quick, booty-shakin’ paces away from me.

Do I risk it?

One of the students in the back of the class tosses her long, dark hair, which catches the attention of my eyes, widening at the sight of her. As my eyes trail down a perfect, hourglass backside, she now earns the full attention of my dick.

I’m not the timeliest fellow, but when I see a pretty girl, my mental list of priorities rearranges itself accordingly. My situation is forgotten and the shape of that bangin’ babe is all that fills my unblinking eyes.

I’m already getting hard again. I get an A+ for timing.

She squirms a bit on the stool, her tight ass filling those jeans and enticing me. Damn, girl. Her black shirt clings to her perfect, supple frame but doesn’t quite meet her jeans, giving me a wink of her smooth, creamy skin.

I already imagine myself teasing my fingers under it and slipping that thing right off.

I bet her lips taste good.

Just then, her sketching stops—pencil pressed to the paper—and she turns her head slightly, as if sensing my attention. Her eyes drop to the jeans on the floor, then narrow at the discovery of them. I see the thoughts working in her face. Then, she turns her head towards me.

I jerk my face back behind the screen, my heart hammering like a prisoner behind the bars of my ribcage. Did she just see me? I clench my fists, the sweat making my underarms feel like jelly, and control my breath. I’m fairly certain that the whole class can hear the drumming in my chest. My heart is rattling the easels as we speak.

I wait, clenching my eyes. You imagined it, I convince myself. Don’t worry, Brant. She totally didn’t see you.

But she sure as fuck saw my pants.

Every minute that passes is another minute that the professor, or a student, could notice my lovely article of clothing crumpled against that wall and … well, my little situation wouldn’t be made any better if my pants are taken away.

Not to mention that my phone is not on vibrate and could go off at any second.

My wallet’s in the pocket too, I just realized. Fuck me sideways.

Is class over yet?

The minutes tick by slowly. Plus, I’ve developed an untimely urge to pee, which is further exasperated by the fact that I’m naked and the AC just kicked on, pulling a torturously gentle breeze through the room and over my sensitive skin. I cross my arms tightly and wait, squeezing my legs together and begging the usually-merciful gods of lady luck to quit tormenting me and end the class already.

Someone gets up from their stool, then the evil footsteps approach. No, no, no. They stop just short of the privacy screen. Oh, god, no. I cup my cock and balls by instinct, bracing myself for the professor to catch me standing here and for my life to end.

Then a face emerges. I can’t even bring myself to look, clenching shut my eyes. Maybe if I don’t see them, they won’t see me.

When the presence doesn’t go away, I finally peek open an eye.

It’s her.

The hot girl from the back row.

And she’s staring at me with the intensity of some furious, feral creature. Her eyes are a rich, powerful green made all the more fierce by her thick black eyeliner. All her dark hair is pulled over a shoulder, spilling down her front and over her breasts. Good lord, she’s been amply blessed in that department, too.

She might call for the professor. She might simply call me out and watch me run. She could do any assortment of things that would bring my college career to a snappy, instant end.

So naturally, I respond to all that fear by giving her my signature cocky smirk, then nod my head upwards at her.

A look of amusement fills her striking, emerald eyes.

Then, as if I was nothing but a department store mannequin, she reaches around me and pulls something off the shelf—a brush, a pencil, a machete … I wouldn’t know, for all the care I’m giving it. Then, with a roll of her eyes, she leaves me, her footsteps fading until she’s returned to her easel.

And I’m still holding my junk … and now my breath.

The lady luck gods answer my pleas unexpectedly soon afterwards, and when the room is at last cleared, I make a dash for my pants, then slip on what remains of my shirt. And my dignity.

It’s in the courtyard outside that I catch up to her. She’s heading for the tunnel over which the School of Art sits. I have to make up for the awkward situation she caught me in at the very least. Maybe I’ll get a name out of her too, if lady luck’s still on my side.

Then tonight when I have her talked into slipping beneath my sheets, I’ll go all Picasso on that sexy ass of hers.

“Hey, hey, hey,” I sing, coming up to her side and keeping pace with her as she walks.

She regards me with nothing but half a glance and a smirk.

“Bad first impression,” I admit. “Really, you caught me in a—”

“For a second there,” she interrupts, staring ahead as we walk, “I thought you were the nude model for our life art lesson. That is, until I reminded myself that the class isn’t until Wednesday.”

“You think I’m a model? Is that what you think I am?”

“I know exactly what you are,” she says, still not looking at me, then cuts abruptly down a path to the left, her long, straight hair tossed like a whip at her back as she goes. The effect is so strong, I stop pursuing at once, frozen in place and watching her as she goes.

“What am I, then?” I call out to her, feeling smart.

The silent swish of her dark hair and the sway of her tight ass is my answer as she fades into the distance. I feel a tightening in my stomach, as if her very existence was a gauntlet thrown at my feet. It’s going to take quite an impressive act to get her attention; that much, I can tell.

Something about the way she puts me off really gets me hard.

An hour later, I find myself under a big oak tree just outside the University Center, and I’m sharing two halves of a foot-long bacon sub with one of my roommates, Dmitri.

“W-Wait, wait,” he stammers, poking the bridge of his black, thick-rimmed glasses with a long pale finger. “You were … naked?”

“Ass-out, balls-out naked.” I’m talking through a mouthful, which Dmitri hates. Maybe that’s why I do it. “And this hot chick in the class came back to grab something, and—”

“Saw you.”

“Saw me,” I confirm. “And she was … she was smokin’. Did I ever mention how many hot girls are at the School of Art? Best decision of my life, switching to photography.”

“What’s that? Your ninth major so far? Tenth?”

“No idea. Doesn’t matter. The art school is girls galore.”

“But what about the dancer? I thought you and her—”

“Dude, she’s nuts. Well, she’s nice, but nuts. Must be all the five-six-seven-eights. Crazy people count to themselves, right? I mean, it’s really more of a friends-with-benefits thing anyway.”

“Does she know that?” he asks. I don’t answer, staring down at my sub and determining where to take my next bite. “I had a dancer friend my freshman year. Male, gay, his name was Ian,” he goes on. “He went all weird on me after I wrote a piece about a ballerina who turned into an albino tarantula and ate her dance instructor. I was inspired. I thought it was a good idea at the time.”

“You and your poems,” I tease through my next mouthful.

“It was a short story piece. I’m not a poetry major. How many times do I gotta tell you? I’m a creative writing major.”

“But you write poems, too. Hell, you take poetry classes.”

“And you gotta take Art History as part of your curriculum. Are you a History major?”

“No.”

“Case and point.” Dmitri whips off his glasses and runs the back of his wrist across his sweaty forehead. “This damn heat. So tell me,” he mutters, popping his glasses back on, “you just wear that thing around your neck to look smart? Or are you planning on actually taking pics sometime this semester?”

“Shit, this old thing?” I tease, lifting the staggeringly expensive camera hanging around my neck. “It’s really just an excuse to hit up the girls. All I gotta tell them is I’m shooting for the campus newspaper, or doing a piece on college life. Girls eat that shit up, bunching up and looking all cute, their tits pushed together …”

Dmitri shakes his head, biting off another healthy chunk of his sub. His judgments of me are written all over his smirking face.

“You change paths with the wind,” he gripes. “Don’t you have, like, a goal? If you keep swapping majors every semester, you’ll be lucky to graduate before you’re 30. What were you last year? Engineering? Or was it Psychology? I don’t even remember.”

“Maybe I should switch to Theatre. I could annoy the shit out of Clayton and Dessie.”

“And risk running into Chloe again? No way.”

“Good point,” I snort. Chloe is this weird goth girl I messed around with for a week or two last year before she got all clingy and I lost interest. She didn’t take the rejection well.

“So … you and the dancer are totally done?”

“We weren’t really ‘started’, so to speak …”

“I get it.” Dmitri leans against the thick trunk of the tree, his sandwich lowered to his lap. “You’ve had your fill. Tossing her aside and looking for the next lucky lady.”

“You make it sound so … bad.”

“Dude, I know you. It’s your routine. Half the female population of Klangburg University’s been victim to it by now.” He chokes back a laugh. “Maybe the big ol’ man-whore’s losing his charm.”

“Not according to the she-demon who just rode me for an hour behind a privacy screen in the art room. I’d say my charm was pretty spot-on,” I boast with a sneer.

Dmitri snorts at that. “You’re good-looking, Brant, but you’re not that good-looking.”

But even as he says it, I see the lie in his black, beady eyes. He’s always been into me, I can tell. And really, who can blame him? I make a pretty hot roommate. Sometimes when we’re watching TV, I’ll pull off my shirt just for my own amusement while Dmitri sneaks glances throughout the whole movie or Netflix show we have on. I act like I don’t notice, but I do. I may not be into dudes like Dmitri is, but I like the attention no matter where I get it from. I’m used to it.

“There’s nothin’ wrong with playing the field,” I tell him, tossing the last bite of my sandwich in and leaning back in the grass, propped up by an elbow. “Imagine what kind of messed up world we’d live in if we all, like, married the first person we banged.”

Dmitri guffaws. “You’re looking for a wife now?”

“No, no, no. You kidding me?” My words shower the grass in front of me with breadcrumbs and bits of bacon. “Nah. I mean, say you go into a candy store and your eyes grow double at all the gumdrops, right? Sure, go for the gumdrops if you want, get your fill. But if you fill up on those colored little gooey sweets, you’ll never know the ecstasy waiting for you in that chocolate aisle nearby. Or how many flavors they carry of … candied apples. Or the Swedish Fish.”

He squints at me. “We still talking about candy?”

“Point is, you need to try before you buy.”

Dmitri frowns. “And what about all the diabetics?”

I sigh, staring at my roommate. “You’re not diabetic.”

“I’m playing with your metaphor,” he explains.

“Dude, you’re not a sexual diabetic, either. We’re young. We’re alive. You cannot tell me with a straight face that you have zero interest in sex, Dmitri.”

He lifts the sandwich back to his mouth, ignoring my question as the black sleeves of his shirt fall to reveal the blue-and-red tattoo that runs up his right forearm. Though you wouldn’t know it from his long hands, Dmitri is a short fellow with choppy black hair he’s let grow out a bit over the summer so that it comes down his forehead in haphazard spikes, some of which jut out unevenly over his eyes like thorns from a rosebush. If it weren’t for his black, thick-rimmed glasses, he’d be in danger of poking his eyes out with his own hair. The guy is not bad-looking by any means. He could get tail if he’d just step out of his damn room and apply himself. Everyone, males and females alike, dig the brooding-tortured-artist thing. Doesn’t he get that? I’d kill for an ounce of his creative depth. I have the creative depth of a thimble.

I squint at him. “I mean, you do have a dick, don’t you?”

Dmitri is almost successful at not choking on his sandwich. After a second of sputtering, he says, “You’re gonna run out of women, Brant. Then at night, the only thing you’ll have to cuddle with in bed are shadows and cold sheets.”

“Is that a poem?” I ask, still squinting.

“No. It’s your love life. And it’s ending, one woman at a time. And yes, I do have a dick.”

“Ah, c’mon,” I say, laughing at him. He’s so easy to rile up. “Just messing with you. Hey, want to grab some dinner later?”

“You’re about to learn a sobering lesson, Brant,” he bites back as he pulls his black button-and-patch-covered bag over a shoulder, the material of his grey-and-black-checkered shorts swishing as he stalks away. “A sobering lesson!” he calls out over his shoulder halfway across the field. I just lean back and wonder if he owns anything at all that isn’t 90% black.

“Cuddling with shadows and cold sheets,” I murmur thoughtfully, staring after him. Suddenly, my mind’s arrested all over again by the sexy cat of a woman from the art class whose name I still don’t know.

A sobering lesson? Fuck that.

I want to be the lesson.

BRANT

I can sweet-talk my way between any pair of legs.

“Yeah, the model can’t make it,” I explain, working my best charm on the desk lady. “At least, that’s what Grace said.”

“Grace?” she repeats, her chest rising and falling with anticipation.

I’ve seen that look a million times. She’s already picturing me with my clothes off. If I lick my lips, she’ll cream all over her chair. If I give her my best eyes, she’ll do anything I want.

“Grace. The head of the Art school,” I reply, my voice as light as whipped cream on a nipple. “Now, Irene, I gotta warn you—”

“Irma,” she corrects me dreamily, her unblinking eyes glued to me.

“Cute name.” I shoot her a wink. “Now, Irma, it’s very possible that the original model might still show up. So, you know, if he does, he needs to be sent away. Grace’s orders.”

“Sent right away,” she agrees, furrowing her brow.

She bought the whole damn thing. I’d laugh if I didn’t think it’d blow my cover. Really, just give me a chance to flash my smile and my baby blues, and I can pretty much get a woman to believe anything.

I lift my brows. “So, doll, wanna tell me which room it is?”

“14 … um, 1401,” she stammers. “Hall A, the first one.”

Of course, I already knew. “Thanks, Irma. You saved my life,” I tell her. That’s what I tell them all—you saved my life. Girls eat that shit up.

The professor waits outside the classroom, a woman who looks like she hasn’t slept in days. She seems confused when I explain the little predicament, but I have her smiling in no time. She gives me a robe and tells me where to change after giving me a surprised once-over she thinks I didn’t notice. Maybe she was expecting an older model.

Maybe I also notice how her breathing changes.

Women is a language I speak fluently.

Behind the privacy screen, I experience a sudden rush of joy. If I squint, I can swear I still see the sweaty silhouette of the dancer I pressed against that wall not two days ago. The thought makes me grin, and the next second makes my underwear drop.

Goodbye, clothes.

When I come out from behind the screen wearing just the robe, I’m faced with the backs of the artists at their easels. I lift my chin and lock my jaw. This is going to be so fucking great. I already can’t wait to see Clayton’s expression when I tell him what the fuck I did today. I’m about to be the envy of every woman and man in this room.

I strut through the sea of art students, drawing their attention one at a time as the professor announces my arrival. The lonely stool in the center of the room awaits my tight tush.

“Whenever you’re ready,” urges the professor, her voice a tad too tight in the throat.

Just when my eyes meet the front row, I see her.

And oh yes, she sees me.

Her eyes tighten with recognition, becoming a squint that nearly burns a hole through me. Boy, she’s one fierce-looking woman. Her jet black hair is swept over the side of her slender neck, and her deep black eyeliner lends the dissecting stare she’s already giving me an even more dangerous allure.

Dangerous to other men. I face her with my boldest grin, undoing the robe, then let it drop to the floor.

The room sees my cock. I observe their collective gaping.

Yeah, I’m used to that reaction.

The woman in front, however, she doesn’t seem to regard it at all, her sharp eyes penetrating me from behind her easel. She crosses her legs, unimpressed, though I’d be lying if I said I didn’t see a tinge of amusement in her eyes.

I’ve got her.

I take my position on the stool, doing that one-foot-on-the-ground-and-one-foot-on-the-second-rung-of-the-stool thing. I rest my hands comfortably near my hips, proudly on display, and throw my gaze to the side, as if that hot woman whose attention I totally have doesn’t mean a thing. I know how these mind games work, and she’s about to find out how expert-level I am.

The calm room becomes a chorus of pencil scratches, tiny sighs, and creaking from shifting stools.

Unable to help it, I turn my chin slightly, meeting her eyes.

She smirks, bringing the pencil to her lips and biting softly.

Fuck.

Sitting on this stool, totally naked, in front of a class full of women and men who are meticulously drawing my every outline, shadowing my every curve and cut of muscle, right down to my big dick … I find myself suddenly caught with an entirely different, unplanned concern.

I can’t let myself get hard.

Not in front of the whole classroom.

I look away from her. Then, I can’t look away, glancing back.

Her tongue teases out, touching the tip of her pencil as she quietly studies me. Already, I’m imagining what that tongue could do to me.

I’m fucking naked. I have nowhere to hide.

In seconds, I’ve been converted from the cock on the block to … the cock on a block. I’m a dude with his junk exposed to the world, and I’m slowly being worked up and turned on by that evil girl.

Is my cock stirring? Everyone’s watching.

The scraping of pencils on paper. The creaking of easels and chairs. A long breath in the back of the room. The clearing of a throat.

I swallow, bringing my eyes back to her.

She shifts in her seat, crossing her legs the other way.

Fu-u-u-u-ck. Don’t get hard. Don’t get hard. Don’t get hard.

Her eyes draw down my body, landing on my cock. The way she looks at it, I can almost feel her fingers wrapping around it.

The end of that pencil breaches her lips. I catch a flick of her evil tongue, imagining how that tiny flick would feel on the tip of my dick.

And her lips, wrapping around the end.

Her warm mouth enveloping it.

I suck in a jagged breath of air. If I control my breath, I can control my cock from getting hard. I hold my breath, blinking and fighting all the blood in my body that’s quickly rushing south.

Her lips curve into the tiniest hint of a smile.

Oh, yeah? Does my predicament amuse you?

Suddenly, I find my confidence again. The rush of heat subsides, and I look down at her legs, wrinkling my forehead ever so subtly. I consider what sort of warmth is gathering between them right now.

Haven’t I been reading the signs? She’s turned on, too.

When I look up from her sexy, squeezed-together legs, her intense eyes are on me, and they’ve changed. They’re defiant. It’s like I literally just touched her without her permission.

Now it’s my turn to wear the nearly-undetectable smirk of victory.

Her eyes narrow.

I got you.

It isn’t much longer before the professor makes an announcement, and then class is finally over. With a careless bend downward, I reclaim the robe, shrugging myself back into it and glancing at my eye-fuck-slash-mind-fuck partner, only to find her packing up her supplies.

In the noise of others chatting and gathering their things, I stroll by her easel, catching sight of her sketch.

“Hmm,” I mumble, studying it. “I think your … proportions … are a little on the small side,” I note with a leering nod at my junk.

She regards me with two dark eyes that struggle to hide their amusement. “Actually,” she says, her words seeming to lick my ears with their breathiness, “I think I got it just right.”

She smirks, amused, then zips up her supply bag. Ouch.

I chuckle, undaunted. “Maybe you need a new pair of contacts,” I tease her, crossing my arms as I peer into those rich green eyes that glow like pure emeralds in that sea of black eyeliner she wears.

“Nope,” she answers curtly, tucking her supply bag under a slender arm. “Perfect vision.” Her eyes trail down my body like a smooth set of fingers, landing at my crotch. “I just draw it how I see it.”

“I’m Brant,” I tell her. “I could … give you a closer look sometime. Maybe tonight, if you’re free.”

She lifts her eyes, those gorgeous greens flashing.

She stops my breath.

Her lips curl, amused. “I’ve seen enough.”

Then she turns, her hair flipping, and she saunters away, her ass hugged by those tight, black jeans of hers. I can’t take my eyes off of them.

With a grin, I crack my knuckles. Looks like I have my work cut out for me. Hard-to-get is a game I’m quite used to.

And I’m ready to play.

NELL

Animals seem to love me.

Especially the dogs.

My mom had an enormous one. He was named Dog. He was so big that he looked like a deadly wildebeest thirsty for my blood when he’d barrel down the hall, even if he was just coming to give my face an innocent lick. He terrified my friends growing up, even to the point that two of them stopped coming over for my sleepovers. I think that scary beast called Dog who I loved was an omen for who I’d become.

My art wasn’t always so dark and terrifying and provocative. In fact, until the age of fourteen, I was a downright sweetie pie.

“Nell.”

I lift my chin, stirred from my thoughts. “Say what?”

“You’re up.”

Linus, my professor, waits at the front of the room with his usual calm and expectant face—his arms crossed, his eyebrows lifted. I rise from my desk and bring my picture to the front. Unceremoniously, I slap the thing onto the easel in the front for the class to observe, then stand next to it and stare dead-eyed at the crowd of them, awaiting the obligatory ten-minute critique that each of us are expected to endure after finishing and presenting work to the class.

Linus bristles at the sight of my work. His eyebrows lift further.

Someone in the front row sighs—this bitch named Iris with pink highlights in her pixie cut bleach-blonde hair who thinks my work is all shit; she’s let me know as much since my freshman year and always seems to end up in my same classes. Everyone else is either holding back gasps or swallowing laughter—I can’t tell.

I don’t care. I don’t do my work for them.

“And … what do you call this piece?” asks Linus, his words spilling out from lips I can’t see through the mess of his big orange beard.

“Pussy,” I answer.

Two boys titter in the front near Iris. Someone else giggles, a girl in the fifth row. Some guy in the back says, “Amazing,” but I don’t bother to identify him. I’m just ready for this critique to end so I can take my work back to my desk and get started on the next one.

Linus takes a step forward, doing his usual routine to engage the class in offering their so-called constructive criticism. “Would anyone like to—?”

“It’s very …” interrupts Garnet, whose face is nearly missing behind her curtain of brown, knotted hair, “sexual …?”

“Yes, right,” agrees Linus. “It’s … well, it’s quite an interpretation of the assignment, to say the least.”

“I thought we were supposed to draw a cat,” someone mumbles.

“It is a cat,” Garnet retorts, squinting at my work, leaning so far forward that the desk creaks beneath her weight.

“A cat with big human boobies,” says a bigmouthed guy, fascinated.

“And her legs are parted,” someone else puts in, recoiling.

The comments keep coming like tennis balls, back and forth.

“She looks like the billboard graphic to some cat brothel in … in, like, some parallel world run by cats.”

“Sick.”

“Is that nail polish on her claws? I can’t tell.”

“It’s like Playboy Cat.”

“It makes me feel sad, actually,” offers a guy with three nose rings whose voice is as small as a sigh. “Cat can’t pay rent. Resorts to catcalls on the cat corner with the other cat prostitutes.”

A girl with a nasally voice speaks up from the middle of the room. “No, this is something else. Something political. Feminist? Or it’s like, scrolling through hundreds of cat pics on Facebook, and … Or maybe it’s about how everything’s commercial now. Advertising. Billboards.”

“Everything is sex, sex, sex,” someone adds, picking up on her vein in agreement.

“If we could sexualize natural disasters and monetize every tragedy that goes down in the world …”

“We do.”

Linus, through all the commentary, seems to visibly gather patience before addressing them. “What do you think about her technique?” he offers, guiding the critique with shifting eyes. “Is there, perhaps, some way she might have better conveyed her message? Is there anything you see that deters from that message?”

I love how effectively my Pussy caught him off-guard. And while the class continues to pull my work apart, arguing about what I’m trying to say or what my boob-bearing cat means, I find my mind wandering to a picture I remember presenting my sixth grade art class. I wore a bright green dress that day and I smiled proudly when the teacher praised me in front of the room for my watercolor painting of a girl hugging an enormous dog by her side. Even sitting, the big white dog still towered over the girl. It was a beautiful picture, and if the bitches on the bus hadn’t torn it apart, I might’ve framed it when I got home. When my mom asked where my project had gone, I lied and said the teacher loved it so much, she kept it and framed it in the classroom.

Here I am, standing in front of a class and totally not protecting anyone’s feelings anymore.

“My problem is, it’s too fucking obvious.”

Everyone’s heads turn at the criticism, which had come from pink-haired Iris in the front. Her arms are crossed, legs are crossed, and eyes are squinted in mild scrutiny.

“Care to expound?” offers the professor.

She starts expounding before he even finishes the question. “It’s so literal. Cat. Sex. Boobs. Great, thank you, my mind is so stimulated. Where’s the creativity? Where’s the originality? I swear I saw a meme of this very thing in my Twitter feed last night.”

“Let’s be constructive,” Linus coaches her. “How do you feel she might have better conveyed—”

“I’m not going to do the work for her,” blurts Iris, crossing her legs the other way.

I pay her words as much mind as they deserve: none.

Linus itches his beard, studying my work. “Perhaps this picture is … providing us with the problem. And maybe what it lacks is a solution.”

I can’t mask the smirk that comes over my face. “Solution?”

“Your picture …”

“Pussy,” I correct him, because he might as well say the name.

He smiles, his every word gentle and carefully chosen. “Pussy … is asking us, the viewers, a question. Yes? Perhaps what we’re lacking from your work is the answer.”

“Oh. I see.” I consider the room of agreeing faces for a moment, then turn to my professor again. “Should I provide a spoon with my picture, then?”

Linus doesn’t follow. “A spoon?”

“Yeah. So you can spoon-feed yourself my work instead of having to think on a solution or an answer on your own,” I spit back. “God forbid my art causes anyone to think for themselves. Isn’t that the point?”

Iris blows air through her lips, rolling her eyes. “I love how you pass this pretentious crap off as ‘art’,” she mutters, making air quotes with her fingers.

The class is unrested for a moment, stools shifting and a whisper of scandal bursting here and there. I toss my hair at all of it and grab my work off the easel, refusing for it to be judged any further by these elementary morons. I head for the door.

“Nell.”

I stop only because it’s Linus who says my name. I turn, allowing him my last ounce of patience.

“Sometimes we must hear the opinions of others. It’s the only way we can grow as artists, don’t you agree? It’s important to process the—”

“I’ve processed enough,” I say, cutting him off.

He lifts his brow, surprised by my lip, I assume. Then, with a tilt of his head, he asks, “Do you know when an artist dies?”

I stare at him, deadpan. “Is this some kind of knock-knock joke? How many artists does it take to screw in a light bulb? What are you getting at?”

“Do you know when an artist dies?” he repeats.

I frown, then humor him. “When?”

“When she thinks she has nothing left to learn.”

The heads in the class turn slowly to face me, as if they’re afraid of my reaction to his frigid last words to me. The clench I have on my artwork tightens. My eyes narrow, hating everyone in the room in an instant, and suddenly I’m in sixth grade again clutching a picture of a girl cheerily hugging an enormous white dog. I’m in sixth grade and I’m wearing that bright green dress, feeling so proud that I could burst, and can’t wait to take my pretty picture home to show my mom—a pretty picture she’d never see.

I miss that girl in the bright green dress.

I let the door shut loudly behind me as I leave. When I pass the nearest trash bin, I throw my Pussy into it, then shove out of the double doors and into the courtyard. Ten seconds and a deep breath later, I slip back into the building, return to that same trash bin, and pull my work right back out, smoothing it gently against the wall. The longer I look at it, the more I start to calm down. One deep breath in, one deep breath out, and I give my deranged, whorish cat a soft smile.

I really, really miss that girl in the bright green dress.

Back outside, there’s something about passing through the tunnel that has me thinking about that guy named Brant again. Instantly, the cloud of bitterness around me parts, disintegrating to let in the sunlight. That sunlight happens to be his cocky face, and the further the clouds fade, the more of him I see: his smooth toned pecs, his rippling abs, his taut thighs and shapely calves.

His big dick.

I find myself smiling suddenly, all the anger from my art class gone in an instant. The girl in the green dress is very much alive; I have to believe that. The guy named Brant, though I know him for precisely what he is, is also the only guy who’s dared to breach my bubble in a very long time. Everyone else is too intimidated. Everyone else prefers to stare at me from a distance and whisper to their friends. I can only imagine what they say. “She’s a witch,” I’m sure I’ve heard. “She sacrificed her own sister for some Satanic blood ritual!” I wouldn’t doubt they’ve said that, too. “She keeps one of her ex-boyfriends in a basement and cuts off a tiny piece of him every morning to put in her breakfast cereal!”

Maybe I made that last one up.

The point is, I have no idea who the hell that goofball womanizer-wannabe Brant is or where he came from, but I’m determined to test him at every opportunity, no matter how adorable or sexy or hot I think he is—and no matter how strong he comes on to me.

He wants to have fun? He’s going to learn fast that I get my fun first.

When I emerge from the other side of the tunnel, I sit down on the grassy knoll outside the psychology building and pull out my phone. After tapping her face on the screen, I bring it to my ear.

“Bitch, please,” is the first thing Minnie says. “Again?”

I sigh. “They were talking shit about Pussy and just weren’t getting it. I’m so ready to get the hell out of this school.”

“You’ve walked out of that class, like, ten times already.”

“We haven’t even had ten classes yet. School year’s just begun.”

“Nell. How many times do I have to say it? Don’t let the world ruin your art. Let your art ruin the world.”

I sigh and kick something in the grass. If it weren’t for this one person I have in my ear right now, I’d be pretty convinced that there wasn’t a person left on this planet who wasn’t totally put-off or offended by my very existence. People don’t like me. I don’t easily make friends and I live alone. Maybe that’s why I’m so good with animals.

Maybe Brant’s just a big, dumb animal.

“Nell?”

I bite a finger and rue the day I quit smoking; I could really use one right about now. “I need to leave this campus. You coming to get me?”

“No, I have that thing with Crystal, remember? Besides, I’m stuck on I-10, sweetie. HELLO, WELCOME TO MY LANE, ASSHOLE. Sorry. I’m an hour away pushing through Houston traffic. Listen, I’m all about you getting out of that school, but I want you to be carrying a degree when you do. Don’t just drop out like I did.”

I can’t stop picturing Brant sitting on that stool in front of me naked as his birthday—except I doubt he had that many muscles when he was born. It’s impressive, to be as slender as he is, yet to be so toned and cut with muscle in every curve of his sinewy body.

He is such a lean, mean cut of meat.

“Remember the nude model I told you about last night?”

“Yeah. The one with the big dong. How can I forget?”

I swallow a chuckle. “I was thinking of taking him to see Object. You know, the piece for my—”

“Oh, yes!” she cuts me off excitedly. “For your thing this weekend!”

“Right, my thing this weekend.”

“Do you think you’ll get into the End Of Year Showcase? You have shown your latest work to Diane and Jacquelyn, haven’t you?”

I grip the phone a bit tighter at her words, glancing off as a stray breeze catches my face and tosses my hair. “Diane’s always been good with me. It’s Jacquelyn whose taste is questionable.”

“Now, now …”

“It is,” I argue before she’s had a chance to say anything. “She has the emotional depth of a doorknob and wouldn’t know true artistry or innovation if her face were made out of it.”

“Considering the amount of makeup she wears, it is made out of it.”

“I’m going to have a piece in the showcase,” I go on. “There’s no doubt in my mind. The only question is, will they let me show the piece I want to show? Or will they censor and silence me?”

“I wouldn’t recommend offering them Pussy.”

“But Object, maybe …”

“Nell. You’re pushing it.”

“That’s what I’m made to do, Minnie,” I retort, pulling hair behind my ear to get it out of my face as the wind has its way with it. “Push. It’s an artist’s responsibility. If you’re not pushing, then you’re being pushed. And anyone in a crowded subway station will tell you, unless you’re making an effort to push through the bodies, you’re gonna miss the train.” I smirk knowingly. “And I’m not missing the train.”

“Well,” grunts Minnie, unimpressed, “if you’re feeling all that fiery inspiration, I’m not going to stop you. I hope your new big-dong friend enjoys Object as much as you do. Maybe he’ll inspire your next piece, the one you submit for the End Of Year Showcase, provided he survives you long enough to inspire. He sounds like a tasty drumstick.”

“Shut up. I haven’t had lunch yet.”

She screams an obscenity, causing me to jerk my ear away from the phone for a second. “Sorry about that. Go have fun with big-dong, but remember to leave a little bit of him intact when you’re through.”

“You think so little of me,” I murmur teasingly, thinking about his bright blue eyes, “like I’m some kind of monster.”

“We’re all some kind of monster,” she retorts. “Just some of us have the sense to know it.”

“Bye, Minnie.”

“Don’t eat him alive!”

I hang up, slipping the phone back in my pocket with a smile, then bring the slightly-wrinkled picture of a cat to my face, looking over it for a while. It’s so intricately done. No one noticed the dilated eyes. I can’t stand the people in my class, how they just look at the surface of everything. They see what’s in front of them—and by seeing just what’s in front of them, they see nothing.

The skin is the lie. The truth of all art, lovers, and monsters lives beneath it.

Right then as I’m thinking of monsters, I spot Brant strolling by on the main crosswalk with a dude at his side who looks like the singer of a punk band from the 90’s. His friend is decked out in a long-sleeved black button-down shirt (in this weather?) and grey acid-washed shorts that cut off just below the knee. Brant sports a t-shirt and jeans, his hair, a spunky brown mess. They both stop chatting to pay witness to a pretty girl walking by, after which they turn to each other and grin stupidly, punching each other’s shoulders encouragingly. Then, Brant lifts the camera hanging from his neck and snaps a shot of her ass from behind. Excited as a pair of prepubescent boys under bed sheets discovering their maturing dicks for the first time, the boys study the photo he took as they disappear, unseen, into the art school tunnel.

My heart would sink right about now.

Y’know, if I had one.

It wouldn’t be foolish of me to consider that exchange just another moment of fun between two buddies. Surely I’ve done similar things with girlfriends, passing by a hot guy on campus and snatching a creeper shot of his ass with my phone. I’m not riding some moral high ground when I look down on Brant (literally, as I sit up here on this grassy hill) and judge him for his horny photographic antics; I’m riding my self-pitying low ground upon which I’m so much better acquainted.

It’s easier living life on the bottom rung. There’s a certain security you find in the fact that you can’t sink any lower.

Fuck Brant.

I rise from the grass and make way for the opposite edge of campus, chasing the sun westward as I pass the University Center, the Quad dormitories, and the vast concrete desert we call a parking lot. When I reach the main street, I walk across the middle without bothering to head down to the proper crossway at the stoplight.

A forty minute stroll brings me to the front steps of the Westwood Light where a certain frizzy-haired caramel-skinned woman with pencil arms on a smoke break lifts an eyebrow. Upon recognizing me, she lifts her carton to offer me one.

I stare down at the box, my skin crawling and my heart jerking. I force my chin up. “No thanks, Alisa. How’re the kids today?”

“Quiet,” she answers.

I give her a nod, then pat her shoulder as I slip inside. The familiar musk invades my nostrils as I pass through the halls and into the activity room. The usuals are by the window. The other usuals are by the TV. The twin girls are sitting in their matching chairs, reading.

“Nell!” cries one of the boys, capturing the attention of the others.

And in no time, I’m assaulted by nine of them. It’s not unlike being assaulted by nine enormous dogs—except these are children ranging in age from seven to thirteen. Yeah, even the thirteen-year-old boy with the awkward spaghetti legs rushes to me, face beaming.

I guess I’m good with kids, too. It’s only because they don’t know any better.

“We ran out of paper,” complains one of the girls.

“And Miss Marcy took the markers away,” says a little boy, “because stupid Peter kept sucking on the red one like a lollipop.”

“No, I wasn’t!”

“Miss Marcy took the paints, too.”

I frown at them. “Well, darn. I didn’t bring anything with me this time.”

Then, in that same instant, I realize I left my own artwork on that grassy knoll back at campus. Yes, a delicately illustrated cat with big nippled boobs abandoned in the grass. Shit. By now, some vicious campus crows have likely abducted it, pecked it into pieces, and made little Pussy nests up in the trees with all my hard work.

There’s some sort of irony there about birds and pussy, but I’m too annoyed at my oversight to pinpoint it.

“What’ll we do, then?” asks a girl with big blank eyes.

Alisa has returned from her break, the nicotine cloud half-following her. In one hand, she has her carton of smokes and a lighter palmed.

I snatch the lighter from her, earning a gasp of protest. “Crayons?” I ask, surveying the kids. “Surely the crayons I brought last time—”

“Crayons are for babies!” whines a boy, scowling.

“Yeah, yeah, you say that now,” I mutter back, crossing the room with the lighter.

I snatch a dusty vase off the shelf and give it one quick blow, scattering little cloudy dragons of grey matter into the air. Then, between a toddler’s wire-and-bead maze and a basket of stuffed aliens and a purple lion that’s missing an eye, I claim the box of crayons.

“Here,” I say, setting the vase on the main activity table as the kids gather around curiously. Alisa watches from the door, squinting as I pop open the crayon box. “Which color should we do first?”

“Do what with it?” ask one of the twins.

I get in the twin’s face playfully. “Well, why don’t ya pick a color and find out, silly pants?”

The twins giggle. Then one of them points and says, “Purple.”

I nod. “Perfect choice. That happens to be my favorite. Hey, Erwin. Tear the paper off this crayon for me, will you? Jessie, you pick a color too. Everyone, pick a color and tear off the paper.”

The children go to work at once. Red-orange is plucked. Ochre. Green. Silver. Maroon. Cerulean. Like flowers from a garden, each kid carefully and thoughtfully chooses a color, then tears off the wrapping, some of them giggling as they work, others acting with the acute concentration of a scientist.

The purple crayon reaches my hand. “Now this part is something that I have to do. This is dangerous, you understand? Only I can do this. Now, watch.”

I lift the crayon near the side of the vase, then flick on the lighter like Prometheus bringing fire down from the gods. Slowly, the end of the crayon begins to melt, dripping purple down the side of the vase.

“It’s melting!” shouts a girl excitedly.

“Duh, that’s what it’s supposed to do,” mumbles someone else.

“I know, dummy.”

After a few steady streams of the purple runs, decorating the side of the once-boring vase, I set down the little grape-like nub that’s left and glance at the others. “Who’s next?”

Soon, it rains green. Then it’s raining drops of bright yellow and drops of orange and drops of cerulean, glowing over the contrast of the lighter colors. In a matter of crayons, one side of the vase is covered in long, quivering strands of bumpy wax. The result is both grotesque and beautiful, and the attention of the kids is grasped utterly.

“You can find art anywhere,” I whisper to them as we melt the red and it drips like monster blood, or liquid fire trucks, or ketchup. “Life can be sort of mean to us, sure. People you know will try to silence you, but there is always room for art. Even when you have nothing. Even with no voice. You can find it in your heart, always.”

“Do the silver next! The silver!”

The next one draws a long metallic stream down the side, tiny spots and drops reaching the table and looking like little coins. I let it run as some of the kids pore over the crayon box, searching for their next color, the inspiration like a fire of its own in their crazed eyes.

“And when I was left with nothing,” I hear myself say, quieter, “I’d remind myself that I’ve made do with less.” The tiny flame from the lighter flickers in the children’s eyes as some watch with wonder and some still grip their colors, waiting, excited. “Every color is a wish. Look at all your colorful wishes running down the side of that vase. Aren’t your wishes pretty?”

BRANT

So, there’s a used condom on the kitchen counter.

“Eric.”

There’s a fucking used condom on the fucking kitchen counter.

“ERIC!”

The door to Clayton’s old room bursts open and a flush-faced Eric pops his head out, his tiny eyes wide and unblinking. “What?”

“Condom,” I say tersely, pointing a scandalized finger at the vile, offending object. “On the counter.”

Eric’s forehead wrinkles up as he leans out from the doorway. “No. Sorry, bro, but no. It was you who had the wild time the other night with that chick from the bowling alley, not me.”

“My wild night ended early, actually,” I correct him, “and it most definitely did not have any climactic opportunities in my kitchen.”

“Dude, if any of us were to be guilty of that, it would be you.”

“Listen, fuck-face, I did not—Oh, thank you for that compliment, by the way,” I cut in genuinely, flashing him a smile. “Anyway, I did not do the nasty with anyone in our kitchen. It smells like pickle juice ever since you had your little cooking accident last month and there is no humanly way to get a boner with everything smelling like pickles!”

“Well, it wasn’t me.”

“The hell it wasn’t. Pick up your jizz sack before I—”

“What the hell?” whines Dmitri, emerging from his room. “Can you two keep it down? I’m trying to sleep.”

“It’s almost noon,” I throw back.

“Exactly!” he retorts, shutting himself back into his room.

I sigh, collapsing onto a stool by the bar and the foul evidence. “Eric, do you need me to pretend like this is my merry mishap so that you’ll finally clean it up?”

His eyes narrow. “Yes.”

“Great. It was mine. I had the sexy-sexy on our counter, the same counter off of which we share pizza, consume Chinese takeout, and do our algebra homework. Now will you throw away this damn rubber containing a million of your unborn children before I throw up?”

“No.”

“And why not?”

“Because it’s yours. You just admitted it.” Eric shrugs, then slams his door shut.

I race up to the door, shaking my fist at it and clenching my teeth. What a fucker. With a sigh, I grab a dustpan and, with great and careful delicateness, I sweep the item up and let it slide to its final, permanent slumber in the trashcan. Then, after shoving my favorite orange-and-blue hat on my out-of-control bed-head hair, I grab my backpack and head out.

No offense to our new gay roommate Eric, but I miss Clayton so fucking much. Clayton’s only moved ten or so minutes away into a new place with his girl Dessie, but it still put quite a bit of distance between us. He was my dude. He was my bro-from-another-mo. I’m not as close with Dmitri, and that fact has become all the more apparent with Eric moving in and taking Clayton’s old room. At first, I thought it would be fun and adorable, having an openly gay roommate and a so-called bisexual says-he’s-not-gay roommate, but it’s just made my living situation twenty times more complicated. Dmitri won’t admit he has any feelings toward Eric, but then Eric brings home some guy he met “at a Theatre thing” and Dmitri acts like the jealous ex, bitching to me about how loud Eric “and his ho” are being as they bang against the walls doing their butt ballet.

And here I am, sitting in the middle of all that.

I find any excuse to get out of the apartment, and I’m the one paying for the most of it. Well, more accurately, my parents are. I ought to have more of a say as to what goes on within these four walls, but sometimes it feels like they own the pad. I’m a guest in my own home.

I haven’t gotten any decent tail in months. The summer was a wasteland of half-forgotten kisses and hair-pulling and names I can barely remember. The dancer chick I banged behind the screen in that art class? I know her name starts with a C, but I couldn’t save my own life if it depended on recalling the rest of it. I’m sure she can’t be bothered to remember my name either. We know what we have is a for-fun, for-now sort of thing. I’ve only banged her four times, anyway.

When I reach the usual fork in the road—one way leading to the Theatre, Music, and Art schools, the other leading to the astronomy class I have in T minus ten minutes—I spot her sauntering down the road toward the School of Art.

Just the sight of that tight, shapely body and her whips of jet black hair cast me down a hypnotic tunnel of fantasies and lady parts. I can’t close my mouth suddenly as I feel the animal take over, pulling my feet in the wrong direction. I’m taking a right suddenly where I ought to be taking a left, and soon, I’m catching up to the woman in front of whom I’ve been naked twice … and without any sex happening.

Who the hell stands naked in front of a woman that hot—twice—and doesn’t have sex?

I’m nearly tripping over the cracks in the pavement as I hurry down the path. It’s a handful of minutes later that I start to catch her scent like a damn dog. Raspberries. Vanilla. Something soft and subtle.

“Hey, hey, hey,” I sing as we reach the door at the same time. I pull it open for her. “After you.”

Her needle green eyes flick upwards, taking me in. I flash her my most gentlemanly smile as a bead of sweat tiptoes down my forehead. Damn heat. Finally, she regards my existence and passes through the door, her delicious, inviting scent dragging me in with her like a leash.

Not even a thank you?

“You heading to class?” I ask, coming to her side and attempting to keep up with her quick pace, her hair dancing gracefully from side to side as she struts.

“That’d be a logical conclusion,” she answers with her soft voice.

“What’re you gonna learn today?”

“How to paint,” she throws back sarcastically. “I’ve wondered how it all works. How do those painters get all that paint on the canvas?”

She’s toying with you, Brant. Toy with her back! “I bet we could go off somewhere and learn something no paintbrush can teach you.”

“Is that so?” she asks, unimpressed.

“You’re gorgeous. I mean—” I blink away my words. What the hell did I just say? “Hey, how about I take your photo? I got this sweet cam around my neck.” Sweet cam? Am I serious?? “Maybe I’ll do your beauty half the justice it deserves, if I’m lucky. I’m pretty lucky.”

“Oh, are you? Lucky?” She stops finally, right in the middle of the hall between two wide-open classroom doors. “You know how to use that big ol’ complicated thing?”

I swallow hard, feeling all jittery inside. Having her full attention freezes me up suddenly. “Yeah,” I squeak, then clear my throat and set my jaw, faking the confidence that I’ve totally lost. “Yep. I sure do.”

“Big ol’ scary camera like that?” she says, taking a step toward me.

I feel her heat. Or maybe it’s mine.

“Yep. I’m the … new c-camera guy. I wanna take your, uh …”

Camera guy? What the hell am I saying?

“Camera boy.” Her breath falls over my face, inviting and cool.

“Is that a yes?” I whisper, my voice lost.

Her face clouds over suddenly, the green in her eyes turning dark unless I’m imagining it. “A boy like you with a hunk of metal around your neck doesn’t make you a photographer,” she murmurs so softly, I could forget her actual words and be convinced that she was trying to seduce me into a state of gooey, limbless bliss. It’s working, by the way. “You wouldn’t know art if it turned into a scorpion and slipped down your pants.”

“Joke’s on you,” I murmur back, taking my own step toward her. “I already have a scorpion in my pants. Wanna see?”

“I’ve already seen it. Twice.” Her voice is somewhere between a hair and a kitty’s sigh. “And it’s no scorpion. And you’re no artist.”

“Then what am I?”

“A dick,” she answers almost politely. “A walking, talking dick. And when you graduate, that’s the song they’ll sing about you. The dick that every lucky girl on this campus got to know so intimately. The dick who’s got more mileage on him than the New York City metro. You’re no artist, Brant the Camera Boy.”

So—random observation, not gonna lie—I’m hard as hell right now.

“Maybe I need to be taught,” I suggest, hoping that’s the bait she’s tossing me, if she’s tossing anything at all.

“I’m not a dog trainer.”

I’m encouraged by her taunt as I smile with dimples. “So show me what art is, mystery-woman-with-the-green-eyes-who-won’t-get-out-of-my-mind. Show me all the things I’m doing wrong here.”

I lick my lips.

Her eyes jerk down to them, distracted for a second.

I got you.

“I’m a hands-on kind of learner,” I insist.

She parts her lips. My face is inches from hers. My cock aches, as if my pants could explode if she lays just a single finger on me.

She says, “Saturday at six. Meet me by the Quad fountains.”

My face wrinkles. “Saturday? I gotta wait until—?”

And then she pulls away from me, creating a vacuum between us that nearly topples me onto the floor. Her hair whipping in my face, she saunters into the classroom ahead, paying me no more mind at all. My mouth hangs open as I grasp at the last tendril of her sexy, sultry scent.

I feel a hole in my chest where I’m sure a vital organ or two ought to be. Saturday at six? What the hell am I supposed to do until then other than hold my dick in my hand?

I meander out of the building, lost in my own head. I can’t explain even for a second what this woman is doing to me. All I know is, I’m feeling this surge of awkwardness that I haven’t felt since Clayton and I were kids growing up and it was him teaching me the ways of women. I remember the way I used to freeze in front of girls … The way my throat would constrict like some jungle boa had me by the neck, its tongue tickling my ear tauntingly whenever a female was around … The complete and abhorrent blankness that would fill my brain when all I wanted to do was tell a girl she was pretty.

I’m that fool all over again around this woman with the dark hair and the green gems for eyes. I am sharing an uncomfortably familiar likeness to my former, younger, pimplier self.

It’s like puberty, but in reverse.

I’m twenty-fucking-two. That’s too damned old to be experiencing any sort of puberty whether in reverse or not. Shit, my voice even cracked in front of her. How did that happen??

As if on cue, my phone buzzes. A text from Clayton himself, who’s always too busy to hang out, being so wrapped up with Dessie.

CLAY-BOY

Dude I gotta cancel.

I growl at my phone as if he can hear me through the screen. Even if we were face-to-face, actually, he couldn’t hear my growl; he’s deaf. He’d just see me making a snarl, then make fun of me and sign something obscene at me with his hands—some vile thing he and Dmitri will understand, and I’ll be left looking like the idiot staring between them.

ME

Why????

CLAY-BOY

Dessie said rehearsal

is supposed to go late tonight.

ME

She doesn’t need any more rehearsing.

She’s perfect and everyone loves her.

Blah, blah.

We need to hang, dude.

I got real problems.

CLAY-BOY

Misplaced ur penis?

Did u check ur pants?

ME

Girl at the art school has it and won’t let go.

I live in the middle of GAY HELL at my apartment.

You and Dmitri are graduating this year

and I’m gonna be a student forever.

Help.

Me.

Plz.

CLAY-BOY

Let’s get dinner Friday or something.

Our usual place, just U and me.

ME

I’m holding you to that.

After pocketing my phone, I curse my luck. Guess I’m on my own for dinner tonight. Maybe I’ll catch a bite and get some well-needed advice from Clayton on Friday without Dessie in the way. I mean, I like her and all, but when she’s around, Clayton’s eyes (which basically are also equivalent to his ears) are all focused on her. It’s both beautiful and nauseating. I’m happy for him, but seriously, aren’t they past the honeymoon phase by now? I’m shocked neither of them popped the question yet. They’re creeping up to their one year anniversary. For some reason, just thinking about that makes me feel kinda lonely.

And Brant’s sweet little emotions aren’t consoled in the least when I make it back to the apartment and find Eric cuddling with some dude I don’t recognize on my couch. The pair of them look up at my entry, as if I’m the one invading their space.

“Don’t mind me,” I mumble at them, tossing my bag on a barstool as I pass through the living room.

“Learn anything about the stars in astronomy today?” Eric asks, his voice a bit too sweet for sincerity.

“Yeah,” I grunt back. “They’re all fuckin’ crossed.”

My bedroom door shuts behind me. It’s only the third week of school and already I’m skipping classes. Oh well. Astronomy’s a blow-off anyway, I think. I know the planet names. Pluto’s been kicked out of the club. Jupiter and all the planets behind it are gassy, including Uranus, but we all know a chewable Tums gets rid of that problem. Then there’s Venus, the planet named after the Roman goddess of love or whatever, and it’s the only planet that rotates in reverse. Which I guess makes sense, because why the fuck wouldn’t the planet named after the goddess of love betray the rules of its own solar system, rebellious little bitch that it is.

Throwing myself on my bed, the springs squeak as I picture that last look mystery green-eyed girl gave me. I see the smart twist of her lips as she smirks at me. Why do I think that, with a whip and the right circumstance, that woman could make me her bitch with one loud, sound-barrier-breaking crack?

That thought is all it takes for me to get so hard, my pants become a denim dam of pressure. I unzip and unbutton, mercifully releasing not-so-little Brant.

When my fingers wrap around him, I sigh with relief.

The woman’s green eyes in front of me, her dark hair sweeping behind her, I start jerking off until I see stars.

My legs spread by instinct, the toes in my shoes curling. My other hand grips my balls and holds on tightly as I stroke so hard and fast that the sound of my fap-fap-fap fills the room unapologetically.

The woman leans down from the pedestal I’ve placed her on, her hair curtaining my face as her lips draw near. “Camera boy,” she calls me, almost like an accusation.

“Sketch girl,” I accuse her right back, biting my lip.

“Dog,” she moans, her lips touching my ear.

“I’m lucky, lucky, lucky …” I whisper back, out of breath as my working right bicep steals away all my energy. I’m already so close, fucking my sweaty hand and imagining it’s her tight pussy I’m invading. I even buck my hips, keeping my fist in place while I thrust my cock up into and out of it, pumping, pumping, pumping.

“You know how to work that big ol’ scary thing?” she asks. “You’re no artist.”

“I’m gonna art you so hard.”

“You’re no artist.”

“I’m gonna Rembrandt your ass. Brant’s gonna Rembrandt you.”

“You’re no artist.”

I clench shut my eyes, frustrated where the fantasy keeps going. Why am I so focused on those words of hers? She doesn’t even know me yet. Do I think she’s right? Do I not belong in the art school?

“Holy shit.”

I flick open my eyes. Eric is standing at the door, wide-eyed and holding a bottle of red wine. For a solid bucketful of seconds, we stare at one another, my cock stuck in my vagina-fist.

“Well?” I prompt him, annoyed. “You here to finish me off, or you need something?”

“Corkscrew.” He lifts the bottle, indicating it.

“Drawer by the stove with the ice cream scoop and chopsticks.”

“Was that an actual offer?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow. “I mean …”

“Get me drunker and I just might take you up on that. For now, my fantasy of the hot pussy I’m dividing and conquering will do.”

“Nope. TMI. I’m good,” he blurts as he spins on his heel and slips out of the room as fast as he’d come in, the door clapping shut behind him and sounding like half a spanking.

And speaking of spanking, I resume stroking my cock as if I’d never been interrupted … except I can’t seem to see her face anymore. All I see is her backside, or the whipping of her black hair, or the blank, white nothingness of a canvas yet to be graced with a stroke of the pencil.

I breathe heavily, staring up at the ceiling and seeing nothing.

Fuckin’ nothing.

There’s a diner at the corner just off campus where Clayton, Dmitri, and I used to eat at once or twice a week all last year. It’s at this special diner that I see my best friend Clayton for the first time in almost a month. It’s just another Friday and the place is hopping like a bunny in the springtime.

I’m already seated and waiting for half an hour when Clayton Watts comes through the door in a skintight heather grey shirt that basically screams “I work out twenty-five hours a day” and “Don’t fuck with me” at the same time. Down his bicep and up the side of his blunt neck runs a network of dark, snakelike, thorny tattoos. His gaze is the dark, dangerous variety that, to those who aren’t his friends, ought to be damn intimidating to find yourself caught in.

If I was deaf like he is, I could pretend that every one of his footfalls shook the building and cast thundering booms throughout the whole diner, rattling plates and stirring silverware from their slumber.

Instead, his shoes softly shuffle as he approaches my table. His eyes find mine. “Hey,” he says, smirking down at me. “You order yet?”

“Yes. And I got you your usual.”

He sits down and lifts a quizzical eyebrow at me, to which I just nod, then point at him and hold up three fingers, then make an egg-shaped fist which looks like I’m cussing him out in some Italian hand language, but Clayton gets the message. He smirks appreciatively, then starts drumming his fingers on the table as he says, “Feels like it’s been forever since we’ve hung out, man. I miss our late nights.”

“You never come over anymore,” I complain when his eyes find my mouth, following my words. “Dessie takes up all your damn time.”

“Dessie?” He chuckles when I nod, then grabs a spoon and spins it on the table absently. “Things are getting pretty serious between us. It’s pretty fucking scary, actually, what she does to me.”

“Scary?”

“She’s got me thinking of things,” he goes on, staring down at that spoon after it stops spinning. He never used to talk this much; Dessie’s brought out his voice a lot over the past year. “Things I didn’t think I’d ever find myself thinking about, man. Kinda … kinda freaks me out.”

I lower my head to catch his gaze. “Like what?” I ask when he looks up, then tap my forehead with a finger. “What’re you thinkin’ about?”

He itches the side of his face where some dark stubble is coming in. “Like … permanent things. Long-term goals. What I want to do with my life. Or with her. Like … like maybe moving to New York someday.”

“New York??” I blurt.

His face breaks into a laugh, though only a sigh seems to escape his lips. “Dude, I told you. She’s got me all fucked up. In … in the best way possible.”

His phone vibrates and lights up, stealing his attention. As he looks down at it and starts to type a reply to whoever it is (I’ll give myself exactly one guess) I fold my arms on the table and wonder what the hell I’m gonna do without Clayton around. New York??

I sigh, my breath tickling the hairs on my arm. I mean, I guess I should have seen it coming. We all can’t just sit around our apartments playing games and sharing stories about our various sexual exploits all our lives, right? I know we need to give some honest consideration to our respective futures at some point, but to actually hear Clayton talk about it really sends my mind into a spin that begins and ends with the same question: What about me?

I don’t want to lose Clayton. Then a quiet voice in my head reminds me that I’ve already lost him as I watch him quietly text on his phone.

When he finally looks up, he smirks and says, “Dessie. Cece’s driving her crazy. Her uptight sister. Oh, she says hi.”

“Hi,” I mutter back.

The word is lost as he’s already buried back in his phone, typing to his girl, the one who stole his heart or whatever. At first, annoyance floods me. But the longer I study Clayton and the light in his eyes as his thumbs make sentences to that girl on the receiving end of them, the more my mood shifts. When I pull my own selfish needs out of the equation, I realize that all that’s left is a ringing relief and happiness that Clayton’s finally found someone who’s shed light in that dark-as-hell heart of his. I’d be a pretty shitty friend to hold that against him.

And maybe someday, there’ll be a girl that I’ll tell Clayton about to the point of making his own eyes roll. Maybe there will be someone with whom I’m so consumed that I start canceling plans with friends, or start clumsily walking into walls, or negotiating taking off all my clothes in front of a classroom just to impress them.

I chuckle dryly at that last thought.

“I met this girl,” I start to tell him, staring at my hands. “Or maybe it’s more accurate to say, this girl met my cock.” I take the spoon for a spin of my own along the tabletop. “Y’know, I’m not gonna lie, I can’t stop imagining the squeakin’ that the springs will make when I drop her onto my bed. Is that bad? I mean, she’s hot. She’s hot hot. Like, I don’t know if I want to have sex with her or kiss her first. I could do both with this one. She’s got this sly sort of … always-something-up-her-sleeves thing going on. Finally I got her attention and she wants me to meet her somewhere on Saturday and, like, I’m feeling all these nerves I haven’t felt since we were kids and you were gettin’ all the girls. I can’t stop thinking about getting my face in her boobs. Just the thought makes me sweat. Mmm, and what she tastes like between her legs. Damn. But … I mean, is it worth it if all she’s gonna do is turn me down? She’s … feisty. Is it worth all the damn trouble when I got a hundred or two other pretty girls who won’t make it so damn difficult to just … wang-bang ‘em?” The spoon stops. I pick it up and talk to it. “But maybe that’s the point. This girl isn’t like the others, is she? She’s making me work. I think that’s kinda hot, too. I’ve had too many easy girls. I need a hard one. And she makes me hard. Hell, I’m hard now.”

When I look up from the spoon to see if Clayton’s laughing at my joke, I find that he’s missed every word, still buried in his phone and typing away. As if pulled by my little glance, he looks up suddenly, then smiles. “Sorry. Dessie just scored Jeremy Hardenberg. Can’t believe it. Our set’s gonna rock! I can’t wait to work with him and make a fucking color and light orgasm onstage. Oh, how’s the painting thing going?”

I’m gonna make a color and light orgasm with an art chick Saturday night. “Photography, not painting,” I correct him with a smirk. When he gives me a quizzical look, I bring a couple hands to my face to mimic a photographer looking through his camera.

“Shit. Photography. Right.” He sets his phone down. “What’re you gonna do with your photography degree? Doesn’t that add, like, two more years to your college time? You’re gonna miss graduating with the … the rest of us.”

I sigh, annoyed. “It’s not about graduating that’s the goal. It’s—”

“You need to graduate, dude.”

His phone jumps, but thankfully he ignores it, keeping his eyes on me. I hate how much like a scolding older brother Clayton looks right now. He’d given me this same look half our lives ago when he could still hear, reprimanding me for how dumb I got when I talked to girls, or berating me about what we’d achieve when we grew up, or fuming over my inability to skip class without getting caught by Principal McPherson. The tables turned when we hit high school, and then they seemed to turn even more when we hit college. Now he’s the driven one with the fire in his eyes and the arrow in his heart, and I’m the one with just a fire between my legs. I think the arrows are there, too.

“So?” Clayton prompts me, lifting his eyebrows. “Is this art school photography thing gonna work out?”

“I hope so,” I finally say. “It’d be better if I was any good.”

“You’re no good?”

“Not sure. Last week, I had to take forty photos of trees. Lights and shadows, or something. The hell I gotta take photos of trees for?”

“Trees?” he echoes, eyes on my lips.

“Yep.”

He smirks. “The more you take, the better you get, right?”

“I guess so,” I respond, thinking of all the girls I’ve taken, each girl like a photograph burned into my retinas.

“Maybe you’ll score some perfect photo and it’ll land on the cover of a magazine or some shit.”

“Maybe I’ll work for a newspaper.”

“Maybe you’ll take pics of dead bodies at crime scenes.”

“Maybe I’ll work for some porn company,” I throw in, sneering as I poke a finger through a ring I make with my other hand, simulating the mystic act of human fornication. “I’m told I catch good angles when it comes to photographing the ladies …”

Clayton laughs, and whether it’s at my gestures or he actually caught my words, I don’t know. I guess it doesn’t matter; I laugh too. And for a fleeting second, it’s just like old times.

Then his phone vibrates yet again. He pulls it to his face right away, still laughing, and starts to text.

I look down at my arm, distracted by a crescent scar that still lives there. I got it the day Clayton and I fought as prepubescent twerps, not long before he lost his hearing. We were fighting over a girl. This was back when he thought that the way to show me how to get girls was to take them away from me, each and every one that I ogled.

We’ve come a long way. Or perhaps just traded places.

Or else I’m all alone in this lady-lovin’ conquest.

“Maybe,” I say, knowing full well I’m talking to myself, “I’m still that kid who can’t look a girl properly in the eye. Maybe I’m kidding myself with this whole photography thing. Maybe the more photos I take, the less I actually see.”

Clayton smiles at the text he gets back, then types a hasty response. In the next moment, the server comes by with our food, and with the noise of late night laughter and familial banter engulfing us, we stuff our faces.

NELL

I really didn’t expect him to show up at all. So color me a pale shade of surprised when I find him waiting by the Quad fountain, perched on its stone lip like some romance-tormented college boy bard. The only thing he’s missing is a lute and a song.

Upon my approaching, he turns his head and a charming smile stretches the length of his face, his dimples popping out. I would never admit this outside the confines of my head, but the sight of him sends a nervous flutter of excitement through my body. He is such a pleasant sight. I wouldn’t mind walking up to a hundred different fountains if a guy like that was perched on every single one, awaiting me and smiling the way he does. Where’s his chariot?

“You live in the dormitories?” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows. “Which one’s yours and is your roommate gone?”

And then he goes and ruins it. “Follow me, camera boy.”

“It’s Brant.”

We continue across the vast parking lot with the sun hugging us every grueling step of the way. He keeps mostly silent, perhaps inspired to shut the hell up after he realizes how utterly unimpressed I am with his incessant need to think with his cock. Until I open up his pants and find a brain in there, I’ll deflect every sweet, sugary word he utters.

No matter how insufferably sexy I find his voice.

“This … is the bad part of town,” he mutters quietly.

“What makes you say that?” I throw back defensively.

“Don’t have to be a genius to, uh … see the part of town we’re in.”

See? You don’t “see” anything, camera boy.

“I had a buddy, Robbie,” he goes on, “and he was mugged over here on his way to a damn Burger King. Had his iPhone stolen too. 50 or 60 gigabytes of porn and music and family pics, all gone forever.”

“Doesn’t that all back up on a cloud or something?”

“Backing up his porn? You nuts?”

“I’ve been accused of that before,” I admit coolly, taking a left down Pinemont when we reach the first crosswalk.

Brant hesitates a second before crossing the street with me, perhaps because I didn’t wait for the light to turn green. I barely even checked to see if a car was coming.

“I’ve been accused of a thing or two myself,” he calls out, then catches up to my side.

“I can’t imagine what,” I return dryly.

“You know, we might have some more engaging conversations if you don’t pretend to know everything about me.”

He thrusts his hands in his pockets as we walk. I presume it’s a defense mechanism because he’s uncomfortable, but it only succeeds in flexing his arms, which does not go unnoticed by me. Not a good time to get distracted, Nell.

“You can’t say I’m not an artist when you haven’t seen my work,” he goes on. “What if I said the same thing about you? What if I said you’re not an artist? How would that make you feel?”

“I’d laugh.”

Brant hisses his own laughter through his teeth. “Yeah? Why would you laugh?”

“If I called you a banana, you’d laugh, wouldn’t you?” I turn my head, drinking in the sight of his bright blue eyes as they wonder the meaning of my words. Then I take a sip of those chiseled arms of his … and that sexy, dimpled smirk. “Because you’re obviously not a banana.”

“No, I’m not,” he agrees.

“So if you really are an artist,” I go on, “then you’d laugh when I accused you of not being one. You’d laugh and think of your best photo, the one that blew your mind apart, the one that encapsulates everything you are, even to this very moment. You’d laugh at me.”

He stews on that for a second. Then he faces me and flashes his teeth. “I have a banana in my pants.”

I ignore him and his stupid, childish comments—despite the urge to chuckle and betray my cool demeanor. I think he sees it because he snorts breathily, which very quickly converts my almost-smile into a tightened smirk.

After listening to our footsteps for a measureless amount of time, we take another left onto Abernathy and arrive at the destination. Brant doesn’t say a word as I open the tall front glass doors. The cool air wafts over us like a refreshing spritz of water as we step inside, the doors shutting gently at our backs.

As I cross the brightly lit room, my heels echo loudly off the tile and the art displays and glass walls. When I stop at one of them and turn, I find Brant standing in the middle of the room with his eyes grown to twice their size as he spins slowly, swallowing in the new environment. With the exception of the gallery owner and likely a student or two in the back, there’s no one here yet but us. The only others in our immediate presence are the countless pieces of art that sit on their respective displays, silently staring back.

“Never been to an art exhibit before?” I ask him, my voice echoing hollowly across the room.

“Holy moly.” Brant stops and stares back at the entrance. “You can see the street. All the walls are glass. They can see in,” he states dumbly, then turns back around to look at all the art projects spread around the room in their little sections and stations. His eyes zero in on one in particular. “Is … Is that a penis?”

I follow his line of sight to a clay pot that looks like a very tall mushroom and would likely be mistaken for one if it weren’t for the two round drums the artist deliberately set in front of it.

“It’s art,” I answer vaguely.

He scoffs, coming up to it and smirking. “Right. And I can toss a clam on a pedestal and call it a vagina. Is that art?”

My eyes narrow. Every stupid thing that spills from his stupid, sexy mouth just confirms more and more what kind of guy I’m getting to know.

“Want to see more?” I offer tersely, masking my annoyance the way one holds back from shouting an obscenity after stubbing a toe.

His bright blue eyes lift from the penis pot and meet mine.

The effect loosens every ounce of tight frustration I’d just gained.

Then, it’s his soft footsteps that now fill the room, tapping slowly along the tile as he struts up to me. The closer he gets, the more his smile fades until we’re nearly nose-to-nose and all I see are his infinite blue eyes.

“Yep,” he says, quiet as a sigh. “I wanna see more. Much more.”

Every little spark of willpower within me is exercised to its fullest capacity to turn away from that sexy face. He’s really making this a challenge for me.

Over my shoulder, I tell him, “This way.”

I lead him to a work of art that sits on a pedestal out in the open—fully visible to the street from the front and side glass windows, as well as within perfect view of the whole rest of the gallery. There, his eyes fall on the display that gives him cause to lift his brows in surprise, and gape. I watch with secret, dark delight as he walks around the piece of work, taking it in at all possible angles with his big, bewildered eyes. I’m feasting on his every little reaction, joy bubbling within me like a spicy soup on the stovetop. He even stops to cross his arms, bringing a thoughtful finger to his lips as he studies it.

Finally, just when I’m ready for him to offer his admiration, he lifts his face, meets my eyes, and says, “And what in freaky hell is this?”

I lift an affronted eyebrow. “Well, what do you think?”

He tilts his head. “It’s a naked woman,” he observes, “on all fours … and her mouth has … a ball-gag with a censor bar over it.” He shakes his head. “The hell kind of sick shit is this?” He laughs suddenly, his chuckles whistling through his fingers. “Some kind of BDSM thing?”

My face hides all emotion—except for my eyes, perhaps, which feel like they’re glowing with green fire. I merely stand there, my stomach tight and my breath held, and let him observe. It’s like I’m in class all over again, awaiting my stupid peers’ criticism.

“Her hands and ankles are handcuffed to the pedestal,” he notices. “Sorry, but uh … seeing as she’s papier-mâché … or clay, or something … I don’t think she’s going anywhere.” He laughs again.

His laughs ring across the gallery, ring into my ears, into my heart.

“You don’t think there’s a point to the cuffs? That a woman can be objectified … without her consent?” I ask, my voice soft and low.

“Okay, is that what this is? Sorry, but no.” He shakes his head, leans back against the glass wall as he smirks. “Welcome to the new age, my friend. Men are just as objectified. You see ads nowadays? Men with sculpted abs and big, fat biceps and no fuckin’ waist to speak of?”

“It’s not the same.” Now I’m crossing my arms, my words growing more clipped by the syllable. “Women are treated like objects beyond that. Tools only meant to advance men. A pretty, opinionless wife on the arm of a CEO. The First Lady. The slut in a movie. A billboard of—”

“I live in an apartment with two gay men,” Brant cuts me off, and his voice is neither mad nor argumentative; in fact, the asshole sounds downright amused. “Between them and the carousel of pretty boys who slip through my pad on a nightly basis, they have so much damn body dysmorphia and body image issues and objectification between them that even I catch myself counting calories. Hey, did you know that I’m ‘straight skinny’ … but ‘gay fat’? Me. Fat.”

I feel so many thoughts bubbling up my throat and so much anger stewing around inside me that I suddenly—and uncharacteristically—find myself completely devoid of words. I simply stand there and stare at him stupidly, my eyes cold and my lips locked.

Didn’t I say I wouldn’t let him get to me? Didn’t I just say I knew exactly what kind of boy I was getting to know?

Why do I insist on engaging with him?

“And why’s the censor bar over just her mouth?” he asks, giving the work another quick, haphazard inspection. “I mean, you can clearly see her nipples. And her pink taco. I can see her cute little pink taco.” He points at it demonstratively and whispers, “It’s right there. Her a-cooter-mah-twat-a. Right there.”

Maybe I should start offering spoons with my work. “I guess that’s all I’ve brought you here to show you,” I say, giving up. “Y’know. Artist to artist.”

He looks at me suddenly. “Who’s the artist of this work?”

I narrow my eyes. “Some bitch named Nell.”

He nods thoughtfully, then seems to appraise me with his eyes. “So are you done showing me all this art stuff? You ready to … show me a little something not currently on display?” He does a little cheesy dance as he circles the naked sculpture, growing closer to me, his balled up fists in the air bouncing to some beat that only he hears.

My cold stare stops him short. “Let’s be real for a second,” I suggest to Brant—ignoring his soft, inviting eyes and his ridiculously terrible-yet-oddly-sexy dance moves. “The only thing you and I will ever be … is friends. You got it? I brought you here to show you art. That’s it.”

He smirks cockily. “Why? You afraid I’m too much for you?”

“I’m not afraid of anything.”

“Sure you are,” he retorts. “We’re all afraid of something. I, for one, am kinda afraid of leaving this art gallery without at least a kiss.” He bats his eyes dumbly, smiling with that crooked, dimpled smile.

My fists tighten. What a tool. “And where does that kiss lead? To me becoming just another dent in your headboard?” I lean into him. “Let’s be clear. You’re not an artist. You’re just in my school to score.”

He laughs at that. “Why would you think that about me? I’m not some … weird kind of art school man-whore.”

“No, you’re just the normal kind. Another guy who thinks he can get inside any woman he bats his eyes at. You already had your way with some girl behind that folding partition earlier this week in my studio class. Probably had one or two others that same night. And maybe two the weekend before. And how many have you had since?”

“Wait, wait, wait …”

“Hey, I don’t care,” I tell him, raising my hands up innocently. “I’m not here to judge you. I don’t know you and you owe me nothing. If you want to be a player, go ahead, play. But I’m not part of your game. I make art. I push at the world. I—”

“Yeah, well, whatever art you do, make sure it’s more meaningful than what this Nell freak did with her naked censored BDSM lady. What’s it called? ‘Object’ … Okay, yeah. Do somethin’ better than this piece of crap,” he says with a smirk down at the work of art.

My work of art.

I stand between him and my sculpture defensively, facing him with red-hot fervor. “You wouldn’t know what art is if it grew hands and feet and slapped you right in that smug-ass face of yours.”

“Okay. First, that piece of crap does have hands and feet,” he states with a smirking, tilted nod at it, “and seeing as it’s cuffed and doesn’t appear to have a pulse, I don’t think it’ll be slapping me in the near future. Secondly,” he adds with a wink, “you are sexy as fuck when you get all angry.”

I take a breath. “If we’re going to stand here debating realness and art and objectification, then I figure the least you owe me is a bit of your unadulterated candor and a little less of your player bullshit.”

It seems my words still do nothing to affect his slick, smooth-talking cockiness. If anything, it strengthens him. He lowers his voice and works his silkiest tone when he says, “Babe, I’m not a player.”

“Babe? I’m not a ‘babe’ on your lady list you can just wrap around your little finger.”

He presses his lips together, tickled. “I wouldn’t call it so little …”

“Your list? Or your finger?”

He snorts. “Alright, alright, alright. You win. We’re gonna be totally straight with one another, then. Out in the open … upfront, direct, honest. That’s what you want?”

I cross my arms and wait in a cool, patient silence.

“Alright.” He claps his hands together, gives them a quick rub, then states, “I’ve been with exactly one girl this past week. One. It was a dancer named …” He squints suddenly. “C-Clara. And …” He clears his throat. “And she was a very sweet girl. A dancer, I might add. Not an artist. Well, an artist on the stage, maybe. Not that I’ve seen her dance. Doesn’t matter. Anyway, things between us were casual, and it’s over. I haven’t even heard from her since, like … you know. The behind-the-privacy-screen thing.”

I shrug. “So?”

A frustrated sort of snort flees from him. “So, I’m not a player. I’m respectable. I treated her like a lady. I mean, well, y’know. Aside from banging her against the wall like a jackhammer so hard, I was probably dislodging bricks. I treated her like a lady, alright?”

I don’t respond to him, my arms still folded and my eyes like needles as I debate whether or not to let this whole thing go. Is it really that big a deal to win this fight? Was it a mistake to bring him here?

The warmth growing between my thighs would suggest it isn’t.

And the heart palpitations his crystalline eyes alone are inspiring within me surely don’t scream “mistake”.

I can’t deny how fucking sexy he is or what he’s doing to me … even if he makes me mad as hell with his juvenile reasoning.

“Is that what this is?” he says suddenly, giving a glance back at the work, then returning his intense gaze to me. “You think I objectify women?”

I glare at him, wordless and fuming.

“So, wait,” he goes on, gripping his temple. “You think I … You think I just take advantage of their bodies and, like …” He sighs, squinting at me with a hundred thoughts. Then, something seems to occur to him, and a smile works onto his face. He drops his hands and begins to circle around the display once again. “Alright. Fine, okay. I ‘objectify women’, you’re implying. Alright, alright …”

I watch him as he slowly stalks around my work of art, as if giving it a new consideration.

“You know,” he blurts suddenly, “I would let you objectify me … if you wanted.”

I lift a questioning eyebrow.

“Yep,” he says, answering some question my eyes apparently asked. He arrives finally at my other side, gently looking up at me with his forehead wrinkled and his dimples pushed out with a cheeky smirk. “I’d let you have your way with me.”

“Would you?”

“Yes, ma’am, I sure would.”

His Texan accent plays as thick as barbeque sauce into those words, and maybe it’s his sudden change in mood—or mine—that inspires my next action. Without thinking, I grab his ass and pull him towards me. He stumbles for a second, his eyes flapping open with surprise, and then he’s inches from my face. Our breath falls upon one another in hot, jagged torrents.

He was definitely not expecting that.

To be honest, neither was I.

“You … want to be my object?” I murmur, attempting not to admire how firm his ass is, even through his loose, low-hanging jeans.

He bites his lip, as if to stop himself from grinning further. “You know that’s what I want, girl. If you wanna take charge … if that’s your thing, I’ll fuckin’ let you. I’m yours to play with.”

Even he has to take deeper breaths between his sentences. His eyes shimmer with excitement as his face creases with the amusement of about a hundred wicked ideas that I’m glad I don’t know—despite having a certainty in my gut of where each and every one of those wicked ideas of his leads.

I lift my chin, defiant and ready to put this camera boy right where he belongs. “Take off your jeans.”

The whites of his eyes flash. “H-Here?”

“Take off your jeans.”

Without pulling his face away from mine, his fingers leap to the buttons of his jeans and he fumbles, prying them open and letting them drop to the floor. Right here in front of these tall glass walls. Right here in front of the whole damn Abernathy street, despite there being no one outside yet to observe the show. The buckle of his belt slaps the tile so loud, it rings like a bell throughout the gallery. He steps out of them and kicks them to the side.

“Shirt,” I order next.

He glances nervously at the glass walls, then swallows and laughs away his hesitance. “I took off mine. When do you take off yours?”

“We’re making you into my object, remember?” I lick my own lips, pulling his eyes straight to them. Then I tilt my head, all my dark hair shifting with it. “Shirt, camera boy.”

He has fun with the removing of his shirt, still thinking he’s got a grip on our little scene. He grasps the bottom of it tightly, turning the maneuver into a little dance without music, then pulls it over his head and casts it to the side with a flex of his bicep.

I would be lying if I said that Brant isn’t one of the hottest guys I’ve ever seen. His slender, V-shaped, panther-like build is chiseled at every possible turn. It’s endless, the places in which he has definition, how his infinite abs turn into the two, smooth pecs of his chest, which rest under his taut, shapely shoulders, which lead the eyes up a neck and to a face that, even in his nakedness, still shows a striking confidence—as if he dares me to keep challenging him, testing him, pushing him …

And I will.

“Wish I could see yours,” he murmurs through a tightened throat. “Shit, it’s cold in here.” He glances behind him, then looks off to the side for a second. “Is there a showcase tonight or something?”

“It doesn’t start for another thirty minutes,” I assure him.

“Oh. That’s pretty soon, isn’t it? Won’t people start showing up?” Then he grins, his face lighting up. “On second thought, that’s plenty of time. So, tell me. Do you—”

I bring my face up to the side of his, which shuts him up right away. My lips trace—without kissing—the smooth, silky skin of his cheek as I slide ever so slowly to his ear. It’s there that my teeth find purchase, raking in his earlobe as I take a little taste.

He groans, his breath blasting the nape of my neck. “Oh my god …”

I run a finger up his body, starting just above the rim of his briefs—which are black, skintight, and leave very little to the imagination—and I trace up the insane hills of his abs, one by one. He bucks ever so slightly at the touch of my cold fingertip, then braces himself as I let my wandering finger slide up his core, stopping at his hardened nipple. I give it a pinch.

“Fuck …” he hisses into my neck.

My teeth let go of his earlobe just long enough to ask, “Feeling objectified yet?”

He doesn’t answer, lost in the ecstasy of what my finger’s doing to his poor nipple. Taking his silence for an answer, I reach down and grip the waistband of his briefs, then slowly start to slide them down.

That’s when he shakes from his trance and grabs my hands, stopping me. “Wait, wait, wait.”

“Yeah?”

“Not here. Someone could see,” he whispers, turning to look over his shoulder, then staring out at the empty gallery once again.

“No one’s seeing but me.”

“But someone else could just … People might come early and … One of the other artists might—”

“No one’s coming in. The student exhibit doesn’t open for another thirty minutes.” I meet his face with mine, reeling his bright, blue, worried eyes in. “Plenty of time, you said. Didn’t you?”

The worry seems to ease out of him, replaced quickly with that all-too-familiar cockiness. “Yeah, right. Y’know, two nipples are fun, sure. But four are more fun.” He gives my breasts a quirk of his eyebrows.

I give his nipple one last pinch, earning a moan from him, then release the tortured thing. Turning my back to him, I bend down to the art project next to which we’re having so much fun and release the handcuffs one by one. Brant stands there in all his sexy, slender, muscled glory, his nipples hard and his cock harder, bulging in those tight black briefs of his. When I glance back at him, his blue eyes watch me under his tuft of messy brown hair, hungry and waiting.

I remove the naked lady from the platform—it’s just wire and paper and weighs next to nothing—then gently pat the vacant display. “Giddy up, camera boy.”

Brant, ever slow to process my meaning, simply looks at the empty platform, confused. Then he squints at me and asks, “You want me … to get onto that?”

I lift the four handcuffs. They rattle in my clutch as they tap against one another, creating their tinny dissonant song of metal and restraint.

That’s when the message hits him. “Oh, fuck! You’re a kinky minx, aren’t you?” He laughs, his face lighting up. Then, just as quickly, he turns worried again. “W-Wait, are you serious?”

My lips curl. “Yep.”

He rubs his hands together quickly—whether out of nervousness or to keep warm, I’m not sure—then glances around one last time before crawling up onto the display, assuming the all-fours position.

I can’t believe I’m doing this.

He looks up at me, quivering with excitement. Apparently, neither can he.

“Makin’ me your object, huh?” He licks his lips, then lets his eyes go on a thorough stroll down my body, and it might as well be his hands doing the strolling, for the way they seem to touch my every curve. All his wet dreams and expectations are painted on his lively face.

In this moment, I almost lose my nerve, second-guessing myself. That is, until I hear the sound of the cuff clicking around his left wrist.

“Fuck, this is hot,” he whispers—to himself, I think.

I circle around the display to his left ankle. Even from behind, he’s a work of art—a sculpture of muscle, of man, of beauty. Click! His right ankle is next—click!—and then I’m back in front of him, securing the final cuff to his right wrist. Each cuff is tight and unforgiving, lending him no ability to move his limbs whatsoever; he’s secured in place and not going anywhere.

“This sucks a bit for my knees,” he tells me casually, “but I’ll live. Maybe now that you’ve made me your … object … you might consider showing me a little … somethin’-somethin’ of you?”

I crouch down in front of him, nearly nose to nose. “Oh, yeah?” I smile, squeezing my breasts together invitingly. His eyes go straight to them. So predictable. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Yep.”

“Throw the dog a bone, huh?”

He sticks out his tongue and pants like a puppy.

“You know, Brant …” I shake my head ruefully. “I still think women are objectified far more than men. But maybe this little display of yours might … sway my mind.” I pat his smooth, flushed cheek.

This close to his face, I find myself in a predicament of my own, warring between a desire to just ditch him here and stalk home, or to kiss those full, sexy lips of his … lips that I know will send a fire rushing through me that no cold shower could dream of putting out. Wetness gathers between my thighs as they squeeze together, nearly squirming as I crouch before him with my face so close to his. A hundred ideas of what else I can do to him tumble through my conflicted mind.

What’s the harm in giving in, anyway? Wouldn’t I get something out of it too, even if it’s just for one night? How long has it been since a man touched me and sent electricity down every nerve in my body?

Why, when something nice actually enters my life, do I feel the need to sabotage any possible chance of something good coming from it?

“You look gorgeous,” he murmurs.

My face softens at his words.

“And,” he goes on, “I bet you’d look prettier with my dick between your legs.”

He, however, is not that “something nice” who’s entered my life. He embodies everything I can’t stand about men. Unspeakably arrogant. Thinks he’s the tissue for my every tear. Thinks he’s the supply to my every lack. Sure, Brant’s talented, and his talent is spoiling every mood and taking what little hope I had and wiping up the floor with it.

I rip the gag off my sculpture, then bring it around his head.

“Whoa,” he blurts as I wrap the thing behind his head. “You’re so damn kinky and twisted. Fuck, I’m so haaa—”

He doesn’t quite finish the word “hard” as the ball-gag slips past his lips, trapping the rest of his words within him and converting any sound he makes into vowels and moans.

“I’m not kinky,” I assure him with a gentle pat to his cheek, “and I’m definitely not twisted.”

He says something through the gag as drool gathers at the corners of his mouth, turning the ball slick. I love what I’ve reduced him to.

“I’m Nell.”

He blinks a few times, confused. It doesn’t take long for realization to dawn on his adorable, trapped little face.

“I’m the artist, camera boy.” I lean into his ear, giving the lobe one more tiny nibble before I add: “And you’re my new exhibit.”

When I pull away, I might say that I see a flicker of excitement in his eyes at those words of mine. Is all of this turning him on, the predicament I’ve put him in?

“Enjoy your grand opening.”

As I leave, I hear a moan or two that might or might not be him calling out my name, which he just learned. I hear another groan that might or might not be a show of his unbridled horniness on display for the whole school to see—or perhaps just his ultimate humiliation.

Either way, I’m sure the lesson’s the same.

BRANT

Well, this is a particularly unique shade of “totally fucked”.

And why the hell am I hard as a rock?

Like, seriously. I am so fucking hard right now that my cock—which is totally on display right now in these skintight, revealing briefs that Eric swore I should wear on my date tonight—feels like a goddamn swollen eggplant.

My heart hammers tirelessly in my chest, pumping more and more blood below my waist. It’s as if even my body is like: Hey, Brant! We’re excited! Exciting shit is happening! Let’s make you even harder!

That Nell chick is totally messing with me, right? She’s going to come right back and release me any second now.

I breathe in deeply, then breathe out. Already, this damn oversized ball-gag is making my jaw sore. I bet this is what Eric and Dmitri feel like every time they give head.

The thought makes me laugh.

My dry chuckles echo like whispers throughout the empty gallery, then reverberate back at me tauntingly.

I turn my head. “Nmml?” I push through the gag. “Nmmmmml?”

Nell. Not the name I was expecting from her. Who the hell names their kid Nell?

Fuck, she looked so hot tonight.

The sun is still up. So really, I’m not as visible as I think I am from the street. There’s reflections and shit on the glass outside. I’m pretty much protected until Nell decides the joke’s over with and she comes to free me. Maybe the whole gallery showing was just a lie? Maybe she’s just trying to scare me?

I give my left wrist a tug, only to find it completely and utterly secured in place. With a quick jerk of my right side, I make the same discovery. I’m not going anywhere.

The only thing that would make this even hotter would be if Nell would come back with a whip or some kinky shit. Not that I want to be actually whipped; the threat of one is sexy enough for me.

But a spanking …

Fuck, I’m getting even harder. Every time I think I’m at full mast, my cock betrays me and throbs even more. For a second, I’m seriously concerned that my cock might explode.

Mental note: Eric deserves severe payback for his evil suggestion to wear “sexy” underwear that’s a size too small.

I hear a click. When I look up, I see a pair of people walking along the sidewalk outside. Just as quickly, a pair of voices enter the gallery. Then I see more people approaching from the other side of the street, looking both ways before they cross the road. The front door—which I can’t see at my angle—opens to let in another crowd of some utterly indeterminate number.

An intercom clicks, and then music begins to play: some new age, hippie, synthetic beats crap.

Holy fucking shit. There is an actual gallery showing tonight.

I twist my neck around to try and see the front, then realize I can’t. Footsteps and voices join the music, echoing all around me tauntingly.

Every inch of my skin is cold and sensitive at once, my predicament growing more and more pressing by the second.

And I can’t will my boner away.

I’m still hard.

Nell did this to me to make a point, sure. I get it. Alright.

Suddenly, I chuckle through my ball-gag, thinking about her. She wants to teach me a lesson? This is the way she’s going to play my game? Two can play.

I feel the presence of someone behind me. Then a voice lightly gasps in shock. “It’s a person,” I hear them whisper. “Oh my god,” another voice returns.

When the two come into view to get a look at my face—two girls holding programs or pamphlets or something—I look up at them. And to their curious, awestruck faces, I grin proudly through my ball-gag, then give them a jerk upward of my chin. “‘Sup?” I push out, despite it sounding like some random grunt.

“Beautiful,” murmurs one of them.

“Poignant,” agrees the other, nodding.

The pair of them are joined by three more—a blond guy in slacks and two women in dresses. I give them the same grunting nod and greeting. Then, for good measure, I wiggle my ass and grin even tighter, inspiring a chuckle from the guy. The two women blush and whisper something between themselves.

When I look ahead through the window, my eyes catch sight of her. Nell. She’s watching from the street.

I save my biggest, widest grin for her. I even wink.

For a moment, I think I catch a hint of her smiling back—a faint, nearly undetectable smile—before she turns and strolls away.

Score one for Brant Rudawski.

I don’t see her after my impromptu gallery debut.

It was the art gallery owner who was instructed how to free me from the cuffs at the end of the exhibit. Apparently just a tiny stupid out-of-reach latch on each cuff was all it took to keep me in place.

“Are you a model?” asked the woman after she undid my binds and I climbed off the display. “My name is Lori Turlington, owner of this gallery. I can hook you up. I have big contacts in the business.” But to her kind words, I only pulled off the ball-gag, said, “Thanks, ma’am, but no thanks,” then offered her a wink and went on my way.

After slipping my clothes back on—which had been neatly folded and kept in a back room somewhere—I pulled out my phone and called my roommate. Yeah, sure, I’m a wuss, whatever, but I’m sure as fuck not going to walk through this neighborhood alone at night.

Ten minutes later, Dmitri is giving me a tight smile as I slip into the passenger’s side. “You had a showcase and didn’t tell me?”

I glance back at the gallery with half a grin on my face and a soreness in my jaw that I’m still massaging out. “Not exactly.”

“Did you meet up with that new girl you were telling me about?”

“Yep.”

Dmitri chuckles dryly as he kicks the car into gear, pulling out onto the road. “Didn’t work out, huh? Did she turn out to be a friend of one of the six hundred exes you pissed off?”

“Nah. She just gave me … a little lesson in art,” I answer, grinning.

Dmitri nods dubiously, his gaze lingering on my face until the red light we’re at turns green. Then he pushes a foot to the gas and groans, “I really don’t feel like going back to our place.”

“Why? Oh.” I can already tell from the sight of his smirk. “Eric’s got some dude over?”

“Same dude. And they’re binge-watching Ab Fab. Hand-in-hand.”

“Why don’t you just admit there’s something between you guys?” I ask him, partly annoyed. “You act like a jealous bitch, dude.”

“No, I don’t. My eye is more occupied with someone else, actually. Eric having or not having guys at our place is irrelevant to my love life. It’s merely irksome.”

“Hah … ‘Merely irksome’ … You and your words. So who’s this new dude you’ve got your eye on?”

Pulling up to a stop sign, Dmitri puts the car into park and faces me. “You do understand that I’m bi, right?”

I shrug. “Yeah, sure. So who’s the new dude that you’re—”

“It’s a girl. She’s in my Wednesday night workshop. She’s blonde, she’s got cherry lips, and her name is Riley.”

I stare at my roommate and buddy. When is he gonna quit dancing around the bushes and just fess up? “Riley? Is that so? Why don’t you invite her over then and bury your face in her bongos?”

“Not everyone’s built like you, Brant. Some of us find other qualities in a person attractive. I ask her what sets her soul on fire, and then I dive in and bathe in it. Minds make me horny,” he says, “and if a girl—or a guy—can stimulate this puzzle-box of a brain of mine, now that’s what gets me going. Not … bongos.”

“All I’m saying is, your life would be so much easier if you’d just admit that you’re gay. Sure, okay, minds make you horny. But I think a male mind makes you hornier.”

“I am actually bisexual. Ladies and lads do it for me. You’re the one in denial, Brant, not me. Bi-erasure. Look it up. You’re being a fuckin’ simpleton. Shit.” He snorts and looks away. “You made me cuss.”

I can’t help but laugh at that. “Dude, you always cuss.”

“I’m trying not to. It weakens my fucking writing. Shit, did it again. Fuck.” He groans and leans into the wheel, sighing with frustration. “I don’t want to go home.”

“Hey, hey.” I slap his back and give it a rub. “Screw them all. Riley. Eric. Nell. Screw ‘em. Let’s go throw some balls tonight and get drunk. It’s Saturday. Our bowling bags are still in your trunk from last time.”

“I’m driving,” he whines. “Who’s Nell?”

“Leave your car in the lot, then. We’ll walk home or call for a cab. C’mon, you need this. We both do.” I scratch behind his ears like a cat. “Purr for me, Dmitri. Purr for your Master Brant.”

He slaps my hand away with a laugh, then grips the wheel with new conviction. “Alright, you got me.” He flips the car back into drive, then hits a hard left toward the bowling alley. I smile at the side of his face, suddenly feeling good about everything in the world. I throw an arm behind his seat and kick back as he takes us to my favorite spot.

Deep down, I experience a pang of frustration at the fact that I’m spending all this time with Dmitri and hanging out with him doing things that Clayton and I used to do. Clayton’s the one I would have texted to pick me up after my “experience” at the art gallery. Clayton’s the one I’d actually confess to what happened, what Nell did to me, and—maybe more pressingly—what Nell is doing to me. For some reason, I don’t feel the need to confide as deeply in Dmitri. With Clayton so wrapped up in his own life now, I’ve been doing a lot more of standing on my own feet. And yeah, they’re shaky feet, at best.

Even my bowling game’s off. It’s the first thing Dmitri notes after we arrive at Tricky-10 Lanes on Kingston, park in the back, grab our bags out of the trunk, enter like we’re kings, slip on our snazzy shoes, order drinks, claim lane 7, don our gloves, pull out our balls, and bowl five horrible frames. I shrug and blame it on the beer, even though I’ve only had a sip or two. Okay, maybe I’m on my third bottle.

“Is Nell the girl from the art school? Or the dancer?”

“Art school,” I answer, grabbing my blue-and-orange ball from the ball return. “How’d you know her name?”

“You mentioned her in the car.”

“I did?”

“Sure did.” Dmitri lines up for his shot. He takes a breath, pulls back, lets the ball loose. It hits everything but two pins on the side.

“That sucks. Gonna have to ride the lightning on your next one.” I shake my head and kick back the rest of my beer. The empty bottle bangs hollowly against the table. I pick up the little plastic menu. “I need fuel, dude. Want the cardboard fries or the plastic pizza?”

“I want the scoop,” he shoots back. “Tell me about this Nell girl.”

For some reason, I don’t want to talk about her just yet. I feel like she’s some precious secret I need to protect. “She’s … opinionated.”

He laughs at that so hard, his thick glasses bounce. “Opinionated?”

“Don’t swing too close, dude, you’ll go right into the gutter.” I twist around and flag down a waitress across the room.

“What do you mean opinionated?” He lifts his ball, preparing to go.

The waitress, a girl with soft, bushy brown hair to her shoulders, drifts up to my side. Her eyes become especially flirty when she smiles. “What can I get you, big boy?”

I grin, kicking back in my seat. “Which one will I regret less: fries or pizza?”

“Nachos,” she murmurs softly, biting her lip.

I give her a wink. “I’ll take the nachos, then. Two of them. And another beer, please. Samesies,” I say, tapping my empty bottle. Dmitri bowls and the ball slips into the gutter almost right away. “What’d I tell you, dude?? What’d I tell you?”

The waitress leans unnecessarily far over the table to get my empty bottle, her breasts grazing my shoulder. I look up at her quizzically. When her gaze meets mine, she wears a questioning expression of her own. “You got anything going on tonight, Brant?”

I blink. She knows my name? “Just shooting some lanes with my bud and getting smashed,” I answer carefully, a list of twenty-thousand girls’ names racing through my head at the speed of light as I speak.

“I get off in another hour,” she says, biting her lip again.

Laura? Mandy? Grace? Gina? Jen? Emily? Cassandra?

“Oh, that’s cool,” I reply vaguely. Sarah? Susan? Darcy? Tracy?

“I thought, maybe …” She brings her lips to my ear and lowers her voice to a sigh. “After I get off … maybe we both could get off …”

Kelly? Olivia? Lena? Ramona? Ashley? Amber?

“I think I … I might need to, ah …”

“I’ve been thinking about you for weeks,” she moans, her tits in my face, her soft hand on my shoulder, and her breath tickling my ear.

The next moment, Dmitri’s in front of us to save the day. “You’re up, buddy.”

She pulls away from me, giving Dmitri the stink eye before flipping her hair at me and saying, “I’ll be back with those nachos.” Then, with a frosty, pointed wink, she hightails it to the bar.

I come up to the lane, my lucky blue-and-orange ball held up by my hand wearing the lucky blue-and-orange fingerless glove. My wrists still ache from the unrelenting cuffs earlier that bound them for hours.

There are worse aches to suffer.

I stare at the ten pins that await me at the end of the lane and I think about the waitress. I may know some of the staff by name, but hers completely eludes me. And I wouldn’t find that so bothersome if it weren’t for the fact that I think she and I have shared a bed. Or was it a closet? Or was it the kitchen scullery? Or was it in a car out back? Or was it back at school in a classroom? In a shrubbery? On a rooftop? In a dormitory? In the bed of a pickup?

Behind a privacy screen in the art room?

“Brant? You waiting on the pins to drop themselves?”

I stand here on the approach and I stare at those ten pins that await me, and it’s like those pins are ten random chicks I’ve screwed and then utterly forgotten. And whenever I knock the pins down, the machine just sweeps them off and replaces them with ten more. Ten girls gone, ten more on the way. Tens and tens and tens.

Girls and girls and girls.

“Brant?”

I pull back, breathe, then send that ball screaming down the lane. It takes the pins down with a furious clatter.

All the pins but one.

That one final pin stares at me defiantly. It’s so opinionated, that stubborn pin. It acts like it knows everything about me without even having dinner with me yet. It claims to get what I’m all about. It accuses me of being a woman-objectifying man-whore. It cuffs me to a block and shows me off to the world as the pussy-lickin’ slut I am.

I snatch my ball from the ball return, angry, and march up to the approach. Then I launch it down the lane with crazed conviction.

The ball barely grazes the remaining pin.

The pin wiggles. The pin dances. Then the pin settles, staying in its place, unfallen.

Dmitri comes up to my side and throws an arm over my shoulder. “You win some, you lose some.” He messes up my hair as I stare down the lane at that pin, frozen in place, disbelieving. “I say we pretend the nachos made us sick, then dodge big-tits waitress and head home for a round of Call of Duty. How’s that sound?”

“Perfect,” I grunt through gritted teeth, fuming over that stubborn, shiny, beautiful pin.

That pin named Nell.

NELL

Everyone else in class has left already and the studio is gorgeously silent. My apartment suffers from the noise of nearby traffic, police sirens, and a rhinoceros or two that live directly above me. Not to mention the six rock star hopefuls that live in the box across the hall from me and who rehearse no less than four times a day. I know all their songs by heart and against my will. I’m Bleeding Picklock’s number one fan and can’t stand them.

So it’s a welcome relief to have a peaceful, quiet studio all to myself. My hands are riddled with charcoal scratches from an angered cat that made me bleed every shade between black and grey. That angered cat rests in two dimensions on the wide paper before me. She’s a hungry cat, as her own tail is curled around her body, resting in a food bowl in front of her. And it’s to that tail that she’s stuck a fork, slicing off a piece of it with a knife to eat for dinner.

I think I’ll call this one: Eating Pussy.

“So did I do well?”

I don’t turn around. His voice comes behind me from the door, and I know exactly whose voice it is without daring to lay my eyes on his sexy face. I keep the charcoal pencil pressed to the paper, adding details to the fur on my hungry cat’s ears.

“I’d say the crowd that gathered,” he goes on, “was quite receptive.”

I bring a blackened, dirty finger to the paper, blending a shadow.

“Might even need an encore,” he says, the smile evident in his voice. “You can’t just be a one-hit wonder. They have those in the art world, don’t they?”

I lick my lips, smile at my artwork, then say, “I have never been, and will never be, a one-hit anything.”

His soft, slow footsteps echo through the room. “You already got another hit in that brilliant mind of yours? Something maybe about castrating men?” he suggests innocently. “Maybe I can stand on a stage for you, naked, with a big ol’ censorship bar sticking out from between my legs. We can call it Penis Envy.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Or we can skip the stage, skip the censorship bar, and just … you can have me naked. I mean, before you chained me to that display and ditched me, you did talk me out of my clothes.”

Despite my rising blood pressure, I speak evenly as I carefully add a whisker. “They weren’t chains. They were handcuffs.” I clear my throat. “Fake handcuffs, at that.”

“I still couldn’t free myself,” he points out. “The little trick latches were out of reach. Hey, if you wanna use chains next time …”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I’m all for exploring. I’m not a master of kink, per se, but …”

“Despite how you might see the world,” I murmur thoughtfully, applying a light stroke to the cat’s left paw, “every female in the world is not interested in slipping between the sheets with you.”

“Most of them are.”

I slap my charcoal pencil down so hard on my desk, I worry for a second that I’ve broken it. When I finally turn to grace Brant with my furious eyes, I catch him startled, his hands thrust in the pockets of his low-hanging jeans, and his shoulders, visible due to the black tank top he wears, are hunched upward. His forehead is wrinkled in surprise.

I was prepared to burn him with a mouthful of scathing words about women and respect and boys like him who only have sex on their minds … when quite suddenly sex is the only thing on my mind.

How’d he become ten times hotter since the last time I saw him? And this time, he’s got clothes on.

“Actually, what I came here to say …” he starts.

“I think you’ve said it already.” I steal my confidence right back by ripping my eyes away from him and returning to my work.

“Listen. I … I joke a lot, alright? It’s like my defense mechanism. I sorta deflect all my anxiety and shortcomings by … flirting. By staring at your gorgeous boobs. By imagining you in different positions.”

“Please, go on,” I moan mockingly. “You’re making me so wet.”

“But maybe you do the same thing.”

I can’t even decide where to place my pencil. Also, for some reason, my thighs are squeezing together so tight, you’d think I was trying to fuse them together. I turn to Brant again, humoring him. “Is that so?”

“Yep. And maybe your art is … kind of a defense mechanism too.” He takes a few tentative steps toward me. “Maybe you hide behind all that angsty art so that you … don’t have to risk being hurt by people.”

I rise from my stool, pencil gripped like a weapon. “Don’t come in here and presume to know me after one night.”

“Am I right, then?”

“My art isn’t a defense mechanism. It’s the means by which I express myself. It’s what I do. It’s my passion. Maybe you’d understand any of that if you had a passion outside of the one in your pants.”

Brant wrinkles up his face. “I can’t tell if you just insulted me or complimented me.”

“I mean, really, tell me. I’m curious. Tell me what made you choose photography. Or is that all a lie? Are you just some creep with a camera around your neck? Hell … Are you even enrolled at Klangburg?”

“I left my camera at home. So I was right, then?”

I blink. “What?”

“About the art thing.” His expression turns quizzical as his bright eyes dart over to my drawing. “Is that cat eating its own tail?”

“I just said …”

He moves around me, as if he just lost all interest in debating art and cameras and defense mechanisms. He stands in front of my raked desk, observing my work. When he crosses his arms, his back spreads, flexing the muscles of his triangular form that peek out from under the black tank top.

There’s something incredibly sexy and intimate about how Brant studies my work. This time, he knows it’s mine. Something about that fact sends a shiver of anxiety through my system, not unlike the way his fingers might feel if he brushed them over my skin.

“Is it like … symbolic?” he asks, keeping his gaze on the drawing.

I don’t answer, watching him with my pencil gripped so tightly, my hand cramps.

“We eat ourselves. We’re so hungry we … eat ourselves.” He starts moving his knee, as if gently bouncing to some song in his head. “Yeah. I think that’s what it means. Except I don’t got no tail,” he throws at me, turning his head and flashing a sexy, teasing smile.

Just his face melts all of my insides. His dimples convert my guts into a steamy broth that both feels like home and like somewhere frighteningly unfamiliar and exotic. His eyes—like the sky at noon without a single cloud in it—dive so deeply into me that I fear for a moment he can see my every truth, even the ones I’m too scared to see myself.

Of course, on my exterior, all Brant really sees is what anyone sees: a woman who’s turned to ice—emotionless, bitter, and with an invisible shell as hard as diamond enclosing me like a second skin.

“So, is this a game show?” I throw back at him, though my voice is softer. “You guess what my work means and I give you a prize?”

The joke encourages him, his smile growing. “What kind of prize do I get? You gonna take your top off?”

I swallow a chuckle, pressing my lips together tight so as not to laugh. Damn it, Nell. Remember who he is. “Nope.”

“Good idea. Make me wait.” He winks. “Then a kiss, maybe?”

“Nope.” I fold my arms.

His eyes flick down to my breasts for a moment. I guess folding my arms just brought them into focus. When he returns his gaze to mine, he says, “I’m probably wrong about your drawing anyway, aren’t I?”

I purse my lips, studying him for a long moment. Then, I finally give in. “If I’m totally honest, I never quite know what my drawings mean.” I come around to his other side, trying to see my deranged cat with objective eyes. It’s always so hard to do.

“So it was a trick challenge?”

“Maybe,” I admit.

“Settin’ me up to fail?”

“Probably.”

I continue to inspect my work, noticing a spot where I could shade under the food bowl better. I also take a mental note of a part of the tail where the fur looks too perfect and needs some fussing up.

I realize he hasn’t said anything for a moment. I glance up, only to find Brant no longer looking at the drawing. His blue eyes are glued to mine instead.

The sudden intimacy makes me recoil in fear, yet my body doesn’t seem to move. I’m frozen in place, hypnotized.

Brant inhales, then lets it all out slowly, his crystalline eyes never leaving my face. A smile creeps onto his lips just as slowly before he says, “Honestly, I think I’d be pretty much the dumbest guy alive to try and win any game against you.”

“Dumbest ever,” I agree lamely, my gaze lost to his mouth and the silky words coming out from them.

“I mean, really, I ended up chained and nearly naked after losing my last game to you …”

“Cuffed, not chained.” The way his lips move are hypnotic …

“So maybe we should forget all the game playing and … just do this the old-fashioned way.” He swallows so hard, I hear it in his throat. His smile is gone. His hands are back in his pockets and his posture stiffens.

Did shit just get serious?

“Old-fashioned way?” I prompt him.

“Do you want to go out with me, Nell?”

“I …”

Now it’s my turn to swallow hard, blinking at him and completely thrown. My mouth is so dry suddenly. My insides tremble. I can’t even remember the last time I was asked out. Freshman year? High school?

Never?

“Just dinner,” he says. “Nothing else. Maybe. I mean, you know, if I manage to woo you over a nice steak or somethin’, I’m not opposed to getting naked in front of you for the third time. Or is it the fourth?”

“Fourth,” I answer numbly. “Unless you count those black briefs you were wearing at the gallery.”

“Aww, you remembered the color!” he exclaims, his face lighting up.

And my face flushes, frustrated that I let that slip. I grit my teeth, my arms folding tightly.

“Those were one of my gay roommate’s fault, by the way,” he adds quickly. “He insisted that I wear them.”

I’m turned to stone, from my feet to my stomach to even my brain. I can’t seem to trust him, no matter how imploringly those beautiful eyes of his glow. When I look at his gentle, inviting arms, I remember a boy who embraced me long ago and told me he’d never let go—then did. When Brant’s lips spill such sweet words, I hear the same sweet words that a boy once whispered in my ear—and his words were so heartfelt, I was nearly convinced that he meant every one. Even the day my father abandoned me charges forth to shovel more doubt into my fast-filling brain. The pain I harbor for my twin brothers who moved as far away from home as they possibly could hurts anew.

I can’t move. I can’t trust him. I can’t even appreciate his sweetness for what it is, because my brain knows that no matter how sweet the fruit, it’s in their nature to rot.

“So you wanna go out with me or not, Nell?” he asks gently, stirring me from my thoughts. “If you’re feelin’ nothing here and I’m just … barkin’ up some tree I got no business barkin’ up …”

“I have work to do,” I blurt.

His face freezes, startled by my blunt response. “Afterwards, then?”

“My work will take me all night,” I lie, running the back of a wrist over my forehead before making a move to reclaim my stool.

“Wait,” he says, stopping me.

I stare into his eyes.

To my surprise, he gently presses a thumb to my forehead, then wipes. He brings the now-darkened thumb to his lips. “Smudge,” he explains, the word barely a whisper.

I hold my breath, then let out a word: “Charcoal.”

He glances at my drawing, then lifts a questioning eyebrow. “Does it have a name yet?”

“No,” I lie.

He smirks at it. Then he asks, “You really don’t want to go out with me tonight?”

I press my lips together, refusing to answer him again. Or maybe I don’t trust the answer I’d give him.

“Alright,” he says softly, taking my silence for his answer, and then quietly leaves.

I stare at my cat for a long while. Then I clench my eyes and purge all thought of Brant and his messy hair and his perfect body and whatever tiny, nearly undetectable trace of humanity or sensitivity or soul that might—with some very, near-to-breaking-point stretch of the imagination—exist. I take a deep breath, face my work, and patiently decide where to place my next stroke.

“You know …”

I jump at the sound of his voice again, turning to find him still standing at the door.

“If I were to name it,” he muses, leaning against the doorframe, “I might call it something like … Dinner.” He smiles, his dimples showing. “Doesn’t tell the viewer what to think. Doesn’t explain anything. Just … sort of … unsettles you. Makes you think. Makes you … hungry. Which I’m hoping is the point, because I’m starving.”

“Brant …”

He screws up his forehead. “Yeah?”

“Nine o’clock,” I make myself say. “Tonight.”

NELL

There are two very passionate young women inside of me. One of them wears black and summons the rain with her dark, furious eyes. The other wears a bright green dress and dances in the puddles. I’m always at war with them.

Brant has the girl in the green dress to thank for my saying yes.

I don’t know what kind of woman he was expecting to pick up, but I don’t imagine it’s the one he gets. When he pulls up to the rear of the art school that grazes the main road by a line of carefully placed shrubs, there’s a look of awe in his eyes when I open his car door and slip inside. I had run home and changed into a pair of black jeans that don’t have paint stains on them, complemented by a red crop top. I even bothered to tease a few curls into my hair. Why? I don’t know. I never have a reason to do much of anything with it lately.

And Brant? He’s apparently gone home and traded his look from earlier with a totally new one. He wears a clean, seemingly starched blue-and-orange plaid shirt buttoned with the top one undone, tucked into a pair of rough, distressed jeans and a belt that thankfully doesn’t have a dinner plate for a buckle. His hair has been tamed, parted to the side with just a few rebel tufts here and there going in their own stubborn directions. His eyes are somehow softer than usual too. It’s both inviting and disarming, what those eyes do to me.

“Well, hey there, pretty.”

“Nell,” I correct him reservedly, securing the seatbelt.

He smiles at me, pulling onto the main road. “Nell,” he amends. “Not fond of terms of endearment?”

I check my phone for the time, then pocket it. “Not particularly.”

“Alright. I’ll remember that, babe.”

I shoot him a look, then question whether he even knows what he said as he innocently pays attention to the road, one hand hanging on the top of the wheel and the other gripping the stick shift.

Of course he knew what he said.

“So how long have you been an artist?”

I keep my eyes ahead as I think of how to answer that question. I hate that question. There’s never just one moment that someone like me wakes up and thinks: Ah, yes—I want to torture everyone around me for the rest of my life, including myself.

“Forever,” I answer vaguely.

“It always kinda amazes me, the stuff that comes out of creative people’s minds.” He jabs a button into the console and the radio turns on, blasting us with the likes of Nirvana at max volume. We both jump. He grabs and twists the volume knob at once, an apologetic wince on his face. “Sorry ‘bout that. Dmitri’s car, Dmitri’s music.”

“This isn’t your car?”

“I borrowed my roomie’s for the night.”

“I like this song.”

“Huh?” He turns the volume up a bit. “This one?”

“Mmm-hmm.” I hum along to the tune of Heart-Shaped Box, then glance over at Brant and catch him looking at me while driving. “Keep your eyes on the road.”

“Sorry, ma’am.” He turns forward, smiling. “You like rock?”

I haven’t heard Nirvana in years, it seems. Pangs of nostalgia rush forth of times when my dad would come home from the office, trade his stuffy suit for a tattered Korn t-shirt, and turn up the stereo as he painted his miniature model dragons. “Sure.” My answer is delayed. “My dad listened to a lot of Metallica, Nine Inch Nails, Nirvana … Then he’d flip the CD and play Chopin while he painted.”

“Show Pan? Who the hell’s Show Pan?”

“Chopin. Polish composer. Pianist.”

“Cool.” He nods, pouting his lips in thought. “So your dad paints?”

“Miniature figurines. Used to.”

“Used to? What does he do now?”

“No idea. Couldn’t care less. Where are we going?” I ask, changing the subject as my insides tighten at all this talk about my dad. “I could eat an arm and a leg right about now.”

“I got some nuts if you need somethin’ to put in your mouth.”

I gape at him. Is he fucking serious? Am I supposed to laugh at that? “Not interested,” I tell him with a huff.

“You sure? They’re honey-roasted.”

I blink, confusedly staring at the side of his face.

“There’s a can in the glove box.” He reaches over suddenly, his hand grazing my thigh, and pops it open, revealing the can to me.

“A can … of nuts,” I say, swallowing back a laugh.

“What? You thought I meant—? Oh, you dirty girl.” Brant sneers at me teasingly. “I’d never say somethin’ that asinine on a first date.”

“Oh, yeah? Is that what this is? A first date?”

“Sure. Isn’t it?”

“Too early to tell.” I slap shut the glove box. “Thanks for your offer, but I’ll wait until we’re at the … wherever we’re going.”

“Lucky Dean’s.”

Never heard of it. “If they serve food, sounds good to me.”

A moment passes as we drive with the soft, grungy beat of Nirvana in the background. Suddenly Brant blurts, “Y’know, if you want to put my nuts in your mouth—”

I burst out in laughter. I can’t hold it in.

“Knew I could get you to laugh,” he mutters to himself through a victorious smile of his own. “Score one for Rudawski.”

I’m already chewing on my lips to swallow the chuckles, shaking my head and looking away. Despite my annoyance at my inability to keep from laughing, I can’t deny the utter release of tension that laugh just gifted me. I feel pounds lighter in an instant.

“Can’t blame you,” he says with a shrug, coming to a stop at another red light. “Every other thing comin’ out of my mouth is some sort of … bedroom invite, so to speak. Habit of mine, I guess. I might legitimately have sexual Tourette’s. Can’t blame you for what you think of me.”

I stare down at my fingers, picking at them. “What do you think I think of you?”

“Maybe you think I’m just a dumb dude who has no business in the art school. Maybe you think I got no depth in me.”

“Maybe.”

I stare out the window for a while. Then, I hear a click. I look up. Brant’s holding his camera, lowering it from having just taken a picture. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “You just look so damn pretty tonight.”

I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes. I just stare at his bright eyes and that camera in his soft hands … a camera I know easily costs upwards of six hundred dollars.

“I’ll delete the pic if that was weird,” he says quickly. “I just wanted to sorta … catch you unawares, I guess.”

“Caught,” I assure him with a short nod. “Where were you hiding that thing?”

“Under my seat,” he confesses with a chuckle. “In a little black case. I take it everywhere with me. It’s like my new toy or somethin’. Can’t go nowhere without it.”

I don’t know why, but it only just now occurs to me how close together we are in this tiny car. Just a few feet separate his lips from mine, and I’m disarmed by the fact that that’s the only thing my mind bothers to measure—the proximity of our lips.

Is Brant holding his breath? I feel like I’m holding mine. Even the music seems to have left us alone in this vehicle so we can become so incredibly, sensitively, unsettlingly aware of one another’s presence, one another’s bodies …

He licks his lips.

I pull my bottom one in, biting it softly.

“You gotta know,” he says so low, his voice turns into gravel, “that it isn’t just the little horny, bouncy dude inside me speaking when I say you’re … f-fucking gorgeous.”

His eyes shimmer anxiously.

Brant just stuttered.

And my mouth is so dry, I couldn’t respond even if I wanted to.

Why am I so damn nervous all of a sudden?

“You know that, right?” He won’t let up. “You know that you’re a total babe, right?”

I look away suddenly, recoiling back into myself. It’s too much, too soon. Too intense. Too close.

“Hey, look, we’re here,” he announces when the light turns green, his voice a bit strained. I glance up just as he hangs a right, pulling into the parking lot of some restaurant I’ve never seen before. Big green lights adorn every window and there seems to be quite a crowd, even for a Monday.

I get out of the car perhaps a touch too fast. I let Brant lead the way to the door and, naturally, he holds it open and gives a sweeping gesture of his hand, letting me enter first. Such a gentleman. And I’m sure he’s just as much a gentleman when he bends his girls over countertops and thrusts his cock in and out of them faster than a car piston.

When the hostess seats us, it’s in an outdoor patio area enclosed by posts with strands of green bulbs hanging lazily between them. The eyes of the hostess linger on Brant’s before she sets menus in front of us and makes her leave. So as I peruse the appetizers, I wonder privately if Brant might have already tried a few things here that are not on the menu. Then our waitress, a girl named Brianna, has a smile only for Brant when she takes his order. That same smile both tightens and darkens when she takes mine, then she sweeps away with the menus. Is she yet another of Brant’s conquests, or am I now presuming too much?

“I like this place,” he tells me with a lift of his eyebrows.

“It seems to like you, too,” I remark dryly.

The sarcasm goes over his head. “So do you live alone?”

I take a sip of my water. “Yes. I have a place by the Brook.”

He lifts his eyebrows. “Jefferson Brook? Isn’t that kind of far from campus?”

“It’s only a fifteen minute walk.”

“No car?”

“I prefer to walk. I run errands by foot every day. I volunteer at the Westwood Light, bringing by art supplies whenever I can and … letting the kids create. It’s a bit of an unofficial thing. The head admin doesn’t like me but lets me come because the kids do, so—”

“What’s that? An orphanage? Homeless shelter?”

“Something like that.” I take another sip, then shiver at a sudden gust of wind, which tosses my hair. “Why are you amazed by creative minds? You act like you don’t have one of your own.”

“Because I don’t,” he shoots back.

I lift my eyebrows questioningly at him, awaiting some elaboration. Is he saying that because I accused him of not being a real artist, or is there something more behind his words?

He smiles lightly, shifting in his seat, then props his elbows up on the table. “Listen, I’ve been surrounded by people my whole life who are twenty times more creative than me. Even my roommates. I’ve got Dmitri, who writes poetry. And short stories. Then there’s Eric, who’s an actor. But he didn’t get cast in anything this semester or last, so he sulks a lot and talks about how he wants to write plays and win himself a Pulitzer or something. He’s pretty miserable to be around lately, if I’m honest. I think Dmitri’s a good influence on him, what with the being a writer and all. Then there’s Clayton, my bestie since childhood, and he’s a damn lighting designer working with … with people from New York now. Lucky bastard.”

“They’re all your gay roommates?”

“Just Eric and Dmitri. Clayton moved out. He’s my best friend, so it sucks that he’s gone. Now he’s living with Dessie, a pretty actress and singer. Maybe you’ll meet them sometime.”

“Maybe.” I offer him a smile, stirring my water with a straw.

He shifts in his seat again and I feel his shoe tap into mine. I look up and find him glancing off somewhere in the parking lot, pressing his lips together.

I wonder if this night is as hard for him as it is for me. Do I have Brant all wrong? Sometimes he acts like a self-proclaimed gift to all of womankind. And sometimes he reminds me of this timid boy I knew long ago who was so scared to ask to sit with anyone at lunch that he’d just take his tray to the corner of the room and eat by the trashcan. It was a girl in a green dress who might or might not have joined him one unassuming Tuesday in October and gave him reason to smile for the first time all school year. We might have also been laughed at by a neighboring table and then pelted with banana peels.

Also, I’m pretty sure I wore more than just that green dress when I was a kid, seriously.

“It’s a nice night,” Brant murmurs lazily, still gazing off.

Then, I’m not sure what comes over me. Maybe it’s his nervousness. Maybe it’s mine. Maybe it’s the flirty employees and an uncharacteristic bolt of jealousy that cuts through me. But suddenly, I let my foot slip out of my shoe, then gently and slowly run just the tip up the inside of his smooth, jeaned leg.

Though Brant continues to stare off, I can tell by the flicker in his eyes that my little action does not go unnoticed. I see him trying to fight away a smirk on his face, pretending not to feel it.

I let my toe run even higher, reaching his inner thigh.

He purses his lips innocently, still gazing off as if totally oblivious … except he seems to open his legs a bit more.

My foot welcomes the invitation.

Soon, my foot’s ascended so high, I can visibly see his breathing change by the rise and fall of his chest, which grows more dramatically by the second.

Then he snaps his eyes to me and grips my foot under the table in one motion.

I gasp, surprised.

Now it’s Brant wearing that signature cocky grin of his.

“Foot massage?” he murmurs quietly.

I narrow my eyes.

Then, he pulls my foot right to the destination I may or may not have been crawling towards all along. Upon pulling my foot into his crotch, Brant bites his lip into half a scowl and moans lightly.

Yes, he’s hard as a rock.

Then he brings his other hand down and begins to massage my foot, his eyes never leaving mine as he mashes his thumbs in all the right places. I can’t even begin to describe what his strong hands do to me. I fight an urge to squeeze shut my thighs, then fight another urge to open them wide and wrap Brant in them. The whole table seems to be magically growing smaller. If I close my eyes, I could imagine we were somehow sharing the same chair.

“Feel good?”

“Mmm-hmm,” I moan slowly.

“Is this winning me some points?” he asks. “I’m trying to redeem enough to get you in my bed.”

I flip open my eyes, glaring at him. Of course I find him grinning obnoxiously.

To that, I ignore his massage and, instead, gently push my foot even further into his hardened crotch. Brant loses all trace of his cockiness, his eyes going wide and his mouth gaping. I feel his cock flex under my foot. Yeah, I have his manhood at my heel now; I basically own him.

“Earn a few points by letting go of my foot,” I tell him politely.

“But you’re—”

“Or not?” I taunt him.

He lets go at once, despite my foot being pressed firmly against his junk. He looks like a man I’m about to arrest, his face showing surprise and his hands hovering tentatively in the air.

I suppress a smile of amusement, then work my foot deeper, giving him a “foot massage” of my own.

He shuts his eyes and clamps his fingers to the edges of the table. A deep groan of approval escapes his throat. I grin, encouraged by his reaction, and continue to use my foot to help out with his not-so-little “situation” down there.

Then he brings a fist to his mouth and bites it. “You’re making this impossible,” he says through his clenched teeth, muffled.

“Making … what … impossible?” I ask innocently.

“Making it impossible for me to—” I push deeper into his crotch, which seems to push a moan out of his lips. “For me to behave myself.”

“We’re behaving,” I assure him.

Then his eyes meet mine, and boy do they smolder. I’ve never seen blue eyes smolder the way his do in this moment, burning me with their daring, sexualized fury. His eyes have that “I’m gonna get you back” look to them. I suppose that’s the sort of look one earns when one so brazenly plays with fire.

The very next moment, a server—who is a boy with cherry cheeks and bleached blond hair—appears with our orders, announcing them as he sets each plate in front of us.

My foot never leaves Brant’s crotch. Brant’s gaze never leaves mine.

“Bon appétit,” says the server, oblivious, then departs.

And as I continue to torment Brant beneath the table with my cruel toes, I’m just another diner in the restaurant, innocently cutting into my steak and slipping the first bite past my lips. “Mmm,” I moan, our eyes still locked on one another. “Delish.”

He shuts his eyes again, issuing a small moan of his own as I continue to drive him crazy under the tablecloth.

“Aren’t you going to try yours?” I ask lightly.

“You’re evil.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” He struggles to pretend like nothing’s amiss, grabbing his fork and knife like a caveman and gracelessly cutting himself off a chunk, stabbing it into his mouth, and chewing demonstratively. Then, through his mouthful, he blurts, “Tasty.”

“Orgasmic, even,” I suggest.

“Explosive,” he agrees, his wetted eyes growing more and more crazed by the second.

I lean forward a bit and bring my voice down. “This is pretty mean, isn’t it?”

“The meanest,” he agrees.

“Especially when I still turn you down for sex after this.” I take a forkful of mashed potatoes, moaning as I eat them. “Wow. These are particularly succulent.”

“You’ll turn me down? Really? After working me up?”

“Try the potatoes.”

“Babe, I’m going to have the worst case of blue balls …”

“Potatoes,” I repeat, tapping my plate with my fork.

He scoops up some potatoes just as mannishly, shoveling so much into his mouth that his cheek bulges. Then he chews, his unblinking eyes locked on me as I continue to massage him.

“You have so much tension down there,” I note.

“Let’s skip dessert,” he says through his bite.

“But that’s my favorite part.”

And then I pull my foot back. I see him lurch forward, as if pulling my foot away had more of an effect on him than putting it there in the first place. His jaw hangs open, staring at me in disbelief across the table. I innocently return my attention to my plate.

He sputters before finally getting his question out. “Who are you?”

I just smile and enjoy my meal above the table, as I’ve finished enjoying the one beneath it.

Finally, after a few more bites of his steak, he shakes his head and says, “You’re like night and day, Nell.”

I swallow my mouthful. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, just days ago you turned me into your art exhibit and … I’m pretty sure the message behind that was you didn’t want anything to do with me. And then, through a great effort—”

“That wasn’t quite the message.”

“Through a great effort of mine,” he presses on, “I convinced you somehow this afternoon to actually interrupt your busy artist schedule go on a date with me.”

“Still haven’t declared this a date yet.”

“And now you’re … so fuckin’ frisky that I’m feeling caught off-guard. Me. Brant Rudawski. I’m caught off-guard. I’m blushing and shit. This isn’t me.”

“Your last name’s Rudawski?” I ask, then take a sip of my water.

He sets down his utensils, eyeing me from across the table. “Forgive me, Nell. I’m just gettin’ a lot of … mixed messages. I know you’re into me. You have to be into me. Basically everyone is. Even dudes.”

I chortle into my glass, then experience a sudden wave of regret. I don’t mean to lead him on so strongly. I’ve always been a bit like the kitty that races up the curtains, then can’t figure out how to get back down. I can’t resist an impulse when it takes hold of my mind. Those impulses are the reason I’m an artist.

They also happen to get me in trouble.

“When we first met,” I reason with him, changing my demeanor to something a touch more serious, “I think it’s clear to say I got a certain impression of you, Brant.”

“A naked one,” he agrees.

“Second time I met you, I got a similar impression.”

“Another naked one.”

“So forgive me,” I say, lowering my voice and leaning forward, “if I might need a little time to sort out whether it’s you playing me, or me playing you.”

He nods slowly. “What you’re telling me is, you want to get the hell out of here and play a bit somewhere else?”

His leg is bouncing excitedly under the table. His eyes gleam with a hunger I know has nothing to do with the steak he just crammed in his mouth. I worry that I’m pushing my luck here with a guy I barely know, once again following in my dad’s footsteps, being totally fucking reckless and irresponsible.

Why do I always do this? Why am I such a glutton for danger and darkness? Why is the good girl in me always wanting to do bad things?

“Yes,” I answer him, a challenging smirk on my face. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

BRANT

I drop the keys twice on the way back to the car.

I can barely say anything on the ride over except stupid shit, like asking how she thought the steak was, or whether the restaurant felt too cramped for a Monday. Who cares, Brant? You’re driving to her place! And if you play all your Kings and Aces right, you’ll win the Queen!

“Here,” she murmurs.

I pull to a stop in front of a tall building just past the bridge over Jefferson Brook. I’m a bit turned around and possibly too intoxicated by horniness at the moment to process whether or not this is the nice side of town. From the look of the seemingly abandoned vehicles and boarded-up stores down the road, I might make a guesstimate as to which side I’m on.

She opens the door to a rundown warehouse-like building and we start ascending a narrow staircase which goes on forever. I’m about to complain until I realize I have a beautifully hypnotic view of Nell’s tight ass all the way up the approximately nine hundred flights. I think that’s enough motivation to shut up and bear the sore thighs. I could almost feel thankful for the lack of a working elevator.

We finally arrive at a sliding metal door, which she unlocks and pulls open with a heavy grunt. She flips on a switch inside, which actually lights up an array of different sized and shaped lamps that line one wall, giving the long room a multihued glow of various oranges and ambers. She lives in an industrial loft that overlooks the Jefferson Brook and the buildings below through its wall of windows that stretch the length of two walls—as we’re in a corner of the building. I’ve never been to New York City, but instantly I could believe I was there right now, staring out the window of some high-rise. I might be wrong, but I think I can even see Klangburg University in the distance. That is, if I’m even looking in the right direction.

“Want a drink?”

I turn away from the window at the inviting sound of her soft voice. She’s in her kitchenette, which is a modest L of countertop, a stove that’s seen better days, and a fridge that groans like it’s clinging to its last breath. Beyond the kitchen is a shadowed space I can’t see too well and a bed farther off by the window. I don’t even see the door to another room, leading my mind to wonder where the hell the bathroom is. I’m not used to such an open living space. I envy it, considering my own cramped living situation.

“I’m good.” I offer a smile, tucking my hands away in my pockets. “This is quite the pad you got here.”

“It’s alright. I hate the lighting in the evening; sun’s right in my face. Horrible for work.” She pulls out a bottle of something, cracks it open on the side of the counter, then kicks it back. I watch her in half-admiration, feeling as if I’m discovering a new facet of her every damn second. I’ve learned more about her tonight than I did all last week.

And I even still have my clothes on.

“You do your work here?” I ask.

“Yes, some of it.”

She takes another swig, leaning back against the counter. It’s very difficult not to stare at her sexy thighs, imagine the warmth between them, and reckon how horny it’d make me to put my face in all of that. Just the thought stirs my cock.

“Want to show me your work?”

She lifts an eyebrow. “Are you that much in a hurry to get chained up naked and turned into another art piece again?”

I grin, a jolt of excitement coursing through me. Honestly, I might totally go for that exact situation again, provided it’s just her and I in the gallery. “Cuffed,” I correct her sassily, unable to resist giving her another onceover with my hungry eyes.

Nell chuckles, then pushes herself off the counter and heads for the shadowy area. I follow, our footsteps echoing all over the room. This loft has to be twice the size of my apartment. How does she afford a place of this size off-campus? I immediately answer my own question, figuring that in a rundown neighborhood like this, even a makeshift loft probably doesn’t go for much in terms of rent.

Or maybe she’s the sole heir to some family fortune and I’m a total judgmental prick.

She flips a switch, startling me, and three overhanging lights I didn’t notice before now bring into existence a cemetery of easels and tiny platforms upon which half-finished structures are perched. I see what looks like a big clay animal without its head—either a puppy or a pig, judging from the tail. There’s a giant papier-mâché spiked heel shoe, painted a glossy black. My eyes move to the easels and I see only two of them that carry drawings. Upon closer inspection, I realize one is a painting, in fact. It’s on a tall canvas—a familiar painting.

“Hey,” I say, pointing at it with recognition. “It’s a naked woman with ‘censored’ over her mouth.”

“I had to paint the idea first,” she explains, coming up to my side, “before making the … the piece of art I never quite showed.”

“Because you showed me instead.”

She smirks, but it looks more like she’s trying not to smile. “I much preferred the live version.”

“Me too.”

I study the painting. It’s not that I didn’t previously think Nell was a good artist, but I’m kinda surprised by how good she actually is. The painting looks totally professional. The shading on the woman’s legs gives her such a depth, it’s like she’s stepping right off the canvas. Her thighs are gorgeous and full, just like Nell’s, and her pussy is smooth and delicately pink. I stare at that particular area, surprised to find myself admiring its beauty more than being turned on by it.

“Beautiful, really,” I hear myself say.

She doesn’t respond, lowering herself to a nearby pedestal that contains no art and kicking back her bottle again. I turn away from the painting and catch her sharp, green eyes staring at mine. There’s a defiant look about them, as if she resents my comments about her work. Or maybe she’s just one of those artists who doesn’t take well to compliments.

“What do you do with them?” I ask, curious.

“Sell them, if I can. Or leave them. Or burn them. I don’t know.”

“Wow. How much do they go for?”

“Doesn’t matter.” She crosses her legs, hangs one arm over them while helping herself to another swig. Her eyes turn to glass and she licks her lips. “I don’t do it for money.”

I lift my eyebrows, taking a step toward her. “So what do you do it for?”

She considers the question, her eyes drifting off somewhere far, far away. “I do it for all the girls in the world, the girls in their pretty green dresses.” She swallows hard, her jaw tightening. “Maybe every time I create something beautiful, it makes me a little less aware of the ugliness around me. But sometimes I make ugly things too. I guess it’s just human nature, trying to put out fires by setting new ones. And sometimes,” she says, looking up at her headless puppy-pig creation, “all I want to do is make something beautiful … just to watch someone else destroy it.”

I stare at the piece, wondering if maybe it was, in fact, whole at one point. “Did someone take off its head?” I ask, trying to follow.

“The name of the piece was B.F.F.,” she tells me, tilting her head and observing it curiously. “I made it a year ago for a midterm project. When I brought it to class, it was criticized. Cheeks too puffy, like a rabbit. Ears too perky, of course. Nose looked like a marshmallow. They even criticized the glossy, lifelike sheen I gave its eyes.”

“They weren’t too fond of its whole head, seems like.”

“So I took it off,” she concludes. “I turned it in again the next day and called it Headstrong Henry.”

“Who’s Henry?”

“No idea. I got an A.” She puts a hand over her mouth and sucks in air, as if she were smoking an imaginary cigarette. Then, with a sigh through that same hand, she says, muffled, “I think I make art to reconcile with all the parts about myself that I hate.” She pulls her hand away. “With art, I’m able to put that ugliness somewhere. And maybe, if I’m lucky, someone will find the ugliness beautiful.” Her eyes meet mine. “And I’ll keep doing it until it isn’t needed anymore. Until we’re so far into the future that all my lovely work becomes just … some forgotten evidence of how shitty our past was. We live in such a shitty time.”

“It’s not that shitty,” I finally put in. “There’s so much that’s cool about life nowadays. We have … little pocket-sized machines that can access the whole scope of … of human intelligence with just a tap of the finger. That’s cool as hell, right? And we have—”

“Wait. ‘Human intelligence’ is what you call that phone in your pocket? Is it Facebook that you’re referring to, full of ego, judgment, and soapboxes? Not something I’ll be proud of fifty years from now when I’m looking at retirement home brochures with my children.”

“Jeez! Bleak, much?” I stifle a laugh.

Nell stares at me hard.

I should maybe exercise some sensitivity and try not to mess this all up. “Sorry. Just … I tend to be a positive, happy-go-lucky kinda guy. I don’t mean to insult you or anything, Nell. It’s just that I always—”

“Penelope.”

I lift an eyebrow. “Sorry?”

“Penelope.” She takes another swig, blinks away the sting of it, then says, “My name’s Penelope Norman.”

“Penelope … Nell. I see.” I smile, appreciating it. “When’d you start going by Nell?”

“When I left high school. I couldn’t stand the … sound of my own name. I needed to … shed my old skin, I guess you could say.”

“Didn’t have a good childhood?”

“No.”

She stares down at her bottle, lost in a thought. Somewhere in those infinite, green eyes of hers, I feel like there’s a hundred things she’s not wanting to say. I need to tread lightly.

“My childhood sucked, too.” I take a seat on an empty platform next to her. “Well, I mean, school did. Kids are fuckin’ mean.”

She looks at me curiously, as if appraising me. “Mean little shits, they all were,” she agrees, squinting.

“I wasn’t always … like this,” I admit to her, then instantly regret it, feeling a wave of discomfort surge through me as I recall prepubescent Brant and the way he’d freeze up in front of any girl, pissing himself at parties while pre-deaf Clayton confidently strode forth, showing little me how it’s done. “Anyway, I—”

“Like what?” she asks, pursuing the subject I was trying to avoid. “You weren’t always like what?”

I reach for my neck, then make a sudden and timely discovery that I decide to use as a distraction. “Shit. I … I left my camera in the car. Didn’t even put it back in its case. Left it sitting out on the passenger seat, I think. I wanted to, uh … take another photo of you.”

Nell crosses her legs the other way, then smiles. “Take it now.”

“Now? But I gotta run back down a hundred flight of stairs and grab—”

“Take it on your phone. Who cares? We make art with nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“You don’t need your big flashy device. You just need whatever you got on you, always. And if you didn’t have your phone, you’d take pics with your mind.” Her green eyes are ablaze. “Take my picture, Brant.”

I fumble, diving into my pocket and retrieving my phone. Quickly lifting it, I get her in frame, angling the pic to capture her legs and long, beautiful hair, then snap a shot of her.

“Let me see,” she says at once, snatching the phone from me before I’ve given her an answer.

I watch as she stares at the picture, peering curiously at it. The silence in the room grows thicker and thicker the longer her face is lit by the screen. I smile, watching her watch herself.

Then she asks, “What do you see in this?”

“What do you mean? It’s … you. Nell.”

“I mean … you don’t ever just take a photo.” She turns my phone one way, then the other, squinting. “You consider the lights and darks. The balance. Depth. Where my eyes are and … I mean, look. You even caught the white canvas behind me, contrasting with my dark hair.”

“I did?” I lean over, peering into the phone with her. My shoulder grazes hers. I’m so close, her scent invades me and it’s intoxicating.

“See?” she murmurs quietly.

I look at the photo. I guess I see what she means. “Yeah, totally.”

“Hmm.” She continues to study it as if she were analyzing some great piece of art she happened across. And I study the side of her face as if she was some great puzzle I was trying to pull apart.

Then another puzzle comes to mind. “Hey, Nell. Where’s your, uh … bathroom?”

“Other side of the fridge near the door.”

I help myself, crossing the narrow space to a short hallway I didn’t notice when coming in where a salmon-colored opened door leads me into a dim bathroom with a combo tub-and-shower squeezed next to a sink and toilet. The first thing I smell is bleach and paint, then notice the bathtub stained with various colored splotches. Guess she uses the tub more in the name of art and less in the name of actually taking baths.

I close the door softly behind me and touch my back pocket, just to be sure it’s still there. Condom, check.

Then I take a deep breath and look at myself in the mirror, leaning forward to inspect a red spot, curious if I got a bug bite or something. I push down a strand of hair that’s sticking straight up in the back. I lick my lips and check my breath, huffing into my palm.

I could very well move to the next step with Nell and I need to make sure I do this right, because it’s clear to me that her whole “art” thing can shove me away as easily as it can pull me into her bed. She’s not as tough as she looks; minute by minute I’m peeling back the layers and finding the sensitive Nell I know is in there, the one who will respond to my advances, the one who’ll let me kiss her.

And maybe other things, if I can keep her attention.

Maybe things involving her boobs, which I can’t stop staring at in that sexy red crop top.

Maybe things involving that ass of hers, that ass I want to grab and lift her up by, that ass I want to slam against a wall as I thrust myself into her.

Penelope … I smile at myself, as if just the revealing of her name was some admission of letting down her walls. She’s let me inside of her.

And now it’s time for her to let another part of me inside her.

I flush her toilet, fake-wash my hands, then let myself out of the bathroom. I clap my hands together, give them a good rub, and return to Nell still sitting on that pedestal staring at my phone.

“I can print out that pic and frame it, if you like it so much,” I tease.

“Candace.”

Candace? “Who?”

“That’s your dancer’s name,” she says, lifting her eyes to meet mine. “She sent a text. Popped up suddenly, covered my face for a second. Candace. Not Clara. Unless that’s yet another ‘artist of the stage’ you … spent time with. Got a thing for C-named dancers?” she teases dryly.

I glance down at the phone in her grip, making the realization. “Oh. I … I know. She really wasn’t any—I mean, she wasn’t a big—Well, like, what I mean is …”

Each time I try to spin it, the explanation sounds worse.

“No, no,” she returns calmly. “Brant, I’m not … No.” Suddenly, Nell laughs. “I’m not jealous. I’m not hurt. This isn’t …”

“I’m just trying to explain that she—”

“No need, really, seriously. Brant, I knew what I was getting into.” She rises and hands me my phone. It lands in my palm with a resolute, fleshy thud.

“What you were ‘getting into’? Wait,” I blurt, frustrated. “Nell, you got this wrong. I’m into you. I’m, like … I’m way into you.” I don’t even know what Clara—fuck, I mean Candace—texted me for. “You’re not ‘getting into’ anything.”

“Of course I am. Listen, I don’t know where you were expecting this thing to go …” she starts.

“Not straight into your bed,” I lie. Or maybe I mean it. I don’t even know. “We’re just getting to know each other, Nell. Totally innocent. I’m not here to just … score. I’m—”

“Great. So, we’ve gotten to know each other. You’ve seen my home, and not many people have. I just thought …” Her eyes detach for a moment, searching for the words. “I guess I just lost track of the time.”

“The time?”

“It’s late. I have an early class.” She folds her arms.

I stare at her. She’s throwing me out. Because of the text, which I still haven’t read. My insides are worked up so much, I could spit acid. “Nell, don’t ice me out just because some dumb girl texted me or whatever.”

“Dumb girl,” she murmurs.

Fuck. “I didn’t mean … Ugh, listen, Nell—”

“You really don’t owe me an explanation, Brant,” she says, her voice annoyingly calm. “We’re not boyfriend and girlfriend. We had dinner tonight. That’s all.”

“But I don’t want it to be just a damn dinner,” I retort, feeling myself getting angry. “I want more with you. I want to like, talk art and, like, get all deep and shit with you.”

“Deep?” She chuckles dryly. “You? Deep?”

I feel my eyes narrowing. Okay, now she’s digging at me personally. “You think I’m just some shallow dude?” It’s like she’s pulling my fears right out of my mind. It’s like she knows my insecurities. She’s playing my heart the way a seasoned pianist pulls wicked music out of thin air the second he sits at the bench. “The idea of a guy like me having any … depth … is a fucking joke to you?”

“They all leave.”

“What?”

“They all … always leave,” she mumbles. “Just go. Spare me the pain of having to figure it out later when you get bored of me, just like every person in my life has gone away. Leave, along with the rest of them. I don’t even care. I don’t even really like you,” she adds.

“Now that, I know, is a lie.” Something else is happening here. There is something … dark … going on in her head that she isn’t telling me.

“I never really liked you,” she repeats.

“You’re just saying that because you’re afraid of being hurt,” I state, despite the nagging doubts eating away at what little confidence I can muster in this situation. “You’re tearing down what we got goin’ on because you’re afraid.”

“There’s nothing going on.”

“You’re afraid.” I close the distance between us, startling her when my face appears inches from hers. “You’re afraid of me, Nell.”

“Fuck you.”

“Wish you would.”

“That’s all you care about.”

“You’re still afraid of me, Nell.”

“I’m afraid of nothing.”

“If I’m being honest here, I’m kinda fuckin’ afraid of you, too.”

Her eyes change, staring into mine with intensity at those words. The tension is pulsing from her stiffened posture, her clenched hands, her unmoving arms and frozen face. I suddenly feel like I’ve just said exactly the right thing to reach her. She’s caught in my grip, hanging on my words.

“I’m afraid of you, Nell,” I go on, “because you’re really … fucking interesting.” I huff at the total inadequacy of those words and how difficult it is to articulate anything when I’m this damn close to her face. “And, like … you’re really … fucking hot.”

“Brant …”

“And you’re deep,” I finish. “You’re so deep. And I’m … I’m not.”

“Brant …”

“But I want to be. So fucking bad.”

She grabs hold of my shirt and pulls me into her face.

Our lips join, and I taste her at last.

Her tongue darts out, slips past my lips as if it were my own. I might say it tickles if it weren’t for the fluttering that suddenly chases up and down my body.

And then an entirely different fluttering happens when I feel her touch my arm, her fingers crawling up the length of it as we kiss.

My skin prickles, like the winter has cast an early cold front up the tiny hairs on my arms.

I can’t stand what it does to me, so I bring a hand to the back of her head and tangle my fingers in her beautiful, soft hair.

We pull apart for one moment, her eyes gently observing mine, my eyes hungrily staring at hers.

Then I pull her back in with a breathy sound, fisting her hair.

I don’t even know where I am when we kiss.

We’re on the move. Our feet create a dance as our tongues create another, until I back into a short platform and find myself sitting down on it. Nell straddles my lap, her tight ass pressing against my cock as she wraps her arms around me and tunnels into my mouth with her tongue.

And it’s a slow tunneling. It’s a slow, patient, dominating act with which her tongue caresses my tongue and her lips cover mine. It’s like a war of mouths that we’re both meant to win.

My phone buzzes with another text.

She doesn’t seem to hear it. And if she did, she’s ignoring it just as I am ignoring it, holding her firmly against my body as our mouths find the dessert that we didn’t bother getting at the restaurant.

The phone buzzes again.

She pulls away this time, staring expectantly in my eyes. We breathe heavily, staring at one another. My cock flexes by instinct, pushing up excitedly against her ass, and I give Nell a wiggle of my eyebrows.

“What?” she murmurs.

“My cock recognizes you,” I tell her very seriously.

She plays along. “Well, he ought to. He has met me more than once. Though I think he might be better acquainted with my foot.”

My phone buzzes a third fucking time.

She glances at it sitting on the pedestal next to me, then wrinkles her face. “Clay-Boy?”

“Oh.” I’d thought it was the dancer again. “That’s my best friend who doesn’t live with me anymore.”

“The not-gay one?”

“Yep.”

“With the actress girlfriend?”

“You know,” I say, pulling her in tightly, “as much as I’d love to sit here and chat about all my lovely friends, I’ve got a boner pressed against your ass that’s fast deflating at the mention of them.”

“Do you and your gay roommates mess around?” she asks. “Y’know, when you’re super horny and you—”

“No.”

I grip under her thighs and lift her up, startling her to the point of earning myself a little shriek.

Carrying her to the kitchen, I set her on the counter, unbutton her jeans, then grip the waistband. She freezes, and we stare at one another challengingly.

“The idea of two guys getting it on kinda works me up,” she admits, finally lifting her hips so I can slide her pants off.

“Don’t say that around my roommates. You’ll give them ideas.”

“So you’ve thought of it?”

I grip her panties next. “Nope.”

“I talked you into becoming my art project. I think I can talk you into—”

I pull her legs apart and bury my face between them, and quite suddenly she can’t talk at all.

“Brant!” she howls, showcasing a vocal register I didn’t know she was capable of.

Yeah, I take full credit.

My lips turn her into a moaning, quivering mess as I grip her thighs, push my face into her, and gently have my first taste. Unlike every other girl on this campus, she doesn’t wax it bare. I kinda like the natural thing. It’s so … Nell. Every breath I greedily take in is heaven. Each time she squeezes my head with her thighs, I plunge in deeper.

Her hand slaps down on my head to direct me exactly where she wants me, her fingers tangling in my hair and pulling so hard, it hurts.

I fucking love every second of it.

In response, I moan deeply, casting a wave of vibrations that I know she feels by the way her thighs squeeze me so hard, I feel my whole face turning red.

When she relaxes just a little bit, I gently insert one finger and turn the full attention of my mouth to her swollen clit, adding another finger when I feel her body respond to my expert touch.

I glance up to gage her reaction, sliding my free hand under her red top on a quest for her tits.

She gasps.

Found them.

My fingers invade her bra, discovering the flesh of her perky breasts. I grin at her reaction as an earthquake rockets through her body by my touch—though it’s hard to say which touch is earning the prize.

Just as my fingers find a nipple, I give it a less-than-gentle pinch as I continue pleasuring her below.

Her thighs convulse, threatening to dislodge my head.

She moans and grips my hair tighter, pulling at it as if she could get my face any deeper into her.

Turns out, she can.

“Fuck me!” she howls. “BRANT!”

I can’t say how many times my name’s been screamed out when I got my lady-licker this deep down a woman’s wishing well, but I’d say Nell’s wishes are all coming true by the sound of it.

“I’m close!”

I know.

And when she lets go, my face is bathed with the result of her orgasm and all of my hard work.

I don’t stop sucking and licking her, not until every last shockwave, tremor, and whimper is squeezed out of her and she’s nothing more than a puddle of flesh, panting in my arms.

I come up from between her legs, my cock painfully hard between my own and begging for its own release. She peers down at me as she catches her breath. From the sheen on her face, it seems I’m not the only one who worked up a sweat. She looks so damn beautiful right now, I could already take another dive.

No matter how badly I want to slam my cock into her and get myself off, I have to take this slowly. Tonight’s gotta be all about Nell.

Despite not-so-little Brant desperately disagreeing.

“I’ve never come that hard before,” she moans tiredly, then meets my eyes. “I feel so damn … greedy.”

“Tonight’s all about you,” I admit reluctantly, telling her what I think she wants to hear while ignoring the aching throb in my pants.

She considers that, tilting her head and letting all her hair fall to one side. “Wow, Brant. You are an expert in your field of study.”

“Maybe that should be my major,” I reply. “Women’s Studies.”

She chuckles dryly, then suddenly seems to become self-conscious, slipping off the counter and pulling her panties back up.

Wait, wait. I still haven’t gotten the official invitation into her bed. “Don’t get shy on me,” I tease, bringing a hand around and pulling her in for another kiss, rubbing her lower back. My cock hasn’t softened one bit, still aggressively pushing to be freed.

Her eyes still look playful, but her body stiffens. “You’re sweet,” she says suddenly. “Sweet, and … good at what you do. But … I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lead you on. I was … caught in the moment.”

I stop moving my hand. “Nell?”

“You can’t stay.”

I watch her for a moment, confused by her sudden change in mood. And a bit frustrated, considering the situation in my pants. “Alright. I guess I can … uh …”

Really, it’s normally the other way around. After I’ve had my fun in the sun, I’m always the one to kick out the pretty girl before shit gets awkward. Am I the pretty girl, now?

“Don’t forget your phone,” she murmurs, pulling away.

I furrow my brow, bothered by her slight retreat from me. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, Brant,” she replies, “if my obnoxious moaning and squirming was any indication.” She stares at her hands, a guilty expression crossing her eyes.

“It wasn’t obnoxious. It was perfect. You’re perfect. Nell, why are you pulling away from me?”

“I’m afraid,” she answers dryly with a coy smirk, and I can’t tell if she’s mocking what I said earlier or if she means it. “Remember? I’m like, all afraid of you or … whatever.” She stumbles slightly on her way to the pedestal we shared a few moments ago, then retrieves my phone and returns it to me with an awkward, reluctant look. “I’m really sorry tonight didn’t turn out the way you wanted.”

“You were fine. I … wasn’t expecting anything. I just—”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers again, then turns her back to me, placing herself in front of a painting on an easel.

After giving her a moment, I slowly approach, gently place my chin on her shoulder, and let my lips graze her neck, which might or might not have been a mistake, considering how much stiffer my cock just got. But the longer I stand here behind her, the more I realize that … it isn’t happening.

If only my cock could get the memo.

I let myself see the painting we’re standing in front of. It’s a sweet little girl in watercolor—I think—and she’s cheerfully embracing this enormous dog at her side, except the dog’s head is missing. Or maybe she hasn’t painted it yet.

Or maybe I’m starting to notice a theme in her work.

“It’s beautiful,” I murmur in her ear. She doesn’t respond. “I’ll go,” I assure her, in case she still thinks I’m trying to weasel back into her tight, sexy pants. I might be, if I’m totally honest. “But let me see you again, at least. Please. Maybe … let me have your number, or like …”

I can feel her tenseness, even just through my chin on her shoulder.

I guess I can take a hint. When I sigh, my breath causes her hair to stir. “Alright,” I mutter, then slip away from her.

She says nothing and makes no movement as I cross her loft and let myself out through the sliding door. I take my time, just in case she changes her mind and calls out for me.

She doesn’t.

I hear the thumping of live rock music through the walls as I descend the stairs—a band rehearsing. I’m not sure if it’s my mood or what, but their music annoys the shit out of me and the lead singer can’t sing. Or maybe I’m pissed about my cock, which I have to keep adjusting in my pants as it slowly goes to sleep. Yeah, there’s a wet spot there. And yeah, I’m gonna have blue balls for hours tonight, I can tell.

By the time I get outside, I’m just plain angry.

Why do I feel like I’ve done something wrong? I treated Nell like a damn princess. Kinda. Did I push things too fast? Should I not have let my horniness control me, sending me down a path that led right between her sweet, womanly legs? I mean, I don’t have anything to feel sorry for, do I? Hell, I’m the one who made sure she got hers.

When I reach the car, I make an unfortunate discovery. I stare at the jagged hole in the passenger side window, my mouth frozen half-open as I literally can’t even process what I’m seeing.

I step closer, peering into the broken window at the seat where I had left my so-called flashy device.

“Motherfucker,” I hiss through gritted teeth.

BRANT

“What do you mean it’s lost??”

I fall into the couch, annoyed, and wrap myself in my blue-and-orange afghan. It smells funny. Eric and one of his boys-of-the-week probably cuddled up in it. I wrinkle my face, annoyed by that, too.

“Oh, Brant. Oh, Brant, Brant, Brant …”

I sigh into the phone against my ear. “It’s lost,” I repeat tiredly. “I already told you, Mom.”

“You lost an eight-hundred dollar camera??”

“Mom.” I don’t want to say the whole truth, but considering where this conversation will likely lead if I don’t, I choose the lesser of two evils. “It … was stolen.”

“Stolen, sweetheart? Oh, no! Were you robbed?”

“Someone broke into my roommate’s car and stole it.”

“Oh! What was it doing in your roommate’s car?”

“I was … running an errand,” I answer with a huff. “Well, sorta. I left it in the car.”

“Brant,” she reprimands. “Oh, dear. I told you to keep it with you at all times, sweetheart.”

“Don’t we have some kind of insurance?”

“Insurance??” my mother exclaims, sighing exasperatedly. “Yes, Phil. The camera. The camera. Honey, do you know what your son did?”

Now, she’s talking to Dad. Whenever she’s pissed at me, she says “your son”, as if with one word she can pretend she wasn’t the one who gave birth to all ten-and-a-half pounds of me.

I pull my phone from my ear while Mom and Dad quibble back and forth at my expense, then pull up the pic of Nell I took while I was at her place last night. She’s looking at me through the photo. I stare at it and try to see what she was seeing. I look for the contrasts and the light and dark and the essence of her hair that I captured … or whatever.

When I bring the phone back to my ear, I miss what my mom just said. “What?”

“Brant, I’m sorry to say this, but if you don’t straighten up—”

It’s my dad talking now. “What? But my grades are all good. We’re talking about my camera, Dad.”

“That camera is mine that you lost. I paid for it, so it’s mine. So you just lost my camera.”

“But it was stolen.”

He takes a deep breath, which always means I’m about to get it. “Son, if you don’t straighten up and figure out what you’re doing with my money at that college, I’m pulling you from it.”

“Huh?”

“You heard me.” He huffs into the phone, despite Mom’s efforts to calm him suddenly. “I’m pulling all your funding unless you take your education seriously. I’m sick of your … dickin’ around … on your mother and my dime.”

The words were difficult for him to say. They aren’t any easier to hear. “I’m not … dickin’ around,” I spit back.

“All your friends are graduating this year,” he says in a firm voice, hitting me as bluntly as a brick to the chest. “Doesn’t that concern you a bit, Brant?”

Something about the way my dad scolds me makes me feel an inch tall. “Of course it does. I just—”

“And where will you be? Still trying to pass basic algebra?”

“Dad …”

“I had a vision for you when I sent you off to that school. I saw you making a man out of yourself. I saw you growin’ up after all that stuff we had to deal with in high school. And I’m not talking about you and Clayton and your … antics.” He sighs and says something to my mom, I think to calm her down, then returns to me. “I saw you taking some darn responsibility by now. And now look at what you’re doing with my money. Literally letting it get stolen out of your hands. You’re leaving it on a car seat for some darn hoodlum to come take.”

I feel hollow after all the scolding. “I’m sorry.” The two words come out in a miserable drone. “I’m really trying, Dad. I just need—”

“Photography? What’re you gonna do with a photography degree?”

“Photograph,” I spit back.

“And you can’t very well do that without a camera, now can you?”

Or an ounce of Nell’s creativity. Or an understanding of balance, of light and dark and blah, blah, blah.

Dad sighs. The storm in his voice dissipates. “We’ll get you another camera. A replacement.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

“But you need to take a serious look at your life.”

I’m staring across the room at a blowup doll I bought Dmitri as a prank. Its big O mouth gapes at me as if caught mid-scream, frozen in surprise.

“Yes, sir,” I say back.

“We love you.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

I bring the phone back to my lap, which shows the picture I took of Nell for a short moment before the screen goes completely dark. Then all that’s left is my tired reflection staring back at me.

“Your dad?”

I look up at Dmitri, who’s leaning against the doorframe of his bedroom.

“And my mom,” I confirm, smirking down at my phone. “They’re not happy.”

“Neither was I.”

“I’ll pay for the window.”

Dmitri slumps into the room and drops onto the couch with a huff. Now we’re both sitting here in the stark silence, neither of us speaking, just the sound of our breathing filling the room.

“I’m working on a new story.”

I lift an eyebrow, turning to him. “What’s it about?”

“I haven’t figured it out yet.” Dmitri picks at his fingers, scowling. “I think it might be about Riley.”

“The girl in your writing class?”

“She’s really pretty. I like the way she sees the world. She’s got this way of turning really ugly stuff into beauty. She, like, wrote this scene about an angry wife revenge-murdering her husband one night and she made it sound like a choreographed dance. I could hear music with it.”

I wrinkle my face. “That story sounds horrible.”

“It wasn’t a nice one. But it was beautifully written.” Dmitri yawns, then slaps his own face. “I really need to start waking up earlier. I keep  having lunch for breakfast.”

Somehow, his slapping his own face reminds me. “Hey, by the way, Dessie is performing a new song at the Throng & Song this weekend. Clayton messaged me last night. You up for going?”

“I heard. Clayton messaged me, too.” He turns his head towards me. “Maybe I can bring Riley along …? She’d love it there, I think.”

I nod. “Sure, yeah. I need to meet this Riley chick.”

“You can’t have her,” he teases me.

“I can’t have the girl who writes about a woman who murders her husband? What a loss,” I tease back, rising off the couch. “When you finally get her in bed, remember to sleep with an eye open. Or to sleep cuddling an axe, either way.”

“Hey,” he calls out after me as I open the fridge, pushing through all the Chinese leftovers and half-empty sauce jars for something to eat. “How’d last night go, by the way? Other than getting my car broken into. Are you bringing Nell to the Throng?”

I sigh into the fridge. A part of me was hoping he’d magically forget all about my so-called date, too distracted by the broken window.

“I don’t think it’s gonna work out,” I admit.

“Why not?”

“She’s …” Anything I say feels wrong, like I’m betraying some kind of trust between her and I. “She’s got issues, I guess.”

“You were way into her, though. What happened?”

The cool air of the fridge keeps wafting over me. So does the stench of four-day-old lo mein and soy sauce. I shut the door, frustrated. “Is there not a damn thing to eat in this place?”

“We could grab a bite at the University Center before our afternoon classes,” Dmitri suggests. “Your treat.”

I have a feeling that due to the car incident, it’s going to be “my treat” for quite a while.

We ditch the apartment together and cross a cloudless campus, the sun beaming down on our heads. I feel like my skull is on fire by the time we reach the University Center, which is bubbling with students and teachers and noise at this time of day. The glass doors blind me as we pull them open and drink in the cool air conditioning inside on our way to get some grub.

“Six-inch or foot-long?” asks the sub lady.

“Eight inches when hard,” I answer.

“What?”

“I’ll take the foot-long,” I say, leaning over the counter to take a peek at the toppings. “Extra lettuce and banana peppers, please.”

As we enter the seating area, we’re nearly knocked over twice by crowds of other students pushing through the room, whether to leave or to come in and find their own seat. Heads and backpacks and noise are all that stand between me and the two empty seats we’re hoping to find. Trouble is, after nearly ten minutes of slowly pushing around the room, we don’t happen on a single damn place to sit.

Until a familiar voice cuts through the crowd. “Dmitri! Over here!”

Dmitri tugs on my sleeve, then guides me toward the voice. I lose my footing twice and nearly eat the floor until we arrive at a table with two available seats. A girl with messy, shoulder-length black hair sits across from a girl with even darker hair, but it’s jagged and short. One wears shades of green and the other, black from head to toe.

When the girl in black looks up, my stomach twists.

Not that it matters; she hardly regards my existence. “Dmitri!” she greets my roommate almost too sweetly—perhaps to show how very much she doesn’t notice or care for me. “Eric told me about your new story! The one about the corpse organ donor lover who’s looking for his heart back. Such a beautiful, dark premise.”

“Thanks, Chloe,” he mumbles. “These seats aren’t taken? You sure?”

“Nope.” She smiles at him—again, too sweetly—scooting over in her booth to make room. “You’ve been alright? Are you coming to see the play Eric wrote? It’s tomorrow night.”

“Oh, crap. That’s this week already?” Dmitri shakes the confusion out of his head. “Yeah, I’ll uh … of course. I’ll be there. Brant, you want to come?”

The table turns into ice the moment my name is uttered and I haven’t even sat down yet. Chloe, my ex from last year who should totally not still be holding a damn grudge against me, doesn’t even bother with the courtesy of looking up to meet my eyes. Instead, she just smirks at the mention of me, her whole face turning cool and pale as the Arctic Ocean.

So I provide the beachy warmth of the Caribbean Ocean. “Yep!” I exclaim, then take my seat next to the other girl at the table dressed in green, who regards me with mild curiosity. I realize with a start that I know her too. “Hey, wait. I know you. You’re … no, no, don’t tell me … You’re Dessie’s old roommate, right?”

“Yes, sir,” she answers plainly, her voice low and ungainly. Her eyes are pretty, though, and her skin is smooth and … virginal … like it’s never even been touched by a dude. Maybe she bats for the other team and it really hasn’t.

“What was your name again?” I ask, extending a hand.

“Well, of course,” says Chloe so softly, I doubt she means for me to hear. “It’s hard for him to keep up with so many girls’ names.”

Okay, maybe she did mean for me to hear that jab.

“I’m Sam … antha,” the girl answers deadpan, shaking my hand. “Ugh. Dessie wants me to use my full name. Ugh and a half.”

Dmitri folds his arms on the table. “I like just Sam,” he puts in. “I mean, you seem the most comfortable with it, anyway.”

“Thanks. I like your glasses,” she says, her words uttered in perfect monotone and her sentences bleeding together without any indication of pause. “Dessie said I look better with contacts. My glasses are too thick and big. She also told me to just be myself. I don’t know. It’s all very confusing.”

“Dessie’s weird like that,” I admit, from what I know about her. “I think with the whole actress thing …”

“The whole actress thing,” Chloe mutters under her breath, smirking.

I ignore her. “With the whole actress thing, Dessie is pretty used to putting on new skins all the time and shedding old ones.”

“Kinda like trying on new girls, shedding old ones.” Again, she mutters quietly and to herself, but just loud enough for me to hear.

And again, her snide remarks go mostly ignored. “So I say, just take her advice with one tasty grain of salt, Sam. You just do whatever it is you want to do. She’s probably wanting you to emphasize those pretty eyes you got.”

Sam chortles, as if that compliment was the most ridiculous thing in the world to her, blushing instantly and looking away.

I smile, amused by the reaction. “What? Don’t like hearing that you got pretty eyes?”

“Oh, hey,” Dmitri jumps in. “Sam, how are things with Tomas?”

“Well, he still plays the bassoon,” she answers miserably, as if she might as well have just told us he’s still dying of some horrifying flesh-eating disease. “I’m bringing him to the Throng & Song this weekend to see Dessie.”

“You two have been together almost a year now, huh?”

“Not really. Are we a thing? I don’t know.” She seems to be making origami out of her napkin; I can’t tell. “When does something become a something?”

“Let’s ask Brant,” suggests Chloe coolly. “He’s an expert in this very subject.”

Honestly, I can take about twenty-six more snarky asides and jabs before I reach my limit; she’s still got a ways to go. “I’d say, it’s a thing when you really … feel it,” I answer Sam. “You’ll know.”

“So,” cuts in Chloe, “when exactly did you not feel this mystery thing for me? Just curious, Brant. By your very own theory, we ought to have become a thing the very first night we went out, considering you had my clothes off before we even got back to the dorms.”

I sigh. Yeah, I guess we’re going there. “Chloe. I seriously thought, since we both knew Dessie, what we had between us was more of a … friendly thing. Friends with benefits. Hadn’t you had one of those before? It’s not some perverse thing. You even said you were still hung up on your ex and just needed to feel comforted, remember?”

“Comforted,” she says tersely, staring down at her half-eaten salad. “Not used.”

“How were you used? You got something out of that night too, didn’t you?”

“It was more than one night, Brant. We had sex three times. Once in the dorms, and twice in Dmitri’s room.”

“My room?” Dmitri blurts, his eyes flashing.

I sigh. “My room had that smell last year, remember? Anyway, Chloe, I’m sorry,” I tell her tiredly. “I figured you were enjoying it while it lasted, too. I didn’t realize I was … obligating myself to some kind of …”

“Obligating?” She huffs. “Nice. What a big, smarty word for you.”

“It didn’t seem all that serious to me.”

“Maybe that’s because, no matter the girl you’re with, you don’t really see them, do you, Brant?” She stares at me, her nose rings and earrings catching a stray glint of the sunlight coming in through the window. “You act like you respect all the women you’re with, but we’re just … different sauces you can dip your corndog in,” she spits out.

“Ew,” grunts Sam.

“Imagery,” agrees Dmitri with a wince.

“Just quit lying to yourself,” Chloe tells me, her eyes burning me with their darkness. “You’re not a ‘lover’, Brant. You’re not a boyfriend. You are just a plain, straight-up slut. Sex is your game, not love. Just a basic, shallow, dumb, animal hunger for getting off … and that’s it.”

I swallow hard, staring down at the foot-long sub I haven’t even taken a single bite of yet. I want to disagree with her and argue about how serious I am, about this new girl in my life Nell, about how wrong she is … but can’t for the life of me come up with a single argument.

Then the gods of lady luck ask: How can we make this moment for Brant just a little bit worse?

Their answer comes in the form of an excited shout. “Brant!”

I look up to find a girl with chin-length auburn hair waltzing up to our table, her eyes bright and her lips pouty. This might be bad timing, but the first thing I recognize about her—before even her face—is her big tits accentuated exquisitely by that skintight tan shirt she has on. They bounce in the most hypnotizing way as she approaches, and it’s those dancing knockers that I peel my eyes away from to meet her face.

“You didn’t answer my text, sweetie! Oh, hi,” she absently says to the rest of the table, then returns her eyes to me. “Are you up for it? Maybe six or seven tonight, sweetie? Or eight, if you got things? Or nine? I’m flexible.”

If my time with her behind that privacy screen in the art class was any indication, I know exactly how flexible she is.

“I got a, uh … a Theatre thing,” I tell her, feeling my skin crawl. “I can’t. Sorry. I …”

“Oh? I can come! You know my dance classes are in that building too, right? School of Theatre: Acting, Dancing, Excellence,” she sings, reciting the name just so I can enjoy the sound of her grating, overly-chipper voice.

Chloe smirks. “It’s Theatre, Dancing, Excellence,” she mumbles to herself with a roll of her eyes.

The dancer either doesn’t hear her or outright ignores her. “So I’ll come too, then! You obviously need a date. What time? Seven?”

“It’s tomorrow,” I say. “Listen … C-Candace …” I had to fish around in my brain for her name. I still haven’t read the text she sent me last night. “I was sorta just planning to go with my roommate here since he’s friends with an actor in the show.”

“Playwright,” Dmitri hisses unhelpfully across the table.

“Playwright of the show,” I amend.

“That’s okay!” she says cheerily. “I can just tag along. Really, I haven’t actually taken the time to see a show at the theater in, like, months.”

Chloe sighs dramatically, exasperated on all our behalf. “Since the message is clearly flying over your head,” she states loudly, “Brant here is trying to gently let you down. He’s lost interest and has moved on. There’s some girl at the art school he’s all obsessed with for now until he’s tired of her, too. We are all sitting here patiently waiting for your attempts at manipulating Brant into another date to die out. And really, it’s for the best.”

I shoot Dmitri a look. You told Chloe? my eyes seem to say. The guilty look on Dmitri’s face is my answer.

For only a moment, Candace the dancer appears to have been punched deep in her gut. Then, just as fast, she recovers and offers me a tight smile. “Come to think of it, I think I have a rehearsal tonight for my recital in two weeks.” She saves herself yet another scrap of dignity by giving me a cheery sigh—as if all this news didn’t just smash up her heart like a bag of wasted fast food tossed out the car window—then waltzes away just as fast as she’d come.

“You really know how to set it straight,” I mutter at Chloe without looking at her.

She doesn’t respond, poking at her salad. I glance at Dmitri across the table, who only offers an apologetic shrug, his eyes appearing like two innocent black beads behind his glasses. Sam has her mouth full of cheeseburger and staring up at something on the ceiling, which appears to have caught all of her interest.

“I got class soon,” I lie, gently swiping my uneaten sub into my backpack and slinging it over a shoulder. “See you later.” Though I’m not sure who exactly I’m addressing.

I hear Dmitri say my name, but I pretend not to hear it, leaving them to enjoy their lunch in peace without the apparent disturbance of the all-evil, heart-annihilating pussy destroyer Brant in their presence.

The sunlight cooks me again as I stroll slowly across campus. It might be something to do with Chloe’s words, but I find my mind trying to defy her, as if her scathing speech was a challenge. She thinks I have no depth? Nell thinks the idea of me being deep is a joke? Even Dmitri, as nice and polite as he is about it, never goes into much detail with me about the stories he writes. I sometimes wonder if it’s because he thinks I won’t get it … or care.

I’m sick of people treating me like a dumb jock. I didn’t even play sports in high school. Hell, the jocks I was friends with back then were driven and smart, from what I remember. One even got accepted to goddamn Yale.

Dmitri’s latest story is about an organ donor coming back to life to go on a quest to get his heart back? That shit’s deep. I wish I’d thought of it. Then again, an idea is just that until you make it into a story and, well, I don’t know if I have the patience to put that many damn words together.

Then you have Nell painting headless dogs and beautiful women with nothing censored but their mouths. Isn’t that shit deep, too? That kind of work makes a statement.

So what the hell kind of depth do I have to show for?

What statement am I trying to make?

Just thinking about Nell makes me hurt all over again.

Students pass by me in pairs, like everyone in the world’s a couple but me. I walk alone, passing lovers and buddies and groups gathered under trees. Among one such group by the psychology building, a girl turns away from her friend to watch as I pass by, and I’m struck by her knowing gaze, wondering if she’s checking me out, or if we’ve already done the deed in the back of a supply closet in that very building.

I should remember, shouldn’t I?

Or is she just another bowling pin I struck down at the end of the lane, swept away, forgotten?

I finally settle in a spot under a tree near the School of Art tunnel on a grassy knoll. It’s there that I pull out my sub, unwrap it, and finally sink my teeth into its peppery, meaty goodness. I watch people as they pass by, trying to see something beyond what I’m just literally seeing. I’m determined for something bold and brilliant to occur to me. The deep and meaningful thing worthy of an artist’s attention … Something worthy of a photographer’s skillful eye.

Chewing with conviction, I stare and I stare at the world, waiting to see that brilliant … amazing … something.

NELL

I might be wearing clothes, but over them I’m wearing something else, something thicker and darker, something that can’t be seen.

Guilt?

Frustration?

Embarrassment?

And it weighs so much, my posture is literally broken all day. I stare at the blank canvas, which taunts me. Here I am with a campus studio all to myself, and nothing’s coming.

I feel like I totally ruined my night with Brant. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but maybe some innocent, dreaming part of me actually enjoyed his presence. He did everything right, didn’t he?

Something happened after I got off. Suddenly, I grew afraid. With all the horniness drained from me, my emotions changed, and all the reality flooded in like a cold, unwanted shower. That was worsened by the ill-timed text Brant received, which served as some dark, ironic reminder of whose face I just let between my legs.

Just thinking about that makes my thighs squeeze together. I can still feel him there when I close my eyes.

Fuck. No one has ever touched me like that. No one has ever made me climb so damn high before.

My breathing changes just from thinking about it.

As if he’s already down there again. Oh, god.

I pop open my eyes, pushing those irresistibly sexy memories of Brant and the other night away. I take a deep breath, as if that’ll help, but it only seems to remind me of how I sighed deeply when his tongue probed me … and his mouth did whatever the hell sort of sexy voodoo it was doing down there.

My heart’s beating so fast, I literally set down my charcoal pencil and put a hand to my chest.

It’s more than what he does to my body. I learned that, too, after I came. There’s more there than just a hot face, a perfect sculpted body, and a cocky smile that can level trees. And when I realized that I’d let my feelings ignite, when I realized that even after my orgasm I still wanted to hold him close, when I realized that I wanted him to stay … that’s when I knew I was royally fucked.

Brant isn’t someone to grow feelings like that for, especially this fast. I’d be the world’s greatest moron. That’s like building a tower of cards at the peak of a hill just because the wind’s calm that day. Sure, admire your tower and all its delicate balance for its short little life, but you’d better be ready to watch it fall.

Any chance at love would fall to pieces where Brant’s concerned. The second he loses interest—which I imagine coincides with the moment at which he comes—he’ll be leaving me faster than smoke from a window in that burning tower.

I’ll be the glowing embers that remain.

“Embers,” I mumble to myself, inspired, then lift the charcoal pencil back to the canvas and get to work.

As the hour passes, I tunnel myself into making the vision appear before me in smeared shadows and crisscrossed lines. I’m not even conscious of my hand moving; it simply exists with a messy, charcoal instrument glued to the end of it, and through the little firing neurons and warring synapses in my brain, a scene appears before me.

“Now that’s something.”

I turn at the voice. My worst critic Iris stands there, all her annoying pink-and-white hair tossed to one side as she tilts her head, arms folded, studying my work.

“Not today,” I mutter at her, returning to my canvas.

She ignores me, strutting up to my side to get a closer look. Even her footsteps are annoying.

“It’s a … big tower on a hill?”

“Embers,” I say, naming it.

She shifts her weight from one leg to the other. “I don’t get it. But there’s no fire,” she complains.

“Not yet.”

“Oh.”

A moment of gentle scratching passes as I add details to the bricks, a crack here, a hair there, a weed here, a tendril of vine there.

“Maybe the fire’s inside,” she ponders, “and we just can’t see it.”

“Sure.”

“Isn’t that how it usually goes? The problem’s burning inside us, so deep inside that we don’t even know it’s there?”

I sigh, dropping my charcoal pencil onto the desk. “What do you want, Iris?”

She bristles slightly at my brashness. “I saw your exhibit.”

“Congratulations.”

“The one with the model. The sexy model. Object, you called it.”

“So are you here to offer your feedback on how obvious and boring and unoriginal it was?” I ask, smirking at my canvas and refusing to face her. “Maybe you can bring it up in front of everyone next class instead of interrupting my studio time.”

“Actually …” She circles around the desk, coming to my other side. “I was wondering if you were planning on attending the Renée Brigand show tomorrow night.”

I frown at her. “Why would I want to subject myself to that?”

Iris looks as if I might have just stolen her bubblegum. “Because she is the most successful alumni from the art school. Because maybe—yeah, I know, this concept may be totally foreign to you—but maybe we have something we can learn from her. Did you know one of her pieces, God’s Oven Mittens, sold for over fifty thousand dollars??”

“She’s a pretentious sell-out who’s had her ass kissed her whole life. I don’t support her ridiculous pop art.”

Iris rolls her eyes. “Why am I not surprised you’d have this reaction to getting a chance to meet the Renée?”

“If her work peddled any more than it already does, it’d be a damn bicycle. Besides,” I add, “I already know a Renée. My mother. And that’s enough Renées for one person to know.”

With that, I turn away and equip myself with a charcoal pencil and return to my tower, which is already fast burning down in my mind. I study my work and try to deduce how to put out a fire with charcoal.

Iris huffs. “You are such a miserable person.”

“Of course I am,” I say back mildly. “I’m an artist. Misery is our common denominator.”

She brings her face up to my ear and hisses, “I’m a happy person. I’m happy and my work is fulfilling and I’m an artist. You, on the other hand, are miserable, and your work is contrived—at best—and you do nothing but bring pain and misery to anyone you touch.”

“Better step back then,” I warn her coolly, “before I touch you.”

She stays put, breath held and anger flooding her eyes. I sincerely wonder, as I gage how likely I am to still put up a fight, whether she’s going to back off or not. Thankfully for the both of us, she does. After a long, measured glare, Iris finally stalks out of the room, and the sound of her annoying footsteps echo into my ears as she goes further and further down the hall.

And I’m left to wonder how much of what she said is true.

What if Brant and I actually have a chance at being something … real? Would I only be capable of ruining it, bringing my misery and my pain into Brant’s happy-go-lucky life? He has no idea the darkness that lives in me. All he sees is an “interesting person”, as he put it. His eyes are all aglow with the fantasy of me, with the idea of what he thinks I am. He’s infatuated with his own imagination and doesn’t know it.

My heart breaks, thinking of the way I could unintentionally break his. I wouldn’t mean to, either. Really, my pushing him away is an act of protection. I’m protecting him from my miserable, horrible self.

My finger pushes hard against the canvas, blending the tiny shadow under the bricks at the tower’s summit.

And if he was smart, he’d know to keep away. I don’t want more unhappy people in the world. There’s enough of them. Maybe the world needs more Brants. More sex demons. More pleasure for the sake of pleasure.

Maybe I should have finished him off and given him the chemical permission his brain needs to move on to the next woman.

I apply a few strokes to make grass at the foot of the tower.

Then I stand back from the desk and stare at the canvas, thinking about Renée Brigand and what sort of drawing she would have done. She doesn’t draw, I remind myself. She makes “experiences”. Ugh. The pretention is so thick, I can already imagine what sort of crap she’s going to have shown at the gallery. The amount of eye-rolling I might do is temptation enough to consider actually going.

Maybe I should find Brant and take him with me. We could make fun of the art together.

I kick myself for even thinking that. Keep away from him.

But just that thought alone pulls me into a powerful whirlwind of his crystalline blue eyes. I watch him watch me, falling into his gaze like a big, bright pool.

I hear his voice and see him smile. “You alright, babe?” he’d ask.

No. Everything sucks. I suck. I’m a big ball of black oil and you’re the crisp spritz of water from a lawn sprinkler, Brant. I’m the heat that reaches into the chest of a man stranded in the desert, dropped to his knees and staring at millions of dunes ahead of him …

And you’re the oasis.

I won’t be able to control myself if I’m near him again. I’m already losing all my resolve and he’s not even in this room with me.

Just his memory is.

His face.

His strong arms and soft chuckle.

His know-it-all smirk and messy hair.

His bright, curious eyes.

I stare at the tower I’ve built on a hill. I stare at it and wonder whether anyone will know the fire that’s within it, burning it down from the inside out.

BRANT

The glass doors and windows of the School of Theatre reveal a crowd of excited students awaiting the start of the show. The lobby is lit, its bright light glowing across the darkened courtyard outside.

“Why’s the show so damn late?” Dmitri complains.

I shake my head, giving him a hearty pat on the back. “It’s not even eight yet. Calm your balls. We’re supportin’ our favorite roomie Eric.”

“Is that what we’re doing?”

I punch Dmitri in the shoulder, which he hates. Clayton and I used to do that all the time to each other. The habit has not quite grown on Dmitri. In fact, I’m probably bruising his jerking arm.

The moment we enter, I spot Chloe right away standing on the other side of the lobby with some others, including Dessie. I don’t see Clayton with her. Maybe he’s in the bathroom and I can catch him there instead of dealing with Chloe and her rolling eyes.

“I need to take a leak before the show,” I tell Dmitri.

He smirks. “Hey, maybe she’ll behave. I think she got out what she wanted to say at lunch the other day. We can sit with them, okay?”

“Clayton’s gotta be here somewhere.”

He sighs, then gives me a nod. “Good luck, man.”

I cut through the crowd, squeezing between people on my way across the lobby to the bathrooms. Halfway there, it occurs to me that Clayton might even be running lights for the show. He and Eric have gotten pretty friendly over the last year, especially with how chummy Dessie and Eric have gotten. Eric’s like, her gay BFF now, which I guess would be cool if it didn’t feel like Clayton and I have become strangers overnight.

I’m sorta jealous of Dessie.

Imagine that. Me, jealous of a girl getting more attention from a guy than me.

The bathroom proves fruitless. The rest of the lobby is just full of Theatre people I don’t know. I don’t see Clayton anywhere. I expected that I’d sorta never get to hang with him. Every time I try, our plans get delayed or put off or are riddled with distracting texts, just like the dinner he and I had at our usual place earlier this week. Dessie has a crisis thing, he kept saying. It’s always all about her.

I wonder if that’ll be me someday. Oh, Nell has a thing. Sorry, bud.

The thought wrings my stomach up like a rag. I see the sad look in Nell’s eyes and relive the sickening spin I felt just before leaving her loft. That, coupled with having my camera stolen—the camera that had the beautiful candid photo I took of Nell in the car on the way to the restaurant—has left me feeling so unsettled.

I hate leaving things unsettled.

Clayton is my go-to guy. He’s always been. I’d text him and tell him when I’m having issues with a girl, or when things aren’t right in my life, or when I just want a friend. His absence is doing something to me. It’s changing me.

It’s forcing me to stand up on my own feet.

As if to exaggerate this very point I’m making, when I get back to the front of the lobby, I find Dmitri hanging out with Dessie and Chloe and their friends. There’s no way I’m joining them, not after what I endured at lunch today.

Great. I’m officially on my own.

“Girlfriend, you got some serious nerve.”

I turn and lift an eyebrow at the unfamiliar, deep voice. A very tall, very built and sculpted black god (or goddess?) with long platinum hair and drawn-on eyebrows stares down at me. He’s clad in a skintight black sleeveless shirt and pants that I imagine can’t be put on without some form of lubricant.

“Uh, sorry?”

“You, showing up here,” he says, smirking, “like there isn’t anything wrong, like nothing’s amiss, like you can just swallow up the canary and crawl back here, you little sexy pussy cat you.” His eyes run down my body, then come back up to meet my face, his lips pursing.

I seriously can’t tell if I’m being checked out or scolded right now. “Do I know you, bro?”

“I’m Avery. And you’re Brant, if I’m recognizing your pretty face from the pic on Candy’s phone. Not the dick pic. You can stop your gaping; I know I’m the sexiest thing you’ve seen all day. Shut up. Candy told me everything.”

He talks fast. “Candy? Oh, Candace. Right. Dancer. And … you’re a dancer,” I conclude, putting the relationship together. “You got some sick arms there, Avery. You … You look like you could lift a dude in the air and do twenty pirouettes without breaking a sweat.”

“Mmm-hmm. Ooh, I’d lift you, that’s for sure. Damn …” he sings, giving me another onceover. “No wonder she got all stupid over you.”

“She’s a great girl. I did her wrong.”

His eyes meet mine. Then, unexpectedly, he leans forward and his voice goes low and quiet. “Y’know, if you’re not doing anything after the show …”

I lift my eyebrows. “Huh?”

“C’mon, bubble boy, don’t be shy.” His quiet voice is like night and day to his colorful scolding one a second ago. “I can totally keep a secret … you lean, mean, tight n’ humpy machine, you.”

“I’m not following.”

His lips pinch again, an eyebrow lifting quizzically. “Pretty boy like you? Living in an apartment with two other mo-mos? Girl, everyone knows. C’mon, you can tell Mama Avery. Just tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“Fill my spank bank. Mama’s lonely. C’mon.”

“Seriously, I—”

“Candy told everyone in jazz today. I just need to hear it from the horse’s pretty mouth so that all my straight-boy-gone-gay fantasies can come true.”

I’m starting to piece together a puzzle. Call me slow, or call me distracted by a big black muscle guy in makeup and a wig, but I think the implication he’s making is clear. “You think I’m gay now?”

He lifts his eyebrows expectantly.

“Candace is telling people that?” I ask him bluntly. “Because I live with a pair of gay guys? First off, that’s homophobic, to insinuate that a straight dude like me can’t coexist amicably with a pair of gay dudes. Fuck everyone for thinking that. And second off,” I merrily push on, keeping my cool despite my height literally coming up only to this Avery person’s chest, “Dmitri is bi, not gay, and I’m sorry to disappoint, but I’m a firm and devout worshipper of the pussy god of lady luck. Dick’s not my thing.”

Avery frowns. “Well, well. Crush all a lady’s dreams, why don’t you.”

“Dream crusher by day, pussy destroyer by night.”

“Hmm.” He squints at me, a smile playing into his lips. “I think I like you anyway, Branty-boy.”

“I really didn’t mean to hurt Candace.”

“I can tell.” He gives me a shrug, then does half a pirouette and says, “Well, well. Carry on with your being sexy and all that. Just know, I got my eye on you.”

“Noted.” I give him a tentative nod.

“Such a shame,” I hear him mumble as he sashays into the crowd, disappearing as fast as he’d come.

I’m not sure how I feel about Candace spreading that rumor. On one hand, it doesn’t bother me because regardless of whether girls think I’m gay or not, it obviously doesn’t stop them from hitting on me. On the other hand, she’s probably just saving face, telling people I’m gay to spare her friends from knowing the truth: that she got bossed-and-tossed by the infamous man-whore Brant.

Maybe Candace isn’t even spreading the rumor. Maybe others are. Maybe no one is. Maybe it’s just Avery’s wishful thinking.

I kinda wish I was gay. Eric makes it seem so fun.

The lights dim a few times, signaling the start of the show. I start to move toward the black box theater, a ball of confusion swimming in my head. Clayton’s whereabouts remain a total mystery as I find a seat all by myself. I belatedly spot Dmitri sitting with Dessie and Chloe on the other side of the seating area, which both annoys and comforts me. Dmitri makes eye contact and flags me over, patting an empty seat next to him. I cross my arms and pretend not to notice, turning towards the stage with a sigh.

I guess I really am just here for Eric. Wherever the hell he is.

Before the show starts, I yank out my phone and text good ol’ Clay-Boy, asking if he’s running the lights or if he stayed home. Then I fold my arms and slouch in my creaky chair, waiting for the play to start as the gentle murmur of the audience swallows me up.

The lights go down at last. Whether or not that’s a product of Clayton’s doing, I still don’t know.

I hear shuffling in the dark as the actors take their place. When the lights come up, they reveal a man and a woman at a table. The woman stirs a mug of something very demonstratively—y’know, to show us she’s acting really, really hard—and the man is scrolling through something on his prop phone, squinting at it.

Already, I’m annoyed at their positioning on the stage. They’re too center. The whole set is irritatingly symmetrical. Then, as they start to argue—as, I guess, most people end up doing in plays anyway—I get annoyed with the whole scene in general. If I were to direct this play, I’d throw off the balance visually. Maybe the table should be more to the left or something, just to give the stage more appeal to the eye, more asymmetry, more discord. That’d add to the tension, I think.

Most of the play is spent just like that: me, kicking back and acting like I know the first thing about directing or set design or lighting or anything at all. Really, that’s Dessie and Clayton’s world, and I’ve never had a part in it.

Still, the symmetry bothers me from the beginning to the very end. So much so that I only seem to pay attention to the dialogue at one key moment when the woman slaps the phone out of the man’s hand and says, “If ya’d quit livin’ in ya world, take a step back, and actually look at it, maybe ya’d see what the hell ya got right in front a’ ya!”

Her accent is terrible, true, but the words resonate. I lean forward at that point in the play, my elbows propped up on my knees and my chin balanced on my knuckles as I squint at the stage, scrutinizing every dumb little moment … and those words she just uttered.

Maybe I need to step back from my world, stop living in it, and actually look at it.

Look at it …

I really, really wanna wreck that annoyingly balanced stage.

After the show, the lobby becomes such a turmoil of noise and bodies that I don’t even bother looking for Dmitri. Besides, I’ve got somewhere else to be, according to the time and the flyer I saw hanging outside my digital media class this morning. Trouble is, without Dmitri, I don’t have his car to drive me.

Not that he’d allow me in it again, after the condition in which it was left the last time I borrowed it.

I push through the glass doors and dump into the courtyard, then pull out my phone, curious if Clayton might be, in fact, home. I didn’t get an answer from him during the whole duration of the fifty-minute play. I text him again, frustrated, then stare at my phone and await his response. I flip through Facebook while I have it open, scrolling past pics of kitties and big-boobed ladies in swimwear.

I hear the doors open behind me and a group of laughing people escape it. Behind them, the foot-taller-than-anyone-in-the-lobby Avery emerges, pulls a purse over his enormous, muscled shoulder, then saunters down the road.

An idea hits me. “Hey, Avery.”

He stops and turns, his eyes hunting for the person who said his name. They find mine and a look of curiosity takes his face.

I approach him, shove my phone away, then thrust my hands in my pockets. “You got plans?”

His face melts. “Ooh, Branty-boy. You’re gonna make all my dreams come true, hmm?”

I shrug. “Maybe. Do your dreams involve a big ol’ flashy art exhibit? I’m not walkin’ these streets alone at night, that’s for damn sure.”

He lifts a pencil eyebrow. “And you think a big girl like me’s gonna keep you safer?”

I appraise him for a moment. “Quite frankly, yes.”

A grin crosses his face that is both frightful and charismatic. “I got better things to do than gamble my heart on a straight boy. Been there, done that.”

With that, he strolls off down the road, disappearing around the corner of the building.

I turn my face into a breeze that races by, then glance up into the night sky, which is obstructed by the greedy trees in the courtyard that want to keep the view all to themselves. I glance back at the wide glass windows, maybe searching for the minute possibility of Dmitri coming out and telling me he’s ready to leave, maybe searching for Clayton to magically emerge from the crowd, maybe just staring back at them with no purpose at all.

I straighten my posture and decide against waiting on any one of my friends—whether Dmitri or Clayton or even Eric at this point—and I push into the darkness down the road that edges around the campus toward the side of town I always avoid.

You can do this, I coach myself.

The campus is full of a lot of nobody at this time of night on a Wednesday. With the exception of a computer lab near the psychology building dumping a modest group of loudly bantering students who walk in the opposite direction as me, there isn’t a soul in sight. I don’t even hear crickets, as if even the insects have more sense than to be out on this side of campus at night.

It’s at the crosswalk that officially takes me off school grounds and into the sparsely-lit streets that I question my manhood. Like, really, I could easily piss my pants if even a cat leaps out from an alley and catches me by surprise. Big Bad Brant has been reduced to a quivering-in-his-shoes sort of guy at the moment, especially since I have no one with me to witness my complete and utter lack of bravery right now.

I don’t need Clayton with me, laughing at my jokes. I don’t need Dmitri chatting to me about his latest story. I don’t need Eric at my side, complaining about his latest date-gone-totally-awry. I just need my own feet and a purpose in my brain.

I cross the street and it doesn’t feel unlike floating over a cloud.

Shadows pass me on both sides, shadows that turn out to be gently rustling bushes in the yard of a rundown house with just one window lit, shadows that are trashcans, shadows that loom over me from a power line or a tree or a narrow building across the street that seems to watch me from all of its darkened windows, which seem more like suspicious eyes.

The second I turn the corner and the brightly-lit face of the gallery hits me like a lighthouse after being lost at sea, the shoulders I didn’t realize I was tensing relax at last. I cross the street and reach the front glass doors, my hand resting on its handle, waiting.

I tell myself a bunch of reassuring things, like how Nell may not even be here, like how I’m here for my own curiosities regarding art and what a career in it can possibly lead to, like how I could learn from the work of an established alumni. Maybe beyond these doors, I can find an answer to a few questions that have haunted my mind ever since I foolishly signed up for the photography program.

And, fuck it, if I’m lucky maybe I’ll find Nell in there too.

NELL

Coffee.

It’s a sculpture of a giant hypodermic needle labeled “Ego” with a weird, lava-lamp-like fluid slowly squirming within it.

And the piece is called Coffee.

If my eyes roll any more than they already have, they’ll be halfway home by now.

I keep slowly walking around, killing time until Renée Brigand makes her entrance and starts to interact with us. That is, if she even bothers to grace us with her delicate, celebrity, too-important-for-us-basic-and-boring-student-artists demeanor she has since adopted. I couldn’t hide the way I feel about her work if I was wearing a stone mask with a happy face carved into the front of it.

I approach one of the smaller rooms that showcase one of Brigand’s “experiences”. On the wall next to the entrance is a little tired-looking keypad with a bullet hole in its face, and as I walk past it, the thing beeps feebly, the word “INTRUDER” flashing dimly on its screen. Inside the room, there is an array of differently-sized walls like a labyrinth, each containing a door that’s been busted open in some manner or another. Some of them have locks that hang off their doorknobs, bent or broken. Some have a hole busted through the door as if they were assaulted by a cannon. Some walls don’t have doors, but rather windows that have been wedged open, shattered, or don’t have glass at all—just square holes in the wall with nothing but the frame to show for itself.

From a white, simple plaque on the wall, I get the name of this exhibit: Security.

The faux walls and broken doors divide the room into little vignettes, sort of like the staged showrooms you’d find in a furniture store, except they’re odd and off-putting. In one of them, there’s a desk with no drawers under which rests a big safe. Upon watching someone else play with it, it’s discovered that literally any combination will unlock the safe. Okay, I get your point Brigand, I’d say if I had anyone to share my opinion with. Please, keep knocking me over the head with your message. Nothing is secure. Nothing is safe. Blah, blah, fucking blah.

When I pass into another vignette, I find a pair of giggling bushy-haired guys trying to take a selfie together next to a grandfather clock. Its hands, I find upon closer inspection, spin slowly in opposite directions, and the numbers are all out of order, and instead of a 3 there’s a B, and instead of an 11, there’s an R. Gosh, I feel so insecure. All my means of security are so unreliable and broken, even time itself.

And Iris accuses my work of being obvious?

After passing through a room filled with obnoxious, unhidden cameras that rotate quickly to track everyone passing through—with screens posted in an adjacent room broadcasting everything they see—I happen on a vignette that is downright empty compared to the other busier rooms. In its center is a single pedestal about waist high, and resting upon it is an enormous heart-shaped locket.

I smirk upon seeing the locket. Curiosity gets the better of me, so I cover the three paces it takes to bring myself to the side of the pedestal and I grip the little knob on the locket’s face and pull it.

And it doesn’t open.

I frown, thinking I might be trying to open it wrong. I look for a latch or hook, but there is none. I examine the backside, confused, then try opening it again, wanting to know what’s inside. The cursed thing still doesn’t open.

I scowl at it now, purely annoyed.

Deciding to alter my tack, I use both hands to try and get the damn thing to reveal its contents to me—one hand holding down the body, the other pulling on the dumb knob. Even after a solid minute of grunting and tugging, still the damn thing won’t open, its contents safe from my eyes and utterly unknown.

Then … “Oh,” I mutter to myself, realizing the point.

I sigh, letting go of the thing at last. I almost feel stupid, falling for it. Of course the enormous locket would be heart-shaped. All of the things in our lives that we rely on for keeping us secure and protected, they ultimately fail us, letting in the robbers and thieves and prying eyes and uninvited friends into our most private, precious spaces. And yet the heart …

The heart is just a cold, metal locket that won’t open even if you want it to—the most secure thing of all.

Footsteps shuffle slowly into the space from behind. I turn towards the sound.

Brant stands there with his hands in the pockets of his low-hanging crinkled jeans, his biceps bulging beautifully in the effort and hugged by the sleeves of the green t-shirt he wears, and his bright blue eyes lock onto mine with his forehead wrinkled up cutely. His sexy lips purse, sucking in his cheeks as he watches me.

“Hey, pretty,” he finally says.

I cross my arms. I hate that that’s the first thing I do. “Hi,” I offer back coolly.

Why can’t I be sweet and nice to him? He doesn’t deserve me standing here protecting my own steel-cased heart locket. Lighten up, Nell.

“Enjoying Renée’s show?”

I take a short breath, then put on a smile. “It’s very moving.”

He tilts his head. “What’s wrong?”

I flinch. “What do you mean?”

“You’re smiling.”

Seriously? You think something’s wrong because I’m smiling? “I’m fine,” I tell him, unfolding my arms and willing my nerves to chill out. After a moment’s thought, I lower my voice and add, “But if I’m totally honest, I’m … I’m not really a Renée Brigand fan.”

“Really? Maybe you’re just looking at the wrong stuff. Hey, I just saw something pretty cool in the other room. Did you—?”

“Already saw it. Not a fan of hand veins and bloodshot eyes.”

“One of the photos was a bodybuilder’s forearm, actually. But that’s not the one I’m talking about.” He takes a step toward me, his eyes alight. “There’s this other room …”

“Brant …”

“What?” he asks innocently, leaning against the pedestal.

I didn’t realize how close he’d gotten. I can smell his cologne.

I can’t escape it; every breath is now all full of him.

His spice. His shampoo.

His crispness. His minty freshness.

His heat.

His fucking everything.

“I just …” I take a deep breath, preparing myself for what I want to say, and then becoming utterly incapable of saying any of it. Stay away. I can’t do this. We can’t go through this.

All of that in my head suddenly becomes: Don’t go away. I need this. We have to go through every inch and second and stroke of this.

He steps even closer, his chest nearly against me as his intense blue eyes bore down into mine.

“You just … what?” he asks softly, encouraging me.

I lick my lips and stare at his chest, unable to meet the intensity of his gaze. “I think … I think it may be best if we …”

“If we …?”

“Just remain friends.”

I see his Adam’s apple gently dance with his swallow. “Friends?”

“Friends.”

His breaths fall on me in gentle waves against my hair. After too long a time, he says, “You sure about that?”

“I think it’s best for us,” I force myself to say.

I feel him staring down at me. Even without looking, I know his hard crystalline eyes that burn like sapphires are burrowing into me from above. It takes everything in me not to tackle him to the floor right now.

“Is this your way of saying … that you don’t want to have sex with me?”

“We went too far the other—” I swallow, perhaps also swallowing the memory that rushes forth of how his face felt between my legs and what else of his I’d like between them. “Too far the … the other night,” I finish.

“Look at me.”

“We went too far.”

“Nell. Look at me.”

I hold my breath. Then, with eyes as cold and hardened as the iron butt of a hammer that’s so fucking ready to fall, I lift my chin and allow his bright blue gaze to invade mine.

His eyes are twice as powerful as I was afraid of. They charge into me, tearing through all my carefully built walls and penetrating all my defenses.

There’s no security in my little heart locket; those eyes of his reach right in there and pull all of me out with just a single glimpse.

“You sure you want to just be friends?” he asks gently.

I don’t flinch. I’m paralyzed. My mouth is rendered as dumb and useless as every worthless lock in this room.

“Hmm?” he urges me, his face inching closer. “Just friends?”

The words find me at last. “Just friends.”

“No sexy-sexy?”

“Nope.”

“No kissing, either?”

“Definitely none of that,” I answer defiantly.

He nods slowly, then says, “Alright. I can respect your wishes.” He sighs softly. “But it ain’t gonna be easy.”

I straighten my back, which has the unintended effect of bringing my face even closer to his. “So,” I say, shifting the subject, “you said there was another room?”

“That, I did,” he mutters back smartly.

“Want to show me?”

“It’d be a bad idea now. What with our ‘just being friends’ and all.”

I squint quizzically at him, cocking my head to the side. “Why’s that?”

“Well, if you saw the room, you might understand.”

He gives me a smart smirk that pushes out his dimples. I could kiss him so hard right now. I feel sick to my stomach. I have never wanted anyone as bad as I want Brant Rudawski.

So why do I keep denying myself the pleasure? He’s right here. He wants me too. What’s the harm in having a little fun with him? I mean, other than turning my heart into a soup of agony seasoned by the pepper of my own doubts and crushing talent for self-deprecation.

“Alright,” I say, giving in. “Show me the room.”

Brant smiles, shrugs as if in apology for my impending fate, then leads the way.

I follow him through the maze of unsecured and broken doors to the main gallery room, which has become twice as crowded as it was an hour ago when the exhibit first opened. I follow Brant with little awareness of the people around me, all of my attention suddenly arrested by both his arrival and by my curiosity as to where he’s taking me. I’ve been here for over an hour; I’m pretty sure I’ve seen every piece Madam Renée has to show.

We pass the room of bloodshot eyes, bodybuilder forearms, and hand veins, the doorway of which holds a sign that says “This Is Where I Draw The Line: Down My Body.”

He leads me behind the circle of easels which bear paintings of severed heads that seem to stare at one another—some happily, some suspiciously, some bored—and it’s behind that circle where we arrive at a line of four people who wait at a door that has a diamond-shaped sign with a man and a woman on it. As we approach, the door opens and two people leave, bewildered looks on their faces, and the next two enter.

“You sure you didn’t go in there already?” he asks.

I chuckle dryly. “Honestly, I thought this was a line for the bathroom and ignored it.”

“Glad you ignored it.” He grins stupidly. “Because now I get to expose you to it.”

“Should I be worried?” I cross my arms and lean tiredly against the wall, trying to feign disinterest while my heart betrays me, thumping in my chest like a toddler throwing a tantrum at what awaits us in that mysterious room.

“A little bit,” he admits with a wink.

The next couple leaves, then the couple ahead of us go in. We’re next in line.

“Doesn’t take very long,” I remark. “Did you know Renée Brigand doesn’t make art? She makes experiences,” I inform him mockingly.

“I believe it,” he says, and I’m not sure he caught my sarcasm or my obvious distaste for Renée’s work. “I mean, really. Whether someone’s work pisses you off or invokes some deep dark part of you … or just plain makes you happy, I’d say it’s successful. I wish I could do that to people instead of just … being disregarded all the time.” He smirks, staring off somewhere.

I study the side of his face. He’s blushing. “You have a camera,” I remind him, trying to be encouraging. “Keep taking pictures, Brant. Keep taking pictures until you’re sick of taking them.” He’s like another kid at the Westwood Light whose spirit I’m trying to rekindle. “Then take some more.”

He considers my words. “Well, I would, but my camera’s …” His face twists into a wince, then he seems to shake away a thought. “You’re right,” he decides, smiling proudly. “I should keep at it until I get something decent from my big ol’ complicated device.”

I bite my lip at that last comment of his. That last comment was about you, Nell. “Listen. I’m …” I don’t know why it’s so difficult for me to apologize. Maybe I spent the first half of my life apologizing so much that now I’m all out of them, and the thought of issuing just one more makes me feel weak again. “I’m sorry for … implying that you were dumb. Or didn’t know what to do with a camera. Or … whatever it is I may have insinuated about you or your lack of intelligence.”

Then the door opens and out stroll the couple who went in before, two girls who smirk at one another as they strut away.

Brant pulls open the door. “After you.”

He didn’t acknowledge my apology, but he’s acting downright cheery. The apology isn’t meant to make me feel better; I said it for his sake. He can take it or leave it. I nod, surrendering, then slip past him through the door. His scent follows me in as I go, gripping my senses and blinding me to what I’m seeing until he shuts the door behind us, cutting off the light from the main gallery.

“What is this?” I ask dumbly, staring at the image before me.

He’s at my side. “I know, right??”

The room is the size of a walk-in closet or deep elevator, like the one you might find at a hospital. The walls are flat and white, and the only light in the room comes from a video projected on the farthest wall in front of us, filling its entire width and height.

The video is of two attractive people who are slowly and sensuously making out. They face each other, so we observe their profiles as they caress one another’s face tenderly, pushing lip against lip and nose against cheek as they twist and quirk their heads toward one another.

It’s almost beautiful until I notice that between their locked mouths, drool has gathered and slowly spills down their chins. Drips of their saliva pock their clothing and the plain, tiled floor at their feet. Once I notice that, I realize they may have been kissing for an exorbitant amount of time. Neither of them pulls away even for a second. The drool continues to pool, becoming more grotesque with every gentle smack and pucker of their lips.

“Ew,” I mumble when a drip of saliva loosens from the man’s chin and finds a home on the woman’s chest.

“It’s almost too much, isn’t it?” remarks Brant at my side, watching the show with awe.

I glance at him, pulling my eyes from the lovers. “This crap is what you wanted to show me?”

“It looks gross,” he agrees lightly, “but do you read their bodies? It’s beautiful, really. Their love is, like, totally gross. But it’s theirs. They’re into it. They want each other and they don’t care what it looks like, what others say … Right …? I mean, they’re totally into each other.”

I find I can’t look back at the lovers, suddenly hypnotized by the side of Brant’s face as his eyes shine from the light of the projected video, glimmering against the movements of the man and woman on the wall. He looks like a child watching the stars.

Has Brant ever truly been to an art exhibit? I mean, other than the last time when he became my exhibit. I wonder if he’s ever let art into his life. Is he doing this just to impress me, or is there something inside him that is being enraptured by the artistry he’s experienced tonight? Somehow, I don’t even mind that it’s Renée’s work.

“They are into each other,” I agree, staring at him instead of the wall.

“Can’t even look away,” he murmurs thoughtfully.

“Hypnotized.”

“They don’t even care that all their … love … is running down their mouths like that, all slobbery and stuff. They’re wet in each other’s unapologetic affection. It’s gross to an outsider, but …”

“Totally gross,” I agree, my eyes trailing down his body.

“I wish I could feel something like they feel … with that much abandon.”

He turns to me now, and when he finds my eyes glued to him, he appears genuinely startled. He lifts his eyebrows, observing me cautiously. Then, with the care of someone handling the most fragile piece of glass, he reaches and slowly draws a strand of my hair behind my ear.

“You do somethin’ with your hair?” he asks.

“Not really.”

Half a crooked smile appears on his face. “You look pretty tonight, Penelope.”

A part of me cringes inside at hearing my full name uttered by his soft voice. Another part of me melts. I think it’s my panties.

“I like your shirt,” I return.

“I feel a bit underdressed.”

“I’ve seen you even more underdressed.”

His crooked smile grows. “More like, undressed.”

The couple on the wall keep kissing each other at our sides. Their lips suck and twist and gently consume one another. Their love spills in steady streams from between their mouths.

He takes a step toward me. “Do ‘just friends’ get undressed in front of each other?”

“Brant …” I warn him.

“Because if I’m being totally honest here, I really want to kiss you right now.”

My heart jumps. “It would be a terrible idea.”

“I’m really happy to see you again.”

His hands slip around the small of my back. My fingers clutch the base of his shirt at the hips instinctively. Judging from the firmness I feel in his swelling pants as our bodies press together, I can tell just how “happy” he is to see me, indeed.

“Still a terrible idea,” I whisper.

“The worst,” he agrees.

His lips rush toward mine, hesitating only for a moment before our mouths collide.

Our lips battle with one another, wrestling for dominance as our hands grip each other’s clothes tightly. His cock flexes firmly through his jeans. He groans eagerly as I pull him against me, as if we can somehow get our bodies any closer than they already are.

My heart races so fast, I feel out of breath. My hands learn every contour of his lower back and quickly discover how perfect his ass really is as my fingers trace his firm cheeks, then grab hold of them, pulling him into me.

Oh my god, I’ve needed this.

He groans into me as he gently bites my lip, and I feel every inch of his cock pushing against my leg. He lets go of my lip just to say, “Fuck, what you’re doing to me, Nell …”

What I’m doing to him? I haven’t even begun.

I slide my hand down his body, my fingers hopping on every bump of muscle, down his firm, cascading abs, until they arrive at his jeans. My fingers cup around his quickly swelling cock through the material.

“P-Penel …” he moans into my mouth.

“Got you,” I whisper back.

My hand massages him down below, leaving his jaw in a helpless, hanging state and his eyes closed with dreams of what I’m about to do to him. I give him one stroke up and down the outside of his jeans. Then another.

He holds his breath, his forehead wrinkling in agony.

Right where I want him.

I bring both hands to the waist of his jeans and give them one swift tug, and with as loose and low-hanging as they are, they drop without him even having to undo them.

He’s hard in his boxer briefs, his cock pushing against the material and grazing my thigh. I touch the tent he’s made of his underwear, which seems to stiffen him even more as his cock flexes and throbs. Pulling the waistband down, his cock pops out of his boxers, and when my hand wraps around the flesh, I earn myself a sigh of delight from Brant Rudawski.

“P-Penel … Pen … N-Nell …” he tries to say.

And then I stroke, slowly yet firmly, and all the words he might’ve said turn into a melody of grunts and elongated vowels.

It isn’t long before I feel his cock flexing with the impending threat of an orgasm. Jerking him with vigor, I aim his cock at the screen, my animal eyes leveling up with his. He gapes at me, eyes flashing open as he gasps in beautiful agony, reaching the edge in an instant.

When his jagged breaths turn vocal, his cock dances, and streams of his white cum shoot across the space, dressing the wall where the couple in the video continue to slobber over one another, only now, somehow, they’ve acquired handcuffs and are cuffed to each other, much like how my hand is cuffed to Brant’s wet and slippery cock, figuratively speaking.

“Oh … my … god,” he sighs, all his muscles relaxing in my clutch.

As my hand comes to a stop and we turn into two statues standing here in this room, we breathe slowly and observe our contribution to the room, which rests in squiggly ropes and coils of Brant’s seed on the video wall.

“A fine work of art,” I murmur quietly, bringing my chin to his shoulder and leaning into him.

“You’re very … very skilled with your hand,” he notes, out of breath.

“You’re skilled with your eyes.”

Chains have appeared around the couple, binding them and pulling them even closer to one another. Then cuffs appear at their ankles, locking them together even more. Soon, the lovers seem to kiss so deeply that their faces literally crush into one another in slow motion. Their display of love has quickly grown into some creepy avant-garde horror show.

Renée, you’re one sick duck.

“I should probably clean off the wall,” says Brant.

I scoff at that. “Your jizz is an improvement to this crap show,” I assure him, then give his sleeve a tug. “Pull up your pants. I’ve had enough of this insufferable woman’s work.”

The next instant, we’re out of the doors and another excited couple of people enter behind us. Brant and I share a look, then burst into laughter on our way out of the gallery.

BRANT

Her lips are so sexy, I imagine them consuming mine and kissing me without reprieve until I’m completely deprived of air.

What a beautiful way to suffocate.

“So … I don’t know if this is too soon, but—”

“But what?” she asks.

I smile. I love how enthusiastic she sounds. This isn’t the Nell who sent me on a walk of shame out of her loft the other night. “Well, I kinda got a text in the gallery before I found you. Turns out, my roommate Dmitri is going to some cast party with Eric and the others, so my place is kinda … unoccupied for the rest of the night. They usually stay over there until well past three or four, so …”

“So you have the place to yourself,” she finishes.

“I have the place to myself,” I affirm.

We make our way down the dimly-lit streets back to campus, where we cut across to make our way to my side of town. This late at night, the University Center looks almost creepy, asleep with its windows darkened and the trees so still, they could be fake props in another badly-directed play.

However, my present company makes the walk anything but scary. We laugh about all of the different exhibits we saw at the gallery, and although I thought most of them were pretty bad-ass, I give in to her cynicism on some of them, laughing at how desperately the works of art tried to shock us or make us cringe or unsettle our souls.

Nell’s done a good enough job unsettling my pants.

When we hit the courtyard of the theater where I’d just been earlier tonight, my phone buzzes. I bring it to my face and find a most annoying message greeting my eyes.

DMITRI

Creepers at the party.

Not fun.

So Eric & I are heading back.

Want us to pick up some Taco Bell for you?

I stop in my tracks. So much for that plan. Fuck.

“What’s up?” prods Nell.

“Damn roommates are heading back already,” I gripe, then tap my thumbs to respond.

ME

Not unless they got

PINK TACOS ON THE MENU.

Thanks a bunch, cockblockers

>_<

“I have an idea.”

I lift my face from the phone. “Yeah?”

Nell smiles devilishly, then wiggles her eyebrows. “Follow me.”

Dmitri buzzes a reply, but it’s lost in my pocket as I stow away my phone and follow Nell back across the courtyard. In a minute, we’re heading around the back of the School of Art, opposite from the wing that houses the art gallery where certain school-sponsored showcases are held. Following a line of long windows that terminate at an inset in the building, we arrive at a door hiding in the shadows.

Nell grips the handle, lifts it up high with all her weight, then jerks it open. The hinges creak in protest. “Kelsey never locks it,” she admits.

“Who’s Kelsey?”

“Who cares?” She holds the door open. “After you.”

I pass through, coming into the back of a dark art studio. With the stray light from the pathway lamps outside washing in through the long windows, I see the creepy silhouettes of easels scattered around the room like a bunch of odd, pointy creatures in the dark.

The door slams shut behind me. I turn around. For a second, I think Nell is about to come up and tackle me to the ground. Instead, she walks past me and says, “Come on, camera boy.”

I grin, then obey.

She leads me to a side door which opens to a short corridor lit only by the eerie green light of an exit sign, which seems to flicker and buzz as we pass under it and into a stairwell. The stairs wind up and up, and I enjoy the view once again as I trail behind Nell like a puppy on the sexy ass of my mate.

We reach a door at the top. She pushes it open and kicks off a shoe, placing it on the ground to keep the door from shutting and locking us out. We’re on the roof of the north wing of the art building now, overlooking the School of Theatre beyond the courtyard and the grassy hills. In the darkness of the night, the ground far below seems to disappear, giving us the illusion of being high atop some brick mountain, nothing but shadows and strange, glowing amber light from all of the lampposts.

“Niiice,” I sing.

She slips past me, kicks off her other shoe, then sits right on the edge of the building, her legs dangling off.

I feel my knees trembling already and I’m still hovering near the door. “Far drop,” I mutter. “Can we chill, uh … Can we chill back here?”

She looks at me over her shoulder. “You scared?”

“Nah.” I swallow. “I mean, y’know. Campus security might spot us. And, like, y’know … if we’re back here … maybe we’re less, uh …”

“Brant, come and sit the hell down.”

“Alright.”

As if I’m traversing some super narrow bridge, I place one careful foot in front of the other, cautiously approaching the ledge where she sits. The gravel of the rooftop crunches beneath my feet, only serving to make this experience that much more unsettling. When I finally reach Nell, it feels like an eternity later. I slowly crouch down, sitting cross-legged next to her.

“I like this spot,” she murmurs quietly as a sudden gust of wind picks up all her hair, flailing it around. “So few places left where I can just let myself go and … just fucking exist.” She whips her head around to face me. “Know what I mean?”

“Totally.” I’m gripping my thighs so tight, I could bruise them. I don’t want to show her I’m afraid, though; she’ll never let me live that down. “I’m still kinda wet in my pants. I think.”

“I should’ve thought ahead,” Nell admits with a dry chuckle. “I … really wasn’t planning to do that to you in that little slobber room. It was just a sudden impulse I couldn’t ignore.”

“Is that usual for you? Chasing impulses?”

“It’s all I do. Art doesn’t exist without them.” She nudges me with the side of her leg. “It’s the reason we’re sitting all the way up here having ourselves a chat.”

I nudge her back playfully. “I can be impulsive myself. Problem is, I don’t know if I choose the right impulses to … act on.”

“Was picking photography an impulse?”

“Yeah. And also no. See, my dad took photography when he was in high school. He took photos for the school newspaper. He’d, like, proudly show me his yearbooks, pointing out all the pics he took. I played with his cameras growing up. He owned four. He used to shoot photos for some nature magazine. I don’t know exactly. It was a side thing he used to do when I was a kid.”

“So you caught the bug from him,” she surmises. “It wasn’t a total fluke that you ended up here.”

“Well, it was also a bit of a fluke, too.” I smirk, picking at a stray thread in my jeans. “My dad pushed me toward business, which I didn’t take to. Then he pushed me toward engineering, which I tried out for both semesters of my sophomore year. Last year I was partially undeclared, then tried to pursue architecture, but they had no more room in their program. I was playin’ around with my dad’s camera the end of last school year, brought it back to school with me after spring break and started taking photos like crazy. I was the unofficial photographer for Dessie and Clayton’s spring musical. Fuck, that girl can sing. Got this really great shot of her singing to someone behind her, another actor in the show, and my light somehow also caught Clayton standing somewhere backstage … and he was watching her, enraptured. The pic was totally unintended. Totally can’t use the photo for their archive or whatever … but it’s my favorite of them all. It’s so … accidental. Candid. Real. It caught something it wasn’t supposed to catch. The intense love in Clayton’s eyes. The passion in Dessie’s. The whole fuckin’ world just squeezed together and became that short moment, caught in that photo. Fuck. I wish I was good enough to capture something like that intentionally.”

When I look up, Nell’s studying me with a look of vague curiosity and calmness about her. She doesn’t say anything, simply staring at me with those glistening emeralds in her eye sockets.

I chortle dryly. “What’re you lookin’ at? Hypnotized again by my baby blues?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she teases with a smile. “I was … actually quite drawn in by your story. I didn’t think you had such a background coming into the art school. You give off the impression that you just shut your eyes, poked a finger at the student catalog, and said, ‘Ah, photography, alright, I’ll give it a go.’ But now you seem … different.”

“I make other decisions that way. Like, what to eat. What to do with my day. Who to hang out with.”

“Yeah? Am I just a blind pick for your evening?”

My face straightens. “Hardly. You were a very … deliberate choice. I was secretly hoping I’d see you at the Brigade show.”

“Brigand,” she corrects.

“And I’m really glad I did,” I finish. “I don’t know what it is about you. I want to be around you, Nell.”

She hesitates for a moment, as if questioning whether I’m meaning what I’m saying. Then she seems to trust it, a smile finding her face. “You definitely keep me entertained,” she murmurs.

“So … what is this?” I finally ask. I gesture between her and I. “What do we got goin’ on here?”

“Just friends.”

“Yeah? Just friends? Like you insisted at the art show? Or are we friends with benefits? I think we’re friends with benefits.”

“Why label it?” She shrugs, kicking her feet. “Let’s just go with it. Let it become whatever it wants to become. Like a work of art, Brant. You just apply one stroke at a time.”

“Is that a cock joke?”

“And you don’t judge or criticize or worry about the strokes,” she goes on, trying to ignore my jest despite her lips curling into a tickled smile. “You just keep making them until you have a beautiful picture in front of you.”

“Is that what we are? A beautiful picture?”

“We’re … something.”

Her words cause the next joke on my tongue to die away, left unuttered. We’re something. My chest flutters at the sound of her voice saying that, working me up inside. What the hell is this feeling? Is it hope? Is it anticipation? Is it worry? The emotion is so alien to me, my gut reaction is to be terrified of it.

Or maybe I’m just still freaking out about being on the ledge of a tall-ass building.

“We’re … We’re something,” I return, and it feels like an affirmation of a hundred other words neither of us seem brave enough to say just yet. “I don’t know if …”

“Hmm?”

I swallow, lick my lips, then try again. “I don’t know if maybe it’s too soon to ask, but uh … I’d like to take you on another date. To make up for the awkward time I kinda made of our last one.”

“I’m not really the dating kind of gal,” she admits. “All the fuss. All the fixing up. All the obligation and expectation and worry. Can we just call it hanging out?”

“Sure,” I say, jumping on her wording at once. “Hanging out. Let’s hang out, Nell. I’d really, really, really like to hang out with you.”

“Good. And what’ll we do?”

“I was thinking, my friend Dessie—that’s Clayton’s girl—she has a show this weekend at the Throng & Song. Not sure if you’ve been there before …”

“Nope.”

“Well, she’s singing a new thing she co-wrote with the resident band that plays there. Maybe you’d like to be, like … my person … who goes with me. To that thing.”

“Your person who goes with you?”

“My date. Except not my date. Because we’re not dating.”

She tilts her head, which has the lovely effect of tossing all her dark, beautiful hair. She bites her lip, considering my proposal for too long a while.

Finally, she nods.

“That’s a yes?” I ask, excitement drumming through me. “Yes? You’ll go with me?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Hell yeah! Score one for Rudawski.” I give the night air a fist pump and a hoot, which earns a snort from Nell. “I think you’re gonna have a lot of fun. You’ll get to meet my roomies too. Everyone’s gonna be there. I can’t fuckin’ wait.”

“Why don’t you dangle your legs over?”

I blink. “But my shoes might fall off. And then they’d be lost to me forever. I happen to like these shoes.”

“No. They’d just be in the courtyard below, or stuck in a tree for the squirrels to play with. Who cares? Dangle your damn feet with me.” She gives her own a little twirl in the air, which seems to ignite a fearful twirl in my stomach.

I push away the fears. I’ve got no room for them anymore, not when I’m sitting by the prettiest damn girl on campus. “Alright, you win.”

My legs open and flip over the ledge, dangling alongside hers. I feel like my kidneys just dropped out of my butt and my esophagus twisted up as though being ungently hugged by a noose. My breathing tightens and my fingers claw into the gravel, as if any of these reactions will save me from a fall, should I somehow slip.

“Your heart’s pounding,” she observes.

“You seem to have a talent for making my heart race,” I note, giving her a teasing side-eye. “You’re gorgeous.”

Her shining eyes burrow into mine, fixing me into a trance at once. Maybe my words hit her at just the right moment for her to really, truly hear them. She needs to hear them. She needs to believe them, because they’re the damned truth.

And then I give her another truth. “I really want to kiss you right now, Nell.”

“I’d like that,” she murmurs back.

Heart racing, legs dangling, I stare into her eyes and gently lean into her, letting my lips seek out hers in the semidarkness. I find her neck at first. Then my lips softly work up to her cheek, drawing a path of kisses until I reach the warm velvet of her mouth.

Why label it? she had asked. Let’s just go with it.

Here we are “just going with it” as our heads bob side to side, gently yet intensely locking mouths in our mutual conquest to consume one another at an agonizingly slow pace.

Let it become whatever it wants to become.

I gently open my lips to her, letting my tongue inside her warm, wet mouth. Her tongue joins mine, sensuous, slow, savoring every moment. We are those two slobbering fools in the video on the wall. Our world is reduced to just a pair of faces, a coupling of tongues, a marriage of mouths, a partnership of breath. I’ve never wanted anyone so badly.

Like a work of art, Brant. You just apply one stroke at a time.

One.

Stroke.

At.

A.

Time.

I’ve been Nell’s work of art before. I’ll be her work of art again, and with any luck, she’ll soon be mine.

NELL

I meet him outside in the parking lot of the Throng & Song. He’s wearing a formfitting black button-down shirt untucked over a pair of torn jeans. His hair darts over his face in carefully arranged tufts of light brown and his killer smile is armed and dangerous tonight.

“You look beautiful,” he tells me, his voice hitching on that last word, which makes me smile.

“I hope they serve hard liquor,” I mutter. I’m going to need it.

Brant reaches for my hand. Fear charges loudly from one end of my brain to the other, leaving no room to focus on anything but the sight of his gently outstretched palm in the cool, unsettling semidarkness of the parking lot. How can just a kind, well-meaning hand affect me so horribly?

“Ready?” he prompts me.

Stuffing my hesitation at once, I take his hand. The world is pulled back together in an instant. The parking lot, sinister only a second ago, suddenly feels downright friendly.

I meet his eyes. “Lead the way.”

The Throng & Song is already packed from one corner to the other with people from campus. I imagine 99% of their clientele is comprised of Klangburg students, though none of them look familiar to me. Must be mostly Theatre and Dance peeps, I figure. The air is thick with cigarette smoke, booze, and body heat. Music from the band thrums through my body, which reminds me almost too much of my dad’s music as it would pummel throughout the house from the garage where he did most of his meticulous model-painting work. This place also reminds me of a favorite bar that Minnie and I used to frequent downtown every weekend my freshman year. Overall, I’d say I could easily get pretty comfortable in a place like this. Considering how many student housing units are nearby within walking distance, I don’t imagine this place worries too much about intoxicating its customers and draining their wallets dry—wallets filled with Mommy and Daddy’s hard-earned money, no doubt.

“YO!” cries Brant, cutting through the crowd in pursuit of a person I cannot yet see. Our hands still joined, I follow him, nearly taking someone’s elbow in my face on the way.

When we emerge from the other end of the crowd, we’ve arrived at the bar. Brant lets go of my hand to give a hug to a guy I’ve seen before. He’s the shorter dude I saw Brant walking with that one day when they took a pic of a girl’s ass. It was the same day I unintentionally left my Pussy on that grassy knoll for the benefit of—I presume—a bunch of greedy-ass birds perched in the trees above me.

“Nell. This is Dmitri, one of my roommates.”

I offer my hand to Dmitri, who looks at me through a pair of thick-rimmed black glasses and spikes of jagged jet black hair that rests atop them. His complexion is pale and his black brows are thick, giving him a very intense demeanor.

He takes my hand. His own is shockingly smooth and cool to the touch. “Nice to finally meet you, Nell,” he murmurs, his soft voice nearly lost in the noise.

“Likewise.”

Brant leans into me. “You want a drink?”

“I’ll take a Dos Equis.”

He eyes me curiously, then presses himself to the counter to catch the attention of a bartender, all of whom are busy at the other end.

“What’s your specialization?” Dmitri asks me, kicking back his Blue Moon for a gulp or two.

“Drawing,” I answer. “I also paint and sculpt, but I’m best with charcoal.”

“Wow. You do it all, huh?”

Brant’s still calling for the bartender with his back to us, fruitlessly trying to catch one as they rush around helping other customers and seeming to outright ignore him.

“So you’re a creative writing major?” I ask.

Dmitri smiles appreciatively. “I am.”

“Working on anything new lately?”

“Yes!” His eyes light up, the excitement and joy of writing evident even in his beady, black, and otherwise untelling eyes. “I just finished this thing about an undeadish organ donor, and now I’m on a death-themed kick, so I thought I might write something about this guy who masturbates too much, and—”

“Whoa, whoa,” interjects a guy who rushes Dmitri from the side, throwing an arm over his back. He’s kind of plain-faced, but handsome and tanned, with a long gangly build and tightly parted sandy-brown hair. “No one wants to hear about that.”

“It’s a story I’m working on,” Dmitri retorts. “You didn’t even—”

“No one cares, sweetie. Hi. I’m Eric.” The new guy nods at me. “Are you—?”

“Nell,” Dmitri answers on my behalf, annoyed at him for cutting him off. “The girl from the art school who Brant’s been seeing.”

“Oh! Her!” Eric straightens up, flashing all his teeth with a bright smile. “I’m so rude! Please do tell her about your masturbation story, then. Anything to scare her as far away from Brant as possible.”

Dmitri groans. “Eric …”

“I’m teasing, I’m teasing. But really, Brant’s horrible. He almost let me give him head.”

“Eric!”

“He’s awful, Nell. He’s such a gay cocktease and that’s, like, the worst kind. I love him, but run while you can.”

Brant, oblivious to all of this, arrives with two Dos Equis, one of which he extends to me. “Here you go. Oh, hey there, Eric. I see you’ve all met …?”

Eric makes a twisted face at him, not unlike one he might make if he’d stubbed his toe, and I can’t help but burst into laughter. Dmitri joins in, snorting and hiding his face with his own bottle.

“The fuck’s going on?” Brant asks, lifting his eyebrows quizzically at us.

I recover enough to take the bottle from him and say, “Eric is just giving me the rundown, that’s it.”

“Ah, crap. What’s he saying? Eric, dude, what’d you say?”

“Only nice lies and evil truths.” Eric’s face has turned a few shades of pink as he swallows his laughter. “You know, I need to tell Dessie about Kirk the violinist. She wanted all the details, she’s gonna get them, including the ones she probably doesn’t need to know. Hey, we’ve got a table up by the stage. Come join us when you’re ready!”

And with that, Eric slips away into the quicksand of the crowd, gone in an instant.

Brant leans into Dmitri, who seems to be pouting irritably. “Dude, don’t let it get to you. I bet Kirk’s got a tiny wiener.”

“It’s not getting to me. I don’t care,” Dmitri spits back, lifting the bottle to his lips and glaring.

“Just tell Eric you want him. Tell him and get it over with, dude, he’s basically waiting for you.”

“No he’s not, and I don’t want him. I want Riley.”

“Oh yeah! Where is she? I thought you were bringing her.”

Dmitri shakes his head. “Went back home for the weekend. Family time and some cousin’s birthday and blah, blah, blah …”

“Oh, yeah. She’s a daddy’s girl, I remember you saying.”

Dmitri takes another swig of his beer, then huffs impatiently and takes off in the same direction as Eric, pushing his way through the noisy crowd.

Brant shrugs, leans into the counter and lifts his eyes to me. “My friends are all so damn complicated.”

“And you’re so simple?” I tease him, lifting the bottle to my lips. He watches my mouth pointedly as I kick back the drink, letting its bitter taste wash over my tongue. I love having Brant’s complete and utter attention.

I’d bet six beers he’s already growing stiff in his pants by watching my lips and tongue make easy work of the mouth of this bottle.

“Nah,” I murmur after finishing my sip. “Not that simple.”

“I’ve never been so jealous of a bottle before.”

“Thanks for the beer.”

He nods resolutely. “My pleasure. I thought you said in the parking lot that you wanted liquor.”

“I’m of a mind to make smarter decisions tonight,” I inform him.

His brow wrinkles. “Uh, does that mean no bathroom blowjobs?”

I snort. “Definitely none of those.”

“A bar-side handy’s out of the question?”

“Completely.”

He makes a mock show of disappointment, hissing through his teeth before kicking his own Dos Equis back. “I can be a good boy,” he decides after his swig. “Hey, I saw this flyer outside of my class about an End Of Year Showcase or something …”

The lights in the whole bar dim, and then a roar of excitement thunders over the room and steals away whatever Brant was about to say regarding the showcase. I don’t know if he saw the flyer and intends to submit any of his photos or not, but he’d better be prepared for some serious scrutiny. The heads of the Art department don’t mess around when it comes to their precious End Of Year Showcase. I had my work turned down the first two times I submitted. Both times I was denied with a callous, harsh note of what I dare call “constructive criticism” and a gently-worded reason for why my piece was not selected. It would be some kind of hilarious, life-upturning irony if any of Brant’s submissions were to get in his first try.

Then I hear my own thoughts and suddenly wonder if I’m being unfair. He has depth, I remind myself. You’ve seen it. You even encouraged it. Hell, there’s probably more to Brant than I’ll ever realize.

And maybe that’s a good thing; it helps keep my interest in him.

“It’s about to start,” he whispers into my ear.

Just that whisper sends a hundred tiny bolts of electricity lightly dancing down my neck. I shiver pleasurably at the memory of the kiss we shared on top of that building the other night, and the kiss we shared in that tiny room at the art gallery …

And the one now.

I bring my lips to his quickly, catching him off-guard. Then I let go just as fast, smirking victoriously to myself as Brant stares after me in a surprised stupor. I love being in control.

The room hushes when a girl takes the stage. She’s curvy and sweet like a porcelain doll on the top shelf. She has long straight hair which she tosses the moment she’s in view of everyone, as if it was rehearsed. Maybe it was. She smiles and the whole world explodes into glitter and bright yellow sunshine.

I haven’t even heard her sing and I already can’t stand her.

“Hey there,” she murmurs into the microphone, acting all shy. “We have quite a turnout tonight! For those who don’t know me, I’m Desdemona Lebeau, but you can call me Dessie.”

She’s like Renée Brigand in cute, singer songwriter form. Gag me.

“I have a new song for you. The boys and I have been working really hard on it. Now let me try to sing it and let’s hope I don’t fuck it all up,” she adds with a quirk of her eyebrows, earning her an endearing wave of laughs throughout the room—and a rolling of eyes from me. “This song,” she says softly, “is called Can’t See Your Face.”

She brings her lips to the microphone. Then the band starts to play and, after a dramatic intake of breath, Dessie sings.

I hate you

when you’re away

Because I

can’t see your face

That face I

have come to love

That face I

can’t get enough of.

She’s signing all her words to the crowd with her hands. Are there deaf people among us, or is this just part of her performance? I kick back my bottle, listening as her song crescendos into the first chorus.

Everything I have, someone else gave me

But this thing between you and I, it’s mine

And if you look closely, you’ll see what I see in you

in time.

And even if every note of this song is silent

The music rings perfectly true

That I’m meant for you, and you’re meant for me

too.

Take them off

all your clothes

So I can see

what lies beneath

Then take off

all your skin

Let me know you.

Let me in.

The music takes over as Dessie sways gently, slow-dancing with her microphone as she closes her eyes, the band filling the space with a melody that mimics the one she just sang. I turn my eyes slightly, catching Brant at my side as he watches her with wonder.

And I wonder if I’ll ever let him in. I wonder if I’ll ever let him know me … the real me, the dark me, the silent shadows I won’t even dare let my only friend Minnie near.

Yes, I hate you

when you turn away

Because I can’t …

can’t see your face

That face that I

will soon set free

That face that looks

right back at me.

Right back at me.

Then it’s over. Somehow the whole room seems to know precisely when the song means to end because they’re applauding and hooting even before the band plays the final chord.

Onstage, Dessie smiles sheepishly and gives a cute wave to the crowd, then thanks them several times, but even her thanks amplified by the microphone is lost to the masses of cheers and hooting that fill the whole place. She steps off the stage and the band picks up with some nameless tune as the bar returns to its usual banter.

“Let’s go meet the talent!” exclaims Brant, taking me by the hand.

Oh, yippy.

We cut through the crowd and make it to a tall table near the foot of the stage where Dmitri, Eric, and a number of others are gathered, standing around the table shoulder-to-shoulder. It’s an excellent thing that I’m not the claustrophobic type because if I was, I’d be desperately searching for an inch of oxygen that isn’t being shared by ten other people, what with the sheer number of bodies in this place.

“What a great job, Dessie, for real,” Eric is telling her. “For a song about love, I wasn’t expecting your first lyrics to be ‘I hate you’, though.”

“I liked the lyrics,” adds a girl with thick-rimmed glasses—much like Dmitri’s—and dark hair that tumbles jaggedly to her shoulders. Her voice is a perfect, lifeless monotone.

“The music was a bit repetitive,” throws in a redheaded guy at her side with a thin-lipped tiny mouth.

“Don’t criticize, Tomas,” complains the girl.

“But I liked the chord progression,” he says quickly, offering Dessie a shrug. “Sorry. I always go for honesty first.”

Dessie smiles. “I’ll take honesty. It’s the only thing that makes an artist—”

From nowhere, a muscular hunk with a face granted by the gods appears at Dessie’s side, takes her in his arms, and plants a kiss on her lips, cutting her off mid-sentence. She laughs into his kiss, then slaps his arm playfully.

And this diva’s got the hot-as-fuck boyfriend? Really?

“You were beautiful up there,” he says to her, his rich, dark eyes pouring into hers with lust.

He sounds kind of funny. I can’t put my finger on it, but his words slur slightly—and not in the had-one-tequila-shot-too-many way.

“Great job, Des!” calls out Brant from my side, lifting his bottle, then he leans into me and says, “That’s my boy, Clayton. Ex-roommate, told you about him?”

I remember now, so I give Brant a nod as I watch Dessie make another annoying, demonstrative show of pushing herself into Clayton and kissing him. It’s either impressive or nauseating that, even with the noise of the place, I can still seem to hear their mouths smacking.

When they pull apart, Clayton says, “Your lyrics were beautiful, babe.”

It’s like he has a lisp. I’m still squinting at him trying to figure it out when Dmitri taps him on the shoulder, drawing his attention. Then Dmitri starts signing to him and offering his congratulations to Dessie. With his hands.

Oh. I’m an asshole. Clayton’s deaf.

“You didn’t tell me,” I murmur in Brant’s ear, watching Dmitri’s hands move with deftness.

“Tell you what? Oh! About Clayton?”

“I feel like an asshole.”

“Why?”

“I was …” I sigh. Some judgmental thoughts, I guess, are better left unsaid. “Never mind.”

“Hey, Sam. I have another song I’m working on,” Dessie starts telling the girl with the glasses and the generally dead eyes. “I’m having trouble with the music. You wanna get together tomorrow maybe and, like … experiment with it? Figure out why the chords aren’t working?”

“Absolutely,” returns Sam, and it might be the cheeriest word I’ve ever heard uttered deadpan.

“What about … our thing?” asks Tomas, the boy at her side, who I’m surmising is a friend of Sam’s, though the nature of their relationship is entirely a mystery, considering how utterly unromantic they seem toward each other. They could be brother and sister, if it weren’t for the drastically contrasting hair and differently-shaped faces.

“What thing? Oh, that thing. I … don’t want to do that thing.”

“But we talked about doing that thing.”

Brant leans forward. “Is ‘that thing’ some kind of clever sexual euphemism, or …?”

“Naturally you’d think that,” blurts Dessie with a teasing smile, inspiring a laugh from the others. “If someone isn’t talking about sex or bowling, you’re bored to tears. And even bowling is all balls.” Suddenly her eyes meet mine and a look of worry crosses them. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m being totally rude. Don’t listen to me. I’ve known Brant for over a year now. I’ve basically earned the right to make fun of him whenever I want. He’s a great guy. Ignore me.”

The faces at the table turn to me, laughter in them. The only face I regard is Brant’s, who regards me with a sheepish smirk.

“Remarkable assessment,” I finally say, acknowledging Dessie’s utterly inept and skewed presumption of who Brant is, “for someone who’s known him ‘over a year’, as you put it. I’ve not even known him for a month, and while I am all too aware of Brant’s hornucopia of a brain,” I go on, my eyes narrowing, “I’m also aware of his keen eye, his attention to detail, and his artistic integrity. If it weren’t for those things, I wouldn’t be standing at this table right now having just listened to a girl sing about how much she hates her lover’s face.”

Dessie looks like I just slapped her in the face. “I—That wasn’t what the song—I mean, Clayton’s deaf. I don’t like his face when he looks away because I—”

“Because he can’t read your self-important lips?” I finish for her, incensed by the way she just dismissed Brant with a handful of words and everyone at this table thinks it’s okay, Brant included. “If you’d spend less attention on Brant’s lips and whatever jokes come out of them, you’d see a driven artist behind a camera instead of some lowly horn-dog who’s just here for everyone’s amusement.”

No, I didn’t slap Dessie’s face earlier with my words. Now I have, and the sting is evident in the way her eyes well up instantly. Whether it’s with hurt or indignance, I don’t know her well enough to say.

Maybe I don’t know her at all. Maybe I’m being the asshole here.

And besides that, what am I even saying to these people? Why the hell am I defending Brant, calling him an artist with integrity and all that bullshit?

What’s gotten into me …?

When I look at Brant, I see a flicker of doubt in his eyes, and that’s when I realize I may have gone too far. He just brought me to meet his friends and all I’m succeeding in doing is being rude and embarrassing the hell out of him.

“I need to hit the ladies’ room,” I say dryly, dismissing myself from the table.

Cutting through the crowd, I make my way toward the wrong corner of the bar and find myself standing in front of an exit door instead of the bathroom. With a roll of my eyes, I seek the restrooms over a hundred heads and bodies standing in the way. Pushing to the opposite corner, I find the tiny hall that leads to my destination, then push through the door into the restroom.

I twist on a faucet and stare at my face in the mirror. This is the reason you don’t have friends, I remind myself with a cold stare into my own eyes. I hate that I always learn these valuable lessons in the worst situations.

And why am I so damn quick to jump to judgments about people? I wonder if something in Dessie’s tone reminded me of the girls on the bus who tore apart my artwork. Or the ones in the cafeteria who threw food at me.

Or the one I call Mom who raised me.

Maybe the thought that scares me the most is if Dessie doesn’t remind me of any of those terrible women in my life. Maybe it was seeing her performing her art in front of this room full of people who were eager to see her, who downright adore her, and for her work to be received with praise and screams of joy. Maybe she’s the kind of artist I want to be someday: celebrated, revered, and … liked.

Oh my god. Am I jealous of her?

“What the fuck did you just do?” I ask my reflection through a sigh. I just went off on Brant’s good friend Dessie in front of all of his friends, who I had just met. Talk about a shitty first impression. Eric has probably flipped his tack completely, now warning Brant to run the hell away from me.

And maybe it would be a good idea.

I can’t face them after what I just did.

Now I wonder if running into the exit door first was some kind of clue from the gods. I honestly consider finding that door again and leaving through it.

I’m sure Brant will recover just well enough without me. He’s the type of guy to salvage whatever fun can be had between him and his friends. They don’t need the dark, tortured likes of me around them. I bet if I slipped out of that exit door I first encountered, they wouldn’t even realize it until last call. They’re probably already back to laughing and have forgotten that Brant brought me along in the first place.

The bathroom door slowly opens behind me, then gently shuts with a tap. I don’t bother to turn around. From the reflection in the mirror, I know precisely who it is.

“Bad day?” Dessie asks tenderly.

Oh shit. She’s being all nice and crap. I don’t deserve that.

“I have them all the time,” she admits. “The Theatre world sucks.”

I roll my eyes and glare down at the spray of scalding hot water, its steam issuing up at me and giving me a damn facial.

“I didn’t mean to sound like I … like I don’t think much of Brant,” she goes on to explain lightly, her voice echoing throughout the tiny bathroom and forcing me to listen to a hundred Dessies at once. “I think a lot of him, actually. He’s a great guy. He’s funny. He’s obviously good-looking. My first impression of him was … him hitting on me at the bowling alley before realizing I was Clayton’s girl. Maybe that impression sort of stuck. But it really isn’t my place to say what guy he really is, because, well …”

“He didn’t tell me Clayton’s deaf,” I interject, the words coming out in half a croak.

I can’t tell if I’m still unnecessarily pissed or just trying to push every last button she has, acting out the role of every bully who ever pushed me around. Dessie has suddenly embodied all of them.

She comes to my side, right by the sink, and her words are soft and soothing. “Maybe this is all because … because I’m a singer and I have a boyfriend who will never hear a note of my music.” She chuckles dryly. “Maybe that fact makes me … sort of … sensitive to the notion that you might—perhaps—have a boyfriend who will never see your artistry.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” I say to the scalding water, speaking into the warm, thick mist that wafts over my face. “I think he sees a lot more than anyone gives him credit for.”

Dessie nods slowly. “I can see that.”

The steam burns my eyes. I don’t care. “And maybe I’m wrong, too,” I add thoughtfully. “Maybe I’m … not really seeing you. Or any one of Brant’s other friends. Maybe I don’t see anyone at all. Maybe I’m the one who’s blind to what people are … really like.”

Dessie reaches across me and shuts off the faucet. The last of the steam floats lazily past my face, the mirror foggy and my view vanished from sight.

“Brant must be doing somersaults in his pants when he’s around you,” she says to me teasingly. “You are gorgeous. I would kill for your cheekbones.”

I snort, unable to take the compliment. It’s the same sort of dumb shit my dad would tell me when he wasn’t drinking. I couldn’t believe any of his kind words then, and I can’t believe any of anyone’s kind words now.

Still, I say, “Thank you.”

“I think if we gave it a little chance, we could really get along well.”

“I’m sorry I was a bitch.”

Dessie studies me for a short moment, then takes me by my arms and turns me to face her. I meet her eyes reluctantly.

“I don’t take it you’re the type of person who apologizes often,” she tells me. “So that apology really means a lot to me.”

“Careful,” I warn her. “I’m not sure yet if I meant it.”

That earns a laugh from her. “You’re perfect.”

“Perfect?”

“I really don’t think you’re a bitch,” she tells me. “I actually think you’re exactly what a guy like Brant needs. You have twice the strength I’ll ever have, and considering the things they say about me behind my back in New York, that’s saying something.”

I wrinkle my face. “I’m what a guy like Brant needs? What’s that supposed to mean? What kind of guy is Brant?”

Dessie smiles knowingly. “A guy who … sees so much.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, considering her for a while. She gives me a quick rub on my arm, a soft and appreciative chuckle, then guides me out of the restroom with her.

The table is remarkably just how I left it, all its occupants standing around it cracking jokes and laughing every few seconds, the bottoms of bottles and glasses being more prevalent than their tops. I don’t seem to draw any attention, which eerily makes me feel like my little scene never happened. Dessie slips right back into Clayton’s hold, and though I was just minutes ago hating every talented, loveable cell in that girl’s very existence, I suddenly find myself drawn to her magnetic demeanor and the way that her and Clayton seem to share some kind of unseen gravitational force that keeps them in orbit. Clayton pours into her eyes, and she lets him, smiling brightly and clinging to him like a cliff—like a big, solid cliff made of flesh and muscle.

When Brant looks my way after hearing the end of a story from Dmitri, his crystalline blues shimmer. A smile breaks across his face, a smile that seems almost automatic, like he can’t help but smile when he sees I’ve returned.

My heart catches in my throat. My chest feels like a cavern of bones and nerves, little electric currents swimming around inside with nowhere to go and nothing to focus upon.

Except him.

Brant lifts his eyebrows at me. “You alright?”

I slide up next to him at the table, my shoulder rubbing against his. I let that and a tiny smile be my answer. Then Eric howls when Clayton jokingly tosses an ice cube down the back of his shirt, and even the stoic, monotone-driven Sam cracks an uncharacteristic smile.

When Dessie announces her need to sleep for a rehearsal and Sam talks about “a thing her and Tomas need to do”, Eric slaps Dmitri on the back and demonstratively suggests to him that they get some late night pancakes. It isn’t my clue to get, but I get it nonetheless, and when Brant turns his face to ask me something, I cut him off with, “You wanna get out of here?”

After I ask that question, his eyes burn blue. I never knew that color could burn. I’ve moved really close to him somehow, so close that our hips nearly touch. My right hand betrays me, coming up to meet the waist of his jeans, a finger hooking in one of the belt loops.

His breathing has quickened. “Sure,” he finally says. “W-Where?”

“Your place,” I answer, tugging on his belt loop. Our hips push into one another.

He’s hard as a rock in his jeans.

I’m wet as fuck.

“Who are you?” he breathes.

“In,” I answer. “I’m all in.”

BRANT

The doors to my apartment burst open.

I have her lifted by her thighs, held to my body with our hips pressed together and our lips locked.

I kick the door shut behind me. I can’t believe this is happening.

She moans as I carry her down the little hall and drop her onto my bed, making that sound of bedsprings creaking I’ve so longed to hear.

She breathes heavily as I push my face into her, pinning her to the bed with my hands and my weight. She moans into the kiss, the vibrations sending tremors between our bodies.

I’m a fucking animal. I want to get myself inside her so bad, my cock aches, flexing incessantly from inside the confines of my tight boxer briefs.

In answer, my hands fly to the button and zipper of my jeans, sending them on a journey to the floor. Nell seems to get the same idea, grabbing her own and undoing them in a feverish fluster.

Already freed from my own clothes and growing impatient, I pick her up off the bed, set her feet on the floor, then grab her jeans—and panties—and pull them down her hips as I drop to my knees.

She says something between her breaths, but I don’t hear her as I plunge face-first between her thighs, drawing my tongue lightly up her lower lips and reaching her clit, which I proceed to gently lick. She bucks, so I reach around and grip her perfect, curvy ass, pulling her deeper into me and not letting her go anywhere except exactly where I want her.

Her breaths quickly turn vocal, sending moans soaring overhead. Encouraged, I let go of her ass and slide a finger into her pussy with ease. Drawing the finger in and out of her slowly, teasingly, tortuously, I continue to lick and lap at her on the outside with my dancing tongue.

She’s so wet, a second finger glides right in, stretching her.

Her muscles tighten hungrily in response and she moans, loud and desperately.

I run my free hand up her body, slipping it under her top and into her bra. My fingers graze over her nipple, finding it hard and pebbled under my touch. I feel her body respond, tightening, pushing into me and pulling against me at the same time.

She tenses up. She’s about to come all over my face. My fingers hook into her pussy and hit that spot that sends her flying over the edge.

I’m used to driving women crazy, but it’s so different with Nell. I want to worship every inch of her. I want to own her, yet acknowledge how wholly and irrevocably she owns me.

I want to be inside her so badly. I can’t wait any longer. The ferocity of the boner between my legs is paramount. It fucking hurts it’s so hard, bobbing desperately with my every frantic heartbeat.

“I want,” I moan, tracing her pussy with my tongue, “to be,” I push my face into her, bathing in her wetness, “inside you.”

“Get up here,” she hisses, out of breath, her clit still throbbing on my tongue as she slowly comes down from her orgasm.

I lift myself up only to be gripped by her and thrust onto my own bed like a fucking piece of meat. She pulls off her top in one sensuous, swift maneuver, then unhooks her bra with finesse. When her beautiful breasts are released, I sigh as I bring my mouth to her left nipple. She moans as I lick and suck on it, drawing my tongue over the sensitive tip and feeling it harden at once. Then I bite, earning myself a startled, tormented gasp.

I could live here forever, my tongue discovering every part of her body like a gorgeous new land to stake a claim on.

I slide my tongue to her other breast, sucking the nipple into my mouth greedily. Her hand finds the back of my head this time, her fingers tangling in my hair. I groan, consumed in the act of kneading her nipple with my mouth as I massage the other, desperate to get inside her.

And apparently, she’s desperate too. “Brant. Condom.”

I detach from her nipple to answer: “Dresser drawer.”

My drawer is yanked open in the next moment, and then a condom wrapper falls to the floor, the condom pinched between her fingers.

She pushes me back onto the bed, grips my cock, then bends down and rolls the rubber on with her lips, turning the maneuver into a blowjob. I groan heartily as her mouth encloses around the end of my cock, the warmth enveloping me and sending a wave of unadulterated pleasure coursing up my body and giving every muscle along the way reason to flex and clench.

When her fingers cling to my torso and rake down the length of it, I find all my patience for foreplay spent to the max.

“Sit on my cock,” I beg her. “Please. Fuck. Do it.”

She wastes no time.

Sitting up, she straddles over me with her pussy hovering right at the tip. At first, she only teases an inch of it into her, which is warm and excruciating. I moan, desperate for the rest of me to enter her. She lets in another inch, gripping my arms and glaring down at me as if I’m a bad boy and this is my cruel punishment.

But I’m not in the mood for punishment tonight.

I take charge, grabbing her hips and thrusting myself up. My cock slips in the rest of the way, her pussy so slick that I slide in with ease.

“FUCK!” she cries out, that one word seeming to shake the walls around us.

I pump her, using her hips to push and pull her body with my every thrust. Her hands rush up to her breasts, kneading them as she rides me, her hair flinging in all directions, her eyes feral with lust.

We’ve finally united. I’m so lost in the moment of sensation, of gut-churning longing and hunger, of roof-shattering pleasure that I can’t even process the significance of Nell finally letting go and allowing me the trust to let me inside her.

“I’m close,” she breathes.

“So am I,” I assure her, pumping harder. “Come for me, baby.”

“So, so, so close.”

“Come for me.”

“Deeper.”

I thrust with even more fervor, feeling like a machine of muscle and force and sweat. “Nell …”

“Deeper!” she moans, commanding me with her desperation.

Deeper? Fuck this.

I grab her, pick her up, and flip her onto her back. She shrieks as I lift her legs, all her breath kicked out of her as I sheathe my cock right back inside her, pumping away with my hands pinning her to the bed, her legs dangling over my shoulders.

She screams a word of pleasure, then moans a word of agony. It’s so curious, how they almost sound the same.

“I’m coming!” she shrieks.

And then so am I, my moans pouring into hers as I dump into her, wave after wave after relentless wave. I can’t stop thrusting into her, the pair of us riding our orgasms so far beyond the edge, the sensation of endless plummeting rockets down my body.

We collapse next to each other, a pile of limbs and sweat and deeply heaving breaths. I pull off the condom, tie it off, then drop it to the floor as Nell snuggles up to my side, sighing with exhaustion. Every muscle in my body is spent from the endeavor, and I lay my chin tenderly in her hair. My breaths drift out of my flaring nostrils, disturbing her hair with every urgent exhale.

It takes quite some time for us to calm down, and soon I think the reality hits us both. Whatever walls existed between us have collapsed to the ground. I now hold Nell in a cocoon of my arms and warmth.

When my breathing levels, I chase an impulse and kiss the top of her head. One of her hands rests on my chest, the fingers slowly drawing circles around my nipple, awakening it. The sensitivity seems to be waking my cock right back up already.

“I didn’t see this happening,” she murmurs, voice barely audible.

“I did,” I joke back cockily. “It was inevitable. I wanted you since that first moment I saw you.”

“Nothing to do with the fact that you were ass-naked?”

“Well.” I smirk into her hair, hugging her tight against my body. “Actually, maybe it did have to do with that … a bit.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. It was sorta like … when I first met you, you saw me in a very vulnerable position. Your first impression of me was … me baring it all. We’ve been intimate since the first moment we met.”

“Intimate,” she echoes thoughtfully.

I lower my voice to a whisper. “I like it that way.”

She squeezes against me, a leg of hers flipping over mine. I let my hand play with her hair as it slowly runs up and down the length of her back. And it’s like that, in each other’s arms, all our sweaty, sticky, unapologetic mess slowly growing cold between us, that our warm, breathless bodies drift into the most peaceful sleep I’ve ever known.

BRANT

It’s the best Sunday morning I’ve ever had.

I’m the first to wake up. Her face rests on my chest, one of her arms tucked between us and the other slung over my abdomen, her fingers splayed close to my cock. Just the awareness of that makes it spring to action, as if it’s ready for a round or two of her hand for breakfast.

I don’t want to move. I hate the idea of accidentally stirring her awake, even with just an innocent flinch or adjustment of my arm, and ruining whatever sort of otherworldly peace we have going on here.

I can’t remember the last time a girl’s stayed over and I haven’t wanted her to just disappear. With Nell, all of my fears feel turned back on me, as if in some sort of ironic retribution for all the girls whose hearts I’ve strung along or broken over the years. I’m worried Nell will want to leave the moment she wakes. What if she opens her eyes and reality sets in, and the horror of the “hornucopia” she just had sex with assaults her mind full-force and floods her with regret?

Call me selfish, but I don’t want to be anything she regrets. I want to be what makes her smile and feel safe.

People call me a player. They’ve always called me a player. Even my friends do. But I’ve never been one, not truly—not in my mind or in my heart. I’m a lover and always have been. A part of me has to believe Nell knows that, and maybe that’s why she’s still around.

Her hand moves slightly, grazing the hairs by my cock. I grow even stiffer, my cock agonized by the close proximity of her fingers and the potential of what she could do with them.

Seriously, I feel like a charged piston ripe with electrical energy, this woman curled up against my body and keeping me on the brim of some sort of sexual explosion.

It’s a good thing we aren’t spooning; I’d be poking holes in her back with my morning wood.

With her cradled against me, I can’t reach the top of the dresser where the new camera my parents sent me rests. It isn’t actually new; Dad just sent one of his old ones, which he claims is only three years old. “It’ll do for your needs,” he told me. “Graduate and get yourself a decent job, we’ll talk about getting you a newer one.” I didn’t ask about the insurance or why they couldn’t just replace my stolen one.

Unable to reach the camera, I simply look down at the beauty resting on me and reflect on the words she said. “You don’t need your big flashy device. If you didn’t have your phone, you’d take pics with your mind.” I smile, remembering that night and comparing it to the night we just had. She breathes peacefully, evenly, as she sleeps on my chest. “Take my picture, Brant.”

I blink, burning the sight of her into my memory. I feel like I don’t have it burned deep enough, so I blink again, harder. I’m determined to keep this moment locked in my brain forever.

Then she stirs, lifting her head off of me. It almost hurts, feeling the sudden departure of her warmth. Propping herself up, she glances around my room slowly, her hair cascading beautifully down her bare backside.

The moment she turns, I close my eyes, pretending to still be asleep. I listen, desperate for her touch as I lie there, my right hand still grazing her lower back. The unmoving silence tells me she’s watching me. A smidge of doubt tickles me, wondering if I’ve been caught and daring me to open my eyes.

Then I feel her move. A warmth draws close, close, closer, and then her lips touch mine.

I smile into those lips, returning the kiss, and then I open my eyes.

“Hey,” Nell murmurs croakily.

I bring my hands around her back, locking my fingers behind her. “Mornin’, babe.”

She sighs, smiling, and rolls her eyes.

“You really don’t like pet names?”

“Not particularly.”

“Why not?”

She offers me a tiny shrug, turning her head.

“You look so cute when you don’t want to tell me something.”

She glares at me through her sleepy morning eyes, which makes her look even cuter, but I refrain from pointing that out for fear of her smacking my face or giving me a titty twister. Or both.

On second thought, maybe I should point it out.

“I just prefer my name,” she says evasively.

“You had someone in the past call you cute names,” I predict, squinting in thought. “Someone called you Nelly-Poo and now you’ve sworn off pet names for all eternity.”

She shrugs. “I guess. Something like that.”

I smile, satisfied with the answer. “Want some breakfast?” I ask, giving her a few playful humps with my hips, which has the unintended effect of making her boobs bounce, bringing my full focus right to them. “Shit, I better do that again.”

She laughs, bringing an arm up to cover her breasts. Wow, really? She goes all shy on me now, after all we did last night?

Also, I’m pretty sure I’ve heard her laugh more in the past ten minutes than I have during my whole time knowing her.

“I’m seeing a whole different side of you this morning,” I remark.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yep. I think I know why, too.”

“Is that so?”

“It’s because of the mind-blowing sex we had last night.”

She snorts, swallowing another laugh that dared to escape her lips.

“We should definitely have sex more often,” I decide.

“Breakfast sounds good,” she says, smirking at me as she slips off my body and scavenges my floor for her clothes.

I turn onto my side, propping my head up. I watch her as she finds her panties and slides them up her sexy legs. Then she fishes her top out from under mine near the door, but can’t seem to find her bra. It’s right by the bed, so I snatch it off the floor and hide it behind my back just as she turns around. She’s onto me right away, crossing her arms and lifting a challenging eyebrow.

“Give it back.”

“What?” I blink innocently.

“My bra. Hand it over.”

“I prefer you with your clothes off.”

“I’m not walking out there half-naked with your roommates here.”

“They’re not home. Y’know, you didn’t give me a choice of clothing when you cuffed me and turned me into your showpiece.”

“Oh yeah? Is that what I am now? Your showpiece?”

I grin for an answer.

She plays along, sauntering slowly across the room, then bending over to line up her face with mine. I melt instantly, reaching for her lips, when in a flash of light she reaches around, grabs the bra from behind my back, and retreats from me to put it on, smirking victoriously at me from over her shoulder.

I sit up, shaking my head at her. “You think you got some tricks up your sleeve,” I mutter at her sexy backside, watching as she puts her bra back on. “But you haven’t seen my tricks. Hope you enjoy spending all that effort putting your clothes on when I’m gonna be taking you right back out of them.”

“I’m hungry,” she says briskly. “Show me what’s in your kitchen and I’ll see what I can do.” Then, in just her panties and that sexy top, she strolls out of my room like she owns the place.

Not gonna lie. I’m hard as fuck right now.

I step into my closet and grab a prop I took from a show Dessie and Clayton did back in the spring. Tying it to me, I swing out of my room, chasing Nell into my kitchen where she rummages through my fridge.

“Sit back, sweet cheeks,” I tell her, wrapping my arms around her waist and pulling her onto a barstool, inspiring a hoot of protest and a laugh, “and let me make you my infamous spicy egg scramble.”

“Spicy egg—? Brant.” She laughs when she sees what I’m wearing. “Is that an eggplant?”

“You don’t like my eggplant?” I face her proudly wearing only the purple apron I’ve donned with an assortment of vegetables decorating the front—namely, a big ol’ swollen eggplant with two tomatoes suggestively placed. “It certainly likes you. You allergic to cayenne or garlic?”

“Nope.”

“Like grated pepper jack cheese?”

“Delish.”

“Prefer your spicy scramble wrapped in a tortilla or … with toast?”

She licks her lips, deciding. My eyes flick to them, my mind flicking somewhere else entirely at the sight of them.

“Tortilla,” she decides, biting her lip as her eyes trail down to my … eggplant.

“Tortilla,” I echo, suppressing a groan of desire. I could take her once or twice on the kitchen counter before starting up the eggs, if she’d let me. “I believe in full disclosure, so I’m just gonna come out with it: I’m hard as fuck under my apron.”

“Noted.” She props her chin up on a hand, watching me.

“And I’ve never cooked my spicy egg scramble with a hard-on.”

“Also noted.”

After giving her a very tense narrowing of my eyes, I surrender to making breakfast, pulling out a bowl from the cabinet and the carton of eggs from the fridge, along with my secret spices. After tossing a pad of butter into a pan, I go to work cracking the eggs and whisking them in the bowl as the butter starts to melt.

Then there’s a person at my back. A voluptuous, cruel, cock-teasing vixen of the best and worst kind. A woman with darkness in her eyes and talents beyond measure in her unassuming hands. A woman … who is pulling up the front of my apron.

“Nell …”

“Pay attention to your eggs,” she orders me as she works her hands under the front of my apron, my own occupied with whisking a bowl of eggs. “Don’t want to mess up and scramble your nuts instead.”

I moan when her hand reaches my swollen, sensitive cock. “This is so wrong …”

“Shh.”

“So, so wrong.”

And then she starts stroking me.

I shudder, my hand movements frozen in place by her own. I clench shut my eyes, enjoying every push and pull of her skillful grip as she works me from behind.

“Keep cooking,” she orders. “Don’t stop.”

“Nell …”

“Don’t stop.”

I resume whisking, my cock so fucking hard that I feel my butthole clench up. She senses all the tension that’s entered my body because her free hand slaps against my exposed ass, squeezing it greedily. The sting makes me even harder.

“Damn, woman.”

“I like my eggs extra spicy,” she whispers into the back of my neck, leaning forward and helping herself to a nibble of my earlobe.

Her hand runs up my side, sliding over my skin smoothly and causing goose bumps to chase her, then slipping under the upper part of my apron. Her fingers find my left nipple, grazing over it and causing it to harden in an instant. I growl in response.

“You stopped again.”

“This is so wrong,” I moan. “You’re corrupting my sweet, innocent eggs.”

She starts stroking faster.

“Oh god.”

“Your fault,” she tells me, “coming out here wearing nothing but this dumb apron. You expect me to keep my hands off you now?”

“This is our relationship dynamic, is it?” I ask, out of breath from what she’s doing to me. “Me, always your object, always your plaything? Am I just a piece of meat to you?”

“Yep.” Her other hand pinches my nipple, sending bolts of electricity down my body. “And hopefully more.”

“I like being your object.” I pour the egg mix into the pan, then stop with the bowl hovering midair. “Wait, what? … More?”

And then she jerks harder.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I moan, the bowl slamming down on the counter as I breathe heavily, trying to control my orgasm from exploding from me as she speeds up. I’m so close already, my cock a hundred times more sensitive in the morning, and every single slip and stroke and movement of her hand is driving me insane.

The eggs sizzle furiously. The agitated noise of breakfast being born fills the kitchen, combating with the tiny huffs of breath Nell emits into my ear and my own heavy breathing.

It’s inevitable. I’m going to come.

“Oh god. Careful where you aim the cannon,” I warn.

“What?” murmurs Nell.

And then I come, moaning out loud as I spill all over the inside of my apron, wave after wave. Just when I think I’ve finished coming, I come some more, and she jerks me dry, continuing to jerk long past my time of spilling over the edge.

When she finally stops, I look down at the huge wet spot in the apron. Then I turn my head, peering at her over my shoulder. “Look at what you did,” I accuse her.

She pulls her hand out, gives my exposed ass a hearty slap, then slinks over to the bathroom and runs the faucet.

I will never get used to this. And I don’t want to. She surprises me. Her moves are impossible to predict.

So I have to keep up with her.

By the time she returns from cleaning up, I’ve ditched the soiled apron, finishing breakfast in the nude. A pinch of spice here. A sprinkle of spice there. I lay out the tortillas on a plate, then offer two more plates for the eggs with a glass of orange juice each.

She sits at the barstool, eyeing the plates, then she glances up at me in all my naked, exposed, objectified glory.

I grin at her, lean against the counter opposite of her and start rolling up a tortilla with my spicy eggs, bring it to my lips—my eyes never leaving hers—then I give the whole length of the breakfast taco a demonstrative sniffing, like a wolf scoping a meal, then bite off the end with due ferocity.

Following the best night and the best morning I’ve ever had, this may be the best breakfast I’ve ever shared with anyone. I can’t stop staring at her face as we eat. She is gorgeous. Yeah, sure, I’ve had a one-night thing with many gorgeous girls, some of them a two- or three-night thing, but Nell has a special something that transcends beauty. I’m not even sure I know what it is yet. Maybe it’s the puzzle of that that intrigues me.

When I take the plates, a thing she said floats into my mind. “All in.”

Nell stirs out of some thought she was having. “Hmm?”

“You said you’re all in.” I set the plates in the sink, then run the faucet and look back at her. “About us. Last night. You said you’re all in, right before we left the Throng. What’d you mean?”

Nell presses her lips together, her eyes disconnecting. I’m just about to tell her never mind when she says, “You and I.”

I lift my eyebrows. “You and I?”

“Us.” She nods finally, as if making a decision. “I want to try it.”

I study her, making absolutely sure I know what she means. My heart rate is accelerating all over again. “You mean … this thing between us? This thing we didn’t want to name or label or box up or call anything? This nameless work of art we got going on?”

“Yes,” she answers right away. “This … thing … between us. I want it to be a thing. A real, acknowledged, certain thing. I … I don’t want to see other guys.”

“I don’t want to see other girls.”

She bites her lip. Then a smile creeps into it. “I want to call you my boyfriend. I haven’t … I haven’t really had one. Not a real one.”

“Me neither,” I say back, drawn in by the sudden seriousness in her voice. “I mean, a girlfriend. Like, a real one.”

She circumvents the counter. I slip my hands around the small of her back, pulling her against my naked body. Our eyes are so close, I see flecks of green in hers that I hadn’t noticed before.

We lean into each other and our foreheads touch. I smile at her, puckering my lips goofily. She bites her lip to fight off a grin.

“Girlfriend,” I murmur, tasting the word.

“Boyfriend,” she says, doing the same. “I’m super wet right now.”

“Noted,” I grunt.

Then I lift her onto the counter, earning a shriek of delight from her, before gripping her panties, yanking them down, and bringing my face in for an early brunch.

NELL

Don’t mistake my submission to Brant as some kind of sign that I’ve lost my mind.

I haven’t gone all noodles in the knees and butterflies in my brain. Please. Have we met?

No, I didn’t go soft and stupid.

I know precisely what I’m doing.

And if I’m being blunt, I think it takes a certain amount of bravery, in fact, to engage in any semblance of a relationship with a person like Brant who is known campus-wide for being a man of fleeting pleasures (that’s putting it kindly, isn’t it?) and opening myself up for potential heartache.

Sure. There is a risk that he will do to me what he’s done to countless lustful ladies before. And that’s a consequence that I’m half-expecting, even walking into this as brazenly as I am. So if it happens, I simply won’t be surprised; I’ll accept the time I had with him, huff at the inconsequence of letting anyone into my heart at all, then put it all into some tortured art piece I’ll pass off as my means of “getting over it”. Reluctant praise and dark, concerned glances will be my reward.

And if it does happen to work out … well, then I suppose it was worth leaping in headfirst.

And face first.

And cock-into-pussy first.

And hands-all-over-my-tits first.

It may seem counterproductive when building a sustaining, deeply meaningful relationship to have sex all of the time like a pair of high schoolers who just discovered their private parts, but that’s precisely what Brant and I seem to be doing.

And unapologetically, at that.

Sometimes when Eric and Dmitri are out, I come over for an innocent after-class dinner which gets half-eaten, the rest forgotten as Brant and I lose our clothes on the couch and make a meal out of something else instead.

After my Tuesday studio class, we’ll rendezvous by the grassy knoll of the psychology building and have lunch, which very quickly becomes a gross display of affection against some outside wall, under a tree, in a closet, or at our table in plain sight.

Simply put: we cannot keep our hands off each other.

I’ve never been this wild and reckless with anyone before. The feeling is indescribable, but here I go trying to describe it: I feel free to do whatever I want, oddly terrified all the time, and insatiably hungry for his taste. It doesn’t matter if we fuck eight times in one night; I’ll need a ninth and a tenth.

I can’t get enough of Brant Rudawski.

One time, I surprised him outside of one of his digital media classes, pulled him into the women’s bathroom, then assaulted him in one of the stalls. The look of fear in his eyes was both an extreme turn-on and highly amusing. I may be stooping to all-time lows with him.

And all-time highs.

Then, on an unassuming Thursday, he comes into a condom inside me with a taut arm on either side of my head while his face hovers over mine, eyes scrunched up in that painful ecstasy-riddled expression that happens at the precise time of orgasm. When his eyes open, he’s out of breath, staring down at me like he can’t believe he’s still alive after an experience like that.

I love that bright, beautiful, almost terrified look in his eyes.

“What are you doing to me, Nell?” he breathes.

The question is rhetorical, but I feel compelled to answer anyway. “Same thing you’re doing to me.” I raise my face to his, sucking his lips into my mouth, then nipping his bottom one playfully before I drop back to the pillow. “I’m kind of addicted to tormenting you.”

“You tease me all the time,” he murmurs, and it would sound like a complaint if it weren’t for the lustful look in his eyes, even after coming. “You always leave me wanting more. You make me sweat. You consume every fucking thought I have. You make me work … make me slave for every little morsel that you give me.”

“Do I?” I ask innocently.

He licks his lips, as if to taste me on them. Then, in a deep voice that causes his abs to flex, he adds, “And I love it.”

A week after that, Minnie tells me she’s swinging by the campus and wants to meet up for some coffee. Since Brant’s been asked to photograph something at the School of Theatre for Clayton, I take her up on the spontaneous offer. Minnie has avoided Klangburg ever since her departure from it, so I was curious what inspired her to meet up with me.

“The Showcase.”

I lift an eyebrow, the coffee sitting in front of me growing cold.

“The Showcase,” Minnie repeats, her curls of blue-and-green-tipped black hair bouncing when she nods at me, as if I’m supposed to know what she’s talking about. “What’s your progress?”

“You’re asking about the progress of the piece I’m submitting?”

“Piece? No, pieces. And yes, they’re still due at the end of next month, just before Halloween. You haven’t submitted a damn thing.”

I frown at her. “How do you know that?”

She rolls her eyes. Minnie is a very frail-looking woman, thin to the point of assumed emaciation, and her face is very pointy and angular. Her mad hairstyle of dark curls tipped in a different color of the rainbow each week is so big, it sits like a second head on top of her own. An enormous pair of white-trimmed sunglasses sit in her hair like a mother bird squatting in her nest.

“You do realize I’m chummy with the head of the art school, plus I curate the Showcase myself with Brian, Yuri, and Esmeralda.”

“Esmeralda?”

“Essie. Lord, you are clueless, Nell. What has happened to you? By now, you’d have six things submitted already and working on six more.”

I’m not about to have a conversation with Minnie about Captain Big Dong who has consumed me for the past however many weeks. I’m not going to blame my lack of artistic progress on a budding relationship. Besides, I have made progress. The problem is …

“There’s really only one piece I want them to consider.”

Minnie gawps at me, speechless.

“Seriously.” I fiddle with my coffee cup, annoyed that she questions everything I do ever since she graduated. She used to admire my choices and ask about my inspirations and desires. Now she scrutinizes everything, like I’m her child who needs constant artistic guidance. “I don’t want anything else in the Showcase. I want just the one piece. It’s the most important thing to me.”

Minnie purses her lips, gives a short shake of her head. “That, my friend, is an incredibly arrogant thing to do.”

“It’s not arrogance. It’s selectivity. How would you feel if you submit five inferior works and a sixth work that is your pride and joy, and then one of the inferior pieces gets selected and shown to the whole world? All you are as an artist, all you amount to, all that represents you … is that inferior piece.”

“Or you could be arrogant, putting only one piece in for consideration, and have that one piece not get selected, and then you’re not in the Showcase at all. And you won’t exist to the world.” Minnie shrugs, irritated at me, then pulls a piece off her blueberry muffin. “I really thought I knew you, Nell.”

“No one does,” I huff under my breath.

I’m not sure if she heard me, but she doesn’t react either way. She lets a deep breath in while chewing, then pushes it all out. “Well. Do you at least have … your one piece … ready for submission?”

“Working on it,” I answer vaguely.

“What is it?” she asks, squinting at me suspiciously. “What’s this one amazing piece that’s gonna blow my vagina off this planet?”

“I doubt anything can blow your vagina off this planet,” I tease.

“Try me.”

If I’m honest, I resent that Minnie acts like her opinion has suddenly elevated to a level where her magic eyes are the ultimate pinnacle of artistic judgment. She must think that I’m so lucky to know her, like she’s Klangburg Art School royalty. She’s becoming worse than Renée Brigand. Bitch, I was the one holding your hair every time you bent over a toilet freshman year. Maybe that should be my submission piece. Me, kneeling by the toilet and holding back the curly locks of a friend after her long-awaited party, a turned-over bottle at the foot of the toilet and mascara smeared down her snot-filled, greasy face. I’ll title it: Happy Birthday.

“You’ll see it when I submit it,” I answer.

Minnie studies me with curiosity, her expression softening. “That look in your eyes …”

I lift an eyebrow quizzically.

“The piece is about your father, isn’t it?”

I feel the weight of a cold, heavy brick in my gut. I often overestimate Millie’s intelligence, then seconds later underestimate her intuition. She may not know everything about me, or the specifics as to why my dad is no longer a part of my life, but she knows me. She has seen all my work, and she can distill the truths beyond just what’s on the canvas.

I shake my head. “No.”

She crosses her arms on the table, leaning forward. “Whatever it is, it better be damn good. I want my Nell in the Showcase. I want my Nell front and center. I want the world to know your name.”

Quite suddenly, a flash of Brant’s face crosses my mind, and I hear him say my name. I love the way he says it, the way it comes off his tongue. Nell. He puts so much tongue into it that every time he says my name, I’m drawn to his mouth and I get wet.

Even now, I’m clenching my thighs together, feeling the pressure of need down there. He has a masterful tongue.

This isn’t the best time for these thoughts. I’m getting horny about something completely unrelated to Minnie and the Showcase and what piece I’m going to submit.

Maybe it’s completely relevant. Maybe my piece will be Brant’s tongue and the many, many ways he uses it. To make words. To softly utter names. To tickle earlobes. To suck my hard, pebbled nipples.

To enter me and blow my vagina off the planet.

An hour later, Minnie decides she’s going to stay and visit with some of the professors while I swing around to the School of Theatre. I still feel the cold kiss she gave either of my cheeks as I enter the theater. In the lobby, I pass four students rehearsing a scene—freshmen, if I had to guess—and make my way to the main auditorium.

I push open the doors and feel the frigid wave of air conditioning wash over me. For a moment, I believe I’ve walked into an actual performance, what with the dramatic lighting and actors performing a scene on stage, until I realize there’s no one in the audience.

Except Brant.

And he’s standing up high, precariously balanced with each of his feet on the back of a seat. He licks his lips, aims, then—

Flash.

He looks into his camera, then gives a thumbs up to the stage where I notice Dessie emerge from a crowd of what appear to be fairies or elves. “Very good. Can we get one with just Oberon and Puck? No fairies.” And following her command, the actors on stage disperse to assume a new scene.

Brant, so confident in his awkward balancing atop the backs of those seats, starts bouncing to some song in his head—the endearing way that he does so often—and then he turns his head, as if sensing me.

When our eyes meet, he grins brightly.

I lean against the wall and cross my arms, smiling mutedly back at him, not wanting to break their process.

“Ready!” calls out an actor who looks like a male fairy with a warped, thorny crown made of bramble.

Brant snaps back into focus, game face on, and he raises his camera, readying the next shot. There is something so sexy about watching him work. I love seeing the focus in his eyes. I love the way his arms flex and move when he raises or lowers the camera. Even just the expert way his fingers manipulate his equipment, pressing buttons, snapping and unsnapping little toggles and switches, rotating and focusing and twisting things into perfection.

It’s the care he takes with everything. It’s the attention he gives.

It’s the fierce blue of his eyes and the way his forehead creases with concentration.

He licks his lips. He aims.

Flash.

That’s precisely the imagery that inspires me to take him to the Westwood Light and show him the other side of my weekly routine for the first time. I’m not sure what kept me from bringing him, other than my incessant need to hide the things I most cherish from the world, like I’m afraid that bringing it into light will ruin it all or taint it somehow. I should have known better where Brant’s concerned. Who knew he’d be so damn good with kids? The second I introduce him to them, he’s right there among them at the short, circular table making doodles on construction paper with every color in the crayon box while they excitedly watch. I was able to procure them some new paints, which two of the girls use to follow along in painting a car similar to the one Brant is drawing. Two of the kids proceed to drive around the room in imaginary Ferraris, gifting us with a chorus of engine hums and vroom-vrooms.

I can’t stop staring at Brant. How can someone change so much in such a short amount of time? Perhaps he hasn’t changed at all, but rather I was looking at him in all the wrong lights. I never saw myself as a particularly judgmental person, but maybe I am.

Maybe I judged Brant too quickly.

It should be noted that he doesn’t stay over at my loft very often. But it’s one Monday morning when we wake up together in my bed that he asks the unexpected question.

I blink. “A whole weekend?”

“Not just any weekend,” he points out. “Halloween weekend.”

Three half-finished papier-mâché ravens stare down at us from the ceiling where they hang by wire. I study one of them, the closest one, and remember the bird costume I wore the last time I ever bothered with festivities. I was twelve. My dad was sober that Halloween.

“Did you have plans or something?”

I look over at him. “What?”

“You went away for a sec. Your eyes. You went into some kind of thought train or somethin’.”

I shrug. I’m not sure I’m ready to meet Brant’s parents. Or maybe it’s that I’m not ready for them to meet me. I don’t know what kind of home life I expect him to come from, but I can’t imagine it’s anything like mine. I bet he woke up to pancakes every Saturday morning.

“There, you did it again.”

I smirk and chuckle away his whining. “Fine,” I tell him, maybe just to shut him up. “Halloween weekend with your family. Wait. Where is your family?”

“About an hour that way,” he answers with a lazy point toward the window. “I’ll take you. I grew up in a suburb on the edge of town. We can head out after our classes next Friday.”

“Next Friday,” I agree, staring at my ravens again and biting my lip.

“Oooh, now I get it.”

I squint at him. “Huh?”

“It’s the End Of Year thingy. You’re worried about it. You still haven’t submitted, have you?”

I sit up, hugging my knees to my chest. “It’s not quite that.”

He brushes against my side, then rests his chin on my shoulder. “Wanna tell Brant? Brant can make ya feel all better.” He kisses my neck lightly. “I can take it all away, whatever it is.” He kisses just behind my ear, casting goose bumps down my neck and side. “Just tell me whose ass I gotta kick. And I’ll do it, provided he’s not seven feet tall. I mean, I could probably take him, but like, y’know, uh …”

“I don’t need you to kick any ass. I need you to … kiss an ass.”

“Kiss?”

“My ass.” I turn my face, my nose tapping into his, and I smirk smugly at him. “Kiss my ass, Brant.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “You’re into that?”

I pounce on him, inspiring a grunt of surprise that quickly turns into a moan when my lips crush into his.

An hour later, the heavy door has shut after his departure and I’m rinsing out the mugs we drank our coffee from. He takes it black like I do. The faint scent of his cologne—or body spray or soap or hair product or something—still hangs in the air and torments me. My bed smells like him too.

And so do my own clothes, from the hours he snuggled me in the night and snored softly by my ear.

Later when I’m looking at my submission for the Showcase, I realize I’m growing increasingly concerned about how awful it feels whenever he leaves. Even if I know I’m going to see him again on campus in a few hours. Even if I know he’ll be back tonight. Even if I know I’ll be going away with him for a whole weekend.

No matter what, I feel a piece of me collapse inside every time he leaves the room. I feel like I’m missing something after his departure.

I feel wounded.

I’m very alarmed by this emotion and I have nowhere to put it. I can’t even turn it into anything artistic. It just … exists.

I stare at my submission piece. It exists, too. I knew from the start what I wanted to show, and it’s the only piece I can. The enormous canine stares straight at me with his big, well-meaning eyes. His head is beastly big and his teeth shimmer with saliva, bared in a way that could inspire nightmares in children.

But he never inspired them in me. He was my hero. He kept me safe.

He growled and barked when my dad had one too many and raised his voice. He snapped his teeth when my dad punched the wall instead of me or Mom.

It’s so odd, that my dad never laid a finger on either of us, even in his drunken fits. It was always the nearest available object, or wall, or pillow. It’s really difficult to look at that and see the redirected anger as an act of compassion.

“You know I love you, sweetheart,” he’d tell me every morning, even when he couldn’t remember what he’d done or said the night before. “You’re my little Penny.”

It’s so hard to see that as love.

I can still hear Dog growling if I close my eyes tight enough and listen for my dad’s furious shouting.

And here I am, yet again, submitting my childhood canine for judgment. Dog will once more be studied by a bunch of snobby higher-ups in the art department, including some grad students, the joint heads (or should I say Queens?) of the department, and even Minnie. The longer I stare at my work, the more naked I start to feel … more and more naked, until it’s me cuffed to that platform in the gallery instead of Brant—with a gag in my mouth, having become my own Object—and I feel the people staring at me and marveling over what I represent, over what I am, over who I am.

You don’t know what I represent.

You don’t know what I am …

Or who I am.

I hear my dad’s shouting the longer I stare at the dog and his big, bright eyes as he waits for me to rub his ears and throw the ball across the room. Those big, wet, beastly eyes …

And who am I?

The feeling of abandon when Brant leaves eats at me from within. And this submission piece eats at me from the outside.

One of them has got to go.

I swipe the hammer from off my workbench, lift it up high, and club my piece over the head. I do it over and over as my dad’s shouts ring through my ears. I don’t stop swinging until the whole head falls off intact, slamming into the floor with a heavy, resolute thud.

My dad’s shouts have died away.

I breathe slowly until I’m calm again.

Now, my submission piece is ready.

NELL

One week turns into two, and then Brant is waiting for me outside my complex in his small blue pickup. He leans against the side with his arms crossed, sporting a form-fitting plaid shirt and jeans that are all distressed at the thighs. He looks so clean and dirty at the same time. When he lifts his head, his eyes shimmer and glow in the afternoon sunlight.

“That all you got?” he asks when I approach, opening the door for me as I slip into the cab.

“I pack lightly,” I answer.

He gives me a crooked smile, then shuts the door and comes around to the driver’s side. “You look really pretty,” he tells me before shutting his own door, his eyes going down to my breasts.

I picked a simple black top that hugs me, paired with the only pair of blue jeans I own. I figured if I was going to meet Brant’s parents, I should probably not go with my whole all-black thing I normally do in front of people I’ve never met before. I imagine Brant’s roommate Dmitri and I would have a lot of chromatic overlap amidst our wardrobes, considering how much black and grey he wears.

Brant twists a knob, flipping through the radio stations as he eyes me. “So, like … you still wanna do this, yeah?”

“Yes.”

“I mean, you can still back out. My parents can be a bit much, and … well, I guess it should go without sayin’, but—”

“Having second thoughts about introducing me to them?”

“No, no, no. It’s more, uh … I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable. Get me?”

I smirk. “Doesn’t seem like I’m the one who’s uncomfortable.”

He bites his lip. “Alright. Fair enough. It’s just that I … never, uh—”

“Never take girls home?”

He lands on a station, then looks up at me with a grave expression. “It’s been … a long time.”

“Like, last year Theatre gala long?”

“More like freshman year of high school Sadie Hawkins dance long.”

“Yikes.”

“They might be a tiny bit overexcited and weird and, like, cook you things and interrogate you and stuff.” His face is already going red and he’s not even pulled the truck into drive yet. “Just try to ignore it and play cool if you can.”

“Ignore your parents’ hospitality? That would be rude of me,” I return with mock offense.

“Hospitality? Alright, babe, if that’s what you call it.”

I eye him for the term of endearment, which he clearly said to annoy me judging from the crooked grin on his face as he pulls out of park and takes off.

We enter the interstate and cross through the dense downtown, dodging buildings that tower over the highway and sandwich us on either side. When the city passes by and becomes another shrinking thing in the rearview, the highway soon grows narrow until we exit and rip down a few streets at a speed I presume to be well over the limit. The cookie-cutter houses line the road now with neatly-trimmed sidewalks on either side shadowed by homely trees.

It’s at 702 Barkley Lane that he draws to a stop by the curb. Brant takes a deep breath in, then lets it out all over the steering wheel, his eyes popped wide open as he stares at his hands.

He is clearly tense and unprepared for this. Maybe he is having second thoughts.

“It’s going to be okay,” I tell him, patting his back in some totally inadequate gesture of assurance. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”

“My parents … are like … really, really, really—”

“Relax, Brant. I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

He takes another breath, then shuts off the pickup, stealing away the music from the radio and casting us into silence. “You ready?”

I lean over the gearshift and kiss his cheek. The gesture comes so naturally, it startles both of us. “Ready.”

The outside of his little one-story house is peach-colored from corner to corner. There is a porch that wraps from the front around to one side with a two-car garage comprising the other. A cat looks up lazily from the top step of the porch as we ascend and couldn’t be any less bothered by our interruption of his nap.

When Brant rings the doorbell, dogs bark and yap and howl from within. I can’t tell how many there are, but the sound is overwhelming. I’m only used to one growing up, not the six or seven I imagine are awaiting us on the other side of that door.

The moment there’s a sound at the door handle, Brant’s hand snaps to the small of my back and he pulls me against his side. The maneuver is so sudden that I gasp just before the door swings open.

Standing before me is a pretty, petite woman with a blonde ponytail and enormous blue eyes. For a split second, I wonder if this is his sister before I remind myself he’s an only child. This is his mom?? The woman regards me with surprise for two seconds before a polite, expectant smile crosses her face instead.

“Mom, this is Penelope.”

I jerk at hearing my full name, giving Brant a bit of confused side-eye before facing his mom and extending a hand. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Rudawski.”

“The same to you, Penelope!” she exclaims sweetly. “Come on in! I have some iced tea mixed up, raspberry and peach, your choice. I can show you the guestroom as well, if you’d like to bring your things. We’ll get you settled in.”

“Mom, we don’t need a guestroom,” blurts Brant, his grip on me tightening. “This is my girlfriend. She’s staying with me.”

“Oh, of course, of course,” Mrs. Rudawski says, giggling. Her face flushes.

Girlfriend. The word is still ringing in my ears when I say, “Thank you,” and offer a smile that I hope doesn’t betray my inner misgivings.

Inside the house, I’m relieved and impressed to discover it was only two dogs that made all the noise: two Labradors, both cream-colored and panting. Even their eyes look the same. How do they tell them apart?

“Juliet Montague,” says Brant into my ear, “and Bach Van Gogh.”

“Should I ask?”

“Bach and Van Gogh, my dad’s favorite composer and painter, respectively. And Juliet Montague because … well … my mom believes in happy endings.” He rolls his eyes.

“I do,” Mrs. Rudawski chimes in, having heard him despite his whispering. “Do you want raspberry or peach?”

“Peach,” blurts Brant.

“I was asking our guest, Brant. You can help yourself,” she teases with a smirk at her son. The smirk gives away her laugh lines, though I still couldn’t believe she’s a day over forty, even if she is. She must’ve had him young. “Peach or raspberry, Penelope?” she directs at me.

“Peach will be fine,” I answer, not wanting to be difficult even though I like raspberry more.

Mrs. Rudawski smiles and places a hand on my back just as the dogs race past us, knocking into her feet and nearly tripping her. “Jules! Bach! Crazy dogs. Please, Penelope, make yourself at home.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Rudawski.”

Brant leads me down a short hall and into his bedroom. I’m not sure what I expected—walls filled from one end to the other with posters of naked chicks and sports teams—but that’s not what greets my eyes. The bed is fluffed with several comforters and blankets in alternating orange and blue colors, the headboard utterly engulfed by a mountain of plush throw pillows. A giant mirror overlooks a dresser that has bumper stickers lined down its side, and the word “faithful” is etched into its face. The window on the other side of the room overlooks a little backyard hot tub, a deck, and a fire pit. It’s a very slapdash mix of suburban stereotypes with a country vibe.

“Wow,” I finally say after letting myself be struck by my environment. This is quite a departure from my loft, or from all the inner-city apartments I grew up in.

He flicks on a lamp at a desk I didn’t notice, then sets his bag down in the chair there. “Yeah, home sweet home.” He lifts a crooked smile at me, then nods at the bed while pulling out his phone to give it a glance. “You can put your stuff anywhere. Kick back and—”

“You called me your girlfriend.”

Brant freezes. He tilts his head innocently. “But … you are.”

I close the distance between us, pull the phone out of his hand, and gently set it on the desk. My face is inches from his. “I sure am.”

He clears his throat, swallowing hard. “I mean, we call ourselves boyfriend and girlfriend, don’t we? I thought that you …? Did … Did I just make it weird?”

“Weird as fuck,” I confirm. “Just how I like it.”

My lips latch onto his, and we breathe in one another as the kiss consumes us. The whole room seems to shrink as I taste Brant in his own bedroom, the room he supposedly grew up in, the room that holds all the secrets of what made Brant into who he is today.

He pulls away and stares at me longingly, his fingers linked at the small of my back as he holds me against his hips.

He’s hard. I announce my timely observation. “You’re hard.”

“Throbbingly so,” he agrees.

I hook a finger into the waistband of his jeans. “We better do something about that.”

His eyes flick toward the door, his confidence suddenly shaken. “Yeah … uh, maybe later. Y’know, when my, uh …”

“When your mommy and daddy go to bed?” I finish for him. “Wow, I feel sixteen again.”

“I’m pretty sure my parents know we’re boning,” he spits back flatly.

The heat between my thighs is unimaginable. I don’t know if it’s the excitement of sneaking around that has suddenly worked me up so much or if it’s just that I’m crazy as hell for Brant, but all I can think about is his cock slipping inside me as I plunge into his eyes.

“I wonder what you were like as a teen,” I ponder out loud, “and whether we would’ve gotten along, had we … grown up together.”

He licks his lips, touching his forehead to mine. “I was a bad boy back then.”

“Compared to now?”

“Bad, bad, bad boy.”

I smirk wickedly. “You know what a bad boy needs?”

The next instant, I throw him onto his stomach on the bed, folded over the edge. After giving his shirt a tug up and his loose jeans a tug down, his tight butt is exposed to me. Seriously, I’ve never been much of a “butt girl”, but damn. Brant’s is a fucking work of art.

He turns his face, craning his neck to see me with a mild look of concern. “Uh … N-Nell?”

I swat his bare ass. He jerks, his eyes stretching wide.

“Did I say you could speak?”

He blinks. “No.”

I smack his ass again, harder. He hisses in lieu of shouting out, then clamps his teeth down on his fist.

“A bad boy needs a spanking. You’re a bad boy, aren’t you?”

Still biting his knuckles, he only turns his face ever slightly, his hilariously alarmed eyes slowly meeting mine. He doesn’t say anything.

He’s a fast learner.

I suppress a laugh, biting my lip in the process. This is so much fun. I raise my hand, then bring it down quickly, but don’t spank him. He flinches, expecting the sting, then turns around when the spank doesn’t come, his face wrinkled in a mixture of confusion and alarm.

I allow my fingers to gently caress his ass, exploring it from cheek to cheek. There’s something about Brant’s cocky demeanor that makes having any sort of power over him that much more sexy. There’s nothing quite like putting a hot man in his place.

Especially when that place is at the end of his own bed with his pants down.

“Did you get all your bags?” calls a voice in the hallway.

Brant is off the bed as fast as if the sheets just transformed into the Jabberwocky. His pants are pulled up the second his mother emerges at the doorway, a glass of tea in either hand.

“Thank you,” I say without missing a beat, crossing the room and taking the glass from her. After an innocent sip, I lift my eyebrows. “Tasty. Thank you.”

“It’s just the store brand,” mutters Mrs. Rudawski as she passes by me to hand the other glass to Brant, who takes it too quickly, nearly spilling it in the exchange, then proceeds to chug it. She spends precisely two seconds staring at him and pondering life’s intricacies before returning her attention to me. “Your bags are all in, Penelope?”

“I only brought the one,” I say with a shrug, clutching my glass with both hands.

“Elliot is making chicken primavera. Is that alright for dinner?”

“Sounds great.”

“Ooh, are those contacts? Your eyes are out of this world, girl.” Mrs. Rudawski chuckles, studying my face with the wonder of a child stargazing in an open country field for the first time. “As green as garnets.”

“Garnets aren’t green,” Brant interjects through half a mouthful of tea.

“Some are. Tsavorite garnets, like the one in your grandma’s ring,” his mother returns, her eyes not leaving mine, still curious. Then finally her gaze pulls away. “Take your time and relax, get settled in. I know you have your thing tomorrow night, but tonight you’re all ours. We aren’t doing much, but if you want to join us in the living room after dinner, Elliot and I were going to start a new series on Netflix.”

“Sounds great, Mrs. Rudawski.”

“Kristin,” she says, putting a hand on my shoulder. “I’ve never really been a fan of all those formalities.”

“Clayton is,” Brant throws in with a smirk. “The fucker still calls her Mrs. Rudawski.”

I jerk at the curse word, surprised by it. From the way that Mrs. Rudawski—er, Kristin—doesn’t even flinch, I take it his family has no qualms about language.

“Well, you know,” Kristin quips back, returning Brant’s same exact smirk. He has his mother’s mouth. “He practically grew up here, what with all the times he’d run out of that mess of a house he lived in. Forgive me, Penelope. I don’t know if you’re familiar with Clayton at all or think I sound like a total bitch, speaking of his family that way. They’re just good for nothing, and it’s a wonder that a boy as good as him came from a family like that. He’s basically my adopted son.”

“He’s a great guy,” I agree, not really knowing too much about him beyond what Brant’s told me or what little I’ve seen being around him.

“Mrs. Rudawski,” she murmurs thoughtfully, looking away with a chuckle. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen him.” She lifts her chin, breaking from her thoughts. “Are you close with your family?”

I open my mouth, but the automatic response of “Yes, totally!” finds itself utterly lodged in my throat. I don’t want to lie. I don’t want to tell the truth.

Kristin seems to sense that. “You know, my mom and I haven’t talked in six years. Ugh.” She rolls her eyes and bats at the air as if to fend off a mosquito. “I won’t drag you through the mud of that story. No family’s perfect, that’s for sure. Anyway. Enjoy your time here, Penelope. I need to feed the dogs before they feed on us.” She gives a wiggle of her fingers, then slips out of the room.

The moment she’s gone, Brant sets down his glass and comes up to me quicker than a dog to a bone. “I’m so fucking hard right now.”

“I’m thirsty,” I say back, taking a sip of my tea. Despite not being a fan of peaches, this tea is fucking amazing. Store brand …

“I want to come all over your tits,” he whispers, his mouth somewhere near my ear.

My whole body shivers with excitement, but I don’t let him see that. I coolly turn my face in his direction, briefly catching his lips with mine, then I pull back to stare into his eyes. “And I want you inside me. How are you going to come on my tits when you’re inside me?”

“I want inside you too. I want everything.”

“I want you to take off all your clothes right now and put yourself inside me.”

To that, Brant grins and moves to close the door and lock it.

“Why bother?” I catch his arm before he locks it, pulling him toward the bed. “Get naked.”

Brant blanches, his eyes wide. “But …”

“Is your ass too sore? I barely hit you.”

“Uh, no, like … uh …” He glances at the door, nervous.

“No one’s coming in,” I say with absolutely no certainty. I tug on his jeans, undoing the button as he stares down at it, wide-eyed and starting to breathe heavily. “And if someone does, you better not stop whatever it is you’ll be doing to me.”

“W-What?” he asks, distracted. “That’s … I can’t do it if—”

“Anyone could walk in,” I whisper, taunting him. “The fear of getting caught … It’s all so high school, isn’t it? Sneaking around?”

“Yes,” he rasps. “Yes, yes, yes. Fuck, I’m so hard.”

“We’re being bad. Both of us.” I grab his crotch with the jeans still on, squeezing a moan right out of him. “Maybe I need a spanking too.”

“Enough with s-s-s … s-spankings.”

I let him go and, with one yank, his pants drop to the carpet. I pull on his boxer briefs, which hug his thighs deliciously, until they slip down his knees, forgotten. What stands at full attention before me is all eight inches of Brant.

“I wonder if, like, maybe I …” Brant starts.

And then I push him, sending him on a backward plummet onto the bed. His cock bounces against his abs.

I crawl over him. “You wonder what?” I ask.

“Shit, Nell. I … I wonder if …”

My mouth lowers onto his cock, kissing the tip. He sighs with pleasure, staring at the ceiling and unable to finish his sentence. Responding to him, I smile, then let out my tongue, running it slowly from the base to the tip like a lollipop.

He lifts his head, staring at me with agony in his eyes. His cock flexes, likely just as much in agony.

“I wonder, too,” I say back, kiss his cock, then finish, “what you taste like.”

“Nell …”

Lowering my head, I take just an inch or two into my mouth. He gasps, his fingers digging into the sheets of the bed. Brant’s taste is clean and perfect.

So I take another inch.

I want more.

More, more, more.

My tongue flutters along the underside of his meat as I suck just the end of him in and out of my slippery, teasing mouth.

More …

“Fuuuuuck …”

Suddenly, he grips my hair.

Then he’s pulling me up and down the length of his cock, directing my head exactly where he wants it. As if by reflex, my hands cling to his sexy, dimpled hips and I let him have his way.

I’m not usually the one letting someone else take the wheel. But there is something about having him in my mouth that makes me feel so powerful, like I own him, like he’s at my mercy somehow.

Or maybe I’m at his mercy.

When he moans, I do too, casting vibrations from my mouth down the length of his pulsating dick. It only seems to inspire him to go faster. I can’t begin to describe how hot that makes me.

“I’m close,” he breathes, a warning.

“Inside me,” I pop off of his cock to demand.

Brant, my trained puppy whose horniness knows no end, slaps open a drawer by the bed, ripping out a long strip of condoms. He tears one off, rips it open, then casts the wrapper aside.

Before he even slips it on, he rises to his knees on the bed and grabs me, throwing me onto it next to him. I respond with a gasp of surprise as he grips my pants and pulls them with animal hunger. I hear a seam tear. He pulls again. Another seam. Maybe it’s my panties. Neither of us care.

And then he’s between my legs and rolling the condom down his long, ready length.

“I’m so fucking wet,” I can’t help but breathe out.

He thrusts into me so fast and so easily, I roll my eyes back and squeeze on his cock, tightening up. Now it’s my turn to claw into the bed sheets, bracing for Brant and his horny rage.

Is it healthy to crave someone this badly?

He pulls my legs over his shoulders and plows into me so deeply, my ass comes off the bed. He doesn’t seem to notice as he practically bends me in half, curling me off the bed as he thrusts and thrusts and thrusts.

“I’m close,” he hisses.

“Kiss me.”

He keeps fucking me, his eyes closing as he enters some alternate plane of orgasmic bliss.

Nope, none of that.

“Brant.”

He flips his eyes open, drunk on lust.

“Eyes,” I demand. “On me.”

“Fuuuuck …”

“And kiss me.”

He reaches under my back, continuing to pump my body. I lift up and cling to his shoulders as our lips crash together like waves against a beach, furious and reckless and loud. Then I feel the inevitable pulse of his cock when the kiss turns into hot, heavy breathing as he empties into me, shot after shot after shot.

After he recovers, we’re sitting in each other’s laps. I look into his eyes and his lock onto mine with intensity. He stays inside me, his cock staying hard even after his orgasm, throbbing as he calms down slowly. I feel so complete. I feel so connected.

“I should put on some clothes,” he whispers.

I nod. “But first, I have one more use for that pretty face of yours.”

“What?”

“My turn,” I say as I pull off his lap—his cock sliding out of me—and then I push him down, positioning myself over his face. I wonder if he’s got enough left in him to work me over the edge.

Brant’s hungry moan that casts an earthquake between my thighs is my answer.

BRANT

“So what’re you in for?” asks Tyrese, a dude I grew up with who works in law enforcement now.

“Indecent exposure,” I answer.

Nell tugs unkindly on the chain connected to my handcuffs and pulls me away from Tyrese, who I would wave goodbye to if I had any access to my hands, which are cuffed together and connected by another chain to a pair of cuffs at my ankles.

“I was talking to him,” I whine.

“No talking, inmate,” Nell shoots back, smirking under her prison guard hat.

The orange jumpsuit I wear has INMATE written in block letters down one leg, and PROPERTY OF COUNTY JAIL written across my chest on the right side. Nell’s top is a white button-down shirt (two sizes too small, of course) with a tie, matched to a navy blue pair of slacks. Naturally, she wears the tie loose, the shirt unbuttoned a bit to show off a hint of her ample cleavage.

Fuck, this is so hot.

She leads me into the kitchen, my chains rattling with every step—or should I say shuffle?—and I feel the amused eyes of some of the others as we pass by. She pulls open the fridge and grabs a beer. After snapping it open, she brings the bottle to her mouth, giving me a front row show to the way her sultry lips work, sucking down that delicious, thirst-quenching beer. Her beautiful breasts rise and fall as she slowly drinks. Seriously, it’s like she wants me to see all the sex I could be having right now if I hadn’t insisted so much on going to this party, just by the way she moves.

“I’m kinda thirsty,” I point out.

“Shut it, inmate,” she says after her long, plentiful gulp.

I draw up to Nell’s sexy side, my crotch pressed into her hip. “Isn’t it … bad … to drink on the job? Aren’t you afraid of gettin’ in trouble, Officer Nell?”

She ignores me, though I see the hint of a smirk on her mouth as she leans back against the counter, enjoying her beer.

After giving the crowded room full of pirates, fairies, sexy nurses, and vampires a onceover, I sigh. “Thought there would be more people here I’d know from back in the day. Everyone’s moved away or went to some other party or … somethin’.”

“Times change. People, too,” Nell mutters, I suppose deciding to break character along with me.

“I don’t know whether to be amused or … depressed by how much all my friends from high school seem to have accomplished.” I sigh, distracted for a second by a pair of oddly-disfigured demon-looking people at the back door chatting. “Med school. Harvard. Traveling the world selling … what was it he said?”

“I wasn’t listening.”

“Oh, and Lucas and his realtor gig. I mean, sure, it’s not like I haven’t done anything since graduation. Or have I?” I try to cross my arms only to be reminded of my whole wrists-cuffed-together situation, then drop my hands down. “I bet you could whip your whole high school reunion into submission with your work.”

Nell’s face seems to tighten at my words, staring off into nowhere.

I tilt my head, trying to catch her gaze. “You alright?”

“I don’t like to think about … high school,” she murmurs icily, her eyebrows pulling together. “Or what I’ve done or … haven’t done.”

“You’ve done a lot,” I say at once. “If your loft full of artwork is any indication, you’re gonna do a shitload more. Fuck, I can’t wait to see what it is you submitted for the End Of Year. Did you know there were other showcases and exhibits looking for work, too? I saw all these things in the hallway outside my digital media class, as well as a few posts on the Klangburg website. I seriously didn’t realize how many damn options we have. You could submit your work to—”

“The End Of Year Showcase is the only one that matters,” she interrupts. “The rest will charge you to show your work. They just want to milk you for your student dollars and take advantage of you. The art world is a cold world full of paintbrushes and teeth … teeth ready to sink right into your skin and never let go.”

I bring my body up against her side again. “I wouldn’t mind you sinkin’ your teeth into my skin.” She doesn’t respond, coolly staring off and seeming to be trapped in a dark thought. “You wanna tell me about the piece you submitted? I know you’ve been working on a lot of stuff lately.”

“I haven’t.”

My eyebrows quirk up. “Sure you have. You’re, like … the Nell. You always have fifteen works of brilliance in limbo.”

“No. Just the one.”

I stare at the side of her face. Maybe this so-called party is dragging her down. Maybe we need a change of location to get her out of that dark place I see her drift off to so much lately. “You wanna just get out of here?” I offer, rubbing her side as best as I can. “Seeing you in that uniform … mmm … It’s giving me ideas. Bad ideas. Bad, bad, bad ideas.”

She shrugs. “Well … I do have to get you to the jail, anyway,” she plays along. “Can’t risk having you out on the streets too long. You could get yourself in trouble all over again, mister indecent exposure.”

I’m hard. No doubt about it. She’s made me hard and now she’s making me smile. Keep bringing her out of that dark place, Brant. “You’re really into this, aren’t you, you kinky minx you?”

She moves forward suddenly, giving my “chain leash” a tug and pulling me along with her. The sound catches the attention of a couple pretty girls by the beer pong table, who laugh at my predicament. I give them a cocky smirk and nod at them, then realize with fear that I think I dated and dumped both of them back in high school, one at a time. They commiserated together and became best friends during a double date to the next Homecoming Dance. See? Some bad things are meant to happen; goodness sprouts from pain. I’m pretty sure my dad told me that after Clayton and I had our own big falling out of sorts, just before he lost his hearing forever. Goodness sprouts from pain, my father would keep telling me.

But sometimes, the goodness is difficult to find.

“BRAAANT!”

I spin around. In the dark den, a circle of people are sitting on the floor around a weird lamp that shifts through a gradient of colors, painting everyone’s faces in different ghoulish shades of green, orange, and purple. It’s a girl by the window who shouted my name, a girl I do not recognize. She sits there with a painted zombie-face and a tiara on her head, and she obviously recognizes me.

“Uh, hey,” I call back reluctantly.

Nell and I are stopped at the front door, seconds from leaving.

“Come join us!” She gives a short wave at the circle of people on the floor. “We’re telling ghost stories. But not corny dumb ones. Real ones. Horrifying ones. Blood-chilling ones not for the faint of heart.”

I give a look to Nell, who returns an unimpressed one of her own.

“Join!” the girl insists, her voice going so shrill, I literally have to suppress a cringe. “Or are you a pair of pussies?”

That seems to be the trigger for Nell. “I’m not afraid of anything,” she snaps back darkly, gripping my chain a bit too tight and pulling me toward her unintentionally.

“Then come and share a scary story. We just got done with a totally lame one,” she adds, rolling her eyes.

“It wasn’t lame!” protests some Star Trek character from the floor.

“Please save our Halloween,” the girl tiredly begs us. “Please save us all from being haunted by dumb stories. Give us a good one to haunt us instead, Brant.”

I lift my eyebrows, biting the inside of my cheek. “I … can’t really think of any. I think the last time I tried to tell a ghost story, it ended with marshmallow on my pants and laughter from all the other boys.” At the girl’s blank stare, I add, “It was summer camp. I was nine.”

“I got one.”

The room turns to Nell. Myself included.

The girl—who is still nameless—lifts her chin self-importantly at Nell. “It has to be a really good one. Like, super-duper fucked up. Edge of your seat. Psychological and scary and has at least two deaths.”

“Two deaths,” echoes Nell.

“Two.”

Nell considers the information she has to work with, then calmly approaches the circle, yet doesn’t sit among them. Holding my chain absently with one hand and a beer bottle with the other, she lazily surveys the faces of everyone in the circle.

“So what’s the story?” the girl prods her.

I watch as Nell licks her lips, studying her audience. Does she really have a scary story, or is she just fucking with them? Maybe she’s coming up with it on the spot. Seems like something I’d do—except I’m not that creative, despite Nell insisting otherwise.

I’m a second away from nudging her when she draws a breath, her chest rising. And then:

“My story is about a little girl named Penny who lived in a small house with her mother, with her father, and with a great big toothy beast named … Dog.” Nell stares eerily at everyone in the circle, meeting each of their eyes importantly as she tells the story. “Her mother was a ghost who never spoke a word except to say ‘Please’ and ‘Thank you’ and ‘I’m sorry’ … and she was especially fond of apologizing. Her father was a … chemist. And unless he drank his magic chemical that he kept in a cupboard above the sink, he would become a monster.”

“A big toothy beast named Dog?” interrupts the Star Trek dude.

“The biggest and the toothiest,” Nell agrees. “Little Penny didn’t have many friends because all the other girls at school were mean to her. But Dog was never mean to her. She loved that big toothy beast with all her heart. And Dog loved her back. It was evident in the way that Dog protected her, every long day and every longer night. Dog would shield her from the monsters in the woods, from the monsters in her nightmares … and the monster at home.”

“You mean her dad?”

Nell narrows her eyes, letting the cold silence serve as an answer. Then she resumes. “The trouble with her father was, little Penny had a very different opinion of his … condition. She didn’t like her father when he drank the magic chemical. In fact, she thought it made him mean. She thought the magic chemical made him say … wicked things … and shout curses at them all. Every time he drank it, he’d punch a new hole in the wall, screaming as the plaster crumbled to the carpet. In Penny’s eyes, her father became a monster when he drank the magic chemical. In Penny’s eyes, her father needed to stop drinking it. She decided that all of it must go. Little Penny decided that she would wait until she had an opportunity, and then she would destroy every last drop of that magic chemical in the house. And on one fateful Christmas Eve, that’s precisely what she aimed to do.”

I feel my insides still at her words, growing tense as I listen.

“After little Penny collected every bottle, she took them out into the yard because, thinking the magic chemical to be evil, she didn’t trust it inside the house. And it was on that lawn that little Penny had herself her own little version of a tea party, except no one drank. Daintily opening and turning each bottle upside-down, she watered the flowers and the grass with the foul chemical. Another bottle’s contents dressed the trunk of a tree. She noticed how sweet some of it smelled, as if its evilness was trying to seduce her too, just as it had done her father.”

“Big ol’ waste of booze,” grunts an Abraham Lincoln. A hook-nosed male Wicked Witch of the West nods in agreement at his side, kicking back a Miller Lite.

“When her father went to the kitchen to help himself to a glass of magic chemical, he discovered all of it was missing. Not knowing what had happened, he went into a rage. Little Penny watched as he tore the curtains off a window, pulling the rod down with it and shattering the bulb of a lamp sitting below. He turned over the coffee table, sending its contents loudly to the hardwood floor. Among them was a drawing little Penny had done as a Christmas present, and it made her sad to see it on the floor, forgotten as her father raged on and on.

“When her mother came into the room, it became clear to little Penny the sobering reality that her father thought her mother was to blame for the missing magic chemical. Penny watched as he screamed at her ghost mother, cursing and shouting and spitting fire while the ghost simply kept apologizing. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ Over and over. How she so loved to apologize for anything in the world, anything at all, even things for which she owed no apology.

“Her father threw a fist, and another lamp crashed to the floor, but its bulb did not break, and it threw its eerie light in an unnatural, upward angle at the horrifying scene. Before little Penny’s eyes, her father turned into a great monster, casting a shadow behind him that crept up the walls and swallowed the room in darkness.

“It was, perhaps, in this moment that little Penny regretted her rash actions. Perhaps her angry father did need his sweet, magic chemical to prevent himself from turning into the monster she was now staring at.

“Her father knew where to get more. He stormed out of the house, but little Penny couldn’t let him leave. ‘Daddy!’ she cried out, chasing him into the yard. He swung into the seat of his great white truck. ‘Daddy!’ she cried out again, clinging to the handle of the car door as the engine roared to life. Little Penny would forever remember the sound of that engine roaring. It was not unlike the roar of a great, toothy beast, except this one did not mean to protect her.

“And at the foot of that driveway, Dog was sleeping peacefully.

“The truck jerked, then rolled backward with the speed and rage of the monster behind the wheel.

“Dog … looked up too late.”

The silence in the room grows thick. No one seems to move. I feel the slackness in her grip on the chain, for a moment utterly forgetting that I’m wearing them at all.

“Nell?” I prompt, worry in my voice.

Her eyes are focused nowhere in particular. She doesn’t look at anyone in the room—or anything. She simply stares into the memory, into that little house in her brain, into the cupboard above the sink. It’s like she’s staring at the foot of that driveway, at whatever it was she saw after the truck pulled out.

“Nell.” I reach up to touch her.

She flinches, dropping my leash at once, then turns and slowly heads for the door.

“What was the second death?” blurts the girl sitting on the table, completely oblivious to what the telling of the tale has done to Nell. “You promised two deaths. What’s the second one?”

Nell stops at the door. “Me,” she answers, and her voice is almost gentle, quiet and far, far away. “I died that day.”

She pulls open the door and leaves the house.

“Nell,” I call out after her, then hurry out the door as fast as I can manage with my ankles bound together, the chains rattling with each stumbling step.

She moves so quickly that it’s halfway down the damn street when I finally catch up to her. “Nell! What happened in there??”

“I shared a story,” she says flippantly.

“Babe …”

We turn a corner. My house looms across the street, quiet and dark, though I doubt my parents expected us back so early.

“Where are all the damn kids?” Nell blurts, glancing around.

“There aren’t many little kids trick-or-treating in my neighborhood. Just teens raising hell. Nell, look at me, please.”

Nell turns, her eyes suddenly hungry and glowing under the warm, amber streetlamp. “We should fuck.”

Not what I was expecting. “W-What?”

“On this guy’s lawn,” she says, as if making the decision just now. “Right here.”

“No. Nell …”

“I want to feel you fuck me with grass tickling my naked back.”

My mouth goes dry. What has gotten into her? “This is Matthew McManus’s lawn. I … I used to mow it when I was sixteen.”

She grips my chains and pulls them tight, bringing my cuffed wrists to her breasts. “I bet we would’ve made a hot couple back then,” she whispers. “If we went to the same high school, so much would’ve been different. So much would’ve been better. So much …”

I’m distracted by her beautiful tits barely contained by that shirt long enough to really consider having sex with her on this lawn, right here and right now.

“We would’ve owned your school,” she goes on, her voice like silk, seducing me into a state I’d really rather not be in, not on my neighbor Matthew’s damn lawn. “We would have kept all the dumb bitches at bay, the ones who destroyed my work on the bus, the ones who pushed me in the halls, the ones who turned me dark …”

“Nell …”

“You’re my prisoner. You have to do what I say. Agree with me,” she demands quietly, her words like windy daggers in my ears. “Agree with me, Brant.”

“I want to talk about that story.”

She pulls away from me and starts to unbutton her shirt. Right here. In front of the whole world and Matthew and the stray cats in the street I can’t see and possible trick-or-treaters that could walk by at any second. She starts stripping on the lawn.

“Stop,” I tell her, gripping her wrists to stop her even though she’s already halfway out of her shirt.

“I want your dick inside me, Brant. I want it now. What the horny hell’s wrong with you?” she asks sweetly, bringing her full lips closer. “Brant Rudawski never declines an invite into my pussy.”

“Penelope Norman isn’t herself right now.”

Her eyes turn cold. “My name is Nell. Penelope died.”

“No, she didn’t.”

“Penelope died the day Dog died.”

“Nell, baby, please. Let’s talk about this. I didn’t know. Was that really what your dad was like?” I ask suddenly, trying to search her eyes for truths she’s too damn stubborn to reveal. “I didn’t know, Nell. There’s sometimes … so much I think I don’t know about you.”

“I just want you inside me,” she repeats. “On this lawn. Right now.”

“Your father was a drunk,” I push on, determined to get her to talk. “You had a crap childhood. He ran over your—sorry, I don’t have to rehash the whole thing. I just … I didn’t know about any of this. You—”

“Are you even hearing me, Brant? Stop talking about all that shit. I want to fuck. I’m speaking your language, aren’t I?”

“Not out here on the street, Nell. Let’s go back to my house at least, alright?”

“I want to chain you to that tree,” she says, seeming to decide it on the spot. “I want to wrap the chains around you and bind you to that tree, naked—Mr. McManus’s tree, on Mr. McManus’s lawn—and I want to do things to you until the sun comes up.”

“Can we … Can we just do it normal for once?” I plead with her. “Why must our sex always be so fucking … crazy and weird and out there?”

In an instant, Nell slaps my hands away, her face wrinkled with hurt. The chains protest only for a moment before silence befalls the whole street.

“I thought you like it that way,” she whispers, deathly quiet.

“I … really just want us to be … in a normal girlfriend-and-boyfriend relationship.”

“I’m anything but fucking normal,” she hisses back, as if the word was the most offensive thing ever.

“That’s not what I meant. Of course you are. You’re extraordinary. You’re fascinating. You’re infinitely deep, deeper than I’ll ever be. But Nell … I want … I want something normal. I’ve done the fuck-girls-every-night thing before. I’ve done the weird shit. I’ve done the sex that means nothing. My kind of love has always lasted for hours, but … but not with you.”

Her eyes seem to shake in their sockets. She’s grown so still, she looks like her own latest papier-mâché exhibit—a prison guard caught in some terrible, haunting memory.

Then, finally, she says three words, each of them like a hammer crashing through a glass window. “I’m … not … normal.”

“Did you hear what I just said?” I close the distance between us, the chains rattling at my ankles and wrists. “That part about my kind of love for you? That’s what I said. Love. I … I love you, Nell.”

Her eyes well up, yet she makes no effort to cry. She simply stares at me as if she’s seen a ghost. It’s Halloween; maybe she has.

“Nell?”

“I thought …” she starts. One tear betrays her, letting loose from her left eye and drawing a trail down her cheek that glows amber in the stark streetlight. “I thought this was … what you wanted.”

“You are what I want.” I swallow. I’m fucking all of this up. I have no idea what to do. I feel like I’ve already lost her somehow. “Can we please go back to my house? Let me better explain all of … all of this. Please? We can chill in my room. Put on some music. Just a little safe space with you and me and no one else. Let’s cuddle under the covers. Make a fucking fort, I don’t care. Just come back with me, please, and let’s talk.”

Her eyes linger on my chest. All of the torture and anguish she carries for her alcoholic father and the tragic loss of her childhood dog and all the horrors she must have clearly witnessed growing up … all of that is slowly being locked within her once again, hidden from me, kept in that heart-shaped vault in her chest. She let it out for only that one brief moment at the party. I watch as she literally closes up in front of me. Even that single rogue tear that escaped seems to disappear without her bothering to wipe it away.

“Camera boy,” she murmurs.

I lift my eyebrows. “I love you, Nell.”

She reaches into her pocket almost gently, then pulls out a key. She starts to undo the cuffs on my wrists. The chain drops to the grass, sliding right out of the cuffs at my ankles.

“I love you,” I repeat to her.

She meets my eyes, then brings my hands up to her lips and offers them a small kiss.

“Nell …” Her lips are so warm. Is she finally ready to come home with me and talk? “You’re so beautiful. Let’s go, alright? Let’s go.”

She presses the key into my palm, then closes my fingers over it. “Goodbye, Brant.”

My stomach drops. “What? No. What are you doing?”

“Undoing your chains. Unlocking your cuffs.” Her unfeeling eyes meet mine, hiding everything behind them expertly, every ounce of hurt, every pinch of anguish. “I’m freeing you, dummy.”

“No, Nell. I don’t want to be freed. I want you. All of you.”

“Hey, not every cop is this forgiving,” she murmurs lightly, despite the cold look in her green eyes. “Especially towards a guy charged with indecent exposure. And really, it was my fault from the beginning. I’m the one who exposed you that day in the art gallery. Indecently.”

“I liked it. I like you.”

“The truth is, I’m the indecent one. I’m the monster, Brant. I need my magic chemical.”

“You don’t need anything. You’re perfect just the way you are.”

She turns away and begins to cross the street. Her boots strike the pavement with her every footfall, no matter how gently she walks.

I don’t let her go. I chase after her. “Nell. There was a time—Listen to me, Nell—There was a time when I was really fucking afraid. I was just a kid. I was lost and I couldn’t even approach a girl without wanting to toss my lunch.”

I look down and realize she’s typing into her phone.

“Nell, what are you doing?”

“Don’t worry. I’m getting my friend Minnie to pick me up.”

“Minnie?” I shake my head. “Who’s Minnie?”

“I guess we really don’t know much about each other.” She bites her lip and sits on the curb. “To be fair, Minnie only knows you by the name ‘Captain Big Dong’.”

“Thank you,” I say genuinely, regarding the name, then sit down next to her. “Is she, like, a friend of yours? Or is she a … a sister? Do you have a sister?”

A group of young teens emerge out of nowhere. I don’t even pay attention to their costumes or who they are. I just listen as they laugh with each other and turn the corner on the other side of the street. Their bags and buckets of candy rattle as they swing on their arms.

After they fade down the lightless bowels of another street, I go on. “I was saying, when I was a kid, I was a scared little shit. I would have been scared my whole damn life … if it weren’t for someone pulling me out of my own terrified head and pushing me at the girls I was so afraid to talk to.”

She sighs, then relents. “Clayton, you mean?”

“Yeah, right. Him,” I say, encouraged by her participation. “Clayton pulled me out of my shell. He pushed me. Nell, we are so much more than our bodies, so much more than our fears, so much more than our stupid pasts. Don’t be the Brant who stood in corners and ran away from chances and let golden opportunities slip through his fumblin’ fingers. Let me push you out of the dark, Nell.”

“I like the dark,” she replies. “It’s where I live. It’s where I work.”

“Then let me into the dark with you,” I plead, “and don’t just sit there all by your dang self. You don’t have to do this alone.”

Nell props her chin up with a hand, drumming her fingers along her cheek playfully. It’s like I just asked her what brand of cereal she wants for breakfast and she’s letting it turn over in her brain.

“Well, on one hand,” she says softly, “even though I make miserable company, it certainly is nice having you here with me.”

“Yeah?” I urge her, hopeful.

“On the other hand, I’m sorta ready for you to do that thing I’ve been waiting for since we first met.”

“What thing?”

“Leave me. For another girl. Or because you’re bored. Or because I didn’t satisfy every one of your little horny desires. I was afraid at the start that I wouldn’t be able to keep up with your … appetites.”

I should be insulted by that, but instead I try to reassure her. “I’m not leaving you. I don’t want anyone else.”

“No, you misunderstand.” She lifts her face to mine. “I think I need you to hurt me. I need you to leave me.”

That answer doesn’t quite add up for me. I wrinkle my face, baffled. “What do you mean you need me to leave you?”

She leans into my face suddenly, her lips locking onto mine and her tongue teasing into my mouth. All my dumb, brainless blood rushes downwards, stiffening my cock and turning my stomach over like a hot, confused little pancake.

When the kiss ends, she says, “I’m a better artist without you.”

I frown. “The fuck?”

She rubs my thigh, which I suddenly resent. What the fuck did she mean by that? Is that some kind of joke?

“We make each other better,” I argue back. “You inspire me and you show me how to … how to really see the world. You’ve done nothing but make me a better artist. Are you saying that I make you a worse one?”

“My work comes from pain,” she tells me softly. “I’ve been so dry, Brant. I can’t even feel the charcoal anymore. I’ve stared at more blank canvases over the past two months than I have all year, not knowing what to do with them. By the time I get an idea, my eyelids are so heavy that I—”

“It’s a dry spell or something,” I interrupt. “Dmitri has them all the time with his writing. It’s an artist’s block. Like writer’s block.”

“I have no concentration. I have no fire.”

“I’m your fucking fire.” Yeah, I’m starting to get mad. The way she’s talking, it makes me feel like the big dumb Brant with a shallow brain and even shallower heart. Every word she utters converts my camera—an artist’s device—into just some toy camera I play with. “None of your canvases are gonna be blank, not with me here. You’re gonna fill those up with all your fuckin’ … all your fuckin’ passion and shit. I don’t care how dark it is. I don’t care the monsters in your past. You make art out of that, alright? You always …”

Suddenly, I cut off my own words, thinking on all the headless dogs she’d drawn. The ones I saw in her loft. The structures. The sculptures. The canvases. They weren’t unfinished, I realize just now. My blood runs cold, tremors chasing their way down my arms as I picture them.

“I think I need some time,” Nell murmurs. “I don’t even really know if I want to break up with you. Maybe I just want to string you along for a bit while I figure myself out. Maybe I just need some time away from you so I can … I don’t know … make some really fucked-up thing.”

“I make you too happy?” I throw back, grasping at straws. “Is that it? Is that an accurate assessment of what you’re saying? You realize how ridiculous that sounds, Nell?”

“It’s not exactly that. I just need to make art, Brant, and I don’t know how to do it when I’m … feeling like I’m feeling.” She holds her stomach suddenly, like she’s sick. “I’ve been so alone for so long. And my art … my art has been everything to me. Don’t you understand I can’t just give it up? It’s my fucking blood, Brant. Maybe it’s not the same for a guy like you, who’s been so comfortable picking up and tossing aside careers and majors and girls for years … but for me, it’s—”

“I resent that.”

“For me, it’s very different,” she finishes. “Art’s been there since the beginning. I need it. Can you say the same about that camera of yours? Can you say that, if you don’t take pictures, you feel like you’re going to die? Do you fall into a miserable, self-questioning, hateful, hellish depression when you don’t snap a gorgeous photograph? Where’s the spark in your eye, Brant? I don’t see it.”

“Yes you do,” I argue. “You’re the one who’s been encouraging me. Of course you see it. What the fuck are you talking about, Nell?”

She rolls her eyes and pulls away from me, hugging her knees to her chest. “Mistake. All of this. Such a mistake.”

“Nell.” I sigh, pissed at myself suddenly. “Forgive my language. I don’t mean to be acting like an asshole. Just … I really hate that you’re suddenly pretending like you don’t know me. Or like you weren’t the one who was just … telling me to take pictures until I’m sick of it. You told me that I see the world. You pushed me to be a better artist. Don’t shut me out. Please, Nell. Don’t underestimate how badly I need you.”

“We’re not breaking up, Brant,” she says suddenly, then rises from the curb.

I notice a car approaching. It must be her friend Minnie. Dang, that was quick. I clamber to my feet. “Then why are you leaving me??”

She opens the passenger side door, then turns toward me, yet does not meet my eyes. “For the record, I love you too, Brant. And maybe,” she adds, quirking her eyebrows, “maybe that’s why I have to go.”

The car door shuts, and then she goes off, the engine purring into the distance as gently as a sigh.

BRANT

“I guess my real question is, did you know he was a sex addict?”

Dmitri signs the question at Clayton across the table, though from the smirking look on his face, I think he understood the gist. “Pretty much,” he answers. “I mean, he came home late all the time. He had these weird … habits. My mom knew, yet still somehow justified staying with him. She kept saying it was like any other addict, that he just had this need he had to fulfill.”

“Wait,” interrupts Dmitri, signing as he speaks so as to include Clayton fully. “Are you trying to compare Nell’s artistic hunger with Clayton’s dad’s sexual addiction?”

I scoff at him. “No, dude. I’m saying I think Nell might be a sex addict.” I sigh. “And yeah, I’m kinda comparing her artistic drive with her … with our sex drive. Maybe I don’t know anything. I mean, we’ve been fuckin’ like crickets for months.”

“I don’t think that’s the saying,” Dmitri mumbles.

“And,” I go on, ignoring him, “the sex is sometimes so wild. I mean, I’m all for wild sex. Don’t get me wrong. But like … I also kinda want to just … be with her. I want to hold her in my bed and like, I don’t know. Fall asleep watching The Breakfast Club. Or pull out all four seasons of Breaking Bad and just binge with her.”

“There were five seasons,” Dmitri chimes in.

“I feel so fucking inadequate for her. Being around her makes me feel so goddamn simple.”

“You shitting me?” Clayton blurts before Dmitri’s even finished the signs. “From what you’ve told me, I think you’re the complicated one, not the simple one.”

I screw up my forehead. “Dude. I’m a pretty simple guy with a dick and a libido. I don’t get much more complicated than that.”

“You’re not inadequate,” Clayton retorts. “You finally found your damn calling. And you found a woman who knows it. And you’ve let her run away because … because … what was the damn reason again?”

“Dog. Scary story. Never mind that,” I say, waving it off. “She says she needs time to ‘be an artist’ or something. She doesn’t do good work when she’s with me. She thrives on pain and darkness. She made it sound like she … counted on me breaking her heart or something. Like that’s the only way she can make art.”

“That’s crap,” Dmitri cuts in. “I do my best work when I’m happy. When I’m sad, I just sulk and drink wine and—”

“Jerk off a lot, yeah, I know,” I interrupt. “But apparently Nell isn’t like that. She needs her space to … be all dark and shit.”

“Or she’s lying.”

I stare at Dmitri. “Lying?”

He shrugs. “She’s just afraid. Maybe she’s feeling too much for you and it’s freaking her out and she’s … taking her distance from you. I mean, dude, you have a reputation.”

“Of being a god in the bedroom,” I say. “She’s the one who’s wantin’ to have sex all the time. And on people’s lawns, for shit’s sake. She isn’t afraid of anything, she says so herself all the time.”

“Probably because she is afraid of everything.”

I sneer as Dmitri finishes his sentence with his hands, signing for Clayton’s inclusion. Clayton nods mutedly, sipping his coffee and shaking his head, as if in pity. What the hell are they suggesting I do? Run off and capture Nell and insist that she’s just afraid? Tell her she’s wrong and she doesn’t need any room to be all dark and artistic?

“And she’s afraid of that reputation of yours,” Dmitri goes on, his hands flipping around in the air before him. “She can’t feel secure with you, not when she thinks you’re always one day closer to abandoning her. If that scary Dog story was any indication, sounds like she’s been plenty abandoned before.”

“So … she thinks I’m gonna leave her. After we’ve been so damn happy and having so much …” I bang my hands together to indicate two people having sex, for Clayton’s benefit. From the muted snort, he got the message. “Is that how you sign the damn word? Fucking?” I repeat the gesture lewdly, which now earns a laugh from Clayton.

“You need to reassure her,” says Dmitri seriously.

“How? That’s bullshit. I don’t look at other girls. I don’t even get any texts anymore. What more reassurance could I possibly give her?”

Dmitri shrugs. “I don’t know. Just continue to show her love. Make her something creepy and dark and tortured, to represent how lonely and miserable you are without her.” He pushes a finger into his glasses and lifts his eyebrows. “Maybe tell her you don’t think her stories are crap and that your little comment about her repetitive adjective choices and lack of a climax is, in fact, not offputting and perhaps is exactly what her story ought to be.” He glances at me, then realizes what he just said. “Uh, no. Sorry. I’m talking about my relationship suddenly. Shit, fuck. Damn it, I just cussed.” He buries his face into his palms.

I give his shoulder a hearty slap and a rub, jostling him from his mental torment. “You and Riley on the jagged rocks?”

“And sharp rocks. And invisible rocks. All the rocks.” He slaps his own face, once on either cheek. “It’s because I have some growing up to do. Nothing wrong with Riley. She’s … She’s just perfect,” he says, but his energy falls flat. He’s a bad liar.

“Alright.” I drop the subject, not pushing it further. “Thanks, man.”

“For what?”

“For pointing me in the direction of …” I sigh, at a total loss. Maybe I’m the one who needs reassurance. “In the direction of …”

It’s Clayton who punches my arm, stealing my attention. Then he says, “Keep it simple, dude. Let her know how you feel. Let her know that you’ll be there when she’s ready. And for fuck’s sake, bury yourself in that work of yours.”

Dmitri nods encouragingly, his dark eyes burning behind those thick glasses of his, and then his gaze breaks away, lost again in his own troubled relationship and whatever waits for him there. Clayton’s smile is infinitely more heartening, thoughts of Dessie and him giving me just the boost I need to make it through the night.

Afterwards, with a blanket of half-hidden stars overhead, I cross the quiet campus with my hands shoved deep in my pockets. It’s way too early for a cold front, but I feel downright chilly tonight. Seems like the weather is doing all it can to support my sullen mood. All I need is a damn rainstorm and I’d be all set. Not even the crickets sing tonight. My only company is the soft crunch of grass beneath my shoes, followed by the soft tapping of my soles against the pavement as I approach the School of Art.

I push through the doors, allowing an even colder air to swallow me up. I fold my arms as I move through the dim halls. On the way to my destination, I happen to pass by room 1401, the infamous room in which I first stripped down and took to a stool in front of Nell and the rest of her class. I hang at the door, noticing a few students inside sitting at their easels and chatting to one another, their drawings being ignored as they laugh about something to do with a Saturday night outing. They turn for a second, notice me, then return to their chat.

It’s so strange, to think back on that day when I bared it all for Nell, yet bared nothing at all, as she didn’t yet know me. Maybe naked isn’t enough. Maybe naked was never enough, not for someone as deep and dark and beautiful as Nell.

I need to get deeper.

I need to reveal myself. I need to show the parts of me that I haven’t revealed to anyone, parts of me that I may even be scared to reveal to myself.

My own scary Halloween stories.

Like, maybe I’m still the petrified kid in the back of the party, the one Clayton used to make fun of, the one who never touched a girl in his life. Maybe the “Brant” that everyone knows is just some armored version of my scared childhood self, like I wear all this cockiness and confidence on me like armor, masking all the fear and doubt and second-guessing I really feel. Maybe I’m a big ol’ liar and the real me is something so much simpler, so much more …

Naked.

These thoughts are what I take with me when I sit in the digital media lab and plug my camera into the computer. Sorting through the photos, I squint at the screen and think long and hard about what I really “saw” when I took each photograph. Crumpled leaves at the base of a tree. A strange fissure in the red bricks of the School of Music. Long strands of hanging beads on a costume rack at the theater. The backside of Clayton’s head as he’s watching Dessie perform from the wing of the stage.

So many photos. So many moments.

A view of the School of Art from the ground, the sunlight blaring behind it and turning the structure into a huge, daunting silhouette. A blue candy wrapper caught in the grass with a single ant perched atop it, separated from its family. The anthill from which that ant likely came, its impressive palace standing like the capitol of a great queen-ruled empire—with a condom resting at its base. Soil turned up from a tiny hole in the ground by a rosebush where a squirrel had hidden its dinner.

What do these pics even mean?

What did I see when I took them? “What do you see in this?” I can hear Nell asking me. “You don’t ever just take a photo.”

I turn to the next photo.

My throat constricts as I gaze on the side of Nell’s face in black and white, her hand up by her cheek, caught in the process of drawing hair behind her ear. I stare at that photo for so long, I feel it burn into my retinas.

Then I’m reminded of a deep chasm in my chest. It was carved there the night Nell got in that car and took off. Here I am, trying to fill it with hours in front of this computer, convincing myself that any of these photos are worth shit. I tried filling it with Dmitri and Clayton’s words of encouragement. I tried filling it with assurance that I’d check my phone one of these times and find a message from Nell.

Nothing will repair the chasm but her.

After I’ve successfully completed nothing, I gather my things, throw my camera over my neck, and stalk out of the lab. It’s then that I notice the posting at the main intersection of the hallways. They’ve selected the End Of Year Showcase exhibits. There were twenty-two art pieces chosen.

Number twenty, right near the end of the list, I see my name.

NELL

The canvas is blank.

White, white, white.

Nothing.

Inspiration-deprived. Void of idea.

Zero clarity.

No burn or fire or thrill.

The spirits are silent. The world is quiet. The rage is dead.

And the canvas is blank.

“Maybe I was wrong,” I mumble into the phone, leaning sullenly against the windowpane and staring out at the courtyard outside the classroom.

“About what?” Minnie returns through a mouthful of whatever it is she’s eating on the other line.

I pick at my nails. My fingers are so … clean. Where’s the grit? Where are all the black smudges and charcoal stains and marks? Where is all the evidence of my torment and anguish and artistry?

“Listen,” Minnie starts, not waiting for my answer, “you either need to use him or lose him. Because this weird in-between shit isn’t cutting it. When I said you hadn’t produced any work for a while, I didn’t mean for you to go and half-dump his ass.”

“I didn’t do it for you, Minnie. Lord, self-centered much?”

She sighs into the phone. “You’re the closest thing I have to a sister and I don’t want you to discredit how much I adore you and your work. I miss your work. You used to be … visceral. You used to gut me with every single thing you did. Where’s the darkness, Nell?”

Here. There. Everywhere. “It’s high noon, Minnie. Sun’s blaring in a cloudless sky. No darkness anywhere.”

“You’re wrong. Has it occurred to you,” she goes on, “that shadows can only exist when there’s light? I remember coming over to your loft and finding you knee-deep in paint, in clay, in oils and inks and chalk. You’d be positively buried in joy.”

I close my eyes and let that imagery return to me. My freshman and sophomore years, ripe and toiling with art, with design, with ideas. I mourn those years like a best friend that has passed away.

“You do realize,” she says, “that you can carry your darkness … with a smile on your face, don’t you?”

With my eyes still closed, I smile, still leaning against the cold windowpane. I hear you, I’d say to her, but I wish I could believe you.

“Is all of this about the Showcase?”

I flip my eyes open at her words. “No,” I answer too quickly, my throat tight.

“You were simply outvoted,” she explains, as if telling a child why they can’t have all the candy they want in the store. “You had my vote. You know that, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Did you … Ugh, I hate to even ask this, knowing the answer … Did you submit to any of the other student showcases in town? Please don’t tell me you put all your eggs in one basket. Or, more accurately, your one egg in this one basket …?”

I keep my lips sealed tight and cross my legs, finding my eyes once again resting on the blank canvas before me.

“Alright,” mumbles Minnie. “I have a list of other venues you can show your piece at. I’m forwarding it to you right now. Check your email and get on the ball. Or keep out of the spotlight for the semester and just try to get into things in the spring, I don’t know. I’m tired of trying to pull teeth for you, Nell. I really don’t know what else to—”

“You don’t have to pull anything. I never asked you to.”

“Don’t get bitchy with me, Nell. I’m the one who’s trying to figure out how the hell to get you out there in the industry and seen by the people who matter.”

“Why?” I blurt tiredly. “I never asked you to assume whatever self-entitled throne you’ve found since graduation, acting like you’re the one with the favors and opportunity to dish out.”

“I am not self-entitled! And I act that way because I do have the connections and the people who can help you. Why do you have to make this an ego thing, Nell? Someone helped me up, too.”

“Stop trying to help me. I don’t need your damn help or your damn recommendations or your fucking pretentious-as-fuck End Of Year Showcase. What’s happened to you anyway? We used to make fun of the corporate, commercial, sell-out bullshit that would get picked for the show. We laughed derisively at those idiot judges and their dumb criticism and their senseless candor. Now you’ve become one of them.”

“You’re just pissed because Captain Big Dong Brant got in the End Of Year and you didn’t.”

My jaw tightens at her low-blow. An icicle has buried itself in my body as her last words circle my brain, taunting me the way she meant them to.

“Yeah, that’s the truth,” she pushes on. “It stings, doesn’t it? Well, fuck that sting, Nell. I know you. I know what you’re capable of. Pick up your goddamn pieces you’ve broken into, and make some damn art!”

“And what the hell have you done lately, Minnie? Are you following that old adage—if you can’t do, teach? You enjoy sitting back, judging everyone else’s work when you haven’t produced a speck of your own in half a year? I bet the higher-ups fatten your wallet considerably in compensation.”

“That’s not the same. Oh, you’re such a bitch.”

“Sell-out,” I blurt out, not even hearing what I’m saying. “Corporate lapdog.” All I do is pull out every word like a knife and fling them at her. “Commercial cunt.”

“I’M DONE!” she shouts into the phone. “You’re dead to me, Nell. Good luck selling your blank canvases, you arrogant charcoal-fingered twat.”

“Love you, too.”

I mash my perfectly clean thumb into the phone, hanging up on her, then pitch the thing halfway across the room, furious. Folding my arms in an effort to both hug myself and to somehow quiet or expend the built-up, seething anger and bitterness within me, I grip myself tightly and glare out the window. I hate every person who strolls by the glass. Especially the ones who smile. Or laugh. Or breathe. Or walk with someone by their side. Or act like life is so damn easy and uncomplicated and bright.

I have, all my life, wanted to be simple. I’ve desperately wanted to feel as light as everyone around me. Why am I always the lump of lead in a pool? Everyone else floats and swims … and I just sink.

Sink, sink, sink, sink, sink …

Deeper, darker, sinking into that abyss where there’s no sound, no sight, no anything. It’s where I’ve always lived. It’s where I belong. My father’s anger put me there. My mother’s silence kept me there. And maybe it’s just supposed to be my life to sit at the bottom of the lake and stare up at the wavy, shimmery sky that’s so, so far away … shielded from me by the rippling surface of the water where all the light, happy, normal people swim and float and smile.

And among them, Brant swims.

I was an idiot to let myself believe, even for as short as it lasted, that I belonged up there with the rest of them. I’m an artist. I’m an architect of pain. I’m a surgeon who transplants emotions. I creep beneath the skin of every unlucky lover who passes through my bed, and I leave all my marks in ways that cannot be seen. I’m sorry, Brant. I hope someday you’ll forgive me for the mark I left on you.

“Sucks, doesn’t it?”

I lift my head off the window, ignoring the smudge my forehead left on it and turning toward the voice. It’s Iris, but she’s dyed her hair a sharp and vibrant purple with subtle orange highlights. Her arms are folded and she leans against the doorframe, her eyelids heavy and her smirk heavier.

“What sucks?” I ask back, bothering to entertain the notion of a dialogue with yet another bitch today.

“Not getting into the End o’ Year.”

Great. Has she come here to gloat? I can’t wait to hear what glorious work of hers was chosen. “It doesn’t matter,” I say, turning back to stare out the window. “My piece was shit.”

“I didn’t see it, so I can’t say what I thought of it.”

“Not that I care,” I mumble.

“Hey.”

I ignore her, crossing my legs away from her and hugging myself, pressed into the window so tight, you’d think I was trying to osmose myself through it.

I hear her footsteps. Then, unexpectedly, her voice calmly touches my ears. “I didn’t come here to hate on your sulky parade. I came to join it.”

I turn my head slightly, quirking an eyebrow.

“Yeah, you heard me.” She rolls her eyes and squints through the window, like the sunlight bothers her. “I didn’t get in either.”

“Oh.”

Iris snorts. “Good for nothing bitches. They don’t know real art. They just pick the most commercial, the most safe, the most investor-impressing type of shit work that they can. How is that representative of the whole program? How is that representative of its students? They ought to pick a fair selection of every type of art out there, including the subversive, including the provocative, including the seditious, the insurrectionary, the inflammatory, the offensive.”

“What are you, a thesaurus?”

She shoots me a look. “What I’m saying is, they should’ve picked both our works. It’s your last year too, isn’t it? Aren’t you graduating in the spring?”

I sigh, rubbing at a spot on my arm, which oddly reminds me of how Brant would softly touch me there after sex, running his fingers up and down my arms while we were in his bed, or mine.

“I’ve got an idea.”

I meet her eyes. “What kind of idea?”

“But I can’t do it alone.” Her whole mouth tightens up, as if the next words she’s about to utter take all the effort in the known and unknown universe to produce. “I … need … your help.”

“Alright. For what?”

She taps the edge of my blank canvas. “We’re going to do our own little … ‘showcase’. Your work. My work. Hopefully many others too, if I can enlist those who will dare to be a bit … rebellious with us.”

I hesitate. “Rebellious?”

“What I have in mind isn’t exactly … legal, per se. I mean, it’s legal-legal. But it’s, um …” She tries to find the words, despite the growing look of concern on my face. “It’s … going to garner a lot of attention.”

“Hmm. Isn’t that the point?”

“Yes. And … it could potentially get us in trouble with the school. And it might even …”

“End our careers as we know it?” I offer sweetly.

Iris shrugs. Then her pretty little eyes turn dark. “I may not like you, Nell. Maybe since day one, I just couldn’t stand your work. But after being around it for so long, I’m starting to understand your particular brand of … getting in people’s faces. I’m starting to relate to it. After being overlooked for so long, you can say I’m acquiring a certain taste for … the loud … and the dangerous.”

“And you think I’m loud and dangerous?”

“I think you could own the world, if you tried.”

I squint at her, appraising her supposed (and rather sudden) bout of artistic courage. Can I trust her? Are we really seeing eye-to-eye, or is this some sort of unsubtle act of self-destruction that she’s skillfully inviting me to partake in?

“I want them to see us,” she emphasizes. “I want the whole campus to know our names. Nell … Iris … We could own them. Are you in?”

After a glance at my blank canvas, I feel the corners of my mouth pull up. Meeting her ruthless eyes, I give her a curt nod.

BRANT

“Dude. Are you shitting your pants right now?”

I let out all my breath at the mirror, adjusting my tie. “Do I look like a fuckin’ penguin with a stick up my ass? I feel like a penguin.”

“You look hot.”

“Calm your tits, Dmitri. I’m not gonna fuck you.” I dodge him swinging a fist into my arm for that comment. “Just kidding. I know you’re trying to fake a relationship with this imaginary Riley chick. Don’t mean to blow your gay cover.”

“She isn’t imaginary, you dickwad. She’s coming tonight. So’s Sam and Clayton and Dessie,” he goes on. “Everyone’s coming.”

I freeze. “Really? Everyone?”

“Yeah, dude! They all want to see your work.” Dmitri slaps my back, then leans into me. “Even Eric wants to come. I guess he was able to pencil you in between all his twink hookups.”

“Twink? You gay guys are into Twinkies? What do you do with them? Because you obviously ain’t eatin’ them.” I dodge another timely whack from him, laughing as I slip out of range. “Just kidding! Chill, bro. Shit, you’re so tense, you’d think it was your damn showcase we were attending tonight.”

Dmitri chuckles, shaking his head and righting his glasses which had gone crooked in his effort to hit me. “So, like … is Nell …?”

“Nah,” I grunt. “I doubt it. I mean, well, maybe she’ll come. I don’t know. Shit.” I draw closer to the mirror, inspecting a spot on my face. “Is that a bruise?”

“Mosquito bite, maybe. So wait, dude. Have you even talked to her since …?”

“Nope.”

“Not a peep? Not even seen her at the school?”

For some reason, I can’t bring myself to say it out loud, but I did take a day to go down a few streets “in the bad side of town” and found myself at the Westwood Light, where I was met by the woman who supposedly hates Nell, yet lets her continue to come and spend time with the children. “It’s important for them to be exposed to the arts. I always had a soft spot for that,” the woman explained to me. I asked if Nell was around, though the answer was clear when I went into the room with the kids and didn’t find her there. The next two hours were spent at the circular table creating art with the children and feeling my own inspirations flare up inside me at the sight of their unadulterated joy. “Are you Nell’s friend?” a girl asked. “Do you and Nell kiss?” asked one of the older girls, inspiring a bunch of grossed-out reactions from the littler ones. I laughed so much that day, I almost forgot the reason I’d come to the Westwood Light in the first place. After a quick talk with the supervisor on duty that day, I got special permission to engage in a different sort of artistic activity, in which I pulled out my camera, got the kids gathered around, and collaborated on a fun, impromptu sort of project. I had wished Nell was there with me.

“No,” I answer, my response much delayed. I pick up two buttons from the lip of the sink, confused. “What in gay hell are these?”

“Cufflinks. Dude, you’re a lost cause. Gimme.”

Dmitri swipes them out of my hand and grabs my wrists, directing me to hold them steady as he puts my cufflinks on for me. Once again I followed Eric’s expert advice and invested in a full-on tux, complete with a black bowtie, fitted white starched shirt, and a measured-to-my-every-sleeve-and-inseam jacket and slacks.

“Your hair …”

“Yeah, yeah,” I mumble, cutting him off. “I’m not used to the whole tuxedo thing. Figured I should be all business and formality from neck down, then all party on my head.”

I run a hand through my hair to ensure it’s still the precise level of out-of-control I want. The trick to proper bedhead is making sure, after spending hours styling it, that it looks like you took no time at all.

“I think you’re ready,” Dmitri decides, giving me a onceover.

I feel like something’s missing. My nerves seem to be charged with some kind of electricity I don’t remember putting there, and my heart thumps like I’m back from a five mile jog, yet all I’m doing is standing here in front of the mirror.

“Something’s missing,” I decide to voice.

“Like what?” There’s a knock at the door. “Oh, she’s here.”

“Who?”

“My imaginary date you think doesn’t exist. You look perfect, dude. Just chill and take a few deep breaths or something and we’ll, y’know … we’ll go in and, like, own the place or something. Practice your spiels and stuff. Everyone’s going to ask you what your exhibit meant and what inspired you and blah, blah … I’ll be right back.”

Dmitri leaves me in the bathroom to stare at myself. I swallow hard, right my bowtie again, then wonder what the hell is missing.

I’m still wondering when we’re walking to the art school. Riley is walking ahead of me with Dmitri as we go. She actually does exist, by the way. Who knew? I’m staring at the backside of her pretty blonde curls the whole way there. She’s a dainty thing, this Riley, which is a curious contrast to Dmitri’s dark, punkish look. She’s like the rose and he’s the thorn colored in black guy-liner.

The school glows with the light from the gallery, which is a separate wing that runs in the opposite direction of where all the studios and classrooms are located. When we reach the tall glass doors, I feel a quiver of anticipation in my gut that makes me equal parts sick and horny. I can’t explain the horniness. Maybe I’m the sex addict. Maybe everything makes me horny.

Or maybe every time I walk into an art gallery, I’ll imagine Nell pushing me against the wall and covering my lips with hers.

Maybe I feel the cold kiss of each cuff as she bound me to that platform nearly naked, turning me into her Object.

Maybe I get the sensation of all my clothes falling off my body, one by one, article by article, until there’s nothing left but skin.

And Nell.

Touching.

My skin.

I shake away the thoughts, figuring that strolling into the End Of Year Showcase with a boner in my tuxedo pants would not be the most fitting first impression for all the stuffy, uppity folk in the art industry who I’m about to encounter. I’m thankful that Dmitri knows where we’re going because I brainlessly follow his and Riley’s lead, snaking through the sprinkled crowds and couplings of people around the gallery, who observe the artwork and make quiet, small-talk amongst themselves regarding how the pieces make them feel and what they think they mean. “What a curious commentary on the state of our educational system,” I overhear some man say. “Oh, an allegory to music and mime. Yes, touching. Cliché, but touching,” says another.

I can’t make sense of any of it. I just follow Dmitri and worry over no one and nothing that I hear. Am I going to be able to withstand what these pretentious know-it-alls say about my work?

“Dude, is this you?”

Dmitri’s voice snaps me into reality. I look up.

Lined along the wall are my five photographs, each strategically placed on the wall to show a sort of sequence. The first photo is of a guy slumped over his kitchen counter in a slightly unflattering posture and he’s eating a bowl of cereal. His hair is messy, his cheeks puffy from lack of sleep, and he’s wearing an oversized t-shirt. The spoon is halfway to his hanging-open mouth.

“Who’s that?” Dmitri asks, leaning in to inspect it. “I know him. Oh my god, is that—?”

“Eric,” I agree. “Doesn’t look like him at all, does it?”

“Hell no. Damn.” He squints and adjusts his glasses, as if his eyes are playing cruel tricks. “He’s gonna kill you for showing this.”

I throw up my hands. “Hey, he signed off on it! Signed the release and everything.”

Dmitri chuckles. “He’s still gonna kill you.”

“I love it,” mutters Riley.

“Yeah,” agrees Dmitri. “It feels so …”

“Personal,” she finishes thoughtfully. “It’s so raw. So … untouched. It doesn’t look posed. I really feel like I’m in his kitchen just … sharing breakfast with him. Waking up with him. Dreading the day I’m about to have.”

“Well, you are in his kitchen,” Dmitri replies.

“Thanks for the attitude.” Riley rolls her eyes, nudging him, though I can’t tell if it’s an annoyed nudge or a playful one.

“Oh, wow.” Dmitri notices the next photo. “This one’s yours too? You did all of these?”

“These five,” I confirm.

The next photo is one Sam let me take of her in the music building. She’s practicing a piece in one of the cramped piano rooms with her sorta-boyfriend Tomas standing next to her with his bassoon. I noticed a flinch of discomfort from Sam when Tomas played his first note, and for some reason, my finger chose to capture that moment forever.

Dmitri stares at the photo for so long, I’m worried he thinks it’s crap when suddenly he says, “Never seen her like this before.”

“Seen who? Sam?”

Dmitri doesn’t respond, oddly taken with the photo.

Riley chimes in. “Oh! Is this Samantha? I never met her before. Dmitri, is this the one who used to be roommates with that actress?”

“With Dessie, yes, that’s the one,” he answers distractedly.

Riley turns to me. “These photos are stunning, Brant.”

I can’t help but grin stupidly at that, like a dog that had just been tossed a treat. If I had a tail, it’d be wagging. I’m so damn easy to please.

The third photo is one I took straight from the collection I’d done at the theater of Clayton watching Dessie from the wing of the stage, except I picked a shot that I captured from the front. His dark, twisted tattoo coils up his neck, caught in crisp detail, and seems to cradle his frozen face, which watches with bewilderment as he observes the performance in front of him. Beads of sweat adorn his forehead, and there’s a streak of grease on the collar of his t-shirt. The fourth photo is from the same series, but it’s of Dessie sitting in her dressing room, all alone. She didn’t know I was there until she heard the click of the camera and by then it was too late—her moment caught by my too-quick hands. She had been fiddling with a charm bracelet on her wrist, studying it with such intensity that it seemed to transport her into a whole world of memories and thoughts and feelings. I remember standing there in the doorway wondering what she was imagining, just before slowly lifting my camera and sealing the moment in a single, forever photograph.

The final photo shows two of the kids at the Westwood Light as they watch Nell melt a single crayon over a large circular canvas. She was drawing a picture with the wax from above—bumpy and wormy-looking, though the photo doesn’t capture the painting; it focuses solely on Nell, the care she takes with the crayon, and the unfiltered fascination in the children’s faces. I made this photo black and white, except for the deep, rich green color of the melting crayon in her hand. I snapped this shot candid-style, just like the four others. The click was so quiet, she didn’t even notice, and the moment wasn’t ruined. It was the first time she took me to see the kids at Westwood Light.

“She is here,” Dmitri says thoughtfully, studying that last photo. “Well, in a way.”

“In a way,” I agree, somewhat pained.

“Ugh,” comes a voice from behind.

I turn, surprised to find Sam standing there with Tomas a few steps behind her. Sam’s wearing an uncharacteristic olive-colored gown, her hair dark and touching her shoulders, curled a bit at the ends. And to ruin the whole bombshell thing she’s got going on, her big ugly black-rimmed glasses cover half her face, enlarging her eyes in an oddly chic-geek sort of way. Tomas, in contrast, just looks pure geek in a pair of jeans and an oversized white polo with a big Atari joystick on the front. Despite him being a total dud of a guy, I gotta give him props for the old-school gamer thing going on with his shirt.

“Ugh?” I retort teasingly. “It’s that bad?”

“I’m just not used to seeing myself.” She smirks unpleasantly at the second photograph, then tilts her head. “I look annoyed.”

“You are annoyed,” Tomas puts in.

“I am annoyed,” she agrees, looking like a cat who’s folded her ears.

Dmitri shuffles a bit. “You look great, though. I mean …” He clears his throat and points at the photograph. “I’m kinda wondering what note you were hearing when the pic was taken.”

“A wrong one,” she groans.

Dmitri chuckles at that. “No such thing as a wrong note.”

She lifts a blunt, tired eyebrow. “Then I guess there’s no such thing as grammar, punctuation, or spelling.”

His eyes flash wide. “Touché.”

The next moment, Dessie and Clayton find us. “Oh my god, you guys. Did you see the Klangburg Dome? It’s an acrylic painting of the whole university, imagined in a futuristic setting, and the detail put into every little … Oh.” She interrupts herself, her eyes finding my photos. Particularly, the fourth one. “That’s me,” she says and signs, tapping Clayton on the chest as she does so.

He grins, drawing up to her backside and wrapping her in his arms. “And me,” he mumbles into her neck, pointing at the third photo, “as I watched you onstage.”

“Brant, these are beautiful,” says Dessie.

I smile and offer the pair of them an appreciative nod. “Thanks so much, guys.” Then, when Clayton’s gaze meets mine, I put a flat hand to the front of my chin and let it fall outward—the sign for thank you.

He grins approvingly, returning the gesture.

I resolve right now to learn more signs other than the ones for “Coke” and “penis” and “poop”.

We move around the gallery, observing the other pieces that were selected. Of course the first one we visit is the Klangburg Dome, which really is pretty cool and just as Dessie described it. Some of the other pieces, however, leave me squinting my eyes in confusion. One piece seems to be a grey canvas with a large pale, greyish circle painted in the middle. A few tiny out-of-place bright red specks dress the corner of the painting. It’s called The Stain.

There’s a clay sculpture that looks like a big horseshoe with a nose and eyes peering out in mock surprise. It’s all a rusted, burnt orange color, and the piece is titled Amateur.

Tiny wires hold up a sculpture that hangs in separate pieces, yet in their exact positioning, if viewed from the right angle, it looks like a tesseract—which Dmitri explains is like a four-dimensional version of a cube … or something. When you walk around the structure and view it from the side, it looks completely flat. The work is called Honesty.

“One of these days,” Dmitri muses to me, “you’ll have a whole room full of your photos, and a bunch of old men and women with their fat wallets are gonna fight over who gets to purchase your work.”

“Yeah,” I agree mockingly, “and my photos will have names like Benevolent Blueberry … or Pajama Pants … or Tesseract.” I sputter, trying my best to suppress a laugh. “Nell warned me that the art world can be kinda pretentious, but … damn, I’ve never quite noticed …”

“I know.” Dmitri shakes his head, giving the nearby piece we’re standing in front of a doleful onceover—a painting of a mother nursing a baby dolphin wrapped in a blanket, its wet, slippery snout suckling the mother’s nipple. “Your stuff really is the only real shit in this room. I can’t believe the crap I’m looking at.”

The piece with the dolphin is called Homeschooled.

“What does that even mean?” asks Dmitri, wrinkling his nose in derision at the painting.

“Thank you,” I murmur.

Dmitri blinks. “For what?”

“Believing in me.”

He seems to find that funny because he just laughs, shaking his head and waving his hand to dismiss my words, but the truth rings in the stern look that takes his eyes. He may not have realized how much those words he just said mean to me, but hopefully he knows now.

Fuck, I wish Nell was here.

A half hour later, I’m in front of my photos again, alone, when a woman’s voice surprises me from behind. “Great work.”

I turn, finding a woman in a suit with her arms folded. “Thanks,” I tell her with a smile. After half a heartbeat, I realize I know her. “I’m sorry, your name was …?”

“Lori Turlington. We met a few months back. I, ah … unlatched the cuffs that freed you from the pedestal on which you were the exhibit. I believe that’s the proper way to say it,” she finishes with a wink.

I chuckle dryly. “Yes. I remember now. That was … an experience.”

“I thought you were just a model at the time. I didn’t know you’re an artist yourself. Brant, is it? These photos are very impressive.”

That annoying grin finds my face again. I can’t help but be proud of my work. “Thank you.”

“What I particularly enjoy about them,” she goes on, “is how you seem to capture … precisely what it is that you’re looking at. There’s no distraction. There’s no pretentious ulterior meaning or message, unless the viewer wants there to be. There’s no confusion. It’s just …” She searches for the word, then smiles when she finds it. “Clarity.”

“Mmm. Maybe I should’ve called it that,” I reckon.

“What is it called? I don’t see a plaque.”

“It’s just called: Caught.”

Her eyes flash at the word, and then she revisits the photos. “I see. That … That title lends an entirely different take. Yes. Caught. Each and every one of them, caught.” She smiles, bigger this time, and turns back to me with a new appreciation on her face. “You know, Brant, I’m always looking for new people to feature in my gallery. I would love to see more of your work.”

I swallow. I can’t believe I’m hearing this. “Uh, okay, uh … yeah! Yes. Yes, of course. I’ve got … I have got so much … so many photos, and—”

“And I know a lot of people,” she says. “Remember how I said I have contacts? I have them for the art world too, if modeling isn’t your aim. I’m the owner of that gallery as well as a few spaces downtown. I have connections with magazines, local and national. I think you and I need to work on getting this work seen.” She pulls a card out from nowhere, like a magic trick. “Please, call me and let’s see more of your … catching,” she murmurs, pressing the card to my palm.

I nod quickly as if I’m being injected with lightning at the neck. “Yes, yes. Great. Thank you so much.” I take her hand and shake it eagerly, then stop myself for fear of breaking it. “Thank you!”

She laughs—likely at my embarrassing enthusiasm—then gives me a single nod and excuses herself, strolling away.

I stare down at the card in a total stupor, the reality slow to cross my brain. Is this the start of something big? Possibilities are flying past my eyes. I feel a strange and fiery sense of vindication thundering through me, as if this is my little way of showing all those people who thought I was nothing more than a walking bag of orgasms that I’m so much more. Watch out, world. I laugh out loud, grinning at the card.

The chasm in my chest only lets me get so happy before I’m pulled back down to the soggy earth. She’s not here at my side, I remind myself for the twenty-second time tonight, and she should be.

It isn’t much later when suddenly the lights dim and everyone starts to gather near a stage at the front of the exhibit. A light round of polite, pompous applause flutters across the room like a buzzing of insects, and then a twenty-something woman takes the stage wearing a hat that features a lavender feather half the height of her torso.

When she faces the crowd and thanks them in her tight, muted voice, I realize with a start who she is: Renée Brigand.

“From the bottom of my iron locket of a heart—yes, that’s a reference to my piece titled Heart Of Iron, as seen in my Security series—I would like to thank you for attending the 34th Annual End Of Year Showcase. This is a special showcase, as it features a minute sampling of the ripe and hungry student body who are enrolled at the Klangburg School of Art. These students are thoughtful. These students have a drive within them to push the boundaries, to think outside the scope of expectation, and to expand their wings. I was once an exhibiter, three years in a row, for my work when I was but a student here. It is my utmost honor to be this year’s sponsor.”

I squint through the haze of lights and the invisible fog of perfume and self-importance that hangs in the air. No wonder Nell can’t stand her, I muse privately to myself. She stands for everything Nell hates.

“We nurture a carefully selected program through which the work of our students—as well as their individual strengths and weaknesses—are cultivated in such a way as to guarantee long-lasting careers in their chosen fields. What more could a school do but secure the futures of its eager students? And I see many futures in here. Many, many futures. No amount of—”

I’m distracted suddenly by a flash I see through the glass windows. Renée keeps talking on and on, but soon another head turns in the crowd. Then several more. Soon, scandalized murmurs and hushes scatter across the room.

“Excuse me,” Renée says into the microphone, giving it a gentle tap as her enormous eyelashes flutter dramatically with her every blink. “I am about to present my newest exhibit. As I am this year’s sponsor, I am … It is my r-responsibility to …”

But no one seems much interested in what she’s saying anymore. People have broken away from the crowd to get a better look at the flashes outside. For a second, I think it’s lightning, until I realize that the light is coming from the ground.

Renée, growing more annoyed by the second, sweeps her hand at the wall nearby. “The exhibit, through this doorway, is called From The Dawn, To The Day, Of The Mighty Moon. I hope you will appreciate the political irony I’ve exercised in showcasing the—”

I glance in the direction of the commotion outside, which has now gathered a mass of people by the windows, desperate to see what the hell’s going on. Amidst the crowd of people, I see Dmitri’s face turn to find mine, and he’s wearing an astonished look.

“Political irony,” Renée repeats, losing her composure. “Excuse me. My exhibit is through this doorway—Excuse me. Over here.”

I reach Dmitri and the others, who are trying their best to see what’s happening outside the windows. “What’s going on?” I ask.

“I have no idea,” mutters Dmitri.

“No clue,” agrees Sam, “though it doesn’t look good.”

“Should I call the police?” asks Riley, worried. “I should call the police.”

The murmurs of apprehension and the chatter overtake the room, drowning out any sad attempts Renée Brigand makes to reclaim the room’s attention. It’s all lost now to the show outside.

Frustrated with my lack of vision, I bend left and right, trying to see through the heads in the crowd. Impatient, I start cutting through the bodies, recklessly pushing my way to the front.

When I finally make it, the sight through the glass windows freezes my heart.

“Wow,” I whisper at the glass.

People are already piling out of the building, curious and drawn by the sights, so I follow, pulled by the excitement and the fascination. I walk the path that runs by the rest of the School of Art. It’s lined with torches and squatty braziers, illuminating the courtyard in dancing golden light.

What the actual hell is going on here?

I spot something peculiar hanging from a tree. My heart jumps because my very first thought is a morbid one: someone’s come out and hanged themselves. But when I draw closer, I realize that it’s a ceramic angel that hangs from the tree by a wire, its wings hanging separately, detached from the main body. When I get closer, I notice a sign affixed to the bark that reads: “REJECT: Satan Claws. CRITIQUE: The work as a whole seems aberrant and deliberately offensive.”

I hear laughter at my side, then realize there’s something else on the other side of the tree. It’s a little vignette made out of toys and what appear to be scrap metal and bottle caps depicting a clothed pig in a metal fortress, and he seems to be looking at a miniature iPhone. A sign above it says: “REJECT: The Fourth Little Pig. CRITIQUE: I just didn’t get what you were trying to say. The metaphor is too nail-on-the-head.”

When I turn, I realize every tree in the courtyard has a project of some kind resting beneath it. People from the art gallery have poured out into the night, curious and excited to visit all these new exhibits they weren’t planning to see.

Is this part of the showcase? Or is this something else entirely?

“Dude, what is happening?”

It’s Dmitri who’s caught up, bewildered by the sights. I shake my head. “I have no idea,” I admit. “But I think I like it.”

“Are these …?”

“The pieces that didn’t get into the showcase,” I say with a nod. “I’m figuring the same thing. Do you think all the students who …?”

“They had to have!” he answers before I’ve finished the question. “It must be some mass collaboration. Fuck, this is brilliant. And they’re showing the world their critiques. It’s like …”

“It’s like holding the judges accountable,” I finish for him.

Laughter rings out to our left. I pursue it, then find myself standing in front of a bed in the middle of the road. There are offputting stains all over the sheets, each with a photograph of a happy kid with a name written over his face and an occupation. A porn magazine and a bottle of lube are left out on the bed. Upon the headboard sits a placard that reads: “REJECT: My Family. CRITIQUE: Highly inappropriate, to glorify masturbation in such a grotesque way that neither sends us on a journey nor satisfies any semblance of artistic intent.”

“The judge missed the point,” Dmitri mutters.

I nod agreement. “I get it immediately. It’s like, the kids he could have had. All that wasted baby juice.”

“This is so gross.”

“But kinda deep.”

“And gross.”

I smirk at Dmitri, then throw an arm over his back. “Is this piece hittin’ a little too close to home, buddy?”

He swats my arm away, then finds his attention arrested by another piece nearby. I laugh, turning around and feeling overwhelmed with a strange, bubbling joy at what I’m experiencing. This whole thing is simply brilliant. I can’t stop chuckling inside, watching as all of the students get this opportunity to pay witness to the projects that never were and, in fact, get to enjoy them and judge for themselves.

To my surprise, I even see Renée Brigand strolling slowly along the path. At first, she appears very concerned, clutching a hand to her chest reservedly as she walks. Then, much like dipping a toe in the pool to check the water’s temperature, she leans toward a work of art under a tree—it appears to be a painting of a frowning skull—and I watch as a curious smile crosses her face. She looks up and reads the plaque nailed to the bark above it, then shakes her head, seemingly in pity, her fingers drawn to her mouth, covering it.

The unmistakable flashing lights of campus security start to invade this spontaneous showcase outside the building, likely called by the stuffy people who run the “official” showcase inside the building.

It’s near the tunnel that my eyes fall on a strikingly different piece of work. The brazier at its side seems to illuminate it a lot less than the other pieces in the courtyard, perhaps because of the brazier’s squatty shape or its distance from the work of art. Regardless, it seems to draw the least amount of attention, and yet I’m pulled to it with more fascination than any of the others.

I plant my feet before it. My skin runs cold, even standing by the fire as I am.

It’s a sculpture of a dog. A very, very big dog. Its head was removed at one point, but now it’s been carefully, meticulously, tediously sewn back on. No effort was made to hide the thread. Its face has suffered considerable, disturbing damage—maybe by a club, or a baseball bat, I can’t tell—but little zebra-print and rainbow-adorned children’s Band-Aids cover all of the head’s gaping holes, slashes, and disfigurements.

Hanging by a nail on the wall of the tunnel, somewhat apart from the sculpture, is a plaque that reads: “REJECT: Daddy Loves You.”

I swallow hard. My mouth runs dry.

The rest of it reads: “CRITIQUE: I will never understand your obsession with removing the heads of your work. Perhaps if your work came from a place that was real—instead of some forced, artificial desire to be strange and dark and upsetting—your art would make us feel something.”

I stand there, frozen in place by the words. I feel a dreadful coldness wash over my body, running from that aching chasm in my chest to every finger and toe on my body.

She’s here, and I have to find her.

NELL

Well, this isn’t exactly how I planned for it all to go down.

“It wasn’t supposed to catch fire!” hisses Iris, swatting at the paper sculpture with a broom.

“You’re literally fanning the flames,” I tell her tiredly.

“What a disaster!”

“Actually, I think it improves the piece.” I tilt my head, observing it. “I mean, for something you’ve titled Shipwreck …”

“Shut up and help me!”

“Alright.”

With the help of three other art students involved in our little act of rebellion here, we dowse the flames—but not before another fire takes root further down the walkway at another “exhibit” we’ve set up. One of the other students curses, rushing off to put it out.

“Maybe the torch idea was a bit …” a guy at our side starts, wincing.

“That’s the whole premise!” shouts Iris, infuriated. “Flames. Fire. Passion. Snuffing it out. Snuffing us out. Oh, shit,” she breathes with a look of terror in her eyes, cutting herself off. “They’re already looking at us. Everyone in the gallery.”

I turn my head, noticing all of the people pressed against the glass windows, staring out at the fiery wonder.

“We have to move quickly,” I announce unnecessarily.

“Then move! And quickly!” barks Iris.

Then I spin at the sound of a siren and spot light flashing in the distance. To my utter excitement—yeah, I know, I should be terrified, but really, I’m feeling twenty times more thrill than I am fear right now—I discover that the flickering lights are those of approaching campus security vehicles.

“Campus security,” Iris mutters. “We’ve done all we can do. It’s time to leave it up to chance. Run.”

“Run?” throws in another girl, her hands and mouth covered in burgundy paint, looking in the dark like some feral creature who’d just clawed a man’s chest open and eaten his heart raw.

“Yes! Fucking run!”

We bolt from our spots, scattering like flies at the drop of a rolled up newspaper, and abandon our attempts to put out any more stray fires. After running toward the tunnel, I realize that Iris and the others have torn off in a different direction, which gives me sudden cause to hesitate. Aren’t we better off running away together?

Before I enter the tunnel, I realize I can already see flashing lights bursting out from within its shadowy depths. Turning on my heel, I rush toward my secret door at the back of the School of Art, relieved to find it unlocked. Thank you for your negligence, Kelsey! I shut the door at my back, then charge across the dark space and hurry toward the safe one. Up the stairwell I go until I reach my favorite door on the whole campus. Pushing through it, I tumble onto the roof of the art building and crawl to the edge, tentatively peering over.

The view is astounding. I see the torches burning yellow and gold, little pockets of brilliance that give life to the otherwise featureless dark of the path that leads to the gallery wing of the school. Already, people are pouring out of its glass doors, slowly stalking around the exhibits we’ve set up everywhere, exploring. This is a dream come true, I realize, my heart hammering in my chest. I’ve never done anything like this before. I’ve never felt a part of something so … political. Is it right to call it political? All the art school has been since my first day as a freshman is a game of politics, of who-you-know, and of favoritism. Let’s shake up the game, our little ploy seems to scream. Let’s put the judges in their places and rip open the back curtains.

But really, I wasn’t planning to burn down the damn university. The braziers are supposed to scream “atmospheric”, not “pyromaniac”.

I hear the shuffling of feet. I turn my head, annoyed for a second because all my hair blows into my face, blocking my view. When I pull it away like a curtain, my breath catches in my throat.

Brant stands there in a tuxedo. Neck to toe tuxedo. It’s fitted so perfectly to his body that I can literally see his pecs protruding from the shirt and his thighs flex in his tuxedo pants when he slowly crosses the roof, approaching me with that crooked devil’s smirk on his face. And despite the utter classiness of his attire, his hair is a wicked, sexy mess, reminding me of every time I’d pull on it when he buried his face between my legs, and how messy it’d look when he woke up beside me the next morning, sleepy-eyed and smiling drunkenly.

He thrusts his hands into his pockets, glances down at his shoes, then only flicks his eyes up at me, his forehead screwing up cutely.

I knew I missed him, but seeing him here in front of me on this rooftop melts everything bad or pained or awful inside me. It melts it all away and replaces it with something perfect.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

The sound of his voice reminds me instantly of how we left things. I feel a stab of sadness right away. I’ve fucked everything up, haven’t I?

“Hey,” I return anyway.

He comes a bit closer, three more steps. He takes a deep breath, then says, “Y’know … I’m not exactly afraid of heights, but … uh … It’s a really long fall, and you are super close to that ledge, and I’m not sure if you know this, but there’s a bunch of fire and artwork down there.”

“I know.”

“You … wouldn’t have happened to have anything to do with all that, would you?”

I shrug ambiguously, playing with him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh really?” Brant circles around the roof, drawing closer to me at the ledge. “Well, perhaps I can enlighten you. It seems like some art students … took to setting up their own End Of Year Showcase.”

“That’s what it seems like,” I agree. “I … hope it didn’t ruin the real one going on inside.”

Brant comes to rest near the edge, just beside me. He crouches down, the gravel of the rooftop crunching slightly beneath his shiny dress shoes. “If I’m perfectly honest, I think it’s the coolest damn thing I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen a lot of cool damn things,” he adds with a cocky smirk. “And … I’m not alone in that opinion. Do you see all the people down there?”

I take a short glance over the edge. “I can’t tell if they like it from up here. What are they saying?”

“They’re moved. They’re excited. They’re drawn in by the pieces, perhaps even more so than the twenty-two selected. Hell, you see that person right there? The one with the big ol’ feather comin’ out of her head? Even she’s impressed.”

I squint, trying to find the person he’s talking about. Then my eyes widen. “Is that Brigand??”

“I mean, she was a bit miffed at first. I guess you sorta lit all the torches during her big ‘Hey, congrats to the students, but let’s make this whole thing about me and my latest brilliant work’ speech. This whole …. courtyard display … it made her forget about her own damn ego for a second. She was giving an honest look at the pieces. Hell, I think she was even smiling.”

“Smiling …” A smile of my own twists my lips.

“And I saw your piece.”

I turn away and watch the people slowly moving between the different exhibits, the whole scene disrupted slightly by the flashing lights of a couple parked campus security vehicles. I wonder if even the campus security folk are looking at the exhibits, perhaps after they’ve determined that no one was in immediate danger.

I can’t really say anything, and Brant seems to sense that—in the brilliant way he seems to know exactly what I need at any hour of the day and in any state of mind—because he takes off his jacket and lays it over my back, cuddling it into my sides. Then he lies down next to me, propped up on his elbows with our shoulders touching, as we both stare down at the scene below.

“I miss you,” he whispers.

I press my lips together, feeling pained about how I’d left things, the emptiness consuming me despite his efforts to show compassion. Do I really deserve his compassion?

“The truth is,” I start to say, then stop, clenching shut my eyes as I feel too much emotion rushing up to my face too quickly. For some reason, the last thing I want to do is cry, maybe because I know in an instant that he will try to console me and make me feel better, and that’s the last thing I deserve.

“Yeah?” he prompts me gently.

I blink away the tears that are trying to happen. “You have been … ceaselessly kind to me. Maybe when we first met, I just assumed it was your flirty way of getting me into bed. And a part of me wanted that too, but I knew that once you had your fun, you’d be gone. I couldn’t have that. There’s too much in my life that comes and goes. I’m so used to saying goodbye. Whenever I finish a piece of art, I suffer a little death, having to say goodbye and let it go. I couldn’t stomach another goodbye in my life. I was just biding my time until you’d had enough, and the fear consumed me.”

“I’m afraid too,” he returns. “I’m afraid of how I’m like around you. I’m afraid of what you do to me. I’ve never felt like this about anyone, Nell. You are the only person I’ve ever met who … makes me feel like a better person. Like someone who’s worth more than their dick. Like someone who’s worth more than their charming smile, or their sexy body, or—”

“Wow. Flattering ourselves, much?”

He shoots me a cocky grin. “Just stating facts, babe.”

My tension breaks, giggles raking my body as I try desperately to suppress them.

“If I may interject,” he goes on, “I’d, ah, like to say that I’m in a very similar situation with my feelings. Every girl I meet sorta just … passes through my life. No one stays, not even my exes. It’s become such a way of existence over the years that, like … I don’t even know what it feels like to have someone there at my side. Someone who will be there. Someone who doesn’t leave my bed in the morning. I … I really want someone there to wake up to. I want someone to share my shit with. I want someone to share my spicy egg scramble with every morning, to share my latest set of photos with, to take care of my spontaneous boners throughout the day …”

“And there it is,” I say with a mocking smirk.

He nudges me teasingly. “I want you, Nell. And I want you badly. I want you so much that I feel fucking … empty without you. I know we didn’t quite break up or whatever, but it feels like we did, and … and damn it, I don’t feel like I’m a better artist without you. I’m a crap one. You inspire me, Nell. Don’t I inspire you? Like, even a teensy bit?”

I shrug, considering his question. “Maybe a little.”

“So how can you make art without your muse?”

“Good question. And this is all about you, after all,” I tease.

“It’s about you, too. I’m a mess without my mistress of darkness at my side.”

“Mistress of darkness? Really?”

“It’s a catchy name,” he insists cockily. “You should totally steal it. Run away with it. Or with me.”

“With you,” I echo.

“I’m in the dark without you,” he says, his face suddenly serious, his eyes burning blue. “Be with me. Because the truth is, I’m afraid of the dark. The truth is, I’m still that fuckin’ awkward kid at the party who doesn’t really know what he’s doing and who … desperately wants that perfect girl at the other end of the room. He doesn’t want anyone else. He doesn’t want the easy catch. He doesn’t want to just get off and go. He only wants her. That girl is you. It’s always been you, Nell. I’ve been chasing you my whole life and didn’t know it.”

He shifts his weight to one elbow, then brings a finger to my shoulder, letting it trace down my body. The touch sends a party of goose bumps and delight throughout me. I have to close my eyes now, consumed with the way he’s making me feel.

Then he asks: “Do you want me?”

I shiver pleasurably under his touch.

“Nell?” I hear his voice draw closer to my face, bringing his lips with it. “Do you …” His lips press lightly to my ear, then to my cheek, then to my jaw near my mouth where it’s most sensitive. “… want me?”

I turn toward his lips, catching them, and the kiss that ensues casts an earthquake that rockets down to my core, shaking away all the pain and the doubts that have so plagued me. It leaves but one thing in its wake: a ringing assurance that this is precisely what I need, both as an artist, and as a human being.

“Yes,” I answer. “And now.”

BRANT

That thing I was missing …

That one, elusive thing I was missing that I couldn’t figure out before the showcase …

This is it.

I bring her tightly into my arms as my lips warm against hers. I taste her and feel a flood of comfort and excitement and heat that fills me completely. “I want you,” she whispers between our kisses.

The gravel of a rooftop is not the most comfortable choice to do the sexy-sexy, but neither of us seem to care. I roll onto my back anyway, pulling her over me so as to spare her the discomfort. She straddles my body as we kiss, and I feel the warmth between her legs as she rubs and humps my fast-growing stiffness.

Yeah, this isn’t going to take long.

“HEY!”

Startled, the pair of us crane our necks to peer over the ledge where the voice came from. One of the security officers down below seems to have spotted us.

“Oh, fuck,” Nell blurts.

We’re on our feet. Despite the agonizingly hard situation in my pants, we tumble for the door and race down the stairs. I catch the side of her face, and when our eyes meet, we find ourselves laughing. I take her hand and she grips mine tightly as we push through the door to some random floor of the building. The hallway is dim and no one’s in sight, but still we run, chased by a security guard who might not even be pursuing us.

Nell’s laughter rings in my ears, and it might be the most beautiful sound I’ve heard all day. I wonder if I’ve ever truly heard her laugh before.

We shove through a random door, which slams against the wall in our abrupt arrival. A classroom of ten or so students look up at us, startled from their apparent boredom.

“The End Of Year is just simply amazeballs,” I announce to them.

“Yes, really,” Nell agrees, clinging to me. “You should all be there instead of—um, what’s this class?”

We don’t wait to find out. Rushing back out of the room, I burst into laughter as Nell, red-faced and tittering excitedly, races by my side. Our hands fumble, finding one another’s again, and we tear down another flight of stairs. My foot catches on a step halfway down, but I manage to keep myself from falling.

And then we’re in a totally empty hall. Nell shoves me against a bulletin board full of “submit here” and “seminar there” and “sign up for this and that”. It’s against that bulletin board that her hand presses firmly against my crotch and her lips hover by my face challengingly.

“You want me, Brant?”

“I want you.”

“Come and get me.”

She slips out of my grasp as fast as a cat sprung by a sudden sound. Her hair whips around the corner and I follow, a dog in pursuit, until I turn the corner and find her so far down the hall, I have to wonder how the hell she runs so fast.

I pick up my pace, running faster. You’re not getting away from me.

When I make it around the next turn, I don’t see her at all—but I also don’t hear her. I slow down, my dress shoes tapping loudly on the tile. Annoyed with my utter lack of stealth, I pull off my shoes one at a time, hopping and grunting as I do so, then pitch each shoe in an opposite direction, forgetting their existence. Padding down the hall in my socks, I listen and look for her. Our chase has become a sudden game of hide-and-go-seek.

I see a classroom door wide open, the inside dark. At the foot of the door is a pair of jeans. Nell’s jeans.

I move inside quietly. Easels are sprinkled throughout the dark space, looking like giant pointy creatures protecting a treasure. My treasure. I stalk further inside and my foot catches a shirt. Hers. I pick it up off the ground and press it to my nose, inhaling her scent as I continue my slow, patient pursuit through the room.

A bra hangs from the easel to my left. I cast her shirt to the side, grinning as I move on. Then I see a pair of panties hanging from the next easel. I stop, take them into my hand, then press them to my face, inhaling so deep, the room fills with the sound of my breath.

It’s all Nell. It’s intoxicating.

And it makes me so hard, I ache.

With the panties still in my fist, I come around the final easel and happen on a little stage with a stool … a very familiar stage and a very familiar stool. Perched on it is Nell, completely naked, with a finger at her mouth and a set of seductive, lusty eyes locked on me. Her breasts are so full and perfect, it takes everything in me not to rush up and bury my face between them. Her thighs are smooth and glowing in the subtle light that washes in from the distant windows. Her hair, partly cascading down her supple shape, casts a shadow that masks the beauty of her petite shoulders and that irresistible ridge of collar bone that makes me want to lift her into my arms and protect her from all the darkness of the world.

I approach her.

“Not just yet,” she murmurs.

I stop, lifting an eyebrow. “What is it? You expect me to … take an easel and draw you? Are you the nude art model, now?”

“No. Just yours.” She crosses her legs the other way, which pulls my eyes straight to the prize. Fuck, she knows how to work me. “I need you to do something first.”

“Name it.”

She draws her hair behind an ear, lifting her eyes to meet mine. The green in them, even with so little light, seems to glimmer.

“Take my picture,” she says.

I give a gentle shrug. “I don’t have my camera.”

She smirks teasingly. “Have I taught you nothing, Brant?”

I lick my lips, understanding. When I reach the lip of the stage, I go to a knee, looking up at her and catching just the right angle. She watches my every move. I close just one eye and lift my fingers in front of my face, creating a rectangle with them.

“Turn your face, babe.”

She does, taking my directive.

“A bit more.”

She obeys. Just that tiny adjustment brings the light onto her cheek, illuminating her face perfectly.

“Bring a hand to your breast.”

She doesn’t move her head, but her face furrows. “Are we shooting a porn, Brant?”

“No. Just you.” I open both my eyes and crane my neck around my own fingers, as if pulling my imaginary finger-and-eye camera out of the way. “If you want me to take your picture, you’re gonna need to obey the photographer.”

She presses her lips together, succumbing, then gently lifts a hand to her breast.

“Good.” I return to my position, squinting one-eyed through the rectangle of my fingers. “You’re doing a great job, babe.”

She tries to play off my compliment coolly, but I see the hint of a proud smile in her otherwise untelling lips.

“Hold still.”

I focus. I let the image of her burn into my memory, as if I really do hold a camera in my grasp.

Aim. Focus.

Flash.

I rise from the floor, step onto the stage, and stand by my model. She looks up at me, wordless, and her shimmering eyes say everything that the both of us are feeling. I take hold of her face gently, then bring my mouth to hers.

Explosions, red-hot and palpable.

A flavor that ignites every nerve in my body.

Her touch, waking the regions of my brain that scream I need this woman and I’m never letting her go again.

She clings to the buttons of my shirt, pulling gently, tugging here, tugging there, feeling blindly for her way in.

I help her by slowly undoing the buttons, not wanting to break from our kiss. Slowly the shirt releases me, slowly the material pulls out from my pants, and then it opens up, dropping off my back.

But it’s not enough; she wants more. Her fingers tug at my pants, undoing them. I let her have this one, bringing my hands to her face and caressing it as our mouths explore one another. It feels like the first time, like we’ve never truly touched.

It’s like we were, all these months, pressed up against each other’s bodies with some imaginary second skin in the way, never truly feeling one another, never quite knowing one another.

Something’s changed. Something in each of us has been freed.

And then my pants open, freeing something else.

After they drop to my ankles, I kick them off, and still Nell’s greedy fingers persist, hooking in the waistband of my boxer briefs. I feel her take her time, tracing the rim and teasing me.

My cock throbs in response, desperate to get out.

Our lips still locked, my hands run slowly down her body until they reach her breasts, cupping them. I feel her nipples harden under my fingers, exposed as they are to me. Nell responds with a deep moan, encouraging me as I massage her breasts with my big hands.

Her fingers slip inside. She wraps around my cock.

Now it’s my turn to moan.

Slowly, my boxer briefs slide down my skin, revealing the last part of me to her. Kicking them away, I feel the cool air of the room on every inch of my sensitive body. One hand on my cock, her other hand explores my hip and the side of my ass cheek where it dimples. She grabs a healthy handful of it, pulling me toward her with need.

All I want to do is answer that need.

I break from the kiss at long last, then run my hands down her smooth, soft body and lower to my knees. With her up on that stool, I slip my hands between her legs and pull them apart. As if by instinct, her fingers slide up my face and entangle themselves in my hair, ready to brace. Yeah, she knows what’s coming.

I move my face between her thighs and let out my tongue, raking it softly up her pussy. She trembles in response. Her fingers dig into my hair, which tells me I’m doing it right.

Painstakingly slow, I work her up, licking from bottom to top, lapping up every inch of her and earning every little moan she lets out.

The tighter she grips my hair, the tighter I grip her thighs.

Finally, I pull her clit into my mouth, sucking gently and slowly working her up into a state of insanity. I feel her thighs clench, squeezing my head between them. I fucking love the way she headlocks me with them, suffocating me with her unrivaled pleasure.

The moans grow louder. My cock grows harder. I can’t wait any longer; I have to have her now.

When I pull away from her, she moans with frustration, until she sees me grab my pants and fish a condom out of the pocket. Tearing off the wrapper, she watches me in surprise as I roll it down my length.

“You kept a condom in your tuxedo pants?” she asks, baffled.

I give her a look. “Have we met?”

And then I wrap my hands around the small of her back and lift her slightly off the stool, positioning her perfectly. Just the tip touches her. She squirms, desperate for me to enter her.

“I don’t think you’re ready for this,” I taunt her.

“Fuck me.”

I let just the tip inside. She quivers, her eyes rocking back.

“Definitely not ready.”

“Brant. Please. God.”

An inch slides in. I make sure to watch her face. I want to see every little twitch of her muscles. I want to notice every flit of her eyes. I want to capture each bite and pull and suck of her lips as I enter her.

I lean into her face. “Do you want me?”

“Yes,” she sighs, fraught with urgency.

And then I enter her, full force. She groans loudly, clinging to my body for dear life as I start to pump her deeply. Torches and works of passion surround the building, and here we are, two human torches on a stool generating a fire that no torch or brazier or blazing bonfire can compare to. And here we are, a work of passion two lifetimes in the making.

I feel her tightening on my cock already. I know she’s close, but I can’t let her get off yet. I slow down and thrust my mouth at hers, tasting her, forcing her to keep pace with me and savor every long, tormenting moment of my desire for her.

She claws into me, forcing me to feel every pinch of hers.

With our lips interlocked and our tongues wrestling for dominance in our mouths, I cling tight to her and pick up the pace. My heart hammers against my chest. My throat constricts, feeling the impending wave of orgasm. She must feel it too, if the scars she’s making down my shoulder blades are any indication.

I feel myself rushing to the edge. She tightens, rushing to her own.

Our bodies react together, flexing and tensing as our mouths part and our breaths turn into cries. I empty into her as she crashes into her orgasm.

I feel it from my arms to my bucking thighs. I empty into her so deeply, it never seems to end until the chasm in my chest is filled up, until I feel flipped inside-out, until my brain is flooded with the bliss of relief.

We collapse in the exact position we’re in, clutched to one another on that fateful stool. I hold her tightly, protectively, lovingly … and she grips me, her legs wrapped around my waist. In and out we breathe, cherishing the incomparable closeness we’ve just discovered.

How have I been missing this my whole life? Nell has completely undone me. I’m ruined, in all the best ways possible.

“That part I said,” she murmurs quietly, her chin resting on my shoulder. “That part about me being a better artist without you …”

“Yeah?”

She grips me tighter, then breathes in my ear: “I was wrong.” She pulls away and meets my eyes. “I’m just darkness without you. Brant, you make me a better person.”

“And I was just a player without a game,” I tell her. “You helped me find myself. I’m just … dirty bed sheets without you.”

She wrinkles her face. “Dirty bed sheets? Gross.”

“Not if you’re the reason they’re dirty,” I growl into her ear, and when she laughs, I close her mouth with a deep, warm kiss.

I love this woman.

NELL

- Six Months Later -

Dessie and Clayton’s house is remarkably packed, though I guess that’s to be expected at a celebration of this magnitude.

It’s the evening, but the sun still paints the sky a brilliant orange with pink and crimson highlights, and it looks downright beautiful pouring over the fence of the backyard where everyone is gathered.

No, no one’s getting married. In fact, quite the opposite. It’s a party for everyone who’s graduated this year, myself included. And really, a graduation is a lot like a divorce. Except everyone’s happy.

“I’m so unhappy.”

I face Sam, who stands by my side in a green lace top and her huge thick-rimmed glasses. It’s hard to say if Sam is sulking because she only ever seems to sport one particular facial expression, and she does it expertly: deadpan. I feel like her furiously angry face, her arm-chillingly excited face, and her bored-to-tears face are all exactly the same. There’s something oddly comforting in that fact.

“Why?” I ask after kicking back the bottle in my hand.

She squints into the sunset. “All my best friends are graduating. And even people I don’t know all that well, but kinda wish I got to know better.”

“Like who?”

“You.” She shrugs. “I don’t have any close artist friends.”

“I don’t have any close musician friends,” I note. “Unless you count the band that lives across the hall from me.”

“Dessie’s graduating and moving back to New York,” Sam goes on, speaking once again in perfect monotone without any slight sense of punctuation or breath. “Clayton is going with her, obviously, and that shouldn’t come as a surprise but it does, kinda, not really, and then Chloe is going too because of something to do with her sister—I didn’t know she has a sister, but she does—and then Eric’s graduating, which I guess isn’t that big a deal because he’s still living with Brant, but I just have this feeling I won’t see any of them again, I don’t know. Why didn’t I make any friends of my own? Why are all of my friends Dessie’s friends? I make bad life choices.”

I frown. “You still have Dmitri. He’s got another year to go, if he keeps on track. And then Tomas too, right?”

She faces me suddenly. “Is it true that Brant’s dropping out?”

The question knocks me in the face. Not because I didn’t know, but because I didn’t realize Brant told anyone else. I thought we were keeping it a secret. “I, um … Who told you that?” I ask vaguely.

“Oh.” Sam’s a quick one. “Maybe it’s a secret. I don’t think Dmitri was supposed to tell me. I figured you’d know, since you—”

“I did.”

“Oh. Well, um … Dmitri tells me things. But he doesn’t always tell me not to tell others those things. I hate secrets.”

I smirk knowingly, then clutch my belly anxiously, curious about Brant’s whereabouts. Where the hell is he? I wonder, biting my lip.

“So how do you feel about that?”

I flinch, stirred from my thoughts. “About Brant dropping out?” Sam nods. “It’s his decision. I mean, you know him. Well, through Dessie and Clayton, somewhat. You know what he’s like.”

“Twenty different majors in four years. New girlfriend every week. No direction in life.”

Sam knows how to put it bluntly. “Well …”

“You basically saved his life.”

Now it’s my turn to blink in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“Now he’s got all the things,” she answers simply. “He settled on one major. He has a direction in life now. And he’s got you.” Then Sam smiles. Or at least I think that’s what’s happening on her face. “Thank you for coming into his life, Nell. And by proxy, coming into mine. I wish I could’ve made art with you at some point.”

Unexpectedly, I find myself touched by Sam’s words. “Thank you, Sam.”

“I just stated facts, really. Nothing to thank me for.” She shrugs and glances off at the sunset again.

“You know, with you and Dmitri being such good friends, I think we’ll be seeing a lot of each other anyway. Brant’s still living there. I’m still in my place. Maybe you can come over sometime and we can … I don’t know … share inspirations or something. Maybe you can give that band next door to me a goddamned clue. Y’know, save some poorly abused instruments.”

“I have enough on my plate saving an abused one of my own,” she says sulkily, then her gaze drifts off to a particular someone standing by the grill—Tomas, who seems to be obsessed with poking at and flipping the burgers.

“He seems like a nice guy,” I encourage her with a smile.

“The nicest,” she groans. Then, with a minute shrug, she says, “Tell Brant congratulations on his decision. I think it takes a lot of bravery to cut ties with a school and leap into the artistic foray headlong. And if he suddenly decides yet again to change his career path, I can maybe give him a recommendation at the music school. I would peg him to be a cellist.” She offers me a muted smile, then makes her way across the grass toward Tomas, who greets her with a smile and seems to offer her a burger.

The rest of the yard teems with friends from the School of Theatre mostly, as the majority of the supporters here are for Dessie and Clayton. There’s a bunch of dancers here too, including a gorgeous black man named Avery who towers over everyone in a vibrant pink-and-yellow wig and says he’s an official member of the Brant fan club. I’m not sure what all that’s about, but he gasped with astonishment when he saw my work at the latest gallery showing a month ago and commented on its brilliance before even knowing it was mine, so he’s scored a few brownie points in my book.

Somewhere on the other side of the lawn, Minnie and a few of the others from the art school are gathered around a fire pit laughing about something and looking teary-eyed in their hilarity as they eat s’mores and make fun of each other when marshmallow hangs on their chins. Minnie and I didn’t speak again until somewhere around Valentine’s Day when we ran into each other at a “Lover’s Lament” showcase downtown. We’d ended up standing at the same exhibit, snarkily began providing our own critiques for it, and eventually made each other laugh. Then, unexpectedly, Minnie burst into tears, hugged me, and begged me to forgive her and to be her friend again. I clutched Minnie right there, said there was nothing to forgive, and apologized for being somewhat of an arrogant twat to her earlier. Then she invited me over to her big place for cheap booze and Netflix binging on her big fluffy couch, just like the old days, and everything was back to normal before we even reached the end of the first episode.

From across the lawn, Minnie catches my eye, then winks and gives a little wave before returning to hearing some joke her friend is telling her, and then the pair of them burst into laughter.

“You look beautiful,” comes a voice from behind, wrapping me up in a pair of smooth, strong arms.

“You’re just saying that because you want to bone me later.”

“That too.”

I turn and face Brant, smiling. He looks cute in his orange-and-blue plaid button-down shirt and distressed jeans. Those particular jeans make me want to grab his ass so badly and so inappropriately in front of all these people.

Suddenly there’s a camera in my face. “Cheese!”

I laugh just as the flash goes off, capturing me in that moment. The camera fails, however, to capture the moment right after: me smacking the shit out of Brant’s shoulder for blinding me.

“You know you love it,” he murmurs, getting right in my face.

He gets away with murder with that beautiful face of his. Really, it just isn’t fair. “I didn’t know you were telling people about your decision to become an official college dropout.”

“I didn’t! I was … ah, crap.” He curses to himself. “It was that damn Dmitri who can’t keep his mouth shut.”

“Are you embarrassed by it?”

“Hell no. College just isn’t for everyone. I’m really glad I came here, don’t get me wrong. I mean, I definitely learned a lot and I had my … fair share of experiences …”

“Experiences,” I echo, using air quotes.

He grabs my arms and pulls me into him, inspiring a guttural laugh from deep within me. “You better watch that adorable mouth of yours before I spank you.”

I lick my lips slowly and deliberately, watching as his face melts before my eyes with all the fantasies and realities of what, exactly, I’m capable of with these lips of mine. I love planting all the dirt in his head and watching as he suffers with it for hours until we’re alone and can do something about it.

“Clayton’s got an instrument room upstairs where he keeps all his lighting equipment,” he whispers.

“Don’t you dare think about it,” I warn him.

“I wouldn’t need very long.”

“Such the charmer.”

“We’ll be back before they cut into the graduation cake. Or the other-other graduation cake. Or before people start getting drunk and making pretentious speeches about the future and this and that.”

“Why don’t I just massage your crotch under the table and get the job over with without going anywhere at all?” I ask, running a hand down his body and hooking it under his belt.

“You’re so bad, Nell.”

“The worst,” I agree.

BRANT

She looks so beautiful. I could stare at her every damn day and it’s like I’m being eaten alive by beauty. Maybe that could be the name of my next photo series: Eaten Alive. All the photos could just be of her, on and on and on.

“Babe, I know everyone’s all busy and they want me to take photos of all of you soon—the graduates, you included, sans me—but I have something I want to show you.”

Nell lifts her eyebrows. “Oh yeah? Is this a euphemism for wanting to show me your big dong in Clayton’s upstairs man cave?”

“Nope.” I reach out my hand. “Come with me, my lady.”

“Mistress of darkness,” she corrects me, to which I laugh. None of my terms of endearment sit well with her, but damn, that one thing I said the night she nearly burned down the End Of Year Showcase, she clings to it like a cliff.

I take her into the house, which is considerably quieter, what with everyone out in the yard, then we go up the curved staircase. There’s a big, beautiful couch by a giant window that overlooks the backyard, and it’s to that couch that I lead her.

I sit down first, then turn her with a little pirouette move before seating her on my lap. She smiles, suppressing a giggle, then hooks her arms around my neck.

“Now what?” she prompts me, curious.

I bring my camera up into her lap, and the screen flashes bright for us both to see. I start scrolling back.

“Showing me the graduation pics from this morning?” she asks me. “What is it? Did you catch Dessie and Clayton behind the curtains or something?”

“Nope.”

She chuckles, then waits patiently as I finally arrive at the correct photos. The moment they show up on the screen, Nell’s face changes. She tilts her head, taken. “Oh. These … These are from …”

“Westwood Light,” I finish for her.

There’s a photo of three of the kids playing with cars, using various stacked books and turned-over building blocks and a shoe as obstacles in their little roadmap.

I push my thumb. There’s a photo of a girl with brown hair whose forehead is screwed up in concentration as she adds a block to the top of a very tall stack she’s trying to keep balanced.

Another push of my thumb. The backside of two of the kids staring out the window at the street, a boy and a girl. The boy has his hands pressed to the glass, the girl has her hands linked behind her back, picking at her nails.

“Brant, these are beautiful,” she murmurs. “I wish the world could see them.”

“The world will.” She looks at me, mystified. “Well, at least the city will,” I amend with a little shrug. “You know Lori Turlington? She’s the owner of—”

“I know Lori,” she cuts me off, her eyes wide, already anticipating excitedly where I’m headed. “What about her?”

“She has contacts at several of the biggest newspapers nationwide. She also has a friend who works with a major art publication, though it’s not certain yet if my photos will be seen in that one, but …”

“Oh my god. Are you kidding? She’s hooking you up??”

“Nell, will ya let me finish??” I retort teasingly, poking her boob with my finger. She swats it away with a laugh. “Yes. That’s the crux of my news. Lori is giving me a platform to show my series of photos, which I called For The Children. But there’s more.”

“More?”

I steel myself for her reaction. I’ve been sitting on this news all day ever since Lori gave me the phone call this morning. I breathe in deep, then let it all out on my camera. “They’re also writing a story about them. An article, I guess you could say. It’s going to feature the kids, Westwood Light, and … how a person in the community with a heart can help these children.”

“Oh, Brant.”

“Donations. Major ones that could help turn their lives around—more so than just providing food and a roof. This story is going to be seen by so many people, Nell. This story—”

She interrupts me with a forceful kiss. Every damn thing in the world between us seems to be poured into this one, potent kiss. She damn near sucks my face off with her unapologetic fervor.

“Brant,” she murmurs when she pulls away, her face still close to mine, her green eyes flashing. “Your heart is bottomless. Your soul is so rich and so real, I didn’t even see it. I’ve been so trained all my life in looking for the falsehoods, in creating things that don’t already exist … I’ve become blind to the things that do. You are no fantasy, Brant. You are the real thing. You’re beautiful and your kind and …”

“Please don’t forget to mention my wiener,” I cut in. “He gets really sad when you leave him out.”

She growls at me frustratedly, then gets in my face and goes on. “You’re so amazing that you can’t even take my damn compliment, can you? Always deflecting them away with humor and jokes …”

“My dick is no joke.”

“And neither is your heart.” Nell presses her lips together. “Brant.”

I find I can’t make any more humor, so struck by the way she’s looking at me right now. I want to capture this moment and put it into a bottle and drink a tiny bit of it every day, just so I can preserve the emotion that’s so captured me right here on this couch with the woman I love.

Then I realize I can. “Hold that thought,” I murmur, lifting up my camera.

“I love you so damn much, Brant.”

I lift my big ol’ complicated device to my face, then give her my signature cocky smirk. “Right back at ya, babe.”

Aim. Focus.

Flash.

The end.

Continue for a sneak peek of With These Hands,

Book 3 in the College Obsession Romance series.

Thank you deeply for going to art school with me! If this is the first time we’ve been together, I want to welcome you to my brain, and I hope you consider checking out some of my other work!

Now that you’ve experienced Brant and Nell, go ahead and turn the page for a peek into the third book, With These Hands, where we will join both Dmitri and Sam in their final year at Klangburg University. Our emo bisexual creative writer and our blossoming deadpan pianist struggle with their respective loves—and it may take more than just a witty story or a clever song to figure themselves out.

This third book will include a bit of MMF, but it is not the primary focus of the novel.

Join my Facebook group, Daryl’s Doorway, to hang out with other cool readers like yourself and be the first to catch exclusive sneak peeks of my upcoming releases: www.facebook.com/groups/DarylsDoorway

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Music has been a passion of mine since before I could type words. Check out my original music, remixes, and full soundtracks inspired by my various book series: http://darylbanner.bandcamp.com

Turn the page for a sneak peek into With These Hands, book 3 in the College Obsession Romance series.

With These Hands

(A College Obsession Romance #3)

© 2016 Daryl Banner

DMITRI

“Lower.”

I shift my weight a bit.

“Mmph. Lower.”

I adjust even more, grunting slightly in the effort.

“Lower.”

I suppress a shriek of pain as my calf decides to cramp up.

“Lower, Dmitri. Lower.”

“Seriously,” I mumble under my breath, “if I go any lower, I’m going to be fucking your knees.”

“What was that?”

“Is this fine?” I ask, louder.

Riley grunts in frustration. “It’s just that you’re breathing on my face,” she explains.

I stop fucking her. “Would you rather I not breathe?”

“Don’t stop!” she protests.

I resume, despite the cramp. I think I’m acquiring a throb in my head to match the one in my calf. “You want me to go down on you?”

“Ugh. Don’t ask. Just do it.”

“Alright.” I drag my mouth down her body, then recoil when I reach her pussy. “Um …”

“What?” she blurts, annoyed.

“It smells like me down here.”

“So?”

“There’s a whole lot of me going on down here.”

“Dmitri, are you gonna do me or not? I have a class in an hour.”

Well, I’ve had worse sexual experiences, like that time I jerked so hard that my balls went numb.

I plummet in with abandon, my tongue darting out, running the flat of it up her pussy lips. She moans her approval up above, which encourages me despite the offputting taste. I grip her thighs for support, teasing her with my tongue.

“Good, good,” she moans. “Yes, mmm … yes.”

“Mmm,” I moan, casting deliberate vibrations into her.

Her muscles tense in response.

Then I get an idea. I jut out my tongue and start to fuck her with it, pushing and pulling with a deep, steady rhythm. Her whole body rocks with me, pushed and pulled by my strength.

I hear a bang, then a grunt. I hear another bang, another grunt.

“Fuck, Dmitri! Stop!”

I rise up from between her legs. “What?”

“My head! Fucking! Hit! Your headboard!”

“Sorry?”

“Just go back to fucking me, please.”

I climb back up from the abyss of Hell—er, I mean, her pussy—and I bring my semi-hard dick to it. I give it a few hearty strokes, trying to revive it back to a fully hard state.

“Seriously?” she murmurs, watching.

“Sorry. I got a lot on my mind. What with trying not to breathe. And with giving my girlfriend a concussion. And—”

Riley’s off the bed in the next instant, gripping her pants with fury and pulling them up so hard, I hear something tear. Then she pulls on her bra, her top, and tucks her shoes under an arm, heading for the door with vigor.

“Riley?” I call out. “Where are you—?”

I hear the door to the apartment slam shut with such force, the walls seem to shake.

To my utter dissatisfaction, I find Eric lying on the couch when I make it out of the bedroom. He has his earbuds in and he’s staring at a tablet, so presumably he didn’t hear anything. Oh, who am I kidding? Eric is a worm. He hears every damn thing that happens between these walls.

I attempt to ignore his existence and the too-tight maroon pants he’s wearing, ambling to the kitchen to make myself a snack before class. Staring at the pantry, I can’t think of a single thing I want to eat. I smack my lips, still tasting her on them, which ruins my appetite.

“Just end it already,” moans Eric.

I smirk and give him side-eye. “Riley and I are fine. She’s just … particular sometimes.”

“The bedroom isn’t a place for particularity.”

“Says the homo with the revolving door for a bedroom. Dude, get your sneakers off the couch, please,” I complain.

He ignores me, swiping something away on his tablet.

Just when I return to the pantry, he adds, “Riley adores me.”

I roll my eyes. “Of course she does. She’s like … a gay magnet. And I’m sure you adore her. She sends every gay guy she meets your way.”

“Jealous?”

“Hardly.” I decide on a cup of Easy Mac, then feel my stomach roil disagreeably.

Maybe the trouble is, my mind is so preoccupied with the fifty-thousand word story I’m supposed to finish by the end of the year that my own life is crumbling to pieces from neglect. That’s what happens when I’m trudging through the creative fire. Everything and everyone squats in a distant back burner position while my mind works and wrestles to create a world within my brain, a world I somehow have to convey with just words. Maybe Riley is acting out because she senses my withdrawal, not understanding that it isn’t her who’s causing my distance; it’s my agonizing writer’s block.

I think.

SAM

The cordless dorm phone rings on the desk in front of me. I barely hear it because of the glorious musical magic that’s coming from my boyfriend Tomas’s bassoon and his infinitely skillful fingers.

Just kidding. I’m dying a slow death. “Hello?” I answer the phone.

“Hey.”

It’s Dmitri. My insides sink with relief. “Hey, Dmitri.”

“How’re you doing?” he asks over a coarse C# that Tomas hits.

“I’m suffering in Hell,” I answer.

“What?”

“I said everything is swell.”

“Oh. Great, cool. Um … yeah. I’m sorta in a rut right now. I thought maybe you could help me sort through it.”

My posture straightens. I bite the inside of my cheek, listening.

“See,” he goes on, “Riley’s and my anniversary is coming up. And, like, I want to do something really cool for her. The thing is … well, I mean, she’s just not a fan of anything. And anything I think of, I can already hear her complaining about it, or asking why I didn’t do something else, or—”

“Who’s that?” cuts in Tomas, stopping his bassoon-playing.

I press the phone to my chest. “It’s Dmitri. You can keep playing.”

I can’t believe I just told him to keep playing.

“Alright,” he grunts, then hits a low G that turns my stomach over.

“You’re probably busy,” mutters Dmitri. “I’d normally call Brant about this sort of stuff, or shoot Clayton some texts, but—”

“I wouldn’t recommend either of them for advice on peculiar women. What about Eric?” I suggest.

“Last person I’d want to ask is him,” moans Dmitri. “I really miss his ex-boyfriend. He was so laidback. Eric was such a better person around him. Why are gay guys so adored by women? Maybe Riley should just date him instead.”

“I know what you mean,” I say back. “I have two gay uncles on my dad’s side of the family and everyone adores them without question. Well, except my grandma Lou, but it’s only because she caught Uncle Ty doing his husband in the laundry room. He loves telling that story every Christmas if you get enough eggnog in him.”

“Remind me to spend Christmas with you,” teases Dmitri.

My heart flutters at that statement. Or maybe it’s the abhorrently long note Tomas is playing right now and my heart is trying to thump its way out of my chest to run away screaming.

“Anyway. Wanna do lunch tomorrow or something?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say right away. “Can Tomas come along? He’s going to get crabby if I don’t invite him too.”

Tomas stops playing. “What?”

“I said we’re going to get crabs,” I tell him, cupping a hand over the phone. “Lunch tomorrow. Dmitri and I. Want to come?”

Tomas’s face recoils. “I’m allergic to shellfish.”

“Oh.”

He returns to playing, his tiny lips wrapping around the end of the bassoon. His eyes squint and he blows out a B flat.

“So it’s just us?” Dmitri confirms.

“Yep. See you then. I’d better, uh … get to finishing up this thing I got before class tomorrow.”

“Sure. Thanks, Sam. Can always count on you.” Then, he hangs up.

I stare at the phone for a long while, considering my situation. I fight an urge to call Dessie, who is always the first person I try to get ahold of when I’m in any sort of mental fix. She never sounds annoyed or put off by my calls, but I feel like I’m annoying her nonetheless. I guess it’s my own insecurity.

I’m so absorbed in the phone, I don’t even realize Tomas stopped playing and he’s at the door saying something to me. “What?” I blurt.

“I’m going down to the cafeteria to get a bite. Hungry?”

I purse my lips in thought, then shake my head.

“Love you,” he says sweetly, then closes the door behind him.

I move from my desk and sit cross-legged in the middle of the room on the rough, ugly grey carpet. There is no music playing. There are no voices or instruments filling the air. There’s not even the stirring of the air conditioning, or the hum of a computer, or the buzz of a TV. I’m surrounded by brilliant, beautiful, wonderful silence.

And sometimes, in a rare moment, it’s just this kind of utter silence a musician like me needs to feel any true peace.

Want to read the rest of Dmitri & Sam’s story?

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Continue on to find out how it all began between Dessie & Clayton in Read My Lips, which includes a brand new previously unreleased bonus epilogue!

by

Daryl Banner

Read My Lips
A College Obsession Romance
#1

Copyright © 2016 by Daryl Banner
Published by Frozenfyre Publishing
All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including but not limited to being stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, groups, businesses, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover Artist : Kari Ayasha at Cover To Cover Designs
Interior Design : Daryl Banner

Read My Lips
(A College Obsession Romance #1)

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

Epilogue

Other Work By Daryl Banner

Bonus Epilogue

First and foremost, thank you, the reader, for picking up this book and giving it a try. I hope you enjoy getting to know Dessie & Clayton.

I’m a proud alumni of the University of Houston with a degree in Theatre and Psychology, and I want to dedicate this book to all the other actors, techies, designers, and dreamers who created art with me and shared in some cool-ass experiences during my time there.

While writing the second half of this novel, I experienced the very sudden loss of a friend who was also a fellow Theatre U of H alumni. His name was Timmy Wood. He was a hilarious and caring comedic actor whom everyone knew and loved—and I do mean everyone. Timmy was involved in freakin’ everything. He was always in a play or working on some new project. Simply put, he was a creative machine who just couldn’t be stopped. Every memory I had with him rushed forth as I finished this book. So I dedicate this to you, Timmy. Tell Doc, Lanford, and Jenny hi for me, and I hope you’re all partying hard up there!

And to my witty, proudly deaf professor with whom I took four eye-opening semesters of American Sign Language, and to the friends—both hearing and not—who I met along the way, this is for you too.

With so much love & Happy Reading,

Daryl

DESSIE

I went to college to find myself. I didn’t expect to find him.

My whole life was a delicate, artful plan set in place by my delicate, artful family. From my mother, the famous actor of stage and film, to my world-renowned lighting designer father and insufferably perfect sister, I was doomed to a life in the Theatre spotlight.

And the Lebeau family name was forever tainted with average, unremarkable, untalented me.

After graduating high school, I enjoyed a few years of disappointing my parents. Thirty-three bad auditions and two private academies later found me begging them for one last favor: a normal college experience.

And it was at that totally normal small-town Texas college that I met him, the muscular, tatted bad-boy who would soon become my obsession.

His eyes smoldered me with just one look. His touch awakened the woman inside me. His breath drew out the inspiration deep in my soul that I did not know was there.

And through his lips, his perfect, plush, kissable lips, I would find my voice at last … the voice that would someday fill a New York City stage, the voice that would set me apart from my tragically perfect family, the voice that would finally break me free …

If only he could hear a word of it.

DESSIE

“I can’t hear you!”

The noise that fills the courtyard of the Quad is deafening. Families bustle about carrying belongings to the dorms. A group of frat boys play Frisbee, their shirtless torsos sweaty and lean. A guy shouts orders from a window up above to his parents below, who can’t make out what he’s saying. A circle of girls chant some sorority thing over and over nearby. Two dudes who look like they haven’t bathed since Daylight Savings began stand on the rim of a fountain with guitars as they serenade the masses, their lyrics lost in the cacophony of shouting and laughter.

And standing before all that mess is little excited me, a heavy bag hanging at my side, a massive case of luggage-on-wheels by my feet, and a phone pressed to my fast-reddening ear.

“What? I can’t hear you!” I shout again. “Mother?”

The call cuts off. I stow my phone away in a pocket. Besides, the whole reason I’m here is to get away from my nauseatingly arty, weird, fame-whoring family. “Please,” I begged my mother two months ago when she was between photo shoots. “All I want is a normal college experience. I don’t want the expensive schools and the private lessons and the pretentious crap.” To that, she hiccupped, raised her martini glass, and sweetly replied, “Doll, the Theatre world is pretention.” It was my father who caved and said he knew a person down in Texas who could pull a string or two to get me into a school this late in the summer.

And here I am—and excitedly so. This is it! I only have a battlefield of frat boys and Frisbees to wade through before I’m safe in the comfortable confines of my very own dorm room.

“What do you mean I don’t get my very own dorm room?” I ask half an hour later when I’ve finally made it to the front of the line at the reception desk.

The woman stares at me over the thick rims of her glasses. She’s clearly had a day.

“I’m supposed to have my own place,” I explain, all too aware of the line of anxiously waiting people behind me. “A condo, some upperclassmen suite, or … or my own dorm room at the very least. I spoke with a Betsy … or Bettie? Bridget? And she said I would get my own room. I’m sure it’s just a mistake.”

“Priority living arrangements are reserved for upperclassmen. Not for incoming freshmen.”

“But I’m not an incoming freshman, Donna,” I explain, trying my best to lean over the counter so that I don’t have to shout. These people should have offices; the whole line can hear every word of our little chat, I’m sure. “I’m a transferring sophomore.”

“It’s Diana. Are you new to Klangburg University? Then you’re a freshman in our eyes. Current students get priority. If you wanted solitude, you should have rented an apartment on Periwinkle Avenue.”

“In this neighborhood??” I hiss back. My bag has become so heavy, I let it drop to the germ-infested floor. “Listen, I … I really don’t mean to cause a big scene, but—”

“Of course you do. You’re an actress.” She slides a key and a slip of paper across the counter. “Theatre major, right? I could smell the drama a mile away. You’re in West Hall, room 202. Your roommate’s a Music major. Name, Samantha Hart. Go make yourself a best friend.”

A Music major? Great. I’ll have to contend with a roommate who gives blowjobs to an oboe all day long. Is the AC in here broken? I pull my hair over a shoulder and off of my neck as beads of sweat populate my forehead. First lesson: Texas weather is Hell’s weather. “She sounds lovely. Listen, Diana, I—”

“Oh! ‘Listen,’ you say. What a novel concept.” Diana the Desk Demon snorts. “You keep telling me to listen, but it’s you who doesn’t hear a damn thing I say. The rooms were assigned months ago. You even got your room assignment in the mail.”

“I didn’t. I haven’t gotten any…” But even as I say the words, I picture my controlling mother pulling the mail from the box and not giving a care in the world about anything addressed to me. I bet it’s even my mom’s email that’s in the school database, not mine, because she controls everything about my life. “I understand your desire to run away to a faraway ‘normal’ college,” mother told me this morning over cups of peppermint tea, just before I left for the airport. “You’re scared of New York, doll. You’re a guppy in a world full of sharks. Your sister—now she’s a shark.”

If there’s anything worse than being called a guppy, it’s being compared to my insufferably perfect sister Celia—or Cece, as she insists on being called. She gets cast in leading roles. She’s as beautiful as a princess and annoyingly well-read. She always has handsome, adorable, sexy boyfriends at her side. It’s not that I’m jealous; I love my sister. But sometimes I wish I was the one who scored a leading role now and then. I wish I was the one with a hot guy hooked to my arm at some gala my parents drag me to.

I’m not the one guys stare at. It’s always her.

Surprisingly, my sister has nothing to do with my current predicament. Maybe my roommate will turn out to be cool, or have parents who bring us home-cooked delicacies, sparing us the frights from the campus kitchens. What do normal college kids eat? Maybe we’ll have lots of Easy Mac and Ramen. On second thought, that sounds like a carb nightmare.

“Thank you,” I murmur to my new best friend, Diana the Desk Demon, and take the key.

“It’s been a pleasure,” she mutters back, sounding like it’s been anything but. “There’s a freshman mixer in the courtyard at seven. Good day.”

I’m not a freshman! But I keep the words to myself and lift my bag once again, heading for the door. The second I’m outside, three shirtless boys nearly topple me over in their effort to claim a rogue Frisbee, which I end up catching midair to prevent it from giving me an unintended nose job. I hand the disc to the nearest one, trying not to stare at his lean, sweaty torso. Pulling my luggage along, I cut through the noise to the West Hall, a slate-grey building in the shape of an L that forms one of the four corners of the Quad and seems to be the liveliest of them all. Its heavy door bursts open the moment I approach, releasing four loud freshmen and a worried set of parents. I wonder if they’re taking bets on which of their children will contract dorm room herpes first.

I step inside only to mourn an onslaught of stairs before me. Enlisting the strength and dexterity from my basic combat training in New York (or rather, stage combat training), I choreograph and execute a one-woman routine of dragging my suitcase up five steps, sliding it across the narrow landing, then up eleven more. Arriving at the second floor, I squeeze past a crowd of guys guffawing at a spilled box of soda cans two paces from my room, 202. They’re daring each other to open a can when I make it to my door, ready to reveal my college dorm room to my eager eyes.

The door swings open, revealing two beds, two dressers, and two desks. The smell is hundred-year-old musk and even older mildew. The bare walls, pocked with scratches and holes, are the color of a rash my sister got once that she made me swear never to tell anyone about. How adorable. The bathroom appears to be a small chamber of doom that connects to the neighboring dorm, suite-style.

I smile. No one in the world would recognize it as one, but it’s there. My college experience is going to have to include sharing a bathroom with three other girls I’ve never met. In a bleak room that’s just short of padded walls.

I fight a rare urge to call my mother and demand that she give me a bigger allowance and allow me the mercy of getting an apartment like any other twenty-two year old adult. Then, I gently remind myself that this is what I wanted. No privilege. No personal chefs. No driver who takes me around town. No ritz and glitz. No fancy cocktails. Just a fixed allowance and meal plan like every other student.

For once, a normal life among normal people doing normal, college-y things.

I have a sudden craving for this gourmet lobster bisque that only my mother’s chef Julian makes.

Focus, Dessie! Piece by piece, I unpack my suitcase and hang each article of clothing in the tiny closet, which is a quarter the size of mine at home, leaving one half of it empty for my mystery roommate. Then, I sit on the bed I’ve made up with my new sheets and feather pillow I brought from home. It creaks happily under my weight. I listen to the noise in the hallway of families moving their kids into their dorms, the sound of laughter and banter and shuffling furniture and boxes reaching my ears and vibrating the walls.

My parents told me to call them when I was all moved in. I prefer that they presume I’m lost or dead. So caught up in mother’s performance in London next month, I doubt they’ll even give me a thought until well into my father’s fourth glass of chardonnay when he finally looks up from his lighting design charts to ask, “Did we hear from Dessie yet?”

It’s already almost seven, so I push myself off the bed, freshen up in the bathroom mirror, and spritz myself with a light scent. I pray there’s more than just freshmen at this courtyard mixer. When I open my door, I’m greeted with the sight of the room across the hall, its door propped open. Scarves of varying shades of purple adorn the ceiling in bilious clouds of silk, giving the room the look of a 16th century gypsy’s tent. A lamp burns orange on the desk within my view, which is littered in glass trinkets that pick up the light. It is night and day from the starkness of my room to the glamour of hers. Beads line the closet door, and they rattle when the room’s occupant moves through them carrying a thin book pinched open in one hand and a bottle of lemon vitamin water in the other.

She turns, spotting me. “Hi,” all eighty-nothing pounds of her says lamely, her tight braids dancing with her every step as her needle eyes focus on me. She stands at her doorway. “You’re living in 202?”

“It seems to be my tragic situation,” I admit. She’s reading a play, I realize with a closer look. She’s a Theatre major, too. Befriend her, damn it! I give a subtle nod to her décor. “I like what you’ve done with your—”

“I have a lot of reading to do, if you don’t mind.” She gives me a curt nod, then taps the rim of her playbook with the closed end of her vitamin water.

“As Bees In Honey Drown?” I note, catching the title off of the cover. “I played Alexa in Brendan Iron’s production in New York last spring.”

“New York, you say?” A light flashes in her eyes. “You don’t look like a freshman. Are you a transfer? New York? Where in New York?”

Now I’m suddenly worth her time. It’s amazing, the power of a simple name-drop. I discreetly leave out the fact that it was less of a production in New York and more of a botched audition. “I’m a transfer from Rigby & Claudio’s Acting, Dan—”

“Acting, Dancing, and Musical Academy,” she finishes for me. The whites of her eyes are ablaze, deepening the rich color of her smooth, mahogany skin. “And … you transferred here? What brought you from there to … to here?”

A fierce vision comes forth of my former director, Claudio Vergas himself, as he hollers at my indignant face, flecks of his morning coffee dusting the stage floor between us. It was the first time he’d ever lost his temper enough to throw his favorite mug. I can still hear the porcelain as it shattered against the lip of the stage. I didn’t even flinch. I lifted my chin and called him a stiff-necked, pretentious, know-it-all panty-wad. It was not my best moment.

“Artistic differences,” I answer vaguely.

“New York,” she moans, all her childhood dreams of being in the limelight painted across her glassy eyes. “I’m Victoria,” my new best friend says, shoving the script under an arm and extending her hand. “Victoria Li. Third year Theatre major. Don’t call me Vicki. I have violent reactions to being called Vicki. I’ll cut a bitch. But not you. Unless you call me Vicki.”

My phone in one hand, I accept her handshake with my free one. It’s cold as ice. “I’m Dessie.”

“Great name. I love Desiree Peters. Her portrayal of Elphaba on the last national tour of Wicked had me in tears. I have her autograph on my CD soundtrack and the playbill which I, of course, framed. I had to stand by the stage door afterwards for forty-eight minutes in ten degree weather. Worth it.”

“It’s not short for Desiree,” I clarify. “It’s short for … for Desdemona.”

Victoria stares at me. “As in Othello’s Desdemona?”

Hurray for having Theatre parents. “That would be the one. Anyway, it’s almost seven already, so I was going to head to the mixer. Are you going?”

“It’s not until eight,” she tells me, leaning on her doorframe and taking a sip of her lemon water. She’s suddenly so much friendlier than she was a second ago. “How’d you hear about it?”

“I was told it’s at seven. Well, according to Diane the Desk Demon,” I add with a roll of my eyes.

“No, no. Eight o’clock at the theater.”

I lift a brow. “There’s a Theatre one?”

“You thought I meant the fishbowl? No, honey. You’re coming with me,” she states. “You’re new here, and you don’t want to get lost on this big ol’ campus after dark, end up somewhere on fraternity row, and get robbed … or worse. Can’t trust a frat boy for anything. It would not be a lovely way to spend your first evening here.”

“It’s really that bad here?”

“This campus is the pillow on the bed between two bitchy ex-lovers: the rich neighborhood full of snobs to the north, and the have-nots and gunshots to the south. Campus security is a joke, but it does exist. Remember, safety in numbers! So, we’ll leave in thirty. Hey, where’s your roomie?” she asks suddenly, craning her neck to get a look.

“Not here yet, I guess.” What the hell kind of crime-ridden so-called normal college did my father send me to down here in Texas? “School starts the day after tomorrow, so she might come in tonight, or—”

“Or not at all,” she points out. “Sometimes, there’s a last minute transfer or change of plans. My friend Lena had a room all to herself last semester.”

“Don’t get my hopes up.”

My phone buzzes. I look down to see my mother’s headshot staring up at me, all glamorous and ready to blink at the flashing cameras. I slap the screen to my chest, unwilling to chance whether or not Victoria knows who she is. I’m not ready for a firestorm to be caused by anyone figuring out whose daughter I am.

“Mommy and Daddy?”

“Something like that,” I admit, still chokeholding my phone into submission.

“You were spared the company of my parents by about five minutes. No one wants to see a black woman and a tiny Chinese man arguing.”

“Oh, you’re half-Chinese?”

The phone keeps vibrating against my chest. I continue to politely suffocate it.

“He’s my stepdad, but I call him Dad since they married when I was two. My bio dad took off.” The phone stops buzzing. She notices and offers me a wistful smile. “Looks like you’re safe for now. See you in thirty, Des.”

She disappears into her room. A green voicemail notification pops up on the screen of my phone. I swipe it out of existence and, inspired suddenly, I text Randy, my one and only friend that I kept in touch with from that creatively stifling elitist academy. He’s a deliriously gay playwright my age, who I desperately wish I could’ve brought to Texas with me. He might be the only regret I have about leaving that cruel, snobby school. I text him, asking how he’s doing and why I haven’t heard from him. Then, I stare at the screen and excitedly wait for him to answer.

I’m still waiting half an hour later when Victoria knocks on my door to go.

The walk is far less scary than she made it out to be. From the dorms, the School of Theatre is just a stroll past a large courtyard and fountain, through a tunnel over which the Art building squats, beside the University Center itself, and around the tall, glass-windowed School of Music where I imagine the corpse of my mystery roommate to be buried.

The School of Theatre is a giant red block of a building with a three-story tower jutting out from its rear like the tail of a threatened scorpion. The front is a row of glass teeth, punctuated at either end by double doors that read: Theatre, Dancing, Excellence.

As we approach the doors, for some reason I can hear the bottles of my parents’ champagne popping off at some ritzy cast party in my mind, mocking me. I hear mother’s cold words to me all over again, the ones she said when I first came home after quitting Rigby & Claudio’s: “You’re simply not ready for the stage, doll. You’ll find your spotlight someday.” I hear my father’s: “A good actor listens before she speaks. A better actor only listens.” Whatever the hell that means.

When Victoria doesn’t lead us through the front glass doors, I make an observation. “The lights are all out. Do we have to wait for a member of faculty?”

“Oh. No, honey. This isn’t a faculty-organized thing. The seniors do it at the start of every year. There will be booze. I’m fairly sure that some faculty know about it, but they pretend not to. Only certain underclassmen are allowed to attend.”

“Which underclassmen?”

She gives me a knowing smirk. “The ones that matter.”

The side door is propped open, a pool of light touching it from the parking lot. There’s a guy leaning against the wall amidst a cloud of smoke generated from that cancer stick in his fingers. Shaggy haired, skeletal, and looking like he lives under a sheet of cardboard on Bleecker street, he regards me with heavy-lidded eyes and a nod. I’m about to greet him when Victoria steers me into the side door and whispers, “That’s Arnie. He’s a prop rat, hates life, and I’m pretty sure he’s stoned out of his mind twenty-five hours a day.”

The side door empties into a small lounging area, which is entirely unoccupied. We continue to follow the light down a hallway and into what I take to be a rehearsal space, which looks like half a basketball court minus the baskets. Across the room, a pair of double doors empty into the wings of the stage.

“Wow, this is new,” she murmurs, our footsteps slapping against the hard floor as we go. “Party must be in the main auditorium.”

“Are we going to get in trouble for this?”

She answers my question with a shrug, then bursts with energy at the sight of a girlfriend, cutting across the stage to greet her and leaving me entirely on my own. The darkened wings of the stage, framed by long red curtains that hang down from the heavens, are littered with racks of unhung lights, coiled cable, and a big machine on wheels that looks like some sound system from the 90’s. Onstage, there are clusters of students chatting and laughing, only a spray of bleak white light coloring them. In the audience seating, there’s a row or two with a handful of other people kicking back and chatting. Somewhere in the aisle—though it’s hard to see with the bright light in my face—there appears to be a shirtless guy dancing, egged on by whooping friends nearby. Victoria claimed this little theatrical shindig started at eight, but from the looks of it, it started much sooner.

“You’re a new one.”

I turn toward the loose, gruff voice. Standing next to me is a short bald man with a beard and sparkling eyes. His body is stout and muscular with a belly that pulls at his green, plaid shirt. His beard, red and trimmed, sits like a rug against his pale, freckled skin.

“Hi,” I return with a smile.

“Have a beer.” He offers a second cup to me I didn’t realize he was holding. I accept it, but don’t dare take a sip. “You look too old to be a freshman.”

Quite the charmer. “Thanks.”

“Freddie,” he says, extending his free hand. I shake it and regret it immediately, his hand being wet as frog skin. “You’re an actress, obviously.”

He didn’t even ask for my name. “Obviously,” I agree, looking around for someone to rescue me.

“I’m directing a play in the black box. Goes up in November. You should totally audition for it.”

“Should I?” Where the hell did Victoria run off to?

“You’d be perfect for, like, all the parts. Every one. Even the dudes. You’re amazing.”

I step back and realize I’m a step from falling off the stage. Close call. That would be a lovely way to meet everyone: with broken limbs and a concussion.

“How old are you? Twenty-two? Twenty-three?” he asks, his words slurring.

“I’m an actress,” I answer. “I’m all the ages.”

Freddie laughs a little too hard at that. “Holy fuck, you’re funny, too!”

Out of the shadows, Victoria appears at my side, her eyes flashing brightly. “Dessie!”

Saved. “Hey there, Victoria! You, um … wanted to show me something?” I urge her, hoping she picks up what I’m putting down.

She’s smart as a whip and does. “Totally. Excuse us, Freddie.” She pulls me to the steps leading down to the seats while Freddie gives a sad, wordless moan of a goodbye.

“You ditched me,” I hiss at her.

“Sorry, hadn’t seen Marcella all summer. The bitch thinks she can take the role of Emily. She should go for the stage manager. We’re sorta stage sisters,” she explains, “doomed to audition for all the same parts.”

“Stage manager? That’s a tech position.”

“No, no. The acting part. The ‘Stage Manager’ role in the play Our Town. That’s the first fall production. Catch up, Dessie!” She stretches out her arms. “Erik! Other Eric! Ellis! Stanley!” She embraces each of her friends one by one, who stand in a cluster at the end of the fifth row. “This is my hall mate Dessie,” she says for a modest introduction, then adds, “She’s from New York,” in a cocky aside.

“Hi,” I murmur, then lift the cup that Freddie had given me. “Anyone like some roofied beer?”

“Have you tried it?” Victoria asks excitedly.

“I’d rather not. As I implied, it’s probably roofied, and it smells like cat pee.”

The one she just called “Other Eric”, slender and olive-skinned, gently takes the cup from my hand. “It’s homebrewed cat pee.” With a shy smile, he adds, “It’s my homebrewed cat pee.”

“Oh.” My face flushes at once. “I’m s-sorry, Other Eric. I just panicked. That bushy orange-bearded guy gave me a drink and started the whole director’s couch thing on me and I just—”

“Freddie.” Other Eric shrugs. “He’s not a bad guy. He’s just Irish.”

“I bet this auditorium is, like, nothing compared to what you’re used to in New York,” says a girl from the floor, her jet black hair choppy and erratic, and her eyes bleeding dark eyeliner like tears.

“Actually, the theaters in New York are pretty small,” I admit. This one’s surprisingly big and almost two-tiered, an aisle dividing the back six rows of the house from the front. I guess everything is bigger in Texas; they have more space to play with than cramped-up, built-on-top-of-itself New York City.

“Smaller ones are easier to fill,” notes Other Eric. “We never sell out the house.”

Victoria grips my arm suddenly. “She studied at Rigby & Claudio’s. This chick’s been places!”

“So, you’re here for the grad program?” asks the girl from the floor.

“No. I’m a sophomore. I left that school after one year. It … It wasn’t a right fit for me.” Inspired by all the attention, I let my mouth run off. “An arts school in New York really … isn’t all that. I learned nothing I didn’t already know. All the students think they know everything.” I can’t shut up. “The professors are failed actors, bitter and blaming their failures on you. Half the time, it was me schooling them.” The resentment pours out of me like soured wine. “Claudio Vergas … is a prick.” I feel shivers up my arms, just saying that one harsh word. “And Rigby? You’d be lucky to even see him once a semester. Don’t get me started on the fools who run the dance department.”

“Please,” Victoria urges me, “get started on the fools who run the dance department.” That inspires a laugh from the others.

“It’s all so pretentious!” I go on. I’ve craved this release. My parents wouldn’t listen. I need to get this out so badly. “They make you pay so much money just to fund their own shoddy off-off-off Broadway productions—and they’re never hits. They had a whole play once where the entire set was constructed from just … chairs. Chairs stacked together to form a bed, to form a wall, to form … a bigger chair.”

“That sounds kinda cool,” murmurs goth girl from the floor.

“It wasn’t,” I assure her. “Then, during a grueling five-hour rehearsal of this weird, modernized, full-of-itself, leather-daddy rendition of Romeo & Juliet last spring, I found myself realizing—”

Then, my words catch in my throat at the sight in front of me.

From backstage emerges a man whose face catches the stage light so potently, his creamy skin glows.

I hear my own breathing in my ears, nothing else.

My heart stutters.

His killer face is carved from stone, sharp and dusted with a hint of five o’clock shadow. Even from the seats, his fuck-me eyes glisten like chips of glass.

I swallow hard.

I want to tangle my fingers in his messy brown hair, which casts a shadow down his forehead.

Then, there’s his body. Damn. His magnificent, big body. I have seen countless stunning male actors, but instantly forget all of them in the presence of him.

And I’m still trying to finish my damn sentence. “And … And I found myself realizing …”

He wears his heather-grey tee like it was hand-stitched to fit his every delicious contour, from his strong broad shoulders to his thick biceps—I can already picture him lifting me with just one arm.

“And …” I’m still trying to make words. “And I found myself …”

His jeans, light blue and torn at the knees, hang low on his hips, the sight of which guts me and sends me down a path of naughty thoughts.

“And …”

“Go on,” Victoria encourages me.

He’s standing now at the table with the beer, and the firmness of his ass is a one-man show all on its own. I want to grab it or tear his pants into shreds. He’s turning me into a damn animal.

I am never like this. I’m so ashamed of myself.

“And I found myself,” I finish. Maybe that was the sentence I was looking for all along. “You know what? I think I will try that beer.”

“Drank it,” says Eric apologetically, wiggling the empty cup.

“I planned to get one that wasn’t roofied,” I joke distractedly. “I’ll … I’ll be right back.”

I turn and walk up the steps to the stage. With each footstep, my nerves grow tighter and tighter. I don’t think I can do this. Seeing him at the table with his beer, I strongly consider changing my mind. This is so insanely out of character for me, I feel like a different person with each of my slow and slower footsteps, dragging my feet through a swamp of molasses. My thighs threaten to drop me to the stage floor in an embarrassing heap of limbs.

My sister does this so easily. She approaches the hottest guys like they should be lucky to share oxygen in her vicinity.

But this is my turn. She’s not here. I am.

One step at a time.

One breath at a time.

You’re just walking into an audition, except it’s ten billion times worse, and the casting director is the hottest guy you have ever seen. Suddenly, all I can hear are my own breaths, in and out. Then come my footsteps as I cross the stage, each slap of shoe against wood rattling my brain.

I draw so close, I bump into the table. He doesn’t seem to notice, turned away slightly and seeming to be trapped in a web of dark, bothersome thoughts. A tortured artist, I decide with a smirk. He’s a man of many mysteries. That’s okay. I’m mysterious, too.

Then I inhale, and that might be the greatest mistake of all. He smells amazing. The hint of some unnamed, mannish cologne invades my senses, its spicy subtleness intoxicating me. He smells clean and oddly comforting, like the way someone else’s home might smell—safe, inviting, yet unfamiliar.

I have to speak. I have to say something to get his attention. I can’t just be the ghost girl who lurks. I draw breath to say something, anything—and then nothing comes.

He has a cup of beer in his big, strong hand. He studies it pensively. This is your moment. No one else is around. You even have the perfect excuse: you’re new and you’re meeting people. Introduce yourself.

No better gift than right now; it’s why they call it the present.

“Hi,” I offer, using my sweetest audition voice.

He doesn’t even flinch. After too long a moment, he takes a sip of his beer, then stares into it like he’s disgusted with his own reflection. God, he looks so hot when he makes that face, scowling at absolutely nothing.

I try again. “I’m Dessie.” A beer is in my hand and I don’t even remember getting it. Its contents shake because my hands do. “I—I’m a transfer here. Second year. Are you an actor? You look like an actor.”

Still nothing. He even turns his head upstage, looking off as if something far more interesting than me caught his attention. Y’know, like a fly.

That’s when I notice the seriously sexy, dark tattoo running up the base of his thick neck, making me wonder what else he’s hiding under that tight shirt.

“Listen, I’m new here, and … and I’m just trying to meet people,” I go on, feeling more desperate and dumb by the second. I set my beer back down on the table. “It would be rather nice to talk to someone who actually acknowledges when he’s being—”

Then, the asshole walks away.

I watch, completely taken aback by his rudeness. It was clear as hell who I was talking to, wasn’t it? He had every opportunity to just simply tell me he wasn’t interested in getting to know me. Except, isn’t that the point of this damn Theatre mixer thing? To … mix?

“Prick,” I mutter at his back, drawing the attention of a couple girls at the other end of the table, but not from the guy to which the word was directed. I hope they didn’t hear me.

Or maybe I do. I suddenly, immediately, wholly don’t care about anything. I’ve been used to this my whole life. Cece gets told “yes” every day. My peers at Rigby & Claudio’s got all the praise while I sat back and wondered what the hell was wrong with me. I’m the outcast, the failure, the family joke.

I’m the guppy.

I abandon the stage, departing through the wing and the rehearsal room. In a matter of seconds, the School of Theatre is behind me and I’m tramping down the dark pathways back to my dorm, alone.

DESSIE

I don’t even know his name.

Yet there he stands in all his perfect glory.

“Hi,” I mutter stupidly.

He sees me. His eyes zero in and the world zeros out. Nothing exists but me, him, and the breath between us.

“Can you help me?” I ask him, drawing close, too close, far closer than I thought I’d dare. “I think I’m lost. I know the School of Theatre, and the School of Music, but I can’t seem to find the—”

“School of Sex?” he finishes for me, and his voice is like silk against my skin. I suppress a moan just from hearing it.

“Yeah.” I feel so confident and beautiful. “I need your help … in finding … the School of Sex.”

He licks his lips and nods knowingly. His eyes pierce me. The subtle light of whatever room we’re in barely colors his gruff, unshaven face, leaving so much of him in the mysterious dark.

His hand slips behind my neck. “What … What are you doing?” I ask, knowing full well. My heart is hammering against my chest. Heat surges between my thighs and I’m trembling with anticipation. “All I needed … was help in … in finding the School of Sex.”

“Consider it found,” he murmurs, his lips drawing close to mine.

Then I open my eyes, and I’m all alone in my dorm room again. Evil. My mind is pure evil. The crushing vacuum from my dream’s sudden departure leaves a hole in my chest that I literally, physically clutch at. I shut my eyes and beg to return to where I left off. It felt so fucking real. I try to imagine his face and it’s already gone. I try to feel his touch again and all I feel are bed sheets and my own thumping heart.

Believe it or not, this is the second night in a row that I’ve had this dream. Sunday was an uneventful yet totally necessary day where I got to decompress from the move (still without a roommate), buy my books from the crowded campus bookstore, and then enjoy three totally normal college meals at the Quad cafeteria. I even successfully dodged yet another call from my mother.

But nothing seems to ease the ache I carry for that sexy hunk from the mixer. Prick, I had called him.

Ugh.

Then, I hear the turning of a page. I’m not alone. I bolt up, drawing the sheets to my neck as if I’m naked, and I see her. “Who’re you??”

The girl sitting cross-legged on the other bed lifts her sullen, shapeless face from the book she reads. A sad pair of thick-rimmed glasses rest at the end of her nose. Her hair, straight and plain as the bristles on a broom, is cropped dully at the neck. An unfortunate pox of red bumps I’ll pray aren’t chickenpox dance up the side of her short, blunt neck. Her nose is a round bulb of flesh and her eyebrows are thick and black and unsightly. She stares at me with the enthusiasm of a sock, her eyes dead and blank.

“Sam,” she answers plainly, her voice two octaves lower than I was expecting.

Sam? Samantha, my roommate? Obviously. “When did you move in?” I ask, flabbergasted. “I … I’ve been asleep. I didn’t even hear you at all.”

“I didn’t really move in.”

I blink a few times in the semidarkness, waiting for more of an explanation. I don’t get one. I stretch my neck up a bit, scanning her side of the room only to find three books on her desk alongside an ancient brick of a laptop and a sad table lamp, the only source of light in the room other than the sunrise coming through the blinds and painting stripes of orange across the back of her head.

I wipe my eyes and stare. “You don’t even have sheets. You’re … You’re sleeping on the bare mattress.”

“It’s okay,” she decides, looking down at it. Her every movement is as slow as a sloth. She wears sweatpants and a loose shirt that looks scavenged from a charity donation bin. For half a second, I worry she is exactly that: a girl with cents in her pockets, here on the last scraps of money her parents could find. They had to put a second mortgage on the house to afford tuition. They sold their grandma’s ashes on eBay. She is her family’s last hope.

“So … we’re roommates,” I state unnecessarily.

“Yep.” She offers me an odd, straight line of her lips, almost like an apology, before returning to the book in her lap, a curtain of hair covering her face.

I stare at her for a while, still clutching the sheets to my neck. I’m pretty sure the worry is obvious on my face and she saw every bit of it. For as little emotion as she seems to show, I might never know whether I’ve offended her or not.

Well, she’s who I got. Might as well make the best of it. “So … you’re a Music major? What instrument do you play?”

Sam lifts her head again, drawing a curtain of her greasy hair behind her ear. “Piano.”

The girl sounds like a dude. She seriously sounds like a dude. “Oh. Don’t you need to practice?” I let my eyes do another scan of the room. “Did you bring, like, a little keyboard or something?”

“They have private piano-playing rooms at the Music building.”

“Oh. Yeah, that makes sense.”

“I wanted a Yamaha,” she admits, fiddling with the bent corner of a page in her book, “but my mom made me choose between paying for school or buying expensive electronics, and … well, I’m here, so …”

“Yes. Right. You’re … You’re here.”

An awkward silence settles between us once again. I put a smile into that silence. She glances sullenly through the window, stripes of the morning sun drawn across her plain face. Then she turns back to me, her eyes like two spots of mud. “And you are—”

“A Theatre major,” I finish for her, hugging my sheets tightly. “I’m Dessie.”

“I’m Sam,” she repeats, like I’d already forgotten.

And with that, Sam returns to reading, and I let myself lie back down, my eyes catching the time on the clock: not a minute past seven in the morning. That is decidedly too early to be awake, considering my first class isn’t until ten.

But try as I might, that damn dream of mine won’t resume where we left off.

I don’t understand what’s so special about one hot guy. Why am I finding myself so … obsessed with him? I’m on a campus full of countless good-looking guys. Engineers. Artists. Architects. Singers. Other actors. Why am I so focused on the one guy who wouldn’t bother to turn and acknowledge my existence, even when I was talking directly to him?

A half hour passes. I can’t seem to hear anything but the quiet turning of pages.

Another half hour, and that lamp seems brighter than the sun at noon, somehow blinding me through my clenched-shut eyelids. Or maybe it’s the actual sun.

When I give up and rise at half past eight, I feel like I got approximately zero hours of sleep. My head spins and a queasiness settles into my stomach. Why do I instantly want to blame mister hot-shit from the mixer for my lack of rest?

I help myself to a morning shower. Even with all the soap and the slipperiness and the assumption of privacy, I’m too distracted with what diseases my feet might be picking up to revive the morning’s dream. Mental note: purchase some flip-flops for the shower. I keep hitting my elbows against the wall every time I turn. The room steams up in a matter of five seconds.

I can’t even sing as I like to do in the shower, not when I know an entire hallway of boys and girls will hear me. I try to hum and even that miniscule hint of melody feels amplified to the point of vibrating the tiled walls. I feel utterly silenced when I want to sing.

Outside, the campus is alive with tons of bright-eyed students. I fall right in line, following the path to the School of Theatre Victoria showed me Saturday night, though it looks dramatically different in the day. The buildings look so much taller. There’s a glow to the Art building I didn’t notice in the darkness. When I pass the University Center, there’s a big band playing some tune I don’t recognize, but it’s catchy as hell. I start humming it as I move along, a smile finding my face at long last. Nothing eases me the way singing does. Look at me, I’m a college student, I realize, blending in with the crowd of others who head to their ten o’clock Monday classes.

This is what I’ve been missing.

Most of my Theatre courses don’t require books, so I just carry a small bag with my laptop dancing around inside. The School of Theatre is shockingly bright during the day, its front glass windows reflecting the sun and blinding me as I approach.

My first class of the day—a required course for all: Technical Theatre—is held in the main auditorium. Surprisingly, I spot Victoria right away in the seats. She notices me too, quickly beckoning me over.

“Where the hell did you go Saturday night?” she whispers when I take the seat next to her. “You just up and left! Then, you wouldn’t answer any of my knocking on your door all day …”

“I got tired,” I lie. My foot kicks into a red cup from Saturday that was left by the seat. “Yesterday, I was probably at the campus bookstore. Did you know that Klangburg University has its own clothing line?”

“Yeah, it’s called college merch. Every school’s got it. Do you know what crew you want, Des?”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

“Tech crew. That’s the point of this class. You get introduced to the five tech crews and get to pick which one you want to do for the semester. Or, rather, they assign you one based on your preference. If you get cast in a play, it counts for a tech credit. No, I haven’t been cast yet.” Victoria rolls her eyes, clearly holding back a flood of rants. “Are you all actress? Or do you ever get your hands dirty?”

That’d be Cece who is all actress and can’t even be bothered to move a damn curtain out of her way when she enters or exits the stage. “That’s what the stagehands are for,” she had the gall to say to me once.

And just before I answer Victoria, all of my composure is ruined in an instant.

I see him.

The tatted hottie from Saturday night’s mixer. The man who still hasn’t given me proper directions to the School of Sex. The nameless wonder from the wings with the body of a demigod.

I claw at my bag. I’ve never wanted someone so badly.

He saunters past carrying a Fresnel lantern by the handle, his bicep bulging in the effort as he crosses the stage. His shirt is tight. His jeans, loose and sexy. I’ve broken out in a sweat just watching him.

“Dessie?”

A smirk finds my lips. “Yeah,” I murmur back to her. “I get my hands dirty. Real, real dirty.”

Then a lean, bearded man who looks like a wizard in coveralls rises from the front row and faces the auditorium. “Good morning, you bunch of brats, you. I see a lot of new faces out there, so I’m going to assume that most of you are freshmen. Sure, a lot of you are probably hopeful actors, figuring you waltzed in here from a high school that kissed your butt every time you projected loud enough for someone beyond the front row to hear you. Loud voices earned you parts. Well, you’re in for a rude awakening.”

Rude, indeed. I can’t stop watching him onstage as he transports lighting equipment from one end to the other. There is very little imagination involved in picturing his naked torso, what with the tightness of his shirt leaving little to be curious about.

He is ripped. I could spot his godlike physique from a mile away. His eyes pierce me and he’s not even looking at me.

I’ve never been jealous of lighting equipment before.

“College is your first taste of the real world,” the wizard is going on. “Plays only have so many roles, and chances are, you won’t get any your first year here. You might not ever get cast. This is a reality you must face.”

That man onstage is a reality I want to face. I want to face him so hard. I want him to face me. I’m staring at his bulging biceps as he works, my heart racing so hard I wonder if Victoria can hear it.

“Technical Theatre is not for failed actors. These people make a living. More often, they make a better living than you actors ever will because there is always work for lighting monkeys, soundboard operators, costume stitch-weaver-people, prop masters, house managers—the list goes on and on. Our program requires only six hours of tech crew before you can graduate. That’s six times I’m gonna see your ugly faces in this room. We only meet here today. This Wednesday, you will be meeting at your assigned crew area. Understood? Good.”

Hot guy sets down a light, which issues a loud bang that ripples across the stage. He returns to the rack for yet another, sauntering as he goes. Boy, does that sexy man know how to walk. He has gloves on those big hands of his, those long leather things that come halfway up his arm, the kind I imagine welders wear.

I can’t seriously be the only one staring at him. That man is fine.

“The five departments are: costume crew, set crew, props crew, lighting crew, and box office,” the bearded wizard tells us.

As he goes on to describe the typical duties of each technical crew, I’m stuck in a daze watching the hottie carry Fresnel after Fresnel across the stage, his arms bulging with each trip, sometimes taking two at a time. His face is slick with sweat. Patches of wetness adorn his tight shirt, causing it to plaster to his muscles more and more by the second.

He stops after his five-hundredth trip and runs an arm slowly across the whole length of his forehead, taking just a moment to survey the house. His brow wrinkles as he looks out at us. He has to be an upperclassmen. His presence is so commanding that I can’t pay attention to anything else, not with him in the room.

Some papers are shoved at me. I stare down in confusion at what looks like a stack of forms. “Take one and pass them,” Victoria tells me. I do so, passing the stack to a girl two seats away from me. “Now you get to pick the crew you want. Preference one, and preference two, see?”

“I see.” I’m very thankful for Victoria’s guidance, considering how little attention I was paying to the wizard-person. I stare at the five options for crew and consider them.

Victoria leans into me, her bony shoulder poking into my arm. “Costume crew is a living hell,” she whispers to me. “Box office is a total blow-off. I’d go for that one, so long as you’re not claustrophobic and can do basic math. Ever work with money?”

My eyes wander to the stage. He’s examining one of the lights that still hangs from the rack. The gloves are off and tucked under his arm while his fingers expertly inspect the equipment. I imagine those fingers expertly inspecting me, the way they’d feel as they trace up and down my arms, run over the length of my body, and awaken a wave of excited goose bumps across my skin. I feel my toes curling in my shoes just thinking about it.

“Made up your mind?” whispers Victoria.

His biceps flex as he works, his fingers making art out of that lighting instrument. I swallow hard, unable to pull my eyes away, unable to slow my thumping heart, unable to ignore my ache any longer.

Yes, I have, I think to myself, bringing the pen to paper and circling my first choice: lighting crew.

DESSIE

“There’s a whole row of restaurants on Kelly street, but they’re a bit on the pricy side …”

“Done! Lunch is on me!” I decide with a smile.

That’s how Victoria, Eric, Chloe, and I end up at an Italian restaurant on the not criminally-inclined edge of campus for an early evening meal after my first Tuesday morning movement class and afternoon voice class are over. Chloe’s the one I met at the mixer with choppy black hair whose eyes bleed eyeliner, and Eric is the one who just a moment ago politely asked me to stop calling him Other Eric. I apologized for calling his homebrew “cat pee”.

“Auditions are this Friday,” Victoria reminds me between bites of a very aromatic plate of basil pesto chicken fettuccini. “I hope you have two contrasting monologues prepared. Oh, I didn’t even ask! Which role are you gunning for?”

To be honest, I hadn’t given it much thought. My mind’s been circling thoughts of a certain someone so much that I forgot about auditions for Our Town. “I was considering the wife, maybe?”

“Myrtle? That’s Emily’s mother,” explains Victoria. “Maybe try for Mrs. Gibbs, George’s wife, if you want to play a wife. Oh, you’d be cute as her! Go for whichever you want, just as long as it’s not Emily.”

“The lead? But she has the look,” protests Eric.

“That’s my role,” Victoria insists. “I’ve waited two years for it, and I shall claim it. Besides, Nina basically already told me I got the part.”

“Nina the acting prof,” Eric clarifies for me.

“I know. I have her for acting class on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. And it’s okay,” I insist with a nervous titter. “I don’t want any leads. I should really, uh … reread the play.” For all my “Theatre background”, I sure feel so uneducated right now.

“Not to mention Dessie’s experience,” Eric goes on, despite Victoria’s annoyed snort. “You’d make a great Emily. You have world experience. You’ve been to Italy and shit.”

“Yeah,” I admit, “but that was a small black box theater, and it was more of a training camp, and—”

“You studied in New York City,” he goes on, despite Victoria’s look of disbelief. “You already know the life. You have so much to offer us. Really, it isn’t unheard of for freshmen to land roles, and you’re technically not a freshman, so …”

“I already said the role is mine,” Victoria interjects, her eyes playing back and forth between us. “I like you, Dessie, I really do. We’re hall mates and we’re becoming friends and all that, but I think—”

“I think auditions will determine it,” states Eric. “I mean, if you’re meant to get the role of Emily—”

“I already have it in the bag,” she retorts.

“Then you got nothing to worry about, do you?” With that, he gives a light shrug, then forks another sauce-drenched ravioli past his lips.

I smile at my new friends, hoping the mask of my smile adequately hides all my misgivings. They think so highly of me, just for the ritzy school I half-attended and the fact that I’m from New York City. If they knew who my family was, I’d certainly be ruined. Spoiled, they’d call me. Privileged snob, they’d think of me. I’d become my sister before their eyes, a girl who’s been handed everything she ever wanted.

What’ll they think when they learn the truth?

“Your résumé has to be a mile long,” Victoria jokes with a shake of her head. “I bet you have to leave stuff off of it just to make it fit on one page. Wish I had that sort of problem.” The comment earns a chuckle from Chloe and Eric.

The truth is, since high school, I’ve only been cast in a single production. It was an original two-act play at Claudio & Rigby’s called Quieter The Scream. By some remarkable twist of circumstance, I was cast as the leading role. Claudio could not easily mask his disappointment in me during every single rehearsal, which led me to speculate how I’d landed the role in the first place. My speculation ended the day Claudio threw his favorite mug and I quit the school.

Even still, the whole situation confounds me. “You’ll be a famous actress someday just like your sweet mother.” That’s what Claudio said the first day he met me. My, how quickly that opinion soured. The truth is, I never fit the skin my parents and sister tried so ruthlessly to put on me. I needed to find my own.

While the others finish eating and start bantering back and forth, I listen to a tune that comes on the restaurant sound system and catch myself smiling. It’s a song I know. Finishing my linguini, which isn’t half bad even compared to Chef Julian’s masterful cooking, I hum along with the melody. I wonder if normal-people food is growing on me, or if I’m simply forgetting already what it’s like to be … me.

A couple hours later, everyone goes their separate ways and I’ve returned to the theater to sign up for auditions. In a short, closed-off hall that connects the lobby to the theater, I stare at my phone in my palm, dreading what I’m about to do. This is never easy.

I tap her name. My phone chirps at me. I bring it to my ear.

“Desdemona? Hi.”

Already, I’m annoyed by two facts. One: I almost don’t recognize her due to the thick English dialect she’s putting on. Two: she’s the only person in the world who uses my full name. Not even my parents bother with all four annoying syllables of it.

“Hey, Cece. I have a favor to ask. A really serious favor.”

“Oh, that is quite fine. I was simply partaking in a lesson with my vocal coach,” she answers in an airy voice, her English dialect annoyingly realistic. “Andre, can we take five? My dear sister needs a favor of me. Thank you. Desdemona, what is it you need, dear?”

I sigh. “Can you knock off the voice, please? This is serious.”

“This is quite serious as well,” she goes on, the dialect remaining perfectly intact. “I must master every bit of idiosyncrasy in the Upper RP dialect, and that entails remaining in-character for the rest of the week at the very least, dear sister. My work is quite serious.”

“Fine.” I roll my eyes, unable to bear one more word than I absolutely have to. “Cece, I need help with an acting résumé. I’m required to have one for auditions this Friday.”

“Oh, silly girl, I am afraid I do not do my own. That is the job of Xavier and Iris. I would be happy to connect you, if you so wish to—”

“No, no, no.” I resent that I even have to have this conversation. “You don’t understand. I don’t have any shows to put on mine. Other than high school, I’ve only done the one show at Claudio’s, and I didn’t even do that to completion. My résumé’s empty.”

“Are … Are you requesting my assistance in an act of forgery, dear sister? Oh, how wayward you have become! Oh, stars! I am afraid I cannot—”

“For fuck’s sake, Cece, I need your help,” I hiss into the phone, my hands trembling. “It’s just a résumé. I can’t go in there Friday with nothing!”

Cece draws a deep breath into the phone. I can even picture her as she does so, her body turning rigid and her long eyelashes batting with irritation as she steels herself for her next words.

“Every actor must start somewhere. It is not my fault that you have no history. To have a history, you must first make one. Life experience makes the actor, Desdemona. Not a sheet of paper.”

“I haven’t been given the experiences you have. It isn’t fair of you to act superior to me, treating me like it’s my fault I don’t get the callbacks. You’re the one who inherited all our family’s magic mojo and left none for me. So help me out a little, Cece.”

“If I may allow you to stand corrected,” my sister retorts, her voice clipped and sterile, “with regard to our family’s ‘magic mojo’, you did, in fact, ask for a journey to Texas to find that very thing, didn’t you, dear sister? Why cannot you try and see this as a most precious opportunity to find that very special thing that makes you, you? I guarantee, it won’t be by forging a false résumé.”

I’m clenching my phone so tight, the muscles in my palm ache.

“Thanks for nothing, Cece. I gotta go. I’m so busy over here having my life experience.”

I hang up, cutting off her response. I always regret asking my sister for help; she makes me want to act upon violent impulses. With a huff, I turn to the sign-up sheet on the wall and bring a pen to its surface with too much force, scratching on my name.

When I’m about to turn away, I hear a noise from the opened door of the auditorium. I stop and listen.

Nothing else comes.

I move to the door and poke my head in. I don’t see anyone in the seats. Coming further inside, I look up at the stage. No one. Nothing.

“Hello?” I call out, like the half-naked bimbo does in the horror movie before she’s caught and gutted by the killer. “Hello?”

No one answers. I move down the aisle, curious, drawn by the silence. I ascend the steps and stand center stage, looking out at the seating, which is only half-lit by the spray of stage light above.

A smile finds my face. No one uses the auditorium at all, not until after auditions when the set building and rehearsing begins. This big room is abandoned for the time being, according to my new friends.

This auditorium is mine.

I imagine the seats filled to the walls with people who’ve purchased tickets. I imagine the hum of an animated crowd as they enjoy the house music and await the first act to begin. I imagine myself standing backstage, wringing my hands and excitedly longing for the drapes to be drawn. This is my moment. This is my show.

On this big stage, I feel a stronger sense of privacy than I do in my dorm. The desire to express myself grows strong, stronger … until I can no longer contain it. The first thing that comes to mind is a song no one’s heard of called “A Palace of Stone”. I part my lips and sing:

I have made a palace of stone,
a place of which to call my own.

Here is my bed

to lay down my head

and dream that I’m not alone.

For such a feat, what do I win?

The doors are deceivingly thin.

But I built the walls too high

nearly kissing the sky

so no one can find their way in.

There’s no staff to help with the messes.

There’s no guests to admire my dresses.

Dinners cook themselves

as I dust off my shelves

and watch as my lifetime progresses.

I’m an actress who shows no fear.

The bravest in my whole biosphere.

And by my painted skin

you see the people I’ve been

and the people I’ll never go near.

It’s work to perch atop this throne
made of credit cards and silicone.

Don’t dare give your heart

or you’ll fall right apart

right here in my palace of stone.

When I’ve finished, I imagine the room erupting into applause. I face the crowd and take it all in, rejoicing. I wonder if flowers are being thrown to the stage. I can smell them if I close my eyes.

There’s a noise from behind. I spin, alarmed by it.

He’s standing by the light rack, watching me. His eyes are fierce and focused, his lips parted slightly.

Oh shit. He heard everything.

“I-I’m sorry,” I murmur, my face flushing horribly. “I … I didn’t realize …”

His tight shirt hugs the two hills of his shoulders that lead up to his thick, muscular neck. His big pecs stare at me just as he does, and for a moment it’s like he’s some statue of a god. I bet his muscles feel like one too, firm and unbudgeable. I imagine the meaty sound his body would make as I tackle him, and the metallic racket of the lighting instruments as they bang together, disrupted by our crashing into them.

Wait. What the hell am I thinking?

“I’m s-sorry,” I repeat, ashamed, humiliated. All he does is stare at me. He doesn’t say a damn thing. “It … It wasn’t that bad, was it?”

His eyes bore into me, smoldering me, those deep, powerful eyes. He looks so dangerous … so tortured …

So sexy. My heart races. I can’t catch my breath.

“Oh,” I blurt, my voice shaking. “It was that bad. I’m not supposed to be here, am I? I’ll just … I’ll go.”

And that’s precisely what I do, tripping over my legs as I race down the steps. The noise of my feet slapping the tile of the lobby assaults my ears as I flee the theater.

DESSIE

“And this guy … caught you singing?”

I sigh and lean into the table, mortified, then nod sheepishly.

“There are some hot guys in our school,” admits Victoria, “but I don’t know which one caught you. If you’d tell me more, I might know his name. There’s Jerry, short for Jeremy. There’s Aaron. Ooh, or Ian …”

Truth is, I don’t want you to know who. “It’s okay. I just hope it doesn’t get me into trouble. I want to make a good first impression.”

“Yeah, save that for auditions Friday.” She winks and gives me a nudge. “Lighten up. It’ll be fine. Hey, I didn’t know you could sing.”

“I doubt I sang well. He just stared at me like I was an idiot and …” I can’t even finish, not wanting to relive it yet again. “I need to work on my audition pieces. I didn’t realize—”

“That auditions would be the very first week? Yep. We don’t mess around down here in Texas. I’m sure you’re used to that in New York City too, of course. Hey, we can help each other with our monologues! I could totally pick a brain like yours.” She nearly giggles with excitement. “I have a whole bookcase of marked-up scripts in my room. Hey, I bet you could even sing for one of your pieces. I think they’re allowing that, on account of the spring musical.”

I can’t stop picturing his face, the way he stared at me so intently after I’d finished. “We’d better get to class,” I say, noting the time on my phone.

“First day of crew! Did you see which one you got? They’re posted on the door of the rehearsal room.”

Twenty minutes later, we’ve moved from the food court to the School of Theatre, where I stumble as I scurry down the winding halls to the rehearsal room door. I search the list for my name.

My heart skips a beat.

I’d nearly forgotten which one I signed up for.

“Lighting crew?” Victoria questions, staring at me. “You picked … lighting crew? Mmm, honey, I hope you aren’t scared of heights.”

I bite the inside of my cheek and suck my tongue, staring at my name and reading it over and over and over again. My body trembles. My nerves tighten and my knees turn weak. I know exactly why I picked it.

“I … wanted to t-try something new,” I struggle to say through a dry mouth. I have trouble swallowing suddenly. Maybe my organs are all shutting down. I might die before I reach my class.

Victoria gasps in protest when she sees her own name. “Costume crew?! Are you kidding me?! No! That wasn’t either of my preferences! Damn it! That can’t be right …”

I can’t even participate in a moment of sympathy for her, too wrapped up in my own predicament, if I dare call it that. Will I see him today? How many people has he told about what happened yesterday in the theater? Maybe he’s not in the lighting crew at all. Maybe he was just … fiddling with them a lot. Maybe he’s part of the set crew. Just like any other student, he gets assigned to different crews each semester too, right?

I’m overthinking this. Calm down, Dessie.

“Oh well. Come by my room later,” she says to me, and I’m pretty sure I just zoned out on her whole tirade about costume crew. “We’ll pore over scripts! I want to show you what I’ve got prepared. You can critique me with all your New York City knowhow.”

I give her a halfhearted nod and grimace, then we part ways. I proceed in silence to where the lighting crew is supposed to meet: the main stage.

My heart hammers in my chest as I approach the door to the auditorium. It’s so cold that I swear they set the AC to a considerate thirty-below.

The door creaks.

I don’t know why I’m so afraid of anyone hearing me or noticing my existence at all.

When I step inside, however, I’m surprised to find only twenty or so sitting scattered among the first five rows. After a quick, nerve-wracking scan, I realize that mister mystery-hot-shit is not among them. Everyone in the crowd seems to know one another, chatting and laughing amongst themselves. Two guys in the back have their feet propped up. Three other guys are hanging over their chairs, chatting with the folk behind them. Am I the only female here? Literally zero of the people I’ve met thus far are in this room.

I sit silently in the fifth row behind the strangers, clutching my bag to my chest and waiting patiently for something to happen.

Ten minutes later, something does. A man comes out of a door backstage, emerging into the light. He’s dressed in black with a smear of unexplained green paint on his thigh and he carries a clipboard, toward which he inclines his head and adjusts the thick set of glasses that perch at the tip of his nose. His bald head shines with grease under the blaring stage light.

“Welcome,” he says to his clipboard, though I think he’s addressing us. “First day of lighting crew. Hi. Most of you know me. Six of you don’t. Hi. I’m Professor Dan Trellis. You can call me Dick.”

Two guys wearing baseball caps in the seats ahead of me turn to each other. “How do you get Dick from Dan?” one of them mutters quietly.

“You ask nicely,” answers the other, and they both break into a fit of muffled snickering.

I roll my eyes.

“This is not the slack-off crew,” Dick says in a tired drone, though it seems less like a fact and more like he’s trying to convince himself. “Most of your life here will be cables and gels and C-clamps. Shit gets stressful the week leading up to dress, just before each show goes up. You will be going up Bertha the cherry-picker at some point, so if heights aren’t your thing, make them your thing. Introduce yourself to Bertha. Learn how to operate Bertha. Love Bertha. You’ll be given an assistant when you first use her, blah, blah, life’s about confronting fears and shit, right?”

I’m about to make a mental comment on all of the professor’s swearing when something else steals every bit of my wayward attention.

Every bit of my delicious, sexy attention.

Another figure has come out of the shadows from backstage. His brawny build is unmistakable, as well as the swagger in his stride. When the light finally touches his face, it’s like a gift from the School of Sex. Dark, brooding, fierce … he always looks pissed off about something. Why do I find that so hot?

“Nice to have you join us, Clayton,” the professor mutters with a turn of his head. “Most of you know Clayton, my right hand man with the lights for the last two years. Invaluable to us. Be like him.”

Clayton … Is that his name?

If it is, you wouldn’t know it from the way he completely disregards Professor Dick, hopping down the steps and taking a seat in the front row. Just as well, Dick doesn’t seem to mind as he lifts his clipboard back to his face and resumes instructing us on what our semester with him is going to be like.

Meanwhile, my eyes drift to the beauty in the front row. Clayton. His face taut with concentration, he stares at the professor as the speech goes on and on. Something about sound crew. Something about time management and patience.

Yeah, I know all about patience. Here I am, patiently staring at the beauty who’s invaded every one of my dreams since I stepped foot into this very theater. I have never, in all my life, been as drawn to a person as I am to him.

Clayton. The name fits him so well. He’s a statue, a hardened clay sculpture, a work of art.

Suddenly, everyone’s rising from their seats and filing onto the stage. I must’ve missed something. I get up awkwardly, following the baseball-capped boys. I avoid eye contact with Clayton and pray that, should he get a look in my direction, he doesn’t remember who I am. I realize how unlikely that is, considering the full-on eye contact we shared right after my bold and embarrassing performance yesterday.

“Here’s the lighting rack,” Dick goes on, tapping a giant contraption made of pipes upon which tons of different lighting instruments hang.

The crowd of us gather around the professor as he starts describing the different types of lights. As I take my place in the back, I don’t realize until it’s too late who I’m standing right beside.

I freeze. The whole world is gone and all I’m aware of is his body standing to my left.

Oh my god, he smells so good. He could have come from three hours of working out, or from a morning of transporting heavy props and set pieces backstage. Who knows. Who cares. His scent intoxicates me, just like it did that first day at the mixer.

Does he always smell like this?

“There’s all kinds of gels,” Dick goes on. “See, with them, the lights get colors, or get shapes, or get …”

Clayton’s big, firm body is like a bonfire at my side. I feel his heat. Does he know he’s standing next to me? Is this intentional, or completely incidental that the hottest guy in the room is so close that I could climb him? Oh, damn, I want to climb him.

“Now, if you come in close and look here …”

Everyone takes a step forward, crowding each other to get a better look at—something—and I find myself pushed by a guy to my right … which causes me to lean into Clayton unintentionally.

My skin touches his.

I feel the tight, rock-hard meat of his arm. It’s as firm as I expected, and then a little more. I don’t dare look in his direction. My heart is racing so fast, I wonder if he can feel my pulse through the skin of our forearms.

Dick goes on. Something about lamp houses. Something about ellipsoidal reflector spotlights. And my mind goes on about what I’d do if I found myself stuck in a room alone with Clayton.

He’s half a foot taller than me, maybe more. It’s the perfect height for me to lay my face on his big, muscled shoulder … if I just tilted my head a tiny bit. Just a tiny, tiny bit.

I’m so close to him that I’m starting to sweat.

Then the crowd starts to move. Clayton goes with them and, after half a second of despair, I follow to the other end of the stage where Dick starts to explain about something to do with the pulley system—all the ropes lined up along the wall that connect to all the things hanging high above us.

I realize with frustration that there’s now a person between Clayton and I. The magic is lost. I stare at the professor sullenly and find I can’t even focus on what he’s saying. Every word flitters by my face, unheard.

“The counterweight system is dangerous. This is not a toy. Learn to use it properly. Want to give us a demonstration?” Dick asks, giving a wave of his hand.

He seems to have signaled Clayton, who cuts through the crowd and positions himself at the ropes. I’m alive again, just like that. Watching the way his body moves is hypnotizing. Without instruction, he knows precisely what to do, flipping some lever with his big hands … those big hands that seem to make love to every little thing they touch. Then, he unwinds something else and grips the rope, fingers wrapping around it the way they might embrace a lover. He gives the rope a solid tug, the veins in his thick biceps popping, and something happens behind me.

The whole class turns to watch, but I keep my eyes focused right where they are, already watching the most beautiful thing in the world.

His hands still firmly gripping the rope, Clayton’s eyes lower, catching mine.

I hold my breath. I experience a jolt of fear … or a jolt of excitement. I can’t seem to tell the difference between the two right now.

And his eyes change. It’s subtle, but it’s there. He recognizes me, I realize as my heart quickens. Yet still, I don’t look away.

The professor must’ve said something because the whole crew moves to the two long battens—which are steel pipes from which curtains or set pieces or lights are hung—that have been lowered. I finally allow that to break my gaze from the distraction that’s Clayton, forcing myself to pay attention to Dick.

That attention is short-lived. Not a moment later, Clayton has returned from the counterweights, and he’s right at my side yet again. I just can’t catch a break, can I? Not that I want one. I’ve never been so worked up in all my life. I’m in agony standing next to him. I feel my pulse in my neck. I can barely breathe evenly.

His arm brushes against mine.

Total. Fucking. Agony.

“Lighting creates atmosphere. Lighting turns the barren nothing of a stage into the snowy Alps, the lobby of a hotel, or the bowels of a whale. Lighting gives life to the cast onstage,” states Dick, our mildly inspired professor. “Without light, we are all a bunch of shit-shoveling nobodies in the dark, aren’t we?”

Clayton inhales deeply. Just in that inhale, I hear the depth of his voice. There’s something so intimate about it, like I’m already getting to know him even without having shared a single word. Then, he exhales deeply, and half that breath tickles my arm and sends shivers of awareness through me.

I am one seriously obsessed stalker right now.

“Short day. That’s all, my little light monkeys. I’m leaving the sign-up sheet at the foot of the stage. Sign up for whichever lighting shift you want, and that’ll be your shift every week for the rest of the semester. Crew shifts start next week. There’s lots of options to accommodate all kinds of classing schedules, so if your whiny ass needs some special treatment, come have a chat with me and we’ll figure something out.”

With that, the whole crew scatters and Clayton abandons my side. I’d just grown used to having his heat there that when he departs, I feel a vacuum of need so strong that I nearly topple over.

I walk down the steps and approach the sign-up list. Some of the guys are talking amongst themselves or consulting their phones to double-check their scheduling conflicts. When it’s my turn to pick from the list, I consider what’s available. Amazingly, five of the six available shifts do not overlap with my classes. There’s a shift Mondays that would fit after my acting class, a shift Tuesday afternoons between my voice and movement classes, another Friday mornings, another Saturday afternoons, and then a late Wednesday evening shift. I could pick any one of those that I want. Any at all.

And yet it’s on that Wednesday evening shift that I see the only name that matters. It’s written right at the top of the list. Clayton Watts.

Only two others have signed up for that time slot. The least popular shift, it seems. And driven by some kind of insanity, I bring my pen to that Wednesday list of names and add my own.

Dessie Lebeau.

I look up and find Clayton walking away. I only catch a split second of his muscular backside before he disappears through the backstage door. Oddly, I feel a small sense of relief at his departure. It’s damn stressful being near him at all. My nervous system got a work out today.

As I walk back to the dorms, the relief turns to emptiness. It’s so strange, to be able to go for so long without being aware of how alone you truly are. You convince yourself that your heart is full with all your interests and hobbies and fiery passions. You fill yourself up with hollow reassurance. You get used to the routine of handling yourself, comforting yourself, and smiling all day long.

It only takes one stupid hot guy to unravel all those feeble efforts of yours, reminding you how very not satisfied you are.

I’m lonely. I’ve been alone for years. I’ve dated a small number of guys in New York, but none of them worked out. One of them lived in a rat-infested apartment in Queens. One had a girlfriend in New Jersey he tried to hide from me. Another played video games all day and lived in his older brother’s basement. Each one left me feeling lonelier than the last. My dating history is, needless to say, a trail of murky water.

Long after the sun’s fallen, I knock on her door.

“Dessie!” she cries when she answers, the beads that hang at her closet tapping one another. “I found the perfect monologue for you!”

The night progresses into a back-and-forth trade of monologue practice and constructive criticism, in which Victoria offers me many queer looks and some politely-worded suggestions. If she has anything ugly to say about my acting ability, she is kind enough to spare me the words. Her roommate, a heavyset pale-as-death girl by the name of Leanne, sits on her bed in a nest of bed sheets and textbooks, typing away on her laptop and pretending we’re not even there. We offer her the same courtesy.

When I excuse myself on account of having my morning movement class, Victoria smiles at me at the door and says, “You’re going to be perfect for Mrs. Gibbs, which will complement my take on the role of Emily. You’ll totally nail it. Can’t wait!”

Back in my own room, my roommate Sam types at her desk on that ancient, last-decade laptop of hers. She’s wearing the same thing she wore the day she arrived, which both unsettles me and breaks my heart. We exchange halfhearted hellos before I lock myself in the bathroom and enjoy the comfort of my own reflection.

I study my face intently, because whenever I blink, all I see is his.

DESSIE

I’m standing at the door to the rehearsal room gripping my obviously embellished résumé. Every line of the dramatic monologue I spent all Wednesday night and Thursday rehearsing repeats in my head over and over like gold fish swimming around the bowl, circles and circles and circles. I can hear the tapping of water as they make laps in my brain.

I’m oddly calm. I haven’t seen Clayton at all since shift sign-up on Wednesday, which is strange, as I had gotten used to running into him daily.

It isn’t fair. Every little thing I do now becomes all about Clayton. When I decide where to eat lunch, I consider whether or not he might be eating lunch at the same time and place, too. When I walk down the halls on the way to my Theatre classes, I wonder if I’ll run into him around every corner, or if we’ll bump into each other in the lobby, or out in the courtyard. It’s crazy how far an obsession or innocent crush will take you, dictating your day, bullying your mind into submission so badly that even choosing which damn bathroom to use becomes a chore—because at any point in the day, I could run into him. Even on my way to the bathroom.

Yet I didn’t, and haven’t.

And likely won’t.

I don’t even notice the rehearsal room door open when the voice catches me mid-thought. “Desdemona Lebeau,” it speaks softly, its source being a girl with electric blue hair and a nose ring, one of the director’s assistants. “We’re ready for you.”

Inside, a table’s been erected at the far end of the room, at which four visibly coldhearted individuals who have each had a worse day than the other sit patiently awaiting my audition. Not one of them smiles. The only one of the four I recognize is my acting professor, Nina Parisi, a needle-eyed, cold-faced bone of a woman whose caramel skin sags at the eyes as if she hasn’t slept in sixty-six years.

“Hello,” I say when I take my place before them. I don’t know how close to stand, so I measure myself at roughly thirty feet away, which still feels too close. “I’m D-Desdemona Lebeau, and I’ll be acting in a … Sorry, no. I’m performing one verse of an original song called ‘A Palace of Stone’ … as well as a dramedy—er, dramatic piece from D-D-Damien Rigby’s Quieter The Scream.”

Then, with all due emotion, I perform.

“How’d it go??” Victoria begs me the moment I’m out of the door.

I’ve returned to the lobby filled with the others who have either gone already or still anxiously wait, practicing their audition pieces to the walls or the stairs or each other. There’s a peculiar comfort in watching them go at it while knowing that my own audition is over with and I’m no longer enduring the anxiety that is so visible on their faces and in their wringing hands.

“It went okay, I guess.”

“Just okay?” She frowns on my behalf. “It’s alright. Nerves get the best of us. Maybe spring auditions will be better for you.”

I smile. “And yours?”

“Perfectly!”

Her face bursts with ecstasy. It’s like she’s been dying to express how perfectly her audition went for the past hour. And she does just that, detailing to me every little nuance she discovered, even in the tiny sixty second opportunity we’re given in front of them.

“Oh, Des, you should come with us!” she exclaims suddenly. “We’re all hitting up the Throng & Song after this.”

I squint at her. “Whose thong?”

“Throng. Come with us! It’s the Theatre hangout.”

Considering it’s Friday and, now that the audition is over with, I just have a weekend full of freedom ahead of me, I tag along with Victoria, Eric, and Chloe on a trip across campus, down a street, and into a piano bar slash diner called, as previously warned, the Throng & Song. The inside is shockingly crowded with college-aged kids, most of whom I’d assume are not old enough to drink. Baskets of fries and wings adorn every table and a thin veil of smoke hovers in the air.

We claim a table near a very small circular stage, upon which stands the most rundown upright piano I’ve ever seen, and a stool where a guitarist strums and sings unheard in the thick clamor of the room. Victoria is telling me something about her audition and I’m just smiling and nodding, unable to hear a word of it even sitting across the table from her. We haven’t been in here for two minutes and I already feel drowsy from the noise and smoke.

A waitress comes by and asks each of us if we want something from the bar. To be heard, she leans in so close she could kiss each of us. Her words tickle my ear, and I wince and answer, “Vodka tonic, please.”

I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but as the day turns to night, the noise grows even louder. It is so deafening in here that I feel pressure against every wall of my skull, as if it’s being invaded by an army of sound and every cell in my body works to defend my cranium castle, resisting the swarm. I clutch my head at one point, convinced that my brain is being rattled inside by the noise.

After three vodka tonics and a round (or was it two?) of tequila shots that the others insisted we do, the noise doesn’t bother me at all.

“Oh my god, y’all,” Victoria slurs, giggling as she leans into me. We’ve all traded positions over the past hour and now she’s nearly sitting in my lap. “I’m gonna need another one of whatever the fuck that was. That shit was goooooood.” Eric shouts the name across the table. “Huh?” Eric shouts it again. “What?”

The guitarist finishes his song, and the half of the bar who are actually paying attention applaud noisily, a chorus of hooting and whistling cutting through the room. “Thank you, thank you,” the musician says with a wave of his hand. “I’m taking a ten, then I’ll be back. Peace.”

When the guitarist makes his leave, Victoria leans into me. “Confession: I want to have his babies.”

I giggle, though I’m not sure if it’s because of what she just said or because the room’s spinning and that somehow tickles. “There’s nothing sexier in this world than a singer,” I blurt back into her ear.

“Oh! I want to hear your audition piece!”

I stare at her through foggy eyes. “You already did, silly! Thirteen times in a row, remember?”

“I mean your song, dummy!”

“Ooh, right, yeah.” I laugh. Flecks of saliva dust the table in front of me and I slap a hand over my lips, inspiring Eric to laugh at me. “Shush! I haven’t drinked anything since—Uh, haven’t drunk anything—Uh, what’s the word? Drank? Drink, drank, drunk?”

“You should drink more often,” Victoria shouts into my ear. “You’re so much more fun.”

“Are you calling me boring?”

“No! You’re just … less boring when you’re drunk!”

“You are calling me boring!”

“No!”

“You think I’m boring? Hey, Other Eric!” I shout, squinting across the table at him. “Am I boring? Hey, Chloe! Am I boring??”

They shout back answers I can’t hear. I slap my hand on the table, causing the drinks to jump.

“Alright, then,” I say, assuming their answers. “I’ll prove to you how very not boring I am. I’ll prove you all wrong right now.”

I push myself up from the table and stumble to the stage. Victoria’s laughter trails me along with a few words I obviously can’t make out. When I’m on the stage, the pianist greets my eyes with worry. “No, no,” I tell him with a dizzy wave of my hand. “Don’t worry. I’m an actress. I have training in these sorts of things.”

I have no idea what I mean by that, but I say it.

“Excuse me!” I call into the microphone, then give it five solid taps that cut through the cacophony of collegiate banter and screaming and laughter.

To my utter surprise, dozens of pairs of eyes turn to meet mine on the stage. I see every pair even through the haze of smoke and light. The noise cuts in half.

Holy hell, I actually did get their attention.

“My friends think I’m boring,” I explain to the room, inspiring even more silence and attention from them. “And I’d love to prove my friends wrong. So while our sexy guitarist is taking ten, I’d like to sing you all a lovely little song.”

Three guys cheer from the back of the room. Some girl shouts, “Let’s hear it!” followed by a chorus of roars. My friends at the table near this tiny stage wear looks of astonishment, their eyes sparkling with pride and alcohol.

“It’s a song I wrote about myself,” I tell the room. “A song about how we close ourselves up. A song I hoped would inspire me to break free from my own … from my own proverbial palace. A song …”

Suddenly lost in the emotion of said song, I stop explaining and let the music speak for itself. Gripping the microphone, I bring my lips to its black, puffy head, then close my eyes.

And I sing.

The room, which was only a moment ago packed with the deafening noise of so many voices, is now filled with only one: mine. My voice reaches through the room. My eyes search, a strange desire to touch every person in this room gripping me by the throat.

Something magical happens. I feel something in me let go. I’m weightless as I sing to them. If I didn’t have such a grip on the microphone, I just might float away. I let the words of “A Palace of Stone” stream out of me.

And then, somewhere between the second and third verse, I see him in the crowd.

Oh my god. He’s been there the whole time, I realize.

Beautiful as ever, intense, and wearing a tight white shirt that makes that bad-boy tattoo up his neck pop … Clayton sits on a barstool palming a beer bottle, and his eyes are alight with fierceness, with yearning, with something I cannot even name.

Or is it the alcohol that makes me see these lovely things? Is it the alcohol singing and not me?

Clayton doesn’t seem to care, and his eyes do not avert in the least. I have him in the palm of my hand. He watches … He watches and listens.

This would be the second time he’s heard this song. This is the second time I’ve captivated him. What else could that expression of his mean?

I’m hypnotizing him.

Yes. Finally, the tables have turned. I’m the one he’s obsessed with now, in this one moment, as long as I can make the song last. I am his siren, luring him with my music.

And then I hear the tinkling of piano notes. I turn to find that the pianist has joined in, following my lead with the melody I sing. The guitarist, who’s back from his break, has been watching from the side of the stage, his eyes sparkling with wonder. He picks up his guitar and joins his friend, supporting me with their tunes, totally improvising as they go.

Maybe it’s the music that inspires me, as a wicked, naughty little demon takes control of my body.

Plucking the microphone off the stand, I saunter down from the stage, still singing, and slowly cut my way through the crowd—to him. Every lyric I have is now given straight to Clayton.

It’s a matter of half a verse before I’m standing right in front of him, singing my music.

His face stiffens.

Is that fear I just inspired in his dark, threatening eyes?

I sing my words to them, my fingers slowly, gently, lovingly, tenderly stroking the microphone up and down.

I’m an actress who shows no fear. With my free hand, I bring a finger to his neck, tracing where that dark ink comes up from the muscular, hidden unknown beneath his shirt. Firm and frozen, he coldly watches me. The bravest in my whole biosphere. I brace myself against his table, my hips grazing along his side as I sing up to his wary face.

Clayton’s eyes narrow, as if I’m wounding him with my music. Yes, let me wound you with it, so that you might feel an ounce of the agony I’ve felt all week ever since I first laid eyes on you.

As the musicians bring me into the final verse, I pause and bring a hand to that beer in his hand. It slips from his grip easily and I bring it to my lips, my eyes locked on his. I take a swig of it, then set it back on the table. My eyes wrinkle slightly in response; I hadn’t expected the beer to be so bitter. His eyes turn glassy and a hint of amusement twists his lips.

It’s work to perch atop this throne … Oh god. That smirk of his is so sexy, I could ditch the song and plunge into him right now. This throne made of credit cards and silicone …

I’m standing so close to Clayton now, I feel heat coming off of him. I’ve never felt so exposed, so free … Don’t dare give your heart, or you’ll fall right apart.

I lick my lips as the guitarist strums and the pianist glides his long fingers. Right here in my palace of stone …

He parts his lips, his face tightening, pained.

My lips kiss the tip of the microphone as I push the last lyrics out. Yes, right here … in my palace of stone.

The music concludes in a contemplative, resolving chord.

Silence swallows the room.

Clayton’s eyes.

Me and a heavy microphone in my hand, growing heavier and heavier by the second.

I’m met suddenly with the reality of what I just did. In front of everyone. The alcohol’s no longer a mask. I just sang the most personal song I’ve ever written to a room full of strangers.

Clayton breathes.

I can’t.

What did I just do?

Then there’s a shout of joy from the back, startling me, and then the rest of the room erupts into applause and cheering. I think I’m imagining it for a second, stunned by the reaction. Are they mocking me, or did I really do a decent job?

When I look at Clayton again, I see a question in his eyes. Suddenly, nothing else matters. I got his attention, I tell myself. He knows who I am. He’s curious. I caught him. And in the midst of all my doubt, I feel like I’ve won some game I didn’t know I was playing. The game of cat and mouse. The crush game.

“And that’s how you do it,” I say to him, grinning.

He doesn’t respond.

With a coy shrug, I waltz back to the stage, return the microphone to its stand, then give the room a little drunken curtsy before giggling and rushing back to my table, the room revived with the musician’s music and loud, chaotic chatter.

“Oh my god,” moans Victoria when I’ve returned to my seat. “What were you thinking??”

“You can say I was inspired.” I giggle, eye-fucking Clayton through the smoke and banter. He looks so pissed off and sexy. “And now he knows who I am. Oh, how was the song?” I ask my friends.

“You were amazing, obviously,” Victoria says.

“Thanks!” I laugh, but when I return my gaze to Clayton, he’s abandoned his beer and is walking away.

The joy’s lost in an instant. I bend to the side, curious, but only catch a glimpse of his backside as he pushes through the door, gone.

Wow. Did I do that to him?

“No, no,” shouts Victoria through the noise, her face turning serious. “No, Dessie. You can’t go after him. You shouldn’t. He’s bad news.”

Why’d Clayton leave so suddenly? Did I make him uncomfortable? Well, he deserved it … after all the turmoil he put me through by just existing.

“Dessie. Are you listening?”

I frown, annoyed. “Why does it matter?”

But then even Chloe chimes in. “Everyone wants a piece of the Watts boy. Girls go crazy for him.”

“And guys,” adds Eric with a sneer.

“Every new student that comes through here tries to hook up with that hot piece of ass,” Chloe adds with a rueful shake of her head. “I’ve watched it since my own freshman year. It’s tragic.”

“Hell, even I couldn’t help but stare at him when he was in my dramaturgy class,” Victoria shouts over the table. “Listen, if it’s a boy toy you want, I’ll get you a list of ten eligible bachelors, my friend. Clayton is not one of them.”

I lean forward, meeting her halfway over the table. “He’s the one from the theater, Vicki!”

“Don’t call me that! Wait, what??”

“The one who heard me! The one from the other day!” I shout back. “He’s the one! That’s the guy! Clayton!” I stare after the door, still wondering why he left so abruptly. I’m trying not to let it sour the moment we just shared. I feel like I did something wrong. “Now, he’s heard my song,” I add. “Twice.”

“Oh, Des, no, no,” retorts Victoria. “He didn’t hear your song, sweetheart. Not one note.”

I frown at her. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Honey, he’s deaf.”

CLAYTON

I am so fucked.

Six drinks and six blocks later, I still see her face burned into the backs of my eyelids. Or maybe it was the shitty stage lighting.

I barely survived the last time I let a girl get too close to me. I’ve been so good at keeping focus. I just brought my grades back up from last semester’s poli-sci catastrophe. I can’t let another actress destroy me again. Haven’t I learned my damn lesson?

Things are looking up, too. I’m feeling weird shit I haven’t felt in years—like hope. Everything I’ve worked so hard for since freshman year—while struggling to pay tuition out of my own pocket with the scrappy earnings from my three or four summer jobs—is about to pay off. After my experimental lighting design of Oliver’s senior-directed black box show last year, Doctor Thwaite, the Director of the School of Theatre, is finally looking at me. I caught him giving me an approving nod when I passed by him on the first day back. His lips moved to form a hello with my name attached. My name. They’re starting to see me.

That’s why I can’t let her fuck it all up. I know how I get, obsessing over a girl like her. My weakness. It’s the same weakness I had even in the first half of my life when I could hear a girl say my name.

My opportunity to be the lighting designer for a main stage production is so close, I can taste it.

What I can also taste is her lips. As she sang, I was hypnotized by them as they moved, imagining what they’d taste like if I brought my mouth to them. Then she came down from the stage and got in my face. Just inches away, I could’ve fucking tasted her.

I had a similar reaction when I caught her singing to the empty seats of the auditorium the other day. When she caught me standing there, I loved how that made her freak out and bolt. I was so mesmerized by the sight of her, I didn’t even pay attention to what she was saying to me. I spent that night pushing away thoughts of her long brown hair, her curvy body, her creamy skin … and those huge, vibrant eyes …

Fuck. And now she’s gone and sang a song to me. It was excruciating, sitting there in the dense crowd of drunken losers while that girl poured sweet music from those lips of hers … music I couldn’t hear.

My phone vibrates. I glance down to find a text from my roommate.

BRANT

Got a girl over.

Hot AF n kinda freaky.

Haven’t sealed the deal yet.

Need the place for 10 min :)

Every girl my puppy of a roommate meets is “hot as fuck”. I swear, Brant could hump fire out of a fire hydrant, that horny dog. So much for going home.

I smirk and type a reply:

ME

U only need 10 minutes?

BRANT

Good point. Gimme 15

Moments later, I’m staring at the blank screen of my phone in the 24-hour diner near my apartment. The thought of Brant getting busy with some chick is amusing at first, but that amusement sours fast, and all I’m left with is a ringing in my ears that may or may not be entirely imaginary.

A ringing where that girl’s song should be.

Soon, a curvy blonde waitress with big tits comes to my table—some new chick, not the usual one—and she lifts her flirty eyes. Her big lips move. I grip the menu and point. Appearing somewhat put-off by my brash demeanor, she cranes her neck to read, then jots down my order with a frown. Her lips move again. I pick up my phone, mash thumbs into it, then show her the screen:

Over easy.

Coffee black plz.

Her eyes flash as she reads the message. She asks if I have laryngitis or something. I shake my head no. Then she pops the magic question. I nod patiently. The reaction is what it always is. Suddenly, I’m a ghost, and she wonders a few things out loud that she thinks I can’t understand. I actually watch her lips form the words, “Shit. Okay. I can do this, I can do this, I can do this,” before she steels herself and returns to the kitchen—as if she were on a bomb squad and my order needed decoding or some shit.

It’s not just the deaf thing. Maybe it’s the ink that crawls up my neck from a mass of swirls and thorns that starts at my right shoulder and spreads out like a black, deadly explosion. Maybe it’s the fuck-you look I always seem to be giving. People think I’m dangerous. The less they have to deal with me, the better. I know if my roommates were here, the waitress would talk to me through them as if I was some strange entity from another planet they needed to order for. Hell, one time at an Italian place, I went through a whole damn meal without getting a single refill, check-up, or an offer for dessert. The waiter couldn’t wait to slap a check on my table and get me the fuck out; that’s how uncomfortable I make people.

Oh, and I fucking love dessert. Bastard.

My mind is a mess and the six drinks I downed at the Throng & Song are already gone, my buzz killed long ago. Even the eggs don’t cheer me up. They’re brought to the table by a different person, some server who meets my eyes worriedly as if I were a caged beast he was feeding. I’m guessing big-tits is over me. I cut into my eggs with a scowl and watch the yolk bleed across my plate.

There’s something refreshingly different about that girl from the theater … annoyingly different. It unsettles me. Everyone down here is the same. All the girls have fear in their eyes when they meet me.

She had something else. Curiosity? Confidence? It’s like her eyes cut through all the bullshit and the smoke and the walls of cynicism I built up around myself. She saw me.

Or I’m just lying to myself all over again, just like I lied to myself with countless girls before.

It’s exactly forty minutes later when I’m slipping my key into the door. The second the cold air of my apartment touches my skin, I feel relief, kicking the door shut behind me and dropping my bag onto the kitchen counter where last night’s army of beer cans and pizza boxes still sit. The living room’s unoccupied and Brant’s door is shut, so I assume he sealed his lady-deal. With a huff at the abundant laziness of my two helpless roommates, I surrender to half an hour of housekeeping before I allow myself to chill.

Or maybe I just want to take my aggression out on these dishes and cups and cutlery. It infuriates me that I can’t get that girl out of my mind, which shows in the way I scrub the glass in my hand. The water seeps into my sleeves the way she seeps into my every thought. Her singing captivated a room full of drunk morons. Who the hell manages to do that? I could physically feel the noise of the room die away when she took to that microphone. The frenzied hum of the place, a hum I could feel through every fingertip and follicle of hair on my body, it grew still, just so she could make her music.

That vacuum of sensation was fast replaced by a beauty I was all too eager to drink in with my eyes. I don’t think I knew eyes were capable of drinking until that moment.

Thoughts of her bring me to the couch where I collapse and kick my sore feet up, my eyelids growing heavier by the second. I mash a throw pillow behind my head and let sleep have her way with me, assuming she wants me at all. I’ve had trouble sleeping lately. That same stupid nightmare keeps creeping into my dreams, the one where I wake up in a house filled with water. My bed’s floating, my roommates are gone, and no one’s there to help me. Since I’ve had the nightmare so many times, I always know none of the doors will open no matter how hard I push, and somehow, I can’t smash the window. Because I already know I can’t get free, I’m more terrified each time I have the nightmare. The room keeps filling up, and for a moment, I always think I see someone outside. I scream for them, begging for help, pounding my fist against the glass, and for once, it’s the rest of the world who can’t seem to hear a thing. No one comes to save my life.

I hate feeling helpless.

But that’s not the dream that finds me on the couch tonight. Instead, it’s her on that tiny stage all by herself, and the entire room at the Throng has emptied itself of all those others who don’t matter. It’s just her on the stage, and me in front of her.

And all that cold, silent space between us.

I study her. Like a zoomed-in camera, my eyes draw up the length of her smooth legs, over her supple hips, and arriving at her perky, perfect breasts.

My cock’s so hard, a moan vibrates my chest.

My eyes arrive at her lips, and suddenly I’m at the edge of the stage looking up at her. The whole room feels ice cold against my skin. Her breath is the only warmth I know, and it touches me in little jagged spurts and I haven’t even touched her yet. She wants me so bad. She wants me to do things to her. “Clayton,” I can imagine her saying.

Yes, I can imagine her voice. I think on what it might sound like. I feel it, smooth and seductive as her finger tracing my tattoos. Her pink lips dance, singing to me. What else can she do with them?

My cock is so hard. “Clayton …” It pushes against the inside of my jeans. I want to pull it out while her breath keeps touching my face.

I want to look up into her eyes and bury my mouth in her breasts.

I want to know what she smells like so bad. I want to taste her. I want to tear off her clothes and watch her gasp with surprise as the beast within me is unleashed on her.

I reach down for my cock, ready to release him.

Then I feel the subtle shake of a door closing and remove my hand, the dream destroyed. Fucking hell. I catch my breath and lift my head, only to find Brant standing over the couch holding a six-pack with a smug grin of victory stretched across his face.

Brant is the tall, slender type with the messy brown hair and blue eyes that all the girls go ape shit for, and he knows it too. He works out a third as much as I do, yet keeps a body that’s ripped and lean, no matter how much pizza he packs a day. I don’t know how the fucker does it. Brant’s come a long way since we were kids, that’s for sure. We’ve been the best of buddies since the day we fought and made up over bloody noses in an elementary school playground.

He wiggles the six-pack and gives me a lift of his eyebrows, offering one. I type, then lift my phone with a scowl:

WTF with the dishes?

Im not ur mom

Brant smirks, leans over the back of the couch and says it’s all Dmitri’s leftover mess from some friends he brought over last night. Then he adds something about how if I listened more carefully, I would’ve heard their ruckus and kicked them out.

I throw a punch into his arm for that remark, inspiring a laugh from him that I can almost hear with my mind. I’ve known Brant since long before I lost my hearing and we’ve cracked so many stupid jokes together that I know his laugh as intimately as my own. He’s the only person in the world who can get away with giving me shit for being deaf. Maybe it’s the only way we both can cope with it … even if he’s still shit at sign language and doesn’t seem able to retain a damn thing beyond the signs for “fart”, “poop”, “penis”, and “Cherry Coke”.

Brant comes around the couch and plops down by my legs, nearly sitting on them, and asks me if I’m still planning on coming to his thing. What I was planning to do was jerk off, you fucker. Truth is, I’m not even sure that’s what he asked; the sleepier I get, the harder it is to read lips. I have to think for a moment before realizing what he means: he’s got a bowling tournament next Saturday that he’s invited Dmitri and I to come watch. It’s an unofficial sort of local thing with the prize being free drinks for a week, but it means a lot to Brant. Also, he happens to be some weird kind of bowling ball whisperer.

I nod at him, which seems to satisfy him more than the supposed lady-sex he just had. I didn’t see her leave, but I know he never lets a girl stay over, so either her stealth level is top notch or he made her climb out of the window.

The six-pack appears once again and he rips one off, tossing it into my lap. With a snapping of its lid, I take a long, deep swallow. The cold beer runs down my throat and fills me with a comfort I’ve so craved. My eyes glaze over as Brant throws an arm over the back of the couch and flips on the TV.

I read the captions for two minutes before growing bored.

It doesn’t matter what’s on TV. Between the cold, wet can in my fist and the colors flashing over my face from the screen, I let the alcohol numb my incessant, invasive thoughts of that girl I shouldn’t be craving … a girl I can’t let stay over, a girl I’m letting climb out the window of my mind …

A girl still waiting for me on that stage with her jagged breaths …

A girl who finds me on this couch when my eyes finally close, her soft fingers dancing across my skin and sending currents of pleasure up my arms. A girl whose touch makes me so hard, my cock aches as it tents uncomfortably in my jeans. A girl whose pink, pouty lips hover tauntingly over my face, ready to make a slobbering, paralyzed idiot out of me.

A girl who is carefully, patiently taking me apart … one agonizing piece at a time.

DESSIE

I can’t contain my excitement, not even in acting class. My stomach’s doing cartwheels in the grass and my lips keep twisting into a smile that hasn’t gone away all weekend.

I don’t care if he’s deaf. He didn’t hear my song? No big deal. He felt it. I could see it in his eyes, which burned black with hunger, with need, with danger …

I don’t care about my friends’ warnings, either. Everyone has a story attached to them. Living in the limelight of my parents, I’m used to doubting every piece of gossip or hearsay that drifts past my ears and eyes. I’ve seen my mother blasted on enough slanted, click-bait articles to know not to trust rumors.

My phone buzzes. I glance down at a text.

NOT-VICKI

OMG Des, the cast list is up.

I gawp, pulled out of my thoughts of Clayton. Already? It’s only been two days. Who the hell casts a whole season of shows in two days?

ME

I didn’t expect it so fast.

NOT-VICKI

Yep.

Im stuck in costume history tho

:(

ME

I’m in acting.

Meet up afterwards?

NOT-VICKI

YESSS and then lets get some lunch

to celebrate!!!

I stow away my phone, worried that my acting professor Nina has caught me when I realize the room’s gone silent, but instead it’s just one of my classmates performing, being all dramatic and taking long, annoying pauses between his lines.

My mind drifts back to thoughts of Clayton, and the rest of the class period is forgotten.

I leave the black box eagerly. The world brushes past my face as I reach the cast list hanging off the rehearsal room door. A flock of eager students push one another out of the way to read its contents, much in the same way dogs fight over a bone. There is a moan of disappointment to my left. There is a cheer of victory to my right. There is silent pondering everywhere else.

And then there’s me. Two heads in front of me move apart, and through the sea of whispers and groans and hair, I finally see the names. I rub my eyes and stare, reading the name at the top a dozen times. I don’t believe what I’m reading.

“Congrats,” murmurs Eric, who I didn’t notice at my side.

I shake my head. “But I didn’t think—”

“You obviously earned it,” he says, offering me a smile. “And hey, look. I’ll be playing the town drunk, Simon! But we don’t have any scenes together …”

“That’s great,” I tell him distractedly, still reading and rereading my name on that list.

“You know what the secret to acting drunk is? It’s to try not acting drunk.” Eric laughs hollowly. “I’ll see you later, D-lady.”

I still can’t believe it. It has to be a mistake, right? “Bye,” I say belatedly, then realize that Eric’s already gone.

And it’s not only that I was cast; it’s the role I was cast in. I shake my head, unable to comprehend it. Maybe this is an error, surely. Maybe there’s another Desdemona Lebeau in the Theatre department.

To make matters worse, not twenty seconds after Eric’s ghostly departure, Victoria replaces him at my side. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” she sings excitedly, her eyes eagerly scanning the cast list.

I get the pleasure of having a front row seat to observe my friend’s face as it slowly, gently collapses in disappointment.

“Wow,” she mutters after some time, the pain evident on her face. Then, she squints, something occurring to her. “Lebeau …” she reads.

Oh, fuck.

She turns to me, a look in her eye. “Lebeau?” She’s piecing it together. “Any relation to—?”

“No,” I blurt a little too quickly. Of course she’d know my family; she knows everything. “There’s lots of Lebeaus in New York. Like, tons.”

“Hmm.” Though the dubious glint remains in her eye, she gives a shrug and says, “Congrats, Dessie. Honestly, I didn’t know you were going for the role of Emily.” She tries her best to sound composed. “Of course, you totally fit the role. I mean, you’re pretty and all.”

Now I can’t tell if she’s sincerely complimenting me or just being a bitch. “Thanks,” I say anyway.

“I gotta get to class,” she blurts, although I know her next class isn’t for another two hours. “I’ll see you back at the dorms later.” Then with a tiny smile that looks like a grimace, she’s off.

So much for our lunch plans. I’m about to shout after her, explaining that I wasn’t even going for the part, that I didn’t indicate “Emily” as a preference on my audition form, but saying that would probably just make things worse, admitting I got a part I didn’t even want. The part she wanted. The lead role.

The … lead role.

Suddenly, that fact hits me as if it weren’t already made plain. The lead role. Oh my god. I just got the lead in the first main stage production of the year. That’s how good they thought I was. This has to be an error, my mind keeps telling me, but a sudden whirlwind of confidence seems to take over instead. Maybe I’m still riding the high from my show on that tiny circular stage last Friday night.

Quite suddenly, whatever wrinkle of guilt I was feeling is long gone.

“I got the part!” I say elatedly into the phone when I’m by myself in the corner of the lobby, just outside the auditorium doors.

“Of course you did, doll,” sings my mother’s fluid voice. I hear wine glasses and silverware tinkling in the background, wherever she is. “Now, it’s important that you put in an actor’s worth of work. No, I’ll take another chardonnay. Please, with some brie.”

I smile as I stare out the tall glass windows of the lobby, letting my mom talk to whoever else it is who’s got her attention. I’m watching some sweaty guys throwing a Frisbee back and forth in the courtyard outside, too happy with the news to be bothered by my mom’s distracted attention to it.

As a side thought, I genuinely wonder if Cece would be happy for me and have some nice words. She’s not used to me having any sort of success. Maybe I should call her up, too.

“An actor’s worth of work?” I prompt her when it sounds like she’s free. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, you know, doll. Listen to your director. Make interesting choices. Don’t upstage. Excuse me, this is not the chardonnay I drank earlier. Where’s the good stuff, sweet thing? Get Geoffrey, he knows what I like. And don’t forget the brie.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Brie, yes. Brie. This’ll be good for you, doll,” she says, returning to me. “You really need to find that special voice in you. Put in the work and you’ll get as much as you give. Call me after your first rehearsal.”

Silence greets my ear when she hangs up abruptly. I see a flash of my mom’s headshot on the screen before my phone goes dark.

I feel so damn invincible suddenly. I could take on a hundred auditions, even with my tiny little nothing embellished piece of crap résumé. I’d brave any tiny circular stage at any random piano bar and sing my heart out. I can do anything.

And then I see Clayton’s face in that piano bar. I recall how I made him squirm on that barstool—and then how he left so abruptly after I made my move.

A heaviness settles right on top of all of my joy. He couldn’t hear my singing. Maybe he didn’t know what I was doing. Maybe he thought I was mocking him. Maybe he hates attention. Who the hell knows what he was thinking after my little performance?

I want to make things right. Excitement invades me again. An inspiration, if you will. My heart grows lighter just thinking about it.

I can make this right.

Driven by my idea, I rush to the computer lab at the library just down the road from the School of Art. It’s pretty crowded for a Monday, but I manage to find an unoccupied computer right in the middle of the madness. Typing quickly, I log in and run a little search in the browser. I study the pictures that come up, curious. With a click, a video fills the screen. I move my hands, carefully trying to imitate what I’m seeing. There’s a few students nearby whose attention I’ve caught, but I pay them no mind, the performer in me ignoring the unintended audience.

The smile returns to my face. Today is just the best day ever.

The sun beams on me as I cross the campus later, heading for the University Center for a bit of lunch. Since Victoria forgot about our plans, I opt to eat by myself. I’m far too happy to feel bad. It’s not my fault I got cast and she didn’t. If I could give my part to Victoria, I totally would, but what would I have, then? The whole point of attending this university is to get a normal college experience and hone my craft. I’m sure Victoria will understand; she just needs time. Hell, maybe in a few days’ time, she’ll even help me with my lines. Victoria’s a good, kindhearted person.

After I pay for my turkey sub sandwich, which comes with a bag of baked potato chips and a soda I didn’t want but accept anyway, I search for an empty table. Noon is just the worst time to eat; this place is so packed, I can’t even hear my own thoughts.

When I come around the corner, I spot a booth with a familiar face. Sam, my roommate, is eating all by herself. Or, rather, she’s not eating at all. She’s seated there with a textbook spread out in front of her, looking bored as ever. Those ugly thick-rimmed black glasses swallowing half her forehead, she looks up, her beady black eyes finding mine. Her lips stretch into a long line, which I think is her trademarked version of a smile.

I plop down across from her. “Hey there, Sam!”

“Hi.” Her eyes drop down to my sandwich.

It doesn’t go unnoticed. “What’re you studying?” I ask, opening the crinkly wrapping to my turkey sub.

“Theory.”

Since my sub’s cut in two pieces, I lift the first half to my mouth and take a bite. “It’s so freaking busy in here,” I whine through a full mouth. “And so loud!”

“Yeah.” She swallows, staring at my hands.

“Have you eaten already?” I ask her.

“Yeah. I had … breakfast.”

I don’t know how, but I suddenly suspect that my roommate skips meals and saves every penny she’s got. Maybe her parents’ weekly-or-monthly allowance is regrettably meager at best. Maybe she didn’t eat.

“Y’know, I’m not gonna be able to finish all this,” I confess. “Want the other half of my sub?”

“Oh.” Sam shifts in her seat. “No, it’s … it’s okay. I’m not that hungry.”

“Well, guess that second half’s gonna go to waste.”

She stares at it dubiously. I nudge the remaining half of the sub I was totally planning on eating toward her. After a moment of hesitation, she picks it up and takes a bite. From the way she eats, it’s clear how very hungry she was indeed.

Not to say the sight of her scarfing down the sub is the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. I suffer staring at a speck of mayonnaise on her chin for a solid five minutes before she wipes it and licks it off her finger.

Just before I put the last bite past my lips, I see Clayton through the mess of people in the cafeteria.

Fuck. He’s here.

I never see him anywhere on campus except for the theater.

My insides seize up. The last delicious bite of my lunch is left on the table, forgotten. My eyes zero in and the only thing that exists in the world is his muscular frame as it slowly strolls by in the distance. Just at the sight of him, my legs squeeze together.

I can’t explain that last reaction.

“What’s wrong?” asks Sam flatly.

“I’ll be right back.”

I ditch the booth and cut through the masses, my feet flying as if there were no floor beneath them.

I maneuver around all the annoying tables that stand in between Clayton and I. My feet nearly catch the strap of some guy’s backpack that rests by his feet. My elbow knocks into some girl who shouts a protest at my back that I don’t hear.

I find Clayton standing near the double glass doors at the entrance to the cafeteria, the sunlight cutting through and painting his face in shades of white and yellow, making his dark demeanor glow like some beautiful, otherworldly being. He stares down at his phone, his biceps bulging from holding the screen to his face. The plain black shirt he wears hugs every contour of his body, tapering down to meet his sexy jeans, which are torn at the knees.

He is sex in the shape of a man. God …

He looks up, and when his eyes meet mine, there is electricity there. Kill me now. His face changes, and his heavy-lidded, dark stare penetrates me. All that bright confidence I had a moment ago is sucked into my throat, rendering me unable to breathe. He’s so sexy. He’s got that distinct, bad-boy handsomeness, his cheeks dusted with a five o’clock shadow and his eyes catching the light from outside, making them appear like two shimmering chips of glass.

My heart hammers against my chest.

It’s performance time.

I lift my hand up and wave, offering a smile.

After a moment of staring, he returns a tiny nod.

You’re doing good, I coach myself. He acknowledged you. Keep going! With a jolt of excitement coursing through me, I bring a fist to my chest, then slowly rub it in a circle—Sorry.

He doesn’t respond to that, his eyes glued to my face as if he didn’t just see what I tried to sign to him.

Just keep going, Dessie. I bring a flat hand to my chest—My. I take two fingers from one hand and tap the two fingers of my other—Name. Then, I carefully form what I hope to be the correct letters with my right hand—D, E, S, S, I, E. When I’ve finished, I clasp my hands together, proud of myself, and smile again.

His face hardens. His lips purse, causing his sexy cheeks to suck in as he considers me. Oh, crap. Did I do it all wrong? Did I just call him an asshole, or insult his mother, or accidentally tell him I’m a purple frog? Maybe I should have gotten a second opinion before practicing sign language for the first time—that I learned from a Google search—on Clayton.

Then, without relaxing any of that hard attitude on his face, he nods again, then redirects his attention to his phone, where he seems to be typing for a short moment. He shows me the screen:

I’m Clayton

I breathe a sigh of relief. “I know,” I say out loud, then find myself struck with the horror of the fact that I don’t know any more signs. I looked up how to say some other things, but they’ve gone completely out of my head.

Crap. I’m out of conversation.

It doesn’t seem to matter. Clayton, his jaw flexed, gives me another tight nod and a short, halfhearted wave before he turns and departs the building. The glass doors close behind him.

I stare after him, my pulse throbbing in my ears.

Then, all the fear and doubt is replaced yet again with unapologetic glee. I just conversed with Clayton. Wow. I just conversed with Clayton using my hands.

There’s a few other ways I’d like to communicate with Clayton using my hands.

Feeling twenty times lighter than I did before, I return to my booth and pop the last bite of sub into my mouth, a giggle wiggling its way up and down my whole body. I can’t believe what I just did. I can’t believe that actually just happened.

“Is he a friend?”

I look up at Sam, who has yet another speck of mayonnaise on her face, right by her lips. I don’t care. It’s even adorable, suddenly.

“You could say that,” I answer with a dumb grin.

“Is he deaf?”

“Yep.”

I open the bag of chips I didn’t even want. I pop one into my mouth, then scoot the bag across the table to my roommate, who doesn’t even have to be asked, helping herself to one.

“He looks like someone I knew in high school,” she says. “He could be part of a heavy metal band.”

“A sexy drummer,” I say, dreaming on. First thing I’ll do when I get back to my dorm is research every sign I possibly can. “Guitarist,” I go on, wondering how to sign the phrase: I want you to push me into the wall and stick your cock inside me. “Sexy, sexy guitarist.”

“Him being a drummer would make sense,” Sam reasons. “Vibrations and everything …”

“Vibrations,” I agree, dreaming about what sort of vibrations I want to feel between my legs tonight, if I can get some time alone. I think about what signs I’d need to learn to tell him: Bend me over the table and pound me until I forget my own name.

Imaginary signs and hand-shapes keep spinning around my mind as I share the rest of the potato chips with my roommate, lost in dreams of him … and what other kind of magic I can do with my hands.

CLAYTON

What the fuck was that?

I can barely concentrate even when I’m backstage sorting stage weights and fucking two-by-fours, as if I’ve suddenly doubled as the set crew, too. Dick was so damn efficient with his lighting crew this morning that there’s barely anything left to do tonight or tomorrow, which leaves my body in a perpetual state of busywork and my mind trapped on that girl.

Dessie.

Not a name I’ve heard before.

I’m so distracted by her that I let a stage weight go too early and the heavy fucker drops on my foot like a brick. After a shriek of pain, I kick the damn thing fruitlessly and study my foot, thankful I wore some sturdy boots today. When I take a glance at the others who are messing with the counterweight system, I realize I might’ve shouted louder than I intended to. I give them an annoyed nod, then continue about my work, determined to keep my toes unbroken.

That Dessie girl signed to me. Great. Fucking great. It’s obvious she either never used sign language before or just learned those few signs for my benefit. I don’t know which feels worse. I hate the attention that signing in public gives me. The only person I sign with is my other roommate Dmitri, who met me in an astronomy class last year when he noticed that I had an interpreter present. He’s got a deaf sister, so he was already fluent. Fuck, he’s even more fluent than I am.

But that girl signed me her name. She obviously gave enough of a shit about me to introduce herself. I feel that horrible flutter in my chest. The girl I’ve been obsessing about … she fucking signed to me.

It makes me insane. Who the hell is she? Why did she appear out of nowhere this semester and fly right into my line of sight and pull me off my tracks?

I’m doing so well. Things are so fucking perfect.

I know the cost of my obsessions. I know what happened last year. I know how girls can ruin me.

I can’t do this again.

But I want to so fucking badly.

Someone comes up to my side and I watch his lips ask me if I’m okay. It’s some freshman I don’t know. I just ignore him, minding my duty in organizing these stupid set pieces and flats that were left for me, and I find myself thinking about signs and hands and that girl’s sexy fingers.

She had sexy, sexy fingers.

Just that small moment at the University Center with her, it revived feelings I’d long left buried since my freshman year, which was a total nightmare. I hated interpreters back then, and maybe I still do. For some reason, I wanted to prove to myself—and maybe to everyone else—that I could do this all on my own. I wasn’t any different than my hearing classmates, and I wanted to prove it. Some leftover high school arrogance had me caught in its know-it-all web.

Defiantly, I downloaded a voice-to-text app on my laptop that I used in all my classes to convert each professor’s speech into words on my screen before my eager eyes. Trouble is, the stupid thing would constantly miss key phrases, misinterpret words, or just plain fuck up. It was like living in an autocorrect nightmare. Still, I was so stubborn and determined that I sat in the front row of every class and stared at my professor’s lips, determined to read them like a hawk.

But, unbeknownst to most, lip reading is, in fact, a very flimsy and inaccurate means of communication.

After too long a time, I finally surrendered to the University’s interpreting services and got myself some school-appointed nerd named Joe, who occasionally sent a girl named Amber in his place, and either of them would interpret the lessons to me each class. I got to know their hands so intimately, they became my own. They seemed used to people who were born deaf, so I had to slow them the fuck down until they got used to a speed I was comfortable with.

As for the attention, I’d just deal with it. Soon, I stopped noticing the people in class staring.

So when this girl Dessie shows up out of nowhere, sings some song at me, grips my heart right out of my chest and then brings it back to me during lunch with a cute expression on her face and her fingers making clumsy words before my eyes, what the fuck am I supposed to do? My heart turned into a racing drum that shook my ribcage apart.

I want to tell her to stay the fuck away from me. I want to tell her that I’m bad news for her. I want to warn her the way a good friend should …

And I want to pin her to a wall and fuck her until she can’t walk.

A shadow drops over me, pulling me out of my thoughts. Standing to my side is the towering shape of Doctor Marvin Thwaite, the Director of the School of Theatre. He’s a staggeringly tall, round man whose steps I normally feel coming as he shakes the stage with each one. He has no hair, save a ring of grey that runs from one ear around the back to the other. His nose is a needle of flesh and his lips are pencil-thin.

He says he’d like to talk in his office, if I can pull myself away from what I’m doing. At least, I hope that’s what he said. I look over at Dick who stands with the others near the lip of the stage and, having heard Doc’s request, Dick lazily waves at me. I nod at Doctor Thwaite, then follow him out of the theater.

His office is as warm as an oven, its windows facing the sun all day long. Despite the AC running at full blast, it never seems to bother him. He takes a seat at his desk and motions to a chair where I sit. Doc faces me, then asks if I’ll need an interpreter or if I can understand him without one.

I give a patient shake of my head, then type into my phone and show him the screen:

If you speak slowly, I’m good.

Doc smiles and nods amiably.

I know what this meeting is about and can hardly contain myself. He’s going to offer me to do the lighting design for the main stage show. That has to be it. Maybe the lighting designer has some conflict of interest or discovered a scheduling issue and isn’t available. It’s your time of reckoning, Clayton. My stomach turns into steel and I find my hands attached to the armrests with anticipation.

His lips start to move.

I watch with every fiber of my being as my mind converts each lip movement into words. “…invaluable to our program…” He rubs his nose. “…and respect for your hard work and dedication…” He swallows between sentences, licking his long, thin lips. “…for someone with your capability…” His teeth are so white, they blind me with every consonant. What’s his point? Get to the point. I’m so impatient, I could break the armrests off this chair. “…lighting designer…”

I nod and mumble my consent. It’s the closest I’ve ever come to using my voice in front of any of the faculty. Yes, yes, yes. I’ll do it. The hint of a smile finds my face as I continue to watch his mouth move.

“…from New York City, and I want him to…”

My brow furrows. Something isn’t clicking. I find myself falling behind whatever it is he’s saying. Doctor Thwaite seems to notice, because he stops and asks if I’m following. I shake my head no, frustrated with the sudden break in communication.

Wait a minute. Did he just say something about a lighting designer from New York City?

He types at his computer for a second, then twists the monitor around. I’m shown the headshot of some handsome, dimpled, thirty-something douchebag. His name’s Kellen Michael Wright. Professional Lighting Designer from New York City.

Never heard of the fucker.

I glue my eyes to Doc’s lips as he goes on. “…can bring the School of Theatre some good publicity…” My heart sinks. “…as you know the department better than most, and can show him everything…” Blood pumps into my ears, into my cheeks, into my every fingertip. “…and make his transition here as comfortable as possible.”

As comfortable as possible. His transition here.

I’ve gathered everything he needs to say to me. I’m sure my face is a reflection of the turmoil inside. Not that Doctor Thwaite will care to acknowledge it, as he is known to avoid confrontations and pretend like nothing’s ever wrong. I swallow that thick pill he just popped into my mouth with an astute nod.

When he gives me the final smile, I dismiss myself. I’m sure I left imprints of my thumbs in the armrests of his lovely office chair.

Back at the auditorium, I ignore the inquiring stares from the others and return to my work, my face burning with anger. Sometimes, being deaf has its perks, like having an excuse to ignore the world when I want to shut everyone out and fume all on my own. If anyone tries to enter a conversation with me, I’m sure they won’t leave it with their head still attached.

No, he didn’t want me to do the lighting design for Our Town. No, I’m not some special flower. No, my hard work hasn’t finally been recognized. Instead, Doctor Thwaite’s flying in some big shot from New York City to design the show for us, and he wants me to show this guy the ropes.

Me, of all people. What the fuck is Doc thinking?

I’m overlooked enough as it is. Now, as if to push salt into my gaping wounds, I’ll get to experience the joy of watching someone else—who isn’t even a part of this damn school—do the work that I should be doing. I had so many ideas for Our Town, too. I’ve read the play ten times. I had a vision for the funeral scene, for the different homes, for the church …

Fuck. And there isn’t a single other person in the whole department whose sole interest is in designing lights, and Doc knows that. That’s my dream.

When I get home an hour later, the door slams so hard behind me that I feel the floor shake. I ignore the mess in the kitchen and shove through the door into my bedroom, ignoring the squinty glances from Brant and Dmitri on the couch, who seem lost in the middle of playing some first-person shooter game I don’t recognize.

Dropping my bag under the windowsill, I fall back on my bed and shut my eyes. The AC turns on a moment later. I can feel the pull of air as it tickles my skin. Something about that sensation centers me, and I find myself looking up at the bare ceiling as my mind wanders somewhere else entirely.

Dessie. I wonder what her story is. She shows up out of nowhere this year. She’s also from New York City, if what I caught from a buddy in the lighting crew is correct. Does she know the douchebag who’s coming to steal my glory? No one knows anything about her, yet she’s on everyone’s radar. And now she’s been cast as the lead in the first play of the semester.

And she learned a sign or two and told me her name with her sexy hands. Dessie …

I feel a thrumming on my bed and twist around to find Dmitri standing there. With a squint of his eye he signs to me: What’s up? You okay?

I shrug and lazily lift my hands: Shitty day.

He sits on the edge of the bed, which makes it impossible to see him, so I sit up and turn around. He signs to me: We’re going out for a bite. Want to come with?

I shake my head: Not in the mood.

Dmitri smirks: What’s going on? Is it a girl?

In an instant, I realize I don’t want to talk about the haughty dipshit lighting designer from New York. Dessie … That’s someone I’d much rather spend time and effort in moving my hands to discuss.

I shrug, playing up my nonchalance: Someone new at the theater, I sign. Yes.

Dmitri laughs, then signs back: A girl wants your nuts? Instead of the actual sign for nuts, he just grabs his junk and smirks leeringly at me.

I shake my head and snort too hard, the vibration going up my skull, then say: Verdict’s still out on that.

His hands are oddly long, which makes him extra expressive when he signs. It’s almost the equivalent of shouting in sign language. But that’s the only thing about him that’s long. Dmitri is otherwise a short guy, barely five-three, with a boyish face, rosy cheeks, and jet black hair. He has a red and blue tribal tattoo running down his forearm, a sunburst tattooed to the back of his neck, and a diamond stud in either ear. He’s bisexual, but he doesn’t ever bring anyone home and, more or less, seems completely uninterested in sex, despite chiming in whenever Brant and I check out girls. It’s really nice having someone around who I can easily communicate with, even if I refuse to sign much at all in public; I hate the attention.

He signs to me: Don’t let a girl ruin your day. She isn’t worth it, no matter how pretty.

It’s so much more than how pretty she is. Fuck, I wish I could’ve heard her music. I sign: She’s a singer and actress from New York City. And she signed to me.

Dmitri’s eyes go wide. Oh, he signs. You’re fucked.

Fucked, I agree.

He slaps my shoulder, then moves his hands: Come out with us. We’re getting tacos. It’s Brant’s treat.

I smirk knowingly: Does he know he’s treating us?

Dmitri grins: He will when he gets the check.

I think the company of my buddies is just what I needed. The whole way there, I sign to Dmitri, telling him about Dessie, how she sang to me, how she ran into me at the food court and fucking signed to me. Dmitri relays a lot of it to Brant, then keeps signing: You’re fucked. Brant agrees by mimicking his signs, except it keeps looking like the signs for: You fell.

When the three of us arrive at the diner, we take our usual booth in the back. Brant tells us about this new girl he met in the psychology building and how he’s got this fantasy about her hypnotizing him to do things. When he makes a face to imitate how she’ll look when he’s diving between her legs, I laugh so hard that I spill my sweet tea across the table, soaking Dmitri’s pants and causing him to curse loudly, drawing the attention of nearby tables. In the midst of his tantrum, I sign to him: Would you mind signing all that? I can’t quite make out what curse words you’re shouting. That makes Dmitri mouth the very distinct words of “Fuck you” before he laughs and throws a tea-soaked wad of napkins at Brant.

When Dmitri excuses himself to the bathroom to dry up, Brant leans over the table and asks me about the girl. I shrug, mumbling and looking away. He taps my hand to draw my attention back to him, then asks what I’m going to do about it.

I frown. What the hell does he expect me to do?

His eyes turn serious—something I don’t see in Brant very often. His lips move slowly: “I don’t want you to be alone forever. I care about you. You have to do something about this girl.”

I shake my head, dismissing him again. There’s no use pursuing her, no matter the signs she learns. She won’t be able to handle me. They all run away.

He smacks me over the head. I catch his hand, threatening to crush it if he does that again, but he only responds with a superior smirk, leaning across the table. He reminds me that she signed to me, then mimics her by making dumb motions with his hand, ending randomly with his favorite sign: fart.

I snort and shake my head, the humor not hitting me. The more I think about her, the more frustrated I get. I punch my thumbs into the phone, then show it:

What’s ur point???

I’m too much work.

I’m fucked up dude.....

she’ll run off the second she gets close.

Brant nods. “Yeah,” he says slowly, “she will run off because you gave up.”

I glare at him. I start typing again, but Brant’s hand covers mine. He says something else.

Then, I get so fed up that I do something I almost never do: “It won’t work out,” I tell him.

The sound of my voice takes him aback.

My face flushes, angry. I can’t stand talking. I can’t stand not knowing what I sound like. I feel so fucking insecure about it. I remember hearing and making fun of the slurred S’s and the weird vowel sounds that other deaf people made when I was a kid, and here I am, having become the butt of my own childhood jokes. I was such a little shit when I was a kid … when I could hear …

Sometimes, I wonder if this is my punishment.

Brant flicks me in the chin, nabbing my attention. He tells me: “You’ll never know unless you …”

He thinks for a moment, brow wrinkled. Then, he creates fists with the thumbs poking out between his fingers and twists them in the air.

It’s the sign for “try”.

DESSIE

“I want you to fuck me. Fuck the doubt out of me. Fuck the ex-boyfriend out of my head. Fuck me until there’s nothing in my mouth but your name, over and over again, in screams.”

Her name is Ariel. Yes, like the stupid mermaid. And she’s beautiful. And all the guys stare at her and she bats her stupid eyelashes and she’s the perfect actress. And even when she says a word like “fuck”, she makes it sound like poetry. Her hair is a golden, wavy waterfall of wonder and her face is oh-so angelic.

And apparently she and Clayton had a thing a year ago or so. Yeah. That mermaid up there is his type, and that’s a type I will never be.

“Great,” says Nina, the acting professor who never calls anything great or good or lovely, ever. She sits in the audience seats among us, observing Ariel who stands proudly in the acting area awaiting critique. Miss Nina Parisi adds, “You gave just the right amount of care, and just the right amount of nothing to each ‘fuck’. Great.”

If there’s one thing I don’t regret about college acting compared to high school, it’s the sudden permission to read and act from scripts that have an overabundance of the word “fuck” in them. Hell, it’s encouraged. Fuck this. Fuck that. Fuck me and you.

And Fuck Ariel. I’ll never look like that. She has the same pretentious glassy-eyed face as my sister Cece, the one that never seems to change when she steps off the stage. Whether standing before an audience or all by herself, the actress acts, the face lights up, and every word that vomits out of those lips is seasoned with pretense and packaged with the pristine care of three weeks’ meticulous rehearsal.

And Clayton wants that? I roll my eyes and chew grindingly on my thoughts—which may or may not be my teeth—embarrassed that I ever gave that man the time of day. That beautiful, striking, incredible man. That heart-stopping, slab-of-beef, gorgeous-eyed solid demigod of a man.

That beautiful man I signed my name to.

I’m fooling myself, aren’t I?

Nina rises from the seats and crosses half the length of the black box theater we have our acting class in, the heels she wears stabbing the stage floor and echoing off the rafters and the four plain walls. Quietly, she says, “I want you to do that piece again. Bravo.” She faces us, her eyes alight. “Pay attention to the little things she does in this monologue. What she does with her hands. Her eyes, just the story in her eyes alone. The focus she gives to an acting partner who doesn’t even exist. Take notes, people.”

Ariel lifts her tiny chin, stares up at an imaginary beam of heaven-light, then recites her line: “I want you to fuck me.”

Go fuck yourself, Ariel.

When class is dismissed, I gather up my bag as fast as I can and hurry across the black box, only to find Ariel’s tiny figure stopping me at the exit doors. “Desdemona, right?”

My heart races. I blink. What does this bitch want? “Yes, that’s me.”

“Oh, awesome.” Her eyes sparkle. She extends a tiny hand. “Ariel Robbins. I’m the T.A., as you know, and I just wanted to say that I am really enjoying your work in this class. You’re going to blossom with your role in Our Town when rehearsals start next week. You give such remarkable attention to nuance!”

Oh, this is just lovely. The bitch turns out to be all nice and crap after I spent the class despising her. “Thanks.”

“No, really. I don’t say this about many freshmen,” she insists, batting her eyelashes, “but you’ve got a special something, Desdemona. I know real talent when I see it.”

“It’s Dessie, and I’m not a freshman,” I murmur quietly, unable to process her annoying compliments. Really, it’s Chloe’s fault I feel like this; she’s the one who spilled all about the mermaid here. It was Chloe and I in the lobby surrounded by cafeteria snacks and scripts while discussing Clayton’s supposedly long history of girlfriends and flings. I believed about ten percent of what she said, tossing the rest into the rumors-and-embellishment bin.

“Oh! Yes, of course,” says Ariel with a feathery chuckle. “I was told that. I’m so silly. Transfer, yes?”

“Right.”

She smiles warmly. That smile lasts for about four seconds before it turns to ice. “So I heard about the song, Dessie. At the piano bar.”

I swallow, steeling myself for whatever it is she wants to say. “Song?” I prompt her innocently, but knowing exactly what she’s talking about.

“You sang a song to Clayton. Clayton Watts,” she clarifies, tilting her head so all that angelic, blonde hair drifts to the side like a curtain of snow. “I don’t mean to step on any toes, or to come off any certain way, but … just friend to friend, woman to woman … you need to be warned,” she tells me, her eyes soft and glassy. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but—”

“I’m usually of the mindset that it doesn’t matter what I hear,” I retort as politely as I can, despite the sharp edge to each of my words. “I judge a person based on how I think of them, not others.”

Ariel’s sweet smile hasn’t left her face, though it tightens considerably at my words. I’m not fooled. Of course the ex would want to scare everyone else away from Clayton; this bitch just doesn’t want to picture his sexy lips anywhere near mine. Possessive, much?

“You are a very sweet person,” she tells me, and despite how I’m feeling, I can’t tell whether she means it or is just being snarky. “I wish everyone had as open and caring a mind as you. Well.” She tightens her smile yet some more. “It was certainly a pleasure. I have to be off now to help grade Phonetics papers for the voice prof. Have a nice day, Dessie! And … do take care,” she adds. “A rose always looks lovely from a distance, but their thorns will prick you just the same. It’s in their nature.”

With that, she dives back into her little river, her legs turning into half a fish, then flitters away.

I spend the afternoon alone, bitterly eating Ariel’s words and spitting them out of my mind. She’d totally do well to have a sea hag rip her tongue out. No, I didn’t get a text from Victoria, nor did she answer when I knocked on the door to her dorm four separate times. Sam wasn’t there either, presumably at the library or something, so I enjoy a dinner alone in the University Center food court. My meal is a half-wilted salad with nine-thousand calorie dressing. Boy, have my standards plummeted. If my mom and sister could see me now …

My dad would probably cheer me on and laugh. He was always the cool one in the family who encouraged me, even when I had my five-year-long tomboy phase in junior high, which completely humiliated my sister. You wouldn’t be able to tell from looking at me, but I’m actually quite handy with a switchblade. I also know how to tie eleven different knots and am not afraid of mud—which I always made fun of my sister for, considering stage makeup basically is mud that you put on your face.

When I’m back at the School of Theatre for my Wednesday evening lighting crew shift, my heart rate is so high, I seriously feel like I might faint before I reach the door. I don’t know why my confidence is so finicky; it’s blazing one minute, dead-cold the next.

I push through the door of the auditorium.

Clayton is seated on the edge of the stage.

Alone.

He doesn’t look up. He seems intent on staring at the seats. Surely he isn’t avoiding looking at me.

I force myself down the aisle to the stage. When he still doesn’t look up at me or acknowledge my existence—even with me clearly being in his peripheral view now—I give up, sitting on the edge of the stage too, but keeping quite some distance between us.

I fight an urge to fruitlessly say hello, then roll my eyes at how dumb I am. I shouldn’t have signed to him. I had no idea what I was doing.

I still don’t.

“This is just lovely,” I mumble under my breath, picking my nails despondently.

“What’s lovely?” comes a voice from behind.

I jump, turning around to find Dick standing there.

“Hello, D… Dick.”

“What’d you call me? Just kidding.” He sits down between us, legs dangling off the stage. I wonder if he was saving up that joke; I can picture him practicing it into mirrors. “Some guys switched around, since I had openings for more people Monday and Tuesday. So, it looks like our Wednesday crew is now … just you two. Which really means it’s just you, Dessie.”

“Just me,” I echo.

“And you’ve been cast in Our Town as Emily,” he reminds me unnecessarily, “and they will be starting rehearsals next week.”

“Yes, right.”

“So, it seems that we have a bit of a sudden scheduling conflict.”

I frown. Clayton seems to be in his own world, his hands braced on the edge of the stage in a way that tightens and accentuates his big, muscular arms. He stares down at the floor. I wonder if he was somehow told of this conflict already. Despite knowing he’s deaf, I can’t help but feel like he’s overhearing this whole exchange. It’s weird to me to think that he’s there, yet not a part of this conversation at all.

“What are we going to do, then?” I ask.

“We have a number of options. You can work today. Clayton can show you the grid one-on-one. I trust him, just have your phone handy so you both can back-and-forth that way. I presume you know he’s deaf,” he adds quietly, as if it’s necessary to whisper. “I have a serious stack of paperwork to catch up on in my office, otherwise I’d take you around myself. Also, the Monday and Tuesday crew kinda finished all the work I had planned for you guys this week, so …” Dick runs a hand over his oily head, as if there were still hair there. “Work tonight, and next week we’ll discuss whether rehearsals can be worked out to exclude Emily’s scenes on Wednesdays. That, or we’ll have to find you another shift.”

Heaviness sets in my chest. I hadn’t realized how much I was looking forward to being near Clayton every Wednesday night. And alone, at that. Now, it sounds like I won’t be anywhere near him after today.

“I liked this shift. It fits into my schedule,” I tell him, pushing the words out despite knowing full well that I’m completely free for most of the rest of the times available.

Dick nods. “I’ll talk with Nina and we’ll figure something out.” And with that, he gives Clayton a big slap on the back, the sound of which is meaty and firm, like he just slapped a mountainside. Clayton slowly turns his head to meet Dick’s eyes with his dark, half-lidded ones. “I’ll leave it to you, Clayton! Show Dessie the grid,” he says, overpronouncing his words. He even points up for emphasis. Then, he turns back to me. “He’ll introduce you to Bertha, the cherry-picker. If you guys tip over, just scream; the Wednesday night set crew is working beyond the double doors and should hear you,” he says with a nod toward the backstage. “Just teasing about the falling over. Really, you’ll be alright if Bertha’s legs cooperate and lock today.”

“Bertha’s legs?”

“My extension is 330,” he whispers, then hops off the stage and departs the auditorium.

The silent vacuum of the enormous room crushes in on me. Then, through that silence, I hear Clayton breathing. I turn my face. He seems to be scowling at the floor like it did something wrong to him. So, what’s the plan now? Are we just going to sit here?

Tentatively, I give a small wave of my hand. Either it does not get his attention, or he’s ignoring me. “Hey,” I say, then feel dumb the moment the word comes out. Would it be rude to get his attention by slapping the stage? Screw it. I tap the flat of my palm against the stage three times, inspiring three small vibrations, and accompany the gesture with another thoughtless, “Hey, Clayton?” Nothing.

I clench shut my eyes. I shouldn’t have signed to him. I ruined everything. What a dumb idea. Even now, I’m reliving that moment in the UC food court with a tinge of humiliation, reimagining the annoyed look on his face. He was annoyed, right? Or am I projecting my own doubts onto a perfectly innocent memory?

I’m here for three damn hours. I’m not going to spend them sitting on the edge of the stage playing ignore-me games with Clayton hot-as-fuck Watts.

Fighting a blush that’s quickly spreading over my face like a firestorm, I climb to my feet and search around for something to do. A pile of cables, already neatly coiled up. I check to ensure that they’re sorted by length and color. They are. Lovely. I approach the lighting rack where all the lights dangle by C-clamps. They’re organized by type. One of the Fresnel lanterns is crooked, so I do the important and necessary work of pushing a finger into its side, righting it.

All in a hard day’s work.

Footsteps approach from behind. When I turn, Clayton stands there, dark and foreboding. His shirt is especially clingy today, giving me an impressive display of his gorgeous pecs. His thick, unforgiving shoulders torment each sleeve of his poor black shirt, which stretches to embrace the mass of his arms.

I sigh just at the sight of him.

“Up here,” he murmurs, nearly inaudible.

I blink, then meet his eyes. Did he just …? Did I just hear him …? Or did I imagine that?

“You can talk?” I ask inanely.

“My eyes … are up here,” he repeats just as quietly.

I thought I was blushing before. Nope. My face is burning like a fraternity beach bonfire now.

And his voice … The sound of his voice is electric to me. I don’t know what I was expecting, but his every word is like silk against my skin. Isn’t that exactly how it sounded in my fantasies of him? I wonder if he realizes how softly he speaks, how sensitive he is to the vibrations of his own voice. Regardless, I could listen to that man all day long. The gentle cadence of his speech is sex to my ears.

I clear my throat, then enunciate each of my words with great care. “I take it … you can understand me?”

His heavy-lidded eyes regard me with a mountain of patience as he looks down on me. With the tiniest of smirks playing on his sexy lips, he nods once.

“Okay.” I offer him a tiny, smug smile of my own. “So,” I say, punching each word, “do you … want to introduce me … to Bertha?”

“Talk normal.”

I study his eyes defensively. “I am,” I argue back.

The tiny smirk becomes an amused one. “Don’t have to shout,” he says. “Doesn’t help me hear your pretty voice any better.”

With that, he turns away, heading for backstage. I watch his muscular back as he goes, gawping after him. I was shouting?? How the hell can he tell, anyway? My eyes drop down to his perfect ass. He’s wearing a loose pair of tattered jeans that hang low on his hips, yet somehow are capable of hugging his hot, sculpted buns in a way that is annoyingly distracting. My urge to tackle him and hear the meaty sound of his body crashing into the wall as I have my way with him has not diminished at all over the past week.

Stop staring at his ass, I chide myself, then follow.

His biceps flex gloriously as he grips and pulls the handle of an enormous blue lift machine that has the name “BERTHA” written across the base of the cage in thick black marker. The monster rolls slowly on four squeaky wheels, Clayton grunting slightly as he tugs it to the center of the stage. I wonder if he knows he’s grunting. Miss Bertha has got to weigh a ton.

Once it’s placed, he pulls out four long metal legs from some compartment in the base, then sticks each one into their matching slots, locking them in place with a twisting, rotary handle-thing. The legs stretch out about five feet or so in each direction, giving the machine balance. He runs its cord along the stage to an outlet. A moment later, he’s in front of Bertha and pulling open the little door of the two-person metal basket thing that we’ll be going up in.

He pats the scary apparatus, which rattles horribly in response. “Giddy-up.”

The last thing I want to look like is some scared girl who can’t handle a little bit of height. Throwing my chin proudly in the air, I saunter over to the machine, determined to—as the lovely Dick put it—become intimate with Bertha. I’d really rather become intimate with the man who plugged her in.

Stepping into the basket, my shoe slips and I catch myself on the door. Clayton’s hands shoot out instinctively, grabbing a hold of my hips, and for a moment, we’re locked in place, staring at each other’s eyes. He lets go quickly, seeing that I’ve clearly caught myself from falling, and I feel my face flush again as I climb into the basket, gripping its railing so tightly, my knuckles bleed white.

Clayton steps into the basket with me. This is not the biggest machine I’ve ever been in, and I suspect its elevating platform we’re standing on was meant for only one person, or two small people at best. His body is nearly on top of mine when he shuts the gate and locks it.

I inhale his scent. My body shivers, consumed by the way Clayton smells—it’s like sawdust, sweat, and a hint of spice. The heat he exudes touches me as potently as his aroma, and I fight an urge to lean into him and just rake it all in.

This is madness. This is torture.

He turns to me. His face is so fucking close to mine, I feel his every breath on my forehead. “Ready?”

I nod.

He pushes a thumb into a console I didn’t notice until it’s too late, and the basket jerks, startling me, then slowly begins to rise. The vibrations tickle my feet. Bertha’s an old bitch, I think to myself. Clayton doesn’t even bother gripping the railing for balance; he just stands there, his lazily planted feet doing all the work of keeping him upright as we ascend.

He watches me the entire time. I can’t meet his eyes. The blushing in my cheeks stubbornly persists, refusing to calm even for a moment. I start to breathe in and out through my mouth the higher we get. I’m not afraid of heights, I remind myself, then take a peek down.

Big mistake. The stage is so, so far away. This machine is so damn rickety, it sways left and right as we go, giving me the impression that the whole basket we’re entrusting our lives with is secured to Bertha by two screws and a strip of tape.

“Nervous?” his soft, sultry voice asks.

I face him defiantly, despite my fears. “Petrified,” I answer sarcastically, then wonder if I actually meant the word.

To be fair, my fiercely gripping hands have not let go and my palms are starting to cramp.

That knowing, cocky smirk plays on his full, plush lips again. I involuntarily lick my own, thoughts of what I’d do with him alone in a room racing across my mind and rendering my face vulnerable for a second. I bet he can see my thoughts … these thoughts.

Then I realize I am alone in a room with him. A very, very big room. I glance down again. Fuck, I clearly don’t learn from my mistakes. My stomach spins and the machine keeps going up, up, up. How tall is this damn stage? This is the biggest auditorium I’ve ever been in. Texas. Everything’s bigger, or something.

“Here,” he says.

I look up at him, then notice what he’s indicating, following his nod. We’ve reached the hanging pipes of the fly system where curtains and certain set pieces are hung. There appears to be a flat, painted sun—or something—that hangs in the middle, likely left over from a summer production if I had to guess. Lighting instruments can also be hung here, or in the grid, which is even higher up.

“Do you ever …”

His voice startles me, as I was focusing on the flat-sun-thing so as not to be so damn aware of the basket swaying side to side. I lift my eyebrows. “Do I ever …?”

He swallows suddenly, appearing frustrated. The look comes out of nowhere, his abrupt change in mood casting a shadow over his face. Then, with a scowl, he whips his phone out of his pocket and starts typing. I think he’s texting a friend when he suddenly lifts the screen to my eyes:

Do u ever work in the grid?

Ever hung a light?

“Oh,” I mutter. “No. Not really.”

“No,” he mumbles, repeating my word. I wonder for a second if he’s aware that he echoed me, and then he plunges his face back into the phone, typing away. He shows the screen again:

U’re not gonna die.

U’re safe w me.

I still haven’t let go of the railing. “Bertha’s a bit shaky,” I explain, then catch the fact that I am, in fact, yelling and overpronouncing my words. “A bit shaky,” I repeat a touch more naturally. “B-Bertha.”

He nods, then types some more:

We can go back down if u want

Why did he stop talking? I love the soft sound of his silky, sexy voice … but does he hate it?

An idea hits me. As it’s just the two of us here, I find the confidence that had totally abandoned me in the food court a couple days ago. I have no idea where this confidence comes from, considering that I’m ten seconds from peeing my pants out of fear right now; the basket’s swaying in all four directions, like some child’s arm reaching up to grab candy from an out-of-reach candy jar, bending left, bending forward, then right, then left again. If I can get through this without losing my dinner all over Clayton’s tight, muscle-hugging shirt, I’ll call it a win.

Removing my hand from the railing for the first time, I lift a shaky, sweat-ridden fist and knock on an imaginary door in front of me, as if my fist were a nodding head—the sign for “yes”.

He frowns as if my sign hit him in the face. Then he shakes his head, his lips pursed and annoyed.

Shit. Figuring I’d done it wrong, I bring a fist to my chest and draw a circle, repeating the sign for “sorry” that I’d done before. What was that other one?—the sign for “please”? It’s similar to “sorry”, oddly enough. My hands hover in the air as I try to remember it.

Then Clayton grabs my hands, stopping me.

My eyes flash.

Neither of us move. I stare at him, stunned, and he stares back, though I can’t get a read on his eyes. He’s almost angry. His brow is wrinkled, pained, as if I just wounded him. He seems to be gnawing on his teeth, his jaw drawn tight, his cheeks dimpled with tension.

The air between us is so still, I wonder if either of us are breathing.

Then, his grip relaxes, but he doesn’t yet let go. With a face as hardened as stone, he says, “Don’t.”

I was just trying to talk to him in his, uh … native language. How is that wrong? “Am I that bad at it?”

The corner of his lips bend into a scowl.

“That’s a yes?” I press on, my hands still caught in his powerful yet strangely gentle grip. “Horrible? I’m just horrible and awful at sign language? Is that it?”

His eyes run all over my face, as if searching for something. Did he get lost in my words? Did I speak too quickly?

I keep going. “Am I really that bad with my hands? Do I look dumb?”

Still, the beast before me stares wordlessly.

“Should I start typing on my phone?” I ramble on, unable to will myself to shut the hell up. “Would you prefer that over reading my lips?”

Then he jerks on my hands, pulling me in, and our lips collide.

My eyes cram shut as he takes over, his warm mouth consuming mine. Clayton’s hot, jagged breath dresses my face, his powerful hands still clasped over mine and keeping me in place, trapped in his kiss.

Holy fucking shit.

Then it’s over, just like that. He pulls away and lets go of me in one fluid motion, jabbing the button to bring the basket slowly back down to Earth.

And I’m just staring at him with what might be the biggest what-the-hell-just-happened expression on my face. I don’t even notice us swaying, nor feel a trace of the fear of heights I just had. All of my attention is one hundred percent Clayton Watts and those lips.

Seriously, though … what just happened?

The basket shudders when it hits the stage abruptly, and Clayton swings open the cage, escaping Bertha as fast as if his pants caught fire.

“Clayton?” I call after him pointlessly. He’s off the stage in seconds, headed down the aisle into darkness. The auditorium doors open, flashing his beautiful silhouette at me for a moment before they shut gently behind him, closing me in with the cold silence and the warm sensation of his lips still on mine.

CLAYTON

I can’t do this again.

Fuck, she tasted so good I already want another taste.

No, this can’t happen. I’m not losing my head over a girl, not right now.

But her eyes … Standing that close to her, I could have poured myself into them and made a home.

What the fuck am I talking about?

She’s a sophisticated city girl from New York. I’m the dirty scum of a poor Texas nobody. She can do so much better than me.

Why did I kiss her?? Why would I fucking do that to myself?—or to her? I’m sending the wrong message. A kiss means “come here” when I should be teaching her the signs for “get the fuck away from me”.

And she learned signs. She learned them so she could talk to me with her hands.

I can picture her now, looking them up online and mimicking the hand motions in front of the screen. She did that for you, Clayton. I’m so fucked.

I stop at a giant abstract sculpture made of wire and glass panels just outside of the School of Art and collapse onto one of the benches that encircle it. On that bench for an hour, I stare at the horizon as it ignites with angry shades of orange and pink before being chased away by deep blues, then darkness. That sunset pretty much sums up my mood: up in the air with Dessie’s mouth on mine, I was ignited, and back down on the ground, I’m the shadows.

I pull out my phone and text Brant, asking him what he’s up to. I desperately need to distract myself. My phone shivers twenty seconds later, Brant asking me where we keep the chocolate syrup because he’s got a girl in his room and they “have ideas”. With a sigh, I inform him that we have none, then shove my phone back in my pocket, ignoring his response. That was more distraction and imagery than I needed.

Two girls pass by, and the conversation they were clearly having is paused as they sip the straws of their beverages suggestively, but it’s their eyes that do all the drinking, staring me down as they pass. One of them, a pretty brunette with curls down to her boobs, gives me a wiggle of her long fingers, sporting blood red nails.

I look away, annoyed. Girls like them used to be my thing. I was the expert. I had the skills that Brant was jealous of, even back when we were kids and our voices were still changing.

It’s the strangest thing, for the last memory of your own voice to be that of your twelve-year-old self, an unreliable voice that cracked at the worst of times, a voice that turned rough one day of the week, then boyish and squeaky the next.

But that squeaky voice couldn’t dare stop me from going after all the pretty girls. Little Clayton knew how to talk to them. He wasn’t afraid.

It was little dorky Brant who had all the trouble, and I was the one who coached him that day at Laura’s party. “You can’t think of a girl as someone you want,” I told him—my cocky, know-it-all self who acted like I had all the answers a dumb twelve-year-old would ever need. “You have to see her as someone who wants you.”

“I feel like I’m gonna puke,” whined little Brant. It always annoyed me how much he complained.

“Walk up and ask her why she hasn’t offered you some punch yet,” I teased him, nudging him with my elbow. He pushed me off, annoyed, and I saw the fear in his eyes. It didn’t make me sympathize with him; it made me want to laugh at the scared little fucker. “You’re such a chicken, Brant.”

“Shut up, I’m not.”

“Watch me,” I told him, puffing up my chest. “Watch and learn, little bro.”

We weren’t brothers, but I loved acting like the older brother Brant never had, in all the best and worst ways.

I walked up to that girl he’d had his eyes on ever since fifth grade. It was that easy. I strutted up to Miss Courtney and enjoyed the conversation Brant was meant to have. And at nine o’clock that night, it was me kissing Courtney in the closet under the stairs while everyone else’s fingers turned orange eating Cheetos and playing Twister in the living room.

I’d done some pretty sick shit back when I could hear. I was on top of the world and acted like I owned it, no matter how poor I was, no matter how I felt after Dad took off before my sixth birthday with some blonde bitch he met online, no matter how bad Mom’s hoarding problem got for those three months before he came back. I wouldn’t let anything stop me, even when Brant was furious with me for taking Courtney from him. “Snooze you lose,” I recall telling him in my room before he hurled a PlayStation controller at my head and pounced on me. In the heated struggle, Brant sliced open his arm pretty bad, and a trip to the emergency room earned him twelve stitches and a crescent scar he still has to this day.

He didn’t forgive me for a while. The last time I ever heard his voice, it was in the hallway at school right in front of my locker where he shouted, “I’m sorry I ever looked up to your selfish, coldhearted ass! You’re not my friend! Fuck you, Clayton!”

Not two months after that exchange, I lost my hearing forever.

And Brant’s loving, final words to me would be thereafter locked in my mind. When he saw me next, the only apology I received was in the form of his lips moving, creating words I couldn’t understand. Then I couldn’t even see the lips anymore as they began to blur behind a sheen of my tears.

I blink away the memories, startled to discover how dark it’s gotten. The only light that touches me now is the nearby lamppost. I pull my phone out, the screen blinding me, and type a message to Brant:

ME

We DO have caramel sauce, tho.

Behind the salsa....

back of the fridge

I grin to myself, a chuckle pushing past my lips before I rise from the bench. Hands in my pockets, I stroll into the calm, breezy night, the moon my only guide, and consider what the hell I’m going to do about a certain beautiful Theatre girl.

DESSIE

The water in the shower is just perfect, turned up almost too hot, bathing my skin in its liquid fire. His face is still burned into my brain. His breath touches my skin like we’re still trapped five zillion feet above the stage in that shaky metal basket. I can imagine it so vividly, so I think, why not go for it?

I slide a slippery hand over my breast.

“Oh, God,” I can’t help but moan.

If he were in this shower with me, it’d be as tight a squeeze as standing in that rickety basket. I can see the water soaking his shirt, picturing it in so much detail, it’s like he’s really here with me. The more the water drenches him, the more his firm muscles reveal themselves.

My nipples are so sensitive. I can’t stop moving my hand over them, up and down, then in circles.

“Fuck,” I breathe, quivering.

The water is almost too hot to bear, and so is he. My fingers run lower, tickling down my stomach. I keep myself on edge, anticipating the sensation I want to feel so badly. I deliberately take my time, torturing myself. My fingers are Clayton’s. My touch is Clayton, evilly crawling his fingers down my body too slowly.

“You’re so bad,” I whisper into the water, echoes of my own voice hissing all around me in the white noise of the shower. “You’re so, so bad.”

Then my slippery hand plunges between my legs. No muzzle or hand or gag can possibly hope to snuff out the moan that escapes my trembling lips now.

Clayton Watts is down there working a cruel sort of magic on me.

“Don’t stop,” I beg him.

He doesn’t. My fingers that are his fingers start to move quicker. I sway so badly, I catch a stream of shower water in my gaping mouth. One hand down below, I keep a set of fingers working my increasingly sensitive nipples. I’m so horny I feel sick. My insides are coming undone fast. I know I’m about to come.

Clayton … Clayton wants me to come for him.

“Yes,” I agree, the word turning into a sizzle on my tongue, my face scrunching up in sweet agony. “Yes.”

The impending waves of ecstasy chase up my body as I race over the cliff of orgasm. I lean forward into the wet wall of the shower, face flattened against the tile as I plummet off the edge, my fingers working me into a state of delirium as I moan my release through the steam and the water and the heat.

It’s not often that you can say you feel dirtier after a shower.

I breathe deeply, recovering as I press against the shower wall. I suck in one lungful of air after another, my hands stuck right where they are, half hugging the sensitive parts of my body.

As the thrill of orgasm departs, reality makes a quick replacement of the joy I was chasing, and I realize that I’m all alone. That kiss we shared while we swayed in the air two days ago, it’s already so far gone that I’m having doubts it ever really happened.

Clayton Watts, you teasing asshole. You’re driving me insane. I’m so obsessed with you.

Then, my moment is further stolen from me by a loud knock at the door that leads to my suitemates in the adjoining room, followed by the words, “I need to pee! For the love of God, can you hurry up??”

I kinda thought I was alone. I was so lost in my fantasy, I wonder self-consciously if she heard any of my moaning or whispering dirty things through the noise of the shower.

Shutting off the water, I dry off—which is literally impossible in this tiny chamber that fills up with steam in a matter of five minutes—then dismiss myself to my room wearing just a towel as the desperate, squirming suitemate barges her way into the bathroom. No eye contact is made and my door’s shut and locked before any due awkwardness can ensue. Still, that doesn’t save me from the deadpan stare I get from Sam sitting cross-legged on her bed, who I didn’t realize was here either. Did everyone in the world return to their rooms during the one shower I take in which I chose to get myself off?

No matter, I hide in the closet and dress myself for tonight’s read-through. Even though rehearsals don’t start until Monday, they’ve scheduled a reading of the script with all the cast and some crew heads tonight before we all break for the weekend to learn our lines.

The whole way to the School of Theatre, I find my heart thrumming heavily between my footsteps. I don’t know if it’s because auditions happened last Friday—exactly a week ago today—or if I’m somehow channeling the bold recklessness that a few drinks gave me before I sang my heart out at the Throng.

I enter the rehearsal room and dozens of eyes are on me at once, the noise of chatter cut in half by my arrival. I’m stunned by the reaction, worrying for a second that I’d gotten the time wrong and I’m late. There’s a set of long tables arranged in a U, around which actors and designers are seated with scripts set before them, ready.

“D-lady!” calls out Eric, who magically appears, waving. “Got a seat for you!”

I smile mutely at the others in the room, then put myself in the empty chair at his side. When I look up at the person seated across from me, I’m stabbed in the chest.

Clayton stares down at his script, his mess of hair casting a shadow down his face. He knows I’m here. He saw me and now he’s avoiding all eye contact.

Yeah, this is all about you, Dessie. I roll my eyes.

But I can’t help myself from staring at his thick, round shoulders in that red-and-black plaid button-down he’s wearing, how it tapers up the trapezoidal shape of his neck muscles where that coil of black ink runs up his neck like a deadly, poisonous vine. Two buttons of his shirt are undone, giving me a cruel and tormenting peek at the top of his pecs. Clayton’s face is still drawn tightly to his script. I doubt even an earthquake could pull his attention up to pretend to acknowledge me.

What is he even doing here??

“Sorry,” Eric whispers to me.

I jerk, turning my face. “For what?”

“It was the only seat,” he murmurs quietly, barely heard in the noise of the room even sitting right next to me. “I got here seconds before you did. Besides, the view isn’t that bad, eh?” He gives me a wink.

I smirk, narrowing my eyes. “No idea what you’re talking about, Other Eric.”

“Gay Eric would be more accurate,” he amends, “and that makes me twenty times more interesting than the Erik-with-a-K. Really, that’s what we should call him. Ugh.”

Oh. I hadn’t realized, since no one said it outright. “Well, then,” I mutter back. “You can have all the fun you want staring at Clay-boy. He’s all yours.”

“I wish,” he breathes with a rueful glance.

Right then, Nina Parisi enters the room, and all the chatter wilts away in the same manner as paper shriveling up to nothing in the presence of fire. She seats herself at the head of the table, then flips open her script and coldly welcomes us to the first reading of Our Town. She proceeds to give us a speech about what she hopes to accomplish with this brave, unique production and her “big picture”.

And it’s taking everything in me not to look up and drink in the delicious sight of Clayton across the table from me. Why does he have to make things so hard? He’s the one who kissed me and ran away. He’s the one who’s acting all weird, not me. Also, I’m pretty sure if I dare to look at him, he’ll know instantly that not an hour earlier, I had my fingers up my hoo-hoo getting off to fantasies of him in my dorm shower.

Just the thought makes me sweat.

Soon, Nina has us run down the line and briefly introduce ourselves. “I’m Kat, the stage manager. The actual stage manager, not to be confused with the role of ‘Stage Manager’ in the play, to be clear,” says a curvy, olive-skinned woman to her left with a mop of red and black hair gathered in cute nests by her ears. “Astrid here, assistant director,” announces the girl next to Kat, a pale thing with twenty braids piled up and pinned to her head. “Alice, or Ali, costumes,” says the next, listless and sleepy-eyed.

As the intros move down the line, I betray all that resolve I built up, daring myself to look at Clayton.

He’s staring right at me.

I look away at once. Damn it. The person to my left shifts in their seat. There’s a fraction of a second of silence before I realize it’s my turn. I rise suddenly for my intro, despite the fact that no one else did. “I’m Dessie, playing my … playing the role for … of Emily.”

My face red, I clumsily drop back into my chair as Eric rises from his, endearingly following my lead. “Eric Chaplin O’Connor here. I’ll be playing Simon Stimson.” He sits back down, then gives me a wink of encouragement, which only makes my face redder.

I look up to find Clayton still staring at me, except now there’s a hint of amusement in his wicked eyes.

I scowl at him, despite my incessant flushing, then mouth the words, “Stop staring at me,” across the table.

To that, his smirk only widens, now touching his dark eyes, and then he slowly shakes his head no.

He is so infuriating.

The introductions have come around the table, and the round man to Clayton’s right rises, who I belatedly recognize as the orange-bearded guy from the mixer, except with glasses. “Hey! I’m Freddie, your lucky sound designer, and this here’s Clayton Watts, assistant lighting designer. And … please audition for my show. Auditions are Tuesday in the black box at six, with callbacks Wednesday. Uh, thanks. Appreciate it.” He awkwardly sits back down, and then the person to Clayton’s left continues the round of intros.

Clayton keeps watching me with that wolf-like, hungry glint in his eyes.

I don’t know whether to be turned on or scared.

“Great,” says Nina, the intros finished. “Let’s get right to it. Act one, scene one.”

Is this some sort of game to him? Kissing girls he likes, then running away and expecting them to chase after him? I’ve had my fair share of game-playing guys in my past. Sure, I dated very few of them, but I never had one that I could properly call a boyfriend. Everyone in New York City was shopping for the next best thing. Everyone knew a hundred other people. Games, that’s all the men there could play. Whether on the stage or off, everyone was an actor, even if they never stepped foot on a stage.

I hate to think of Clayton like that. In fact, I can’t. There’s something so different about him. Maybe this isn’t a game, I consider, chewing on my lip in thought. Maybe this is his way of … showing interest.

Like when you’re a kid on the playground and you shove your crush into the sand and make them cry.

The read-through begins. I patiently wait for my lines to come, reading along with the script. The Stage Manager role has a crap load of lines before anyone else even speaks, introducing each family to the audience and painting a picture of two houses on an empty, deliberately set-deprived stage, setting the scene for the audience’s imagination. What a weird play, I tell myself.

Really, I do know this play, I swear I read it long ago. But the roles are all confused in my mind, and I don’t even really remember how it ends. Of course, this doesn’t help the nugget of guilt that sits in my chest, wondering what other highly deserving actors could be sitting in my place right now, as I wait for Emily’s first line. Victoria hasn’t spoken a word to me since the day the cast list was posted. That was at the beginning of the week, five days ago. Eric swears she’s just been busy, but I know better.

Finally, after an eternity, it’s my first line. I draw breath and recite it plainly, as if I were reading from a textbook. Ugh. I feel so stiff. I read my next line, and again, I might as well be reading advanced algebra equations. I can’t help but feel self-conscious, worried that everyone in the room is thinking the same thing: This is the person Nina cast as Emily, the lead? This is the one who beat out all the others?

I’m certain there’s even people in this room who wanted the role of Emily, but got cast in other parts. It’s not just Victoria, I realize; all the women wanted my role. Some of my competitors are in this room right now listening to me, comparing themselves to me, scoffing inside their heads.

As I read the next line, I glance up to survey the table. I see the costumes girl yawn. I see the face of someone else near her appearing utterly bored. I catch the assistant director who tiredly meets my eyes, smirking.

I suck.

I suck so much.

When my scene is over and the character of Emily has exited the stage, I let go a little sigh, which doesn’t seem to go unnoticed by Eric, who gives me a little pat of encouragement on my thigh.

Then, I feel someone softly kick my foot under the table, so I retract my foot a bit, figuring it to be in the way. Then, my foot’s tapped again, more deliberately.

I look up.

Clayton’s gone back to staring at me again. It’s his foot. He smirks, his eyes narrowing as his shoe taps mine again.

A rush of excitement surges up through me.

What a game-playing, mind-toying asshole.

I pull my feet under my chair, far away from his. Then, I pretend to pore over my script and ignore him utterly, despite my stomach-tumbling desire to do the exact opposite.

I am exercising some serious discipline here.

I push through the next scene, also making it a point to ignore the others in the room. I can’t be judged by all of them; I judge myself badly enough.

The role of George—who is Emily’s love interest, wedded to each other in act two—is played by a guy I haven’t met before. He’s a decent-looking man, most likely an upperclassman. His well-groomed hair and plain, coppery face make for a fitting George and male lead, if you discount the Stage Manager role and his twenty-or-so billion lines I don’t envy.

When it comes to the scenes in which Emily and George flirt, I look up and try to say the lines across the table to the actor who’s playing him—whose real name I’ve already forgotten from the intros earlier, or perhaps never paid attention to in the first place. A few times, I lose my place in the script due to looking up and stumble over the words.

“Just read for today,” Nina cuts in, startling me.

I look up, my heart slamming against my chest in the not-so-pleasurable way. “Sorry?”

“It’s a read-through,” she explains patiently, as if I needed to be told—in front of everyone—what we’re doing here today. “You don’t need to connect with the other actors. At least, not with your eyes. We’ll have plenty of time for that in rehearsals. For today, just read.” She offers me a cool smile and a nod.

Some others around the table meet my startled eyes. I feel the flood of judgments and silent sneers coming from my castmates.

How embarrassing is that, to be called out like some amateur by the director and told to “just read” during a read-through?

I can already hear my sister scolding me, were Cece in this room.

“Of course,” I answer Nina, the stiff-necked, rigid-as-an-icicle director, then resume my lines.

The rest of the read-through is far less enjoyable. I make the wedding in act two sound like the funeral in act three. Even reading the lines, I trip over the words, pushing them out with the enthusiasm of a slug.

The read-through can’t end fast enough. After it’s all over with, the director thanks us, then dismisses us with a forewarning that the first act of the play is due to be off-book by Monday, which gives me exactly two days—my weekend—to learn my first act’s lines. I give very little attention to the rest of the room, closing up my script and rising from the chair. Eric asks me something about hanging out at the Throng, but I decline—perhaps too quickly. I very suddenly want to just go back to my dorm and forget that the rest of the world exists. Even Clayton, who would have a totally different opinion of me if he heard any of that awful, horrible excuse for “acting” that I just did.

I push through the rehearsal room doors. I walk quickly down a half-lit hall to the lobby, finding the darkness of night through the tall glass windows. A group of students are rehearsing a scene by the chairs in the lobby, and they stop when they see me.

“Dessie.”

I turn around. Clayton stands there, his sharp eyes locked on mine and his script tucked under his big arm. Oh. Maybe it was him the students in the lobby stopped to look at.

But my patience is long gone. All my emotions are high and flustered and hot, my nerves tight as wires. “What do you want, Clayton?”

After a moment of studying the obvious distress on my face, he frowns. For a second, I feel bad about snapping at him. Then, with his free hand, he brings a fist to his chest and draws a circle.

Sorry, he signs.

My mood softens instantly. I wonder for a second what he’s apologizing for. The kiss on Wednesday? The shitty read-through just now? The foot-thing?

“What for?” I ask.

He brushes the knuckles of his right fist against his left fist, then sweeps a hand to the side, palm-up.

I sigh. “I don’t know what that means.”

He shrugs, then quietly says, “Everything.”

I hear whispering from the lobby, likely from our little audience of actors who’ve shut up to pay witness to this whole exchange. I fight an urge to shout at them to mind their own business.

I don’t know why I’m so mad at Clayton. It’s not like he owes me a damn thing. He kissed me during lighting crew. So what? It’s not like I didn’t enjoy it too. Besides, if I’m really honest with myself, maybe I’m just pissed about getting cast in this dumb show, cursed with the very thing I begged the gods for ever since my older sister gulped her first tasty teaspoon of success: a lead role. Now the gods laugh at me, giving me the role without the due talent needed to perform said role.

I’m no good for Clayton, regardless of whether or not he’s any good for me. “I should go,” I tell him dejectedly, though I’m really not so sure I want to.

“Why?” he murmurs in his small voice.

The students in the lobby whisper to each other.

“I don’t know,” I admit, hugging the script to my chest. It feels heavier with each second that goes by. “I just need to go. I need to be by myself.”

He sucks on his tongue for a moment, frustrated, his jaw tightening. Then he pulls out his phone, types, and shows me the too-bright screen:

Want to hang out tomorrow night?

I’m stunned. My heart races up my throat as I read the words five times in a row. I look up to meet his eyes. He’s searching mine, desperate for the answer.

He wants to hang out with you, Dessie. You’d be crazy to say no. Don’t you dare say no. I will never, ever forgive you if you say no.

But can I say yes? I was feeling so defiant a week ago when my friends enthusiastically advised me to stay away from the Watts boy, telling me he’s bad news. Chloe even gave me his romantic history. Ariel even pitched in her two unasked-for cents. Now, I wonder if I should have heeded all their warnings. Is this the game he plays, luring a girl into his little trap, having his way with her, then tossing her aside like a used towel? I’m not going to lie; he looks exactly the type to do just that. I mean, he’s gorgeous. He’s got a killer body. And he’s aggressive as hell, despite the soft nature of his voice.

Can I really trust him?

I take a deep breath, shake out my hair, then face the beautiful beast with a pinch of confidence.

“Where?” I ask nonchalantly.

He types again:

Bowling alley on Kingston Blvd.

Right off campus.

Walking distance.....ten minutes tops.

My roommate has a competition thing....

I’m going, thought you might like to come too

With that, he meets my eyes as I read the words a few times. The look in his eyes is … hesitant. It’s like he fears my answer. Is he as afraid of rejection as I am afraid of his intentions?

Even if I agree to this, I can still be in control. It’ll be a public place with other people around, and I don’t have to kiss him again or do anything I don’t want to do.

Not that I don’t want to kiss him, because I do.

A lot.

Oh, hell. I’m so screwed. Look, Dessie, you can bolt at any time. You owe him nothing. Right?

Or maybe my fear is that I won’t want to bolt.

What am I so afraid of?

DESSIE

Okay, so I said yes.

Something about a man like Clayton standing over me and asking … with his dark, hungry eyes and his smooth, sexy hands and his plush, perfect lips … is somewhat persuasive.

Annoyingly persuasive.

I haven’t been to a bowling alley since I was a kid. Yet somehow, I instantly remember the smoky, sweaty stench. No, I’m not a fan. There’s only one reason I’m suffering it tonight.

And that reason isn’t here.

I stand awkwardly by the entrance. The front counter, where a man has annoyingly asked me four times if he can help me, is to the left. An arcade filled with the likes of the Alpha Kappa Louda-As-Fucka fraternity is to my right. Ahead, the loud clanking and banging of the bowling lanes awaits.

I stare down at my phone and curse myself for not getting his number. At least then, I might’ve received a text that he would be running late, or that the thing was cancelled—who knows. Instead, I’m standing here wondering if I should bother getting a drink, or maybe making the ten-minute walk back to my dorm before it gets dark. After all, I was warned by Victoria that our campus sits between crime-land and fortune-land, and I can’t with any confidence say which one I’m in.

Someone rushes up to the front, leaning across the counter to speak to the man there. He’s a slender, tan, good-looking guy, full of energy, with tight jeans torn at the knee (is that a Texan thing?) and a grey fitted t-shirt with a frog plastered on the front. Upon second inspection, a joint hangs out of the frog’s mouth and its big eyes are bloodshot. This carefree, cheery dude-bro wears a pair of bowling shoes, one fingerless glove on his left hand, and a backwards cap squishing down a head of messy brown hair.

He turns. His eyes flash when they meet mine.

I look down at my phone suddenly, pretending to be occupied with a very interesting text message. In reality, I’m staring at the reflection of my own worried face. Crap, is that what I look like?

“Hey.”

I look up, startled. It’s the carefree dude-bro.

“Hi…?” I return warily.

He brings the blue and orange marbled bowling ball up to his chest with one hand, his bicep bulging in the effort. “You look lost. Are you lost?”

He’s got a slight Texan drawl to his voice. I offer an apologetic smile, then shake my head. “I’m not lost. Thanks for your concern.” I look back down at my super interesting phone.

“Do you go to Klangburg?”

I nod without looking up. He’s pretty cute, I’m not going to lie. But if I were to take a guess from his easy demeanor and slick charm, he’s had about eight girlfriends this week alone, and he’s likely sizing me up to be his ninth. I know a player when I see one.

“What’s your major?” he asks, leaning against the wall and tossing his bowling ball gently from one palm to the other.

“Theatre.”

“Oh, sweet. My roommate—ah, um … Anyway, you here to bowl?” He shuffles uncomfortably, which draws my attention back to him, wondering why he changed the subject so abruptly.

“Just to watch,” I answer, then glance down at my phone for the time. Almost thirty minutes late. Where the hell is he? “What do you study?” I ask distractedly.

“Boobs. Just kidding. Titties. Just kidding. Uh …” He grins as he looks off, flashing a pair of perfect teeth, then hugs the bowling ball to his chest and answers, “I’m thinking architecture.”

I don’t know why, but I find myself amused by this totally cocky horn-dog. I swallow a laugh. “You’re thinking architecture? Still undecided?”

“I’ve … ah, I’ve changed my major about four times since my freshman year. Don’t judge.” He gives me a warning look, his blue eyes flashing. “I like to take a little taste of everything, if you know what I mean.”

I’m quite certain I know exactly what he means.

“Nice,” I say, feeling smart. “So, since freshman year, you’ve switched majors from boobs to titties to lady bags … and finally settled on architecture.”

He grins. I think he appreciates me throwing his humor right back at him. “I like a … hands-on major.”

“Your mother must be so proud.”

“You sure you aren’t lost?”

“Nope. Just waiting for someone. I know exactly where I am.”

After a second, his expression changes. Then, with a new, almost alarmed look in his eyes, he shifts his posture and says, “You wouldn’t happen to be Dessie … would you?”

I stare at him and blink. “Yes, I am.”

“Oh, fuck.” He lets out a laugh, his face flushing, and then he whistles and hoots loudly. “Right on!” he finally says after he’s recovered. “I should’ve known. I’m such a dipshit! So, you’re Dessie.” He extends his free hand. “You’re Clayton’s friend, and I’m rude.”

Now it’s my turn to blanch. “And you are?”

“Brant,” he answers, his hand still extended, as I haven’t yet trusted it with my handshake. “I’m the reason you’re here. The one who’s bowling tonight. Tournament. Clayton’s favorite roommate—just, ah … don’t ask him to confirm that.”

“Brant,” I echo hesitantly, shaking his hand.

He seems to cling to mine, fascinated. “Your skin is soft as fuck.”

“You’re cute,” I tell him, “but I’m not interested.”

“Sorry.” He lets go, then nearly drops his bowling ball as he recoils—like some magic barrier just formed around me after learning who I am. “You’re … you’re a lot prettier than I was expecting.”

I choke on a laugh, unsure how to react to that. “Were you expecting a swamp creature?”

“He said you’re from New York City,” Brant goes on, a hint of uncertainty in his voice, “so I kinda presumed you’d be, like … I dunno. Rough-looking? Edgy? Nose-ring and purple hair and kinda rude?”

“Is that what you think everyone from New York City’s like?”

“I’ve lived here my whole life, born and raised,” he explains, a twinge of southern accent playing in his words. “I don’t get out much. You can just tell me to shoo at any moment, seriously, and I’ll just go and bury my head in an ice bin or something.”

“Good thing I came down here to Texas,” I say, toying with him right back. “I totally thought you all ride horses to the supermarket, dodge tumbleweeds on the highway, and wear spurs to your best friend’s wedding.”

“Wedding? Oh, no. Clayton’s never marrying,” he says with a hearty guffaw. “That dude’s been …”

And then as quickly as the joke occurred to him, it dies on his tongue, his eyes glossing over. I wonder for a moment what he was about to say, then find myself staring down at his shoes awkwardly, struggling to give Clayton the benefit of the doubt and assume that his “best friend” Brant here wasn’t about to spill some magic beans I might want to be privy to, if I had any interest in pursuing Clayton seriously.

Which I don’t. I’m here to hang out. That’s it.

“Let me get you a drink,” he says suddenly. “What do you drink, Dessie? I’ll get it for you. On the house. I know people. Just name it, they got everything.”

I smile mutedly. “Tea?”

He frowns. “Except that.”

“Water, then.”

“I mean a real drink. The bartender who’s working tonight, mmm, she makes a mean martini.”

“Just a water.”

He studies me for a second. “You don’t drink?”

I fondly recall the hangover I enjoyed last weekend after my night at the Throng & Song. “No.”

Brant nods, appraising me with smiling eyes. “I think I like you. I hope Clayton keeps you around.”

I fight one of my stubborn blushes that’s coming on. “We’re just friends,” I insist, checking my phone again. Thirty-five minutes late. What the hell, Clayton?

“Well, hey, why don’t you come over to our lane?” He beckons me with a wave of his hand as he backs away. “Dmitri and I are hanging out. Oh, you haven’t had the pleasure of meeting Dmitri, Clayton’s least favorite roommate. He isn’t drinking tonight, either. His major is poetry and general arty-fartiness, so you two will get along just fine.”

Figuring it to be safe, I give a mild shrug and follow him into the noise. The bowling alley is packed tonight with people of all ages, from families with children to college students. Even a pair of elderly couples occupy lane fifteen.

It’s lane twenty near the wall where the guys are set up. Dmitri rises from his seat, a short, chalky-skinned guy with black spiky hair and thick glasses that remind me so much of Sam’s, I’d think I was staring at her if it weren’t for the blue and red tattoo running up his arm. He wears a black tank top and dark grey shorts that cut-off just below the knee.

“This is the one,” Brant says in half a whisper to Dmitri, though I hear it perfectly.

They lean into each other. “What one?”

“The girl.”

“Clayton’s?”

“Yup.”

Dmitri pulls away from his friend and shoves his hands in his pockets, facing me. He even smiles the same as Sam, his lips flat-lining. “Hi. I’m Dmitri.”

“Dessie,” I return.

Brant sighs. “Oh, hell. The fuckers are here.”

Dmitri squints through his glasses. “The who?”

“My dipshit opponents from Sigma Phi Dildo,” he answers, “whose asses I’m gonna whip into Saturday.”

“It is Saturday.”

“Sunday, then. I’ll get your water, Dessie,” he tells me suddenly, then hops away through the crowd.

The benches opposite us are quickly filled by the loud frat boys I saw in the arcade. Two of them give me a more-than-obvious once-over. I turn away, not appreciating the attention and growing more and more annoyed by the second at Clayton’s absence.

“You okay?”

I look up at Dmitri. “I’m just wondering where Clayton is, to be honest.”

“I could text him,” he offers, pulling a phone out of his pocket. “Not like him to be late to anything.”

“Thanks.” In stark contrast to Brant, he has no southern drawl at all. “You’re a poetry major?”

“That damn Brant! I’m a creative writing major.”

“Oh, okay.”

“And I’ve probably told him twenty or thirty times and he just blanks out. Poor guy can’t process a damn thing past his wiener, I swear.”

I laugh, then cross my arms and glance at the frat boys who’ve occupied the other half of our lane. There is at least ten of them, but only four seem to be changing their shoes. I wonder for a moment who else is on Brant’s team, as the only other one who seems to be here is Dmitri. Isn’t this supposed to be some kind of tournament or something?

“It all goes down at nine,” Dmitri explains to me.

I nod. “And Brant’s team is … where?”

“Who knows. I’m only here to support him. Oh, I forgot about Clayton. All that about Brant calling me a poetry major got me distracted.” He starts typing into his phone. “Clay … ton … exclamation point … Where … the … hell … are … you … question mark,” he narrates as he types. “And send. There we go. I bet he’ll walk right through the door any second.”

CLAYTON

It all starts at the corner store.

I go to pick up some drinks and a couple other things we’re out of. I don’t want to be presumptuous or assume I’m bringing Dessie back to our place, but just in case we do hit it off, I want our apartment to be in a good state and adequately … equipped.

When I get up to the counter, the clerk asks me a question. I don’t catch it, leaning forward to read his lips better. He asks it again, then points at my pile of stuff. Is he asking for my ID? I pull out my wallet and show it to him. The clerk rolls his eyes, then asks me the same damn question. I don’t know what the fuck he’s asking. I point to my ears and shake my head; usually that gives them the message.

And that’s when the asshole behind me taps my shoulder with more aggression than you give a person you don’t know.

I turn, annoyed. It’s some chunky dude in a polo, the russet skin of his face wrinkling as he glares at me under a mess of sandy-brown hair. He’s got two buddies with him, each carrying a six-pack. This kid spits a question of his own at me.

And I read his lips perfectly: “You deaf??”

No, he’s not actually asking me. He’s just being a little prick. I turn back to the clerk, ignoring the kid, then pull out my phone to type to the clerk, figuring it the best way to communicate.

The fucker behind me disagrees, grabbing my arm and spinning me around. His face crushed into a scowl, he waves his hands at my phone and spits more words and curses at me. I’m guessing he thinks that I am actually texting some buddy of mine and holding up the line deliberately.

I show my screen to the clerk while glaring at this dude, a second away from pushing a fist through his fucking face. Then, I return my attention to the clerk, whose attitude seems to have changed now that he knows I’m actually deaf. Whatever he was concerned with, he seems to not care anymore, ringing up and bagging the items. I pay for the goods, then swipe the bag off the counter.

And on my way out of the store, I push open the door with my back, facing the fucker that was behind me, and give him the finger.

People can be such pricks. Some don’t want to see the truth that’s right before their eyes; they’d rather see their own truths and live in a world full of things that agree with their own beliefs. No one wants a challenge. No one wants to learn anymore. Once they graduate school, they act like all their learning’s over with and, for the rest of their lives, the world has to bend to their limited understanding of it.

The worst part is, I wonder if I would be just as much of a prick as that dude behind me in line was … had I not lost my hearing. I wasn’t a good person as a snotty, fuck-head twelve-year-old. I was selfish. I was greedy. I was dishonest. I had no honor, no sense of justice, and little compassion for others.

And maybe, just maybe if I hadn’t lost my hearing and spent my high school years enjoying a lesson in humility, maybe I’d be the prick behind someone in line who says, “Hey, dipshit, you deaf?”

Hey, dipshit, you deaf?

Can you hear me?

Listen up, dumbass.

The fuck is wrong with you?

I don’t make it halfway home before something blunt and impolite clubs me over the head.

I stumble, the ground turning uneven suddenly and my feet becoming unsure of where to be placed. I turn too slow and watch the bony knuckles of some mystery attacker as they rush forth to marry and divorce my left cheekbone in one clumsy swing.

The pavement is next to meet my face. No matter how many times I blink, I keep seeing stars. It’s no joke; when you get hit in the face that hard, all you see is a fucking solar system, and somewhere through that mess of twisted galaxies and unnamed planets, you get flashes of the street you’re kissing, barely lit by a setting sun and an unhelpful streetlamp nearby.

I turn onto my back and lift my hands, expecting something else to hit me. When nothing does, I blink twenty more times until I realize there’s no one there.

I sit up and turn, catching sight of three figures as they disappear down the street.

Three to one? Hitting me from behind? What a dick move.

Furious suddenly, I scramble to my feet and shout after them, tearing down the road and determined to put my fist through each of their skulls.

But my left leg gives, a wicked cramp working its way into my hip joint, and I tumble over, collapsing and allowing the road itself to punch me yet again. When I try to rise, a whole new family of pain makes a home in my leg.

I shout out, cussing at the dumb fucks. I shout so loud I feel spit on my chin.

All of this shouting. All of this silence.

After some time, my skull reminds itself that I was bashed in the head a few times. Pain lances through my brain, somehow stinging my eyes. I bring a few fingers to my cheek, then pull them back. Blood. The fuckers split my cheek open with one lucky hit. He must’ve been wearing a ring or something.

I take a deep breath and get back to my feet. With a slight limp, I make my way back to the bags I’d abandoned at the spot I was attacked. One of them is toppled, the one with the drinks. Something clearly broke, a stream of dark liquid drawing itself across the pavement like long creepy fingers.

Fucking great.

I’m so pissed. And the more pissed I get, the more my cheek throbs, as if punishing me for my anger. I suck in air, then blow it all out, ignoring the ache that washes over my face.

I take home whatever I can salvage from the bags, the fuckers dripping the whole way. I’m fuming about the incident, refusing to feel sorry for myself or see myself as some victim. Fuck that. I keep picturing that prick from the store. “Are you deaf??” Even though I didn’t get a clear look at any of them, I know it was him and his buddies who attacked me.

They better hope they don’t go to Klangburg. If I ever see them on campus, the end of my fist will be the last glorious sight they enjoy before I blind them.

I check myself in the mirror before I leave the apartment, then let out a healthy “Fuck!” as I survey the damage. I wet a washcloth and run it over my face, caring for the wound on my cheek, which is just an inch below my eye. If the fucker hit me just a touch higher, I’d have been blinded. I wonder suddenly if I have a concussion. To be honest, I can’t say whether it was fist or weapon that hit me first.

I use the washcloth over the back of my head, unsure if I’m bleeding there too. Soon, my whole face is a mess of wetness, and I have a bandage slapped over my cheek, which stings when I apply it. I run a hand through my hair and stare at my reflection, the bitterness and the fury sizzling beneath my eyes.

After I lock up the apartment behind me and make my way down the road, I curse the fact that I forgot to check the condition of my own room. It’s probably a fucking mess. I was too occupied cleaning up my face, lost in my boiling anger and picturing a hundred and twenty alternative ways that encounter could’ve gone—all one hundred and twenty ending with me standing over their bloodied bodies. Still, even wearing my anger as armor, I find myself looking over my shoulder twenty times on the way to the bowling alley. Better safe.

Just before I reach the glass doors, my phone gives a shake in my pocket, startling me. I wince as I reach to grab it, some totally new and annoying ache in my shoulder making itself known. I free the phone and lift the screen to my strained eyes:

DMITRI

Clayton! Where are you?

I sigh, ignoring it since I’m already here. I push my way in, the stench of the place dancing unwelcomed up my nostrils. The guy at the counter waves, then flashes me a number of fingers, his hands opening and closing two times to indicate lane twenty. I give him a nod of thanks, then make my way.

Brant whips around the corner out of nowhere and grabs me for a hug. I snort and wince in pain, caught off-guard by him as he thanks me profusely for coming.

Then his face changes when he gets a good look. “The fuck happen to you?” I think he asks. I shrug and wave him off. He grabs my arm, stopping me as I try to move past him. Reeling me around to face him again, he asks, “You fall down the stairs?”

I could laugh if I didn’t know it’d hurt like fuck. I lick my lips and say, “I’m fine,” with my voice sending tremors up my jaw and to my cheek. Even speech hurts.

He frowns, then beckons me over with a shake of his head. I follow him to lane twenty where I see the opposing team has set up shop. Through the crowd of them, I catch Dmitri with the rest of what I take to be Brant’s team: two Hispanic chicks—who, if I recall, are an on-and-off couple, but no one talks about it—and a computer nerd black dude named Josiah who’s a head taller than me and always seems to be smiling.

Dmitri rises from the bench the second he spots me, rushing up to my side. What happened? he signs.

I use as few signs as possible: Nothing. Fell.

He shakes his head: You should clean up. Bathroom. You’re bleeding through your bandage.

I huff irritably: It’s not that bad.

Dmitri lifts his eyebrows, which carry his glasses up a bit with them: Yes, it is. Dessie is in the bathroom. Fix yourself up before she returns.

The spelling out of her name sobers me at once. Of course she’s here already. I’m late. I move my hands: How long has she been here? How long has she been waiting? Do I really look that bad?

When Dmitri’s eyes avert, I realize I’m too late.

I turn to find Dessie standing there. My god. She gets more beautiful every time I see her. She’s wearing some cute white peasant top thing over a pair of jeans that hug her sexy, curvy shape. They hang low on the hips, leading my disobedient eyes straight to them—and my imagination straight to what smooth sexiness resides underneath.

And her pretty face … it’s evident from the subtle makeup and the pink of her lips that she fixed herself up a little for our hanging out tonight. Even with the smog of our regrettable environment, I swear I can smell her through it—lilac and fruit and something else I can’t name, something fresh and inviting.

I can’t trust myself in a room alone with her. I would rip off that innocent-looking white top and strip down those hot as fuck jeans.

Fuck … what I’d do to her … I’d own those lips for longer than just one fleeting moment in a cherry-picker, that’s for sure.

So mesmerized by her, I belatedly realize her lips are moving. “What happened?” she’s asking.

I shake my head, then murmur a word to her.

“What?” she says, leaning in closer.

I guess the place is louder than I realized. I tell her, “It’s nothing. I’m fine.” But the words rattle my jaw and I wince against the pain.

Dmitri steps in, puts an apologetic hand on Dessie’s shoulder, then signs: Maybe you two should go back to the apartment and hang out. I’ll stay and support Brant. You’ll have the place to yourself for at least a couple hours, maybe more.

I feel my face flushing. I don’t know if it’s because of the attention Dmitri’s signing is earning us, or if it’s because of the pain, or if it’s because he’s basically giving me permission to take Dessie back to our place and have ample time … alone together.

He seems to be relaying the message to Dessie, as he leans into her and says something. I feel my heart jerk awake, hopping around inside my ribcage as I wonder frustratedly what he’s saying to her.

She gives a shrug in response, then says something back to him. I look at her eyes questioningly. She spreads her hands, then says something to me. I don’t quite understand until Dmitri signs: She said yes. You two can hang at the apartment. It’s too loud here.

Too loud. What a concept.

I lift a brow at her. “You sure?”

Dessie nods, the waves of her long, brown hair dancing when she does, and her cheeks seem to flush the same shade as her beautiful, kissable lips. Fuck.

Behave, Clayton.

DESSIE

Oh my god. We’re going back to his place.

This breaks about ten of the rules I set for myself before agreeing to this whole “innocent hanging out” thing with Clayton Watts.

My hands are sweating.

My mouth has gone so dry, I’m sucking on my tongue.

I can barely put one foot in front of the other without threatening to trip myself on the way down the street to his place, which is apparently a couple blocks over from the Throng.

“So …” I say out of habit as we walk, then shake my head, feeling dumb. It’s not like we can talk on the way. This was such a stupid idea. When I turn to look at him, however, he seems to have noticed my mouth move. “Sorry.” I laugh, feeling dumber. “I, um … So … You fell?”

Clayton nods slowly.

“Dmitri told me,” I explain, speaking slow. I don’t know if he can see my lips in the semidarkness that well. I deliberately time my remarks for when we pass each streetlamp along the road. “And Dmitri said he doesn’t believe you.”

Clayton chuckles dryly, though he doesn’t smile. He looks in pain. My heart crushes in.

Even as we walk, he keeps his eyes on me. I get the feeling he’s trying not to miss a word of what I’m saying. Instead of feeling self-conscious, I feel oddly touched by the gesture.

“I didn’t realize everything was so close,” I tell him. “Bowling alley, just down the street from the Throng, which is just a block or two from your place, which is right across the road from campus …”

He smiles. I’m not sure he got what I said, but I smile back anyway and continue walking alongside him in the quiet. I try to ignore how nervous I am.

We reach his apartment complex. His place on the first floor faces the main road, visible through a tall, wrought iron fence. He pushes a key into the door, then holds it open for me. I walk past him and catch a hint of his cologne. God, he smells like sex.

“Thirsty?”

The sound of that one soft, sexy word tickles me, sending chills up my neck. “I could maybe use a little something,” I admit after turning around to face him with a muted smile. “Yes,” I answer with a nod, just to be more clear. “Whatever you have.”

He walks past me, the door shutting loudly at his back, then pulls open the fridge. He turns, lifting a questioning, expectant eyebrow.

A spike of confidence hits me, inspiring me to straighten my back and take one step toward him. “I’ll help myself. How about you take a seat on the couch?”

His brows pull together. “Huh?”

I grip his arm—oh my god, he’s so fucking meaty—and guide him around the kitchen counter to the living room. He stares at me the whole time with questions in his defiant eyes. “As far as bandaging your own wounds,” I tell him with a smirk, “you suck at it.”

He frowns, his eyes narrowed as I lead him to the couch, letting him sit. I’d almost call those eyes cute if he didn’t look so damn dangerous all the time.

“Sit here,” I tell him plainly, pretty sure he didn’t catch what I was saying on the way to the couch. “I’m going to rebandage your wounds.”

“No.”

“Yes. But first, a drink.” I leave him on the couch with a frustrated expression, helping myself to his fridge and searching for something safe to drink.

My eyes land on the tequila.

I return with the bottle and two shot glasses. He eyes me suspiciously when I set them on the coffee table in front of us. “To relax,” I explain to him with an innocent shrug. “Where’s your bathroom?”

He meets my eyes late, distracted.

“Bathroom,” I repeat.

He points to the hallway by the kitchen. When I enter it, I pull open the medicine cabinet and find a first aid kit. Upon closing it with a bang, I see my face in the mirror. I look so … tense. Who am I fooling, trying to act like I’m in charge? I’m about to rebandage Clayton Watts’s face. I’m in Clayton Watts’s apartment and I’m about to have my hands all over his face.

I take a deep breath in and blow it out.

When I return to the couch, I find Clayton sitting there with the two shot glasses in his hands, filled. Jaw tightened, he looks up at me with a severe look in his eyes, then offers a glass.

I sit on the coffee table across from him, take the glass, then clink it softly against his. “Bottoms up!”

He kicks his back in one animal gulp. I … slowly sip mine until it’s empty. Holy hell, that shit is strong. I turn my head to cough, my eyes watering instantly. It’s not going to take much, I realize. One’s enough.

But by the time I’ve recovered, he’s already poured us seconds.

“Oh.” My eyes widen. “I was just—”

“Bottoms up,” he says with a smirk, cutting me off, then kicks his second one back.

I give mine one rueful look, then slowly knock it back. Hissing afterward from the back of my throat, I find myself laughing and blinking away the burn. “Wow!” I shout.

When my eyes meet his, I’m instantly sobered. The intensity in his stare reaches deep into me.

Focus, Dessie. I set the shot glass down a skosh too hard. Popping open the little medical supply kit, I fish out a butterfly bandage and a tiny antiseptic wipe.

When I reach to take off his bandage, he recoils. I give him a warning look. His eyes flash challengingly. Is that a snarl on his lips?

When he finally relaxes, I gently peel the bandage off. Why does this feel like I’m negotiating with some wild beast? I frown at the ugly gash underneath. I have this strange blessing of having an iron stomach; nothing makes me sick, not the sight of blood, nor vomit, nor even big gaping wounds. Maybe I’m supposed to be a nurse. Maybe I’ve missed my calling.

“This’ll sting a bit,” I warn him when I’ve taken the antiseptic wipe out of its package.

Clayton lifts a confused brow, having missed my words. Then I touch the wipe to his cheek and he hisses, flinching away.

“Clayton!”

He glares at me, then surrenders, relaxing himself back into position and letting me clean the wound.

I wonder if maybe my effort is totally insufficient and he should, in fact, see a doctor or get stitches. I’m no medic. The most of what I know is from movies and plays I’ve seen, like that one about the nurse in the ER where her love interest dies in the end from rust poisoning.

The thought freezes me. Let’s not kill Clayton.

“Bandage,” I say unnecessarily, applying it.

His eyes haven’t left mine, I realize. Suddenly, my confidence crumbles again. Now that I’ve finished the business of properly bandaging him, I suddenly find I have nothing left for my hands to do. We’re just staring into each other’s eyes, and that look of wariness in his has been exchanged for something far more sinister … something dark and needy …

Something hungry.

“Thank you,” he says suddenly.

The words tickle me somehow, a smile finding my face, perhaps to break the tension. In response, I bring a flat hand to the front of my chin, then let it fall outward—Thank you.

Now it’s Clayton who smiles. After a second, he repeats the sign back to me, except a little differently.

“Oh.” I watch him. “I was doing it wrong?”

He repeats it again.

I mimic the gesture back to him.

“No,” he says, then takes my hand.

The touch of his fingers running over mine sends electricity up my spine, touching the hairs on the back of my neck.

“This,” he murmurs so quietly, it’s hardly a word at all.

He brings my hand to his chin, slowly, then directs my hand outward, demonstrating the sign using my own hand. Even when he’s done, he doesn’t let go.

“I swear, that’s what I’m doing,” I tell him, my heart racing so fast, so potently, Clayton has to feel my pulse in my fingertips.

“Again,” he orders.

Instead of signing it, I take the fingers of his left hand and bring them to my chin.

Then, I bring them a bit higher, touching them to my lips.

His eyes lock onto mine. Oops. Have I awakened the beast?

Not yet. I part my lips, letting one of his fingers slip inside. It tastes salty. His skin is rougher than I expected, too. Seeing his reaction makes my heart race even more, how his lips part and an unblinking look of shock takes over his face, paralyzing him.

I gently nibble on his fingertip, staring at his dark eyes challengingly.

A growl, deep and wolf-like, escapes his lips like a warning.

A warning I don’t heed.

Then in one swift, powerful movement, he grabs my wrist with that hand I was tasting. I gasp, but I don’t stop him. I welcome him.

He jerks me forward, and our lips collide, catching one another’s clumsily, then locking.

His breath bathes my cheek, jagged and furious.

A hand reaches behind my head, tangling itself in my hair there and trapping me in place, holding me against his kiss. My arms are caught between our heavily-breathing bodies. I’m a prisoner to his mouth, and I’m not going anywhere.

Oh my god, he’s so strong and dominant when he kisses me. I have never felt anything more powerful. The way his lips make work of mine, it’s so like eating your favorite dessert that you have craved and been denied for so long. The power of his jaw alone …

And then his tongue … The taste throws me out of my mind, how perfect it is, how inviting he is …

My trapped hands find his chest. He is so firm and smooth that even through the tight shirt, I feel every ripple of muscle on his sinewy body, especially as they flex in his effort to destroy my mouth with his kiss. He is a mountain of meat and fury, and I want to explore every inch.

My fingers graze over his nipples daringly.

He moans in response, bucking under my touch.

Then his big hands grip me at the hips and, in one powerful thrust, he pulls me off the coffee table and throws me to the couch. I gasp against his kiss just as he pulls away, his animal eyes observing mine.

Is he asking permission?

Clayton Watts, you have it.

As if I need more convincing, he straddles me, then grips the bottom of his shirt. Oh god. He slowly tugs, sliding the material up his torso and giving me a show. Inch by inch, I’m exposed to a spread of abs—yes, there’s six of them, the whole sexy pack is there—and then his two hills for pecs that are simply perfect. The tattoo that crawls up his neck also crawls down his chest in a thorny nest of ink that makes him look exotic and dangerous.

He casts the shirt to the side, and the sight of a shirtless Clayton atop me is too much to behold. This kind of stuff doesn’t happen to me. This isn’t real.

His slender, dimpled hips disappear down into his loose-fitting jeans, drawn tight over the meat of his big thighs, which trap me in place on the couch.

I am utterly pinned and totally at his mercy.

Then he bends down and nibbles on my neck, sending shivers of joy up and down my body as I squirm against him in pleasure.

The weight of his body presses down on mine, nearly taking the air out of me. I’m so dizzy with what he’s doing to my neck that I hardly notice. In fact, I welcome it, clinging to him in an animal effort to somehow fuse our bodies together.

Pressed against him, I experience a split second of wondering if we’re moving too fast.

The next split second, I’m crying out, “Oh my god!”

Clayton’s worked his way up to my ear, his tongue tracing my jawline. When he reaches my mouth again, the animals are reunited and I throw my arms around his shoulders, crushing his face into mine.

“Dessie,” he whispers when he pulls away for one fleeting breath.

“Clayton,” I agree to nothing in particular, each of our breaths blasting against the other’s face, before plunging our mouths back together.

Our lips locked, he lifts his chest and runs his hands down the length of my body until they reach my hips. His fingers tease under my top, tickling the sensitive skin there.

Oh god.

Slowly, cruelly, his mischievous fingers work their way back up, taking my top with it.

I sit up for one moment.

My top’s gone the next.

His face hovers over me as his hand trails down from the top of my lace bra to my exposed stomach, then traces the waistline of my jeans, flirting with the buttons. I feel a quiver of anticipation below. My legs squeeze together and I feel a jolt of excitement.

“Wait.”

Clayton saw my lips move. He lifts his eyebrows, breathing heavily.

“Wait,” I repeat, placing a hand on his warm, bare chest. “Wait, wait, wait.”

He obeys, his dark eyes locked on me and waiting, for whatever reason, he doesn’t yet know. The only sound in the room is our erratic breathing. I watch my hand rise and fall as his chest does with his every breath. His body is so perfect, I can’t even compare it to anything or anyone. The shape of his pecs, the definition of his abs, the subtle ripples of muscle that work down his sides, his artful tattoo … There’s just too much for my eyes to drink in all at once.

“Too fast?” he breathes.

I nod once, warily looking into his eyes.

What I see isn’t frustration. In fact, he seems to agree, like a thought or two has worked through his brain. He holds himself up with a hand pressed into the cushion on either side of my head, his face over mine as we each catch our breath.

His lips twist into a smirk. “Can’t handle me?”

I laugh, despite our circumstance. “You are a lot to handle.”

He pulls away, giving me room to sit up. I fetch my top from the floor and slip it back on. It doesn’t escape my attention that Clayton watches my every move. At some point, he had managed to undo the top button of my jeans, so I fix them up as well.

I give him a smirk of my own. “Quit staring.”

He shrugs. “I like what I see.”

After a moment of staring into his eyes, feeling oddly powerful, I grab his shirt and throw it at him. He catches the sleeve with his teeth, biting it like a dog and growling at me.

I can’t help but laugh.

Clayton holds up the shirt. “Put this back on?” I nod in response. “That’s a first,” he says teasingly.

I love the way his teeth, tongue, and lips form the word “first”, a hint of Texan accent in it and the “s” muffled slightly.

“Well, unless you want me to hold a conversation with your chest …” I tease him.

He throws an arm over the back of the couch, the shirt dropped to his lap and forgotten.

I sigh with pleasure, unsure if he heard me or not. My eyes are helplessly glued to his muscles. “Fine,” I say breathily. There are worse things I’ve been subjected to. “You going to tell me how you got that thing on your face?”

Clayton’s forehead screws up. I assume he didn’t catch what I said, so I indicate my own cheek, then point at his expectantly.

He sighs and looks away, biting his lip. I slap the couch, drawing his attention back. “I know you didn’t just … ‘fall’.”

He shakes his head no, confirming my suspicion.

“So?” I prompt him.

It seems to take a measure of effort for him to even think about it, which casts a lightning bolt of worry through me. Finally, he pulls his phone out, taps a bit on it, then shows me the screen:

Some punk assholes

from the corner store

followed me out n jumped me.

“Oh my god!” I blurt out as I read it. “Why??”

“Bad attitude,” he answers quietly. “Dumb.” He shrugs, all the muscles of his shoulders moving with him. His eyes linger on my lips.

I remind myself that he’s staring at my lips for the functional purpose of grasping what I’m saying and urge myself not to be so damned turned on by it.

“You don’t like to talk much,” I observe, though I meant it as a question.

His eyes detach from mine, caught in a thought. Then, with a short sigh I’m not sure he meant for me to hear, he types into his phone again. I watch his face work through a bunch of different word choices as he struggles with how to say whatever it is he’s typing. With a pinch of reluctance, he shows me the screen:

I’ve always been weird

about talking out loud

since I can’t hear myself.

Been this way

since I lost my hearing :/

I nod slowly, then take his phone from him, earning a snort of protest as I delete what he typed and write my own message. I reveal the screen:

I like what you sound like.

Not that you need any more boosts
to your insufferably large ego.

He grins, and half a laugh escapes his lips, all his pearly whites shining. He meets my eyes with his head still tilted down to the screen, his forehead scrunched up in an adorable way.

“I like what you sound like,” I repeat, shrugging.

His eyes harden. “I … wish I could hear what you sound like.”

“My voice is pretty boring,” I assure him. “You’re not missing much.”

“I doubt that.” His eyes brush over my face, a hint of curiosity in them. He reaches for the tequila and pours two more shots. When he offers me one, I shake my head and gently push it away. To that, he shrugs and downs them both, one at a time. His face visibly loosens, his eyes turning watery. “There’s a lot about you I’d like to learn, Dessie.”

I put an arm over the back of the couch. Utterly incapable of enforcing discipline on my hands, I find myself curious about his tattoo. The moment my finger touches his neck, he seems to freeze in place, staring into my eyes intensely as I observe his ink, tracing the shape.

“Why the tattoo?” I mouth to him, hardly using my voice.

“Mmm.” He gives it some thought. “Tattoo,” he mumbles, his mind seeming to go somewhere far away. “Had to watch my back all through high school. When I turned eighteen, I … I decided I wanted to look like a bad-ass no one should fuck with. So I … wanted to …” He sighs and takes his phone out of my lap, typing into it as I continue to trace the ink on his neck. I wonder what that’s doing to him, if anything.

Then, he shows me the screen:

Ur finger is driving me nuts

I grin. He glares at me playfully, but I see the tightness in his jaw. I might be waking the beast again.

My finger reaches his earlobe. I study it curiously and find my mind arriving at a question I’d wanted to ask for quite a while, the most obvious question.

“How long have you been deaf?”

He squints at me, the humor in his eyes traded quickly for solemnity. I wonder if he understood the question, due to his lack of response. I let go of his ear and take the phone back, typing into it:

How long have you been deaf?

He hardly looks at the screen before he murmurs, “Since I was twelve.”

“How?”

“Measles.” He mumbles the word so bitterly that I almost miss what he says. “It spread to my ears, shitty parents, lack of medical treatment, lucky to be alive, blah, blah.”

The sensitive topic seems to have brought him to a dark place. Maybe it was that and the tattoo. I regret ruining the mood, if that’s what I just did.

“Sorry,” I murmur. “I was … I was just curious.”

“It’s okay.” He takes a quick breath, his eyes not leaving my face. Then he forces a smile. “Touch me all you want. Another drink?” He reaches for the bottle.

“No,” I say at once.

He freezes, studying my face. “You sure?”

A flutter rushes through my stomach. For some reason, I find myself thinking of all the warnings people have been giving me. Is Clayton trying to get me drunk so he can continue having his way with me? Am I just tonight’s girl, and tomorrow there will be someone else on this couch being talked out of her clothes? His roommate Brant nearly slipped, laughing at the idea of Clayton ever settling down with one woman. Is that because he sees all the tail Clayton catches?

Am I an idiot for staying here, entertaining some idea of a relationship with him?

“What’s wrong?” he asks softly. He obviously reads the tension in my face. He’s remarkably observant, even when buzzed.

I type another message, then show it:

So you said there’s a lot about me
you want to learn?

Like what?

He studies my eyes long and hard. After a second, he reaches and gently takes a tangle of my hair, then brings it to his face demonstratively and sniffs. “Like what shampoo you use,” he moans.

I slap his hand away and laugh.

He looks at me. A brief moment of gravity hardens his face, and then he reaches for the tequila. “I’m gonna need another,” he says without looking at me.

I touch his wrist, then pinch the fingers of my other hand in the air twice by his face, sort of like the universal gesture to indicate a person talking.

He squints at my hand, reading the sign. “No?”

“Too much,” I say, to which he snorts. “I don’t want you falling asleep on me.”

He lifts a brow. “You want me to sleep with you?”

“That’s not what I said!” I know he’s teasing me, but he stares at me as if that’s really what I asked him. I make the pinching sign again—No. “Am I doing that right?” I murmur, repeating the sign by pinching two fingers against my thumb twice.

A devilish smirk crosses his face. “Isn’t this how we got into trouble earlier? Sign language lessons?”

I blush, then lean back on the couch, crossing my arms. He laughs, then pours himself a single shot. After giving me a quick, daring look, he downs it. His eyes turn to water and he slams the glass down on the table too hard and hoots. He wipes his mouth with the back of a wrist, connecting his eyes to mine as he leans back into the couch himself.

Then, he asks, “So why Texas?”

I shrug. “It looked like a good Theatre program.”

He doesn’t seem to be looking at my lips. He leans the side of his face into the couch, inclined toward me with his hands in his lap and his dark eyes zeroed in on mine. The way he watches me, I feel like he’s penetrating right into my thoughts. I lay the side of my own head against the couch too, mirroring him and gazing at him.

Then, in a moment that’s so fast it startles me, he swipes the phone out of my grip, types on it, then shines the screen at me:

What was so bad in New York City

that u had to run all the way

down here?

His question makes me sit up, as if the words on the screen hit my face. I can hear Claudio screaming again. I see my sister’s disapproving look. I picture my mother filling another damn glass of chardonnay and ignoring me. I imagine the empty rows of seats in the theater, dreading the day they would be filled.

Then I think about the knot in my stomach that’s there because of the secret I’m keeping. The secret I’ve kept from every single person I’ve met so far. How can I make any real friends here if I can’t even be honest with any of them? I’m a liar. I was a liar the moment I stepped foot on campus.

Clayton is something of an outcast too, if even a hair of the rumors are true. We are both, in our own ways, running away from what people think—or could think—of us. I feel like there’s so much more about us that’s alike than I expected. I feel oddly safe.

“I want to tell you something,” I murmur, my eyes averted, “but … you can’t tell anyone.”

“Can’t tell anyone?” he asks, to be sure that’s what I said.

I meet his eyes sternly. “Yes. A secret.”

“Secret,” he echoes, his own eyes turning severe.

I press my lips together, then take his phone from his lap again. I type it all out. I mention my parents and who they are. I type that I got here because my dad knew someone in the department and pulled a string. I type that I feel embarrassed by it, that all I wanted was a normal college experience, no special treatment. I didn’t want anyone to know who my family was. After typing it out, I stare at the message for a solid minute, debating whether or not to delete the whole thing and not show him the screen.

Then, after a deep sigh, I clench shut my eyes and hand the phone back to him, looking away.

I dread his reaction so much. I don’t know why, but I feel like this little factoid about me could ruin everything. Sure, he wanted to know more about me, but maybe he’ll change his mind now. That, or things will start to get weird.

After too long a moment, I dare to open my eyes, peering at him. He seems to either still be reading, or rereading my mini-novel. After a second, he looks up, letting the phone drop to his lap.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt right away. “I wasn’t trying to lie to anyone. I just wanted to start fresh. I just—”

“Start fresh,” he echoes in a slurred murmur. “I wish … I wish I could start fresh.”

His words fall on the ears of all those misgivings inside me, rousing them. What isn’t Clayton telling me? What life, if any, do all those stupid rumors have? Why won’t anyone be upfront with me, least of all Clayton himself? I wish he would just volunteer the information, the same way I just did. Please, Clayton, don’t make me drag it out of you.

“I won’t tell anyone,” he says to me, his dark eyes locking with my worried ones. “Our secret.” Then he makes a fist and taps the thumb-side of it to his lips twice.

I repeat the sign back to him. “Secret?” I murmur.

“Secret,” he confirms.

I smile appreciatively, despite the worry that’s still doing somersaults in my belly.

“So,” he mumbles, “you’re … famous?”

I snort. “My mother is. Maybe my sister someday. Not me. I’m nothing. I’m nobody.”

“No,” he says, frowning. “You’re Dessie Lebeau.”

“Desdemona,” I say, overpronouncing the name. “That’s my full name.”

“Desermona,” he repeats slowly, though the word is shapeless in his mouth, the vowels bleeding together.

I type it quickly into his phone, then show it to him. “Desdemona,” I repeat when his eyes return to my lips. “Shakespeare’s Desdemona. From Othello.”

“Shakespeare, right,” he says, following.

“They named my sister Celia,” I go on. “You know, after Shakespeare’s As You Like It. So she’s named after a woman who falls in love and has a happy ending, and I’m named after a woman who’s smothered to death with a pillow. But, you know, of course I am.”

Though his eyes hover at my lips, I get the feeling he didn’t catch all that. He seems to be getting sleepy, or else the alcohol’s doing its number on him. The way he studies my lips, it makes me feel like he wants to kiss me again.

I’m one hundred percent positive that I would let him, and one hundred percent positive that it would lead to a second round of couch-wrestling that I’m quite sure I wouldn’t have the strength to resist.

“I should go,” I murmur to him.

At my words, the tiniest pinch of frustration runs across his face. Then, he lifts his head and says, “You sure?”

“It’s late,” I say, not bothering with checking the time; I’m sure it’s hardly even eleven o’clock yet. “I have lines to learn before Monday. Like, a lot of them.”

He doesn’t seem to follow what I’m saying. Now, the frustration in his face seems far less easy to hide. The alcohol is betraying him, showing all those truer feelings that he keeps trying to keep out of my view.

“I gotta go,” I repeat.

“Don’t go,” he mumbles, hardly intelligible.

“Sorry.” I push myself off the couch.

He’s on his feet as fast as I am, though his knee hits the coffee table in his effort of getting up and the shot glasses clatter loudly. “You sure?”

That would be his second time asking. And no, I’m not sure. In fact, I do want to stay. I want to tackle him to the floor as well. I want to eat this man alive.

“Yes,” I say instead.

“Can I walk you back to your dorm?” he murmurs suddenly, his voice strained.

Between him getting jumped today and Victoria’s warning my first day here, I give him a quick nod, and that seems to wash away all the frustration in his eyes.

We cross the campus in silence. No ninjas jump out from behind bushes, and no ski-mask-wearing thugs emerge from around corners with guns. I was reluctant for a moment before we left his apartment, judging whether or not he was drunk or just “a little buzzed”, but as we stroll across the disconcertingly unpopulated campus at night, I find myself incredibly thankful to have him walking by my side. I couldn’t have a better escort than Clayton Watts, who does not look like someone you would want to mess with.

We reach the Quad too soon. I wish the walk had lasted for hours.

I pull out my phone and type out a message, then aim the too-bright screen at him, causing his eyes to squint as he reads it:

Thanks for escorting me, Clayton.

He scowls at me after reading, then plucks the phone right out of my hands and types on it for quite a while. I’m about to ask what’s taking so long when he finally hands the phone back to me. I read:

I gave you my number and took yours.

Hope that’s OK.

Text me sometime?

I feel my heart lift up into my throat. I can’t fight the dumb grin that happens on my face. I nod at him with a bit more enthusiasm than I intend.

“Good night, Dessie,” he murmurs, giving me the gift of his soft, velvety voice.

“Good night, Clayton,” I return, giving him the gift of my moving lips in silence, then slip into West Hall, the doors slamming behind me with a big boom.

DESSIE

I texted him to make sure he made it back safe.

When my phone buzzed with his reply, I giggled and cuddled the phone on my bed like a dumb, crush-obsessed teenager. The script for Our Town was long forgotten for the rest of the night as Clayton and I texted back and forth until one in the morning.

I learned what his favorite food is (teriyaki ribs), the name of his high school (Yellow Mills High), how horrible he is at math, that he’s an only child, how his mom’s a chain smoker and his dad’s a sex addict and somehow against all odds they’re still together, and how he had to take two semesters off because he couldn’t pay tuition during “a rough time” and that’s why he’s only starting his third year when he should be graduating this year.

I also got a detailed description of how he’d light the stage if he was given the chance for Our Town, with a clever idea or two for how he pictures the funeral and graveyard scene to look in the third and final act of the play. I grinned stupidly for hours and, lost in a digital world full of Clayton, already couldn’t wait until the next time I would get to see him.

When Sunday came, I had a quiet breakfast with Sam, who was all aflutter (read: almost undetectably less deadpan than usual) about a music composition project she’s been assigned by her Theory prof. I congratulated her absentmindedly, wondering how long I should wait before texting Clayton again.

It was in the afternoon that I finally caved and sent him a text. The phone rested on my lap while I studied Our Town on a bench by the Art building, memorizing Emily’s lines distractedly while shooting glances down at my lap to see if he’d responded yet.

He never did.

I went to sleep that night with a scowl on my face. Sam had gotten some cheap composition software for her ancient laptop and wanted my opinion on a song as I was lying in bed trying to go to sleep, and I pretended not to hear her, turned away toward the wall and staring at the blank screen of my phone, waiting for a reply that never came.

So after a miserable Sunday like that, why would I expect Monday to bring me anything good?

On my way into acting class, I see Victoria. She stands in front of the box office chatting with Eric at the window. They draw silent at my arrival. My stomach dances in the bad way at the sight of her. It’s the first time I’ve really seen her since the cast list was posted. How she’s managed to avoid me for this long is a total mystery, considering she lives directly across the hall from me.

“Hello,” she says coolly.

Between Clayton not answering my texts from yesterday and my own inner frustrations, I find myself in a state of having little to no patience. “Victoria.”

“Desdemona Lebeau,” she murmurs, crossing her tiny arms and tilting her head. “Daughter of Winona Lebeau, Broadway star and film actor, and Geoffrey Lebeau, world-renowned lighting designer.”

My heart stops. “Listen …” I try to say.

“It’s called Google, honey.” Victoria scoffs at me, shaking her head. “Unless you’re about to proclaim that there’s actually two Desdemona Lebeaus—”

“Please,” I beg her and Eric, rushing up to the window. “I didn’t mean to lie to anyone. I just didn’t want to be given any … special treatment, or … Listen, I just want to be another normal student, just like you guys, and—”

“Ugh, I feel so normal,” groans Victoria mockingly. “Don’t you feel that, Eric? Don’t you feel that sting of normalcy? Gosh, we’re so bloody normal.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” I beg her anyway, despite how quickly all trace of hope for her to respect my wishes is evaporating. “Please, Victoria … Eric …”

“Who would I tell? Who would care? You think we have nothing better to do with our days than sit around and talk about The Dessie From New York?” Victoria smirks. “Get over yourself. I have an audition at a community theater in-town tomorrow and an audition for Freddie’s play in November. I’m an actor and a big girl, Desdemona. When I don’t get cast, I get over it and move on. It’s an actor’s life.”

Her words do their intended job of pummeling me in the stomach. It isn’t lost on me that she’s calling me by my full name deliberately. That almost bothers me more than anything she’s already said.

Also, it hardly sounds like she’s moved on. “I’m sorry for lying to you. To both of you. I really am. Victoria, you were the first person I met here. Please, don’t let this ruin our—”

“I’ll see you later, Eric,” she says, turning to him at the window. “Lunch, maybe?”

He smiles tiredly, but it looks more like a grimace.

Then, Victoria saunters off, departing through the front glass doors. When I look back at the window, Eric’s on the box office phone helping a customer, his eyes going everywhere except to me.

What a lovely start to a lovely day.

I text Clayton while I have lunch with Sam sitting across from me in the UC food court. I’ve already dumped all my frustrations on Sam, subjecting her to all my worries as of late, from Clayton’s refusal to answer my texts, to Victoria’s complete one-eighty (sans the whole who-I-really-am thing), to the fact that rehearsals start tonight for Our Town and I am still swimming in fractures of lines that I do not have memorized. Not to mention a voice class routine I need to have ready to perform by tomorrow. Or a Thai Chi group-thing for my movement class I’m assigned to do Thursday. All the stress has me passing a banana and another half of a sandwich off to Sam, insisting I can’t eat it and meaning it this time.

When I finally get to the rehearsal room at six, my stomach feels hollowed out. I sleepwalk through the most of it, watching listlessly as the Stage Manager character is given the blocking for the opening scene—which basically means he’s told where to stand and who to direct his lines to and so on.

For a solid hour, I wonder what the hell I’m doing here. I stare at the screen of my phone and consider all the logical reasons for why he’s not responding.

I didn’t have sex with him. I put on the brakes.

He’s bored with me. He’s moved on to some pretty chick he met in a math class, a chick who’s tutoring him and showing him exactly how to solve for X.

He drowned himself in three more bottles of tequila and slept all day Sunday and simply missed my messages.

He made a sudden career change and he’s an astronaut now. I’ll find him on the news walking the surface of Venus and insisting that it’s totally not as hot as scientists say, his flesh boiling and his hair bursting into flames.

Then the voice of Nina cuts through all the turmoil of my head. “Desdemona.”

I lift my eyes from the screen. Every actor in the room is staring at me. I’ve missed something.

“Yes?” I say in a nearly inaudible choke, yet the word still carries perfectly in the dense silence.

“Care to join us for this scene?” Nina’s patient voice rings through the room like a spear made of ice and stinging resentment, skewering me to the spot.

I swallow hard. “Yes, of course. Sorry. Yes.”

The script drops from my fumbling hand. I shove my phone away and pick up the script off the floor, thumbing through until I get to my first scene.

“Stage left,” she dictates.

I move, taking my place at where I guess to be the approximate entrance.

“Your other left.”

“Sorry.” I walk across to the other side of the room, my every footstep slamming against my ears. I feel the weight of every pair of eyes on me. Suddenly, I catch myself wondering if Victoria’s told anyone else what she discovered. Am I being paranoid? How many people in this room know who I really am?

The rehearsal goes as rigidly and as horribly as I would have ever expected it to, regardless of mood. Every line I say is stiff and emotionless. Every place I walk to on the stage feels uncomfortable. I ask Nina to repeat her directions, feeling stupider each time I do. The cold, patient, half-lidded stare she gives me my whole time onstage makes me feel an inch tall.

Rehearsal ends at ten and I can’t pack my things fast enough. When I throw my bag over a shoulder to go, a shadow drops over me. I look up to find Eric.

“You look tense,” he notes with a grimace.

I sigh, leaning against the wall. As most everyone else has left and it’s only us and a couple of stragglers chatting at the other end of the room, I drop my bag back down on the ground and blurt out, “I suck.”

“Well …”

“I suck so much, Eric.” I let it all out, exploding with every ounce of frustration these past couple days have packed into me. “Nina hates me. Ugh.”

“Nina cast you. She doesn’t hate you.”

“And Victoria hates me. And you hate me.”

“No, no. I am not Victoria,” he tells me, wagging a finger in my face. “We are very separate people.”

“You didn’t say anything when she went off on me in front of the box office,” I point out. “I just figured you agreed with her and—”

“Victoria’s … touchy. She’s always been like that. Don’t think about her. And as for your sucking,” he goes on, “everyone sucks in rehearsal. That’s the point of rehearsal. The point is to suck. Did you even hear the Stage Manager’s twenty-thousand opening lines? He sounded like a cucumber with a mouth. So suck away, Dessie. Suck lots. Now is the time to suck.”

I try to sigh, but it turns into a chuckle. “Is that what this is, then? Our Suck?”

“Suck Town,” he agrees.

I pull my phone up to my face. Nothing. “Maybe I’m also letting a little … something else … get to me.”

“Wanna spill about boys at the Throng together?”

“Eric, I’m exhausted.”

“Me too, and I have an early morning class. But we’re still going to the Throng.”

“Ugh. We are?”

Twenty-five minutes later, Eric and I are sharing that same booth near the tiny circular stage at the Throng & Song. Being a Monday night, it’s far less noisy than it was before. The same musicians are playing—that sexy guitarist Victoria’s obsessed with and his piano sidekick—while Eric and I vent over our respective boy troubles.

“So I told him, ‘Listen, I’m not into anal,’” Eric goes on, “and he called me a ‘gay anomaly’ and said I needed to give it up or else give him up. Who the hell makes an ultimatum like that?”

“And here I am,” I say, spilling my problem at the same time he’s spilling his, “waiting on texts from him after we had an amazing night Saturday … I mean, what the hell? It went well. It ended well. And now I’m staring at my phone like some lovesick—”

“I wouldn’t put up with that for a second,” Eric spits back. “Do you even know how many guys have asked me if you’re single? Guys that I wished played for my team? You lucky bitch.”

“The only one I want is him,” I complain, mashing my face into my hands and sulking.

“Hey, you.”

The voice echoes through the room, startling Eric and I out of our conversation. I glance to the side and notice the musician staring at me, his guitar resting in his lap and the microphone bent to his mouth.

“Yeah, you,” he says, grinning. “I remember you. Full of the feels. You got any new music for us?”

Eric and I share a look before I turn back to the musician. “I’m not really a singer.”

“The hell you aren’t,” he spits back, half his face shadowed by the beige bowler hat he’s got on. “You got a pretty set of cords on you.”

“No, really,” I say after sharing an amused chuckle with Eric, “it’s just a hobby. I’m more of a sing-in-the-shower type of gal.”

Gal. Listen to me, sounding all Texan already.

“Come on, girl. I know you got some tunes in you. Don’t hold out on me.” The guitarist smacks a chord on his guitar for punctuation, inspiring a couple cheers of encouragement from somewhere in the back of the room. “We all got some blues in us we gotta get out. Some feels. Some pain. Don’t you want to get that pain out of you?”

I take a breath. “Well, when you put it like that.”

A moment later, the guitarist scoots over and I stand in front of the microphone, facing an audience that’s one tenth the size I had before—an intimate crowd, far more preferable.

Though Clayton is clearly not here, I pretend to see his face, focusing on an empty table in the middle of the room. Then the song comes, some new thing I’ve played with in my head, and I let it all out to that empty table while the musicians improvise, following my lead. No rehearsing. No judgmental stares. I just open my heart to the room and let the music go.

On the last note of my song, my phone, quiet as a fly, buzzes.

CLAYTON

I stare at the text I just sent her.

My insides shiver. Every nerve in my body is all knotted up and shit.

Brant and Dmitri play Xbox on either side of me, sandwiching me on our couch, and I feel every shift and jerk and annoying jump of their bodies.

I take another long swig from my beer, then stare at the phone intently, desperate for a response.

Dmitri taps my arm and I ignore him. He tries to get his hands in my face, signing: You want to take a turn? I need a break. But the last thing I feel like doing is playing more Xbox against Brant; he’s a fucking prodigy at gaming and no one ever stands a chance.

Sunday was such a mess. Monday was no better. I knew I shouldn’t have let a girl do this to me. How many times did I warn myself?

That’s my best and worst quality: I never learn.

But Brant and Dmitri kept pushing me at her, as if they know what’s best for me. If they knew anything at all, they’d mind their own fucking business and let me suffer in peace.

I decide to text her again. I’ll text her until I get a damn response.

Over the course of the next hour, Brant goes off to bowl, which I learn through a few rushed signs from Dmitri after he gives up playing Xbox and tells me he has a short story due tomorrow that he needs to finish, then closes himself off in his room to jerk off; even without ears, I know what the fuck he’s really doing in there.

Or maybe I don’t know anything. Maybe I made a huge mistake by blowing Dessie off.

But when I woke up Sunday, reality had sat on my chest and made me its bitch. It wasn’t just the mild sting of a hangover; it was the feeling like I’d just woken up from an amazing dream that I couldn’t climb back into. I felt frustrated, lost, and obsessed.

I still feel frustrated, lost, and obsessed.

Suddenly I’m seventeen again and being laughed at by Lacy Torrington in the cafeteria when I tried to ask her to the homecoming dance. The dude she went with, some wrestling captain dickhead named Jerry, confronted me in the hall after fifth period. I couldn’t understand what he was saying, but judging from the laughing faces that surrounded me in the hallway, he wasn’t complimenting my shoes. The confrontation ended with a coach pulling me off of Jerry’s bloodied, sputtering face. The hall wasn’t laughing anymore.

The interpreter in the principal’s office gave me all of Principal Harris’s words in a bunch of hand-shapes and finger wiggles that my parents were hearing. He tells my parents that I have an anger problem and they should consider routine counseling for me. I watch as the interpreter gives me my parents’ reply, my mom groaning about how the fuck they’re going to pay for something like that, and my dad pointing a finger at the principal, asking him what the hell he plans to do about Jerry and the other assholes who pick on his disabled son for being hard of hearing.

No matter how many times I tell my dad that “hard of hearing” isn’t the correct term and that I am, in fact, completely fucking deaf, he never learns.

But maybe that’s where I get it from. I never learn. My dad’s fucked enough random women during his marriage to give me seven hundred siblings. Every time he’d get caught in public going somewhere weird or playing peeping-tom at the pool or doing fuck-knows out in the city until three in the morning, he’d come home and give my mom the same remorseful rhetoric he’d given her since I was ten, and I’d be standing in my little Spiderman PJs in the hallway when they thought I was asleep, hearing every damn word.

He never learns. I never learn.

The next week, I was snuck up on by some idiot I didn’t even know during gym class who thought he’d make a joke out of me. I made a funnier one out of him when I slammed his face into the locker.

I clench shut my eyes, remembering the dazed, glassy look in his eyes when metal met skull.

I was not a monster. I felt remorse. I felt the pain of every fucker I beat up. I felt their pain because I could feel a little bit of my own leaving me with every swing, kick, and bloody nose. Still, no matter how many dumb kids I beat up, no matter if it was them provoking me or vice versa, the pain never went away.

Why is he so angry? This was the lovely question the principal had for my mom and dad. We need to get to the bottom of this. Clayton’s been suspended twice. I really don’t want to expel him.

The interpreter, some twenty-something college babe, looked sadder and sadder each time we had one of these meetings. She shifted so much in her seat. I would stare at her moving hands, watching her sharp green eyes, watching her cross and uncross those long, slender legs of hers.

Do you have anything to say for yourself? I watch the interpreter’s smooth fingers, signing for the principal.

In response, I signed to her: Want to fuck in the supply closet after this shit is over?

She swallowed hard, slowly faced Principal Harris, then said: “He says he’s very sorry.”

An hour later, I showed the interpreter just how sorry I was by ramming her against a rack of shrink-wrapped sponges, scouring rags, and mop-heads, my jeans at my ankles and her skirt hiked halfway up her shuddering, porcelain back.

I am my father’s son.

Out of nowhere, Brant comes around the couch, the sight of him pulling me mercifully out of Yellow Mills High. I look up at him, confused. “Forgot my lucky glove,” he mouths, swiping it off the coffee table. He freezes, noting the expression on my face, if I had to guess. “You alright?” he asks, his brow furrowing.

I shake my head no.

Brant abandons his lucky bowling glove like it means nothing to him, plopping down on the couch. “What’s going on?” he asks.

“Dessie,” I mumble.

He swipes my phone away and types:

Didn’t you bang her

the other night?

I snort and grab my phone back, then shake my head no. “We talked,” I mumble sourly. “It was good.”

“Good??” he asks, not caring to mask his disbelief.

To him, a night of sitting on the couch with a hot girl like Dessie and just … talking … is probably the most boring thing he’s ever heard.

“I’m tired of …” I start to say, then swallow my words. Something about remembering all the kids I’ve beaten up, all the girls I’ve dicked around with, all the mistakes of my parents I’ve blindly—or perhaps even freely—repeated … I feel so shitty suddenly.

Brant waves his hand, urging me to go on, his bright blue eyes flashing at me with urgency.

I try again, but with a different tack. “That anger problem my dad says won’t go away. My inner demon. My bitterness. I’m so tired of using it to … to just keep all the … to keep girls away, or …”

Brant slaps a hand on my shoulder, which shuts me up. He leans in and says something I don’t catch.

So I ignore the words and push on. “But I’m afraid I can’t help it. I feel like I piss on everything I care about. And I barely know her. We just started getting to know each other, but I feel … I feel like …”

Brant moves his lips again. “You’re talking a lot,” I think he says.

I am. I meet Brant’s eyes, realizing that he’s one of the only things that kept me sane during all of my worst years. Between those visits to the principal’s office, there was Brant throwing his arm over my back. Brant, telling people to fuck off. Brant, my pair of ears when I had none. Brant snuck into my house while I was suspended, even skipping a day to spend it with me behind my parents’ backs. Brant may very well be the reason I’m still alive.

If I didn’t have him in my life …

“I want … I want to talk more,” I push out. “I have a … I have a fucking voice.”

“You have a fucking voice!” he repeats back, a smile spreading across his face as he grips my shoulders and shakes me.

Dmitri pokes his head out of his room, shirtless and sweaty. He signs at me: What the fuck about a voice?

“Nothing,” I say back to him, pushing the words out despite my discomfort. “Just that I have one.”

Dmitri squints, confused, then signs: Oh.

I smirk. “You can go back to jerking off, Dmitri.”

He flips me the finger, then shuts his door.

Brant slaps my thigh, bringing my attention back, and he tells me I’m not going to hurt her. Or maybe he’s trying to convince me that I won’t. “You don’t piss on everything you care about,” he tells me, mouthing the words so distinctly, it looks like he’s shouting. Maybe he is. “Now message her and go get some dinner!”

I shake my phone. “I did. She won’t answer.”

Brant pats my leg, then flips on the TV and grabs an Xbox controller. I stare at him quizzically. He lifts a brow at me when he notices. “What?”

“Your bowling thing,” I mumble at him.

“Fuck it,” he says, then adds something about the team being doomed because the lesbians are going through something and are gonna break up any day. Or maybe that’s not what he said at all. He shrugs, then mentions something about catching one of them giving him “the eyes” and how he’s pretty sure she goes both ways. “And also, I want to be here for you when Dessie answers,” he says, nudging my phone with his elbow. Then, he faces the TV and starts playing.

I grab the other controller. When Brant notices, a grin spreads across his face.

“Oh, it’s going down,” he says, his teeth flashing.

CLAYTON

An email from Dr. Thwaite puts some extra speed to my getting-ready routine early Tuesday morning.

Mr. Kellen Michael Wright, our Official Lighting Designer Douchebag, has flown in early from the big apple to work with us here in the rotted grapefruit and he wants me to meet him at seven at the theater.

So fucking blessed.

And still not a peep from Dessie.

My eyes half-open, I pull a shirt over my head before I’m completely dried off from my shower, droplets of water wetting down the back in spots. I’m racing to get ready not so that I’m punctual for this Wright fucker, but because I need to do this right to impress Dr. Thwaite. It’s his opinion that matters to me, and being late receiving this lighting designer will reflect poorly on the whole department.

But most of all, me.

I push through the doors of the theater in record time, even before the box office has opened. No one’s in the main office except for Ramon who answers the phones, so I assume the big shot isn’t here yet. I make a trip to the bathroom to check myself in the mirror, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes and fixing my hair. I haven’t been to the gym in almost a week and I can tell; I get so irritable so quickly when I don’t go. All that aggression doesn’t take long at all to build up inside me, and add to that the frustration of how I’m fucking things up so bad with Dessie, it’s a wonder I haven’t busted a vein in my forehead.

I doubt she’s up this early, but I have nothing to do until the designer arrives and I need to occupy my head with something other than wanting to put it through a wall. My phone’s out in seconds:

ME

Hey Dessie.

Really sorry about being MIA.

I hope u’re OK.

I keep thinking about u.

A lot.

I’m at the theater early
waiting on someone.

Kinda feel bad about
leaving you hanging.

Plz message me back?

With a sigh, I run some water over my face, then stare at my phone and wonder if she’s actually awake and might answer back. I stare for ten full minutes.

Suddenly, I feel a presence at my side. Turning my head, I find another student at the sink next to me. I ignore him and study my face again, especially the ugly wound on my cheek. I bandaged my face twice, but it’s not as good as when Dessie did it. I might as well wrap my face in duct tape for as unsightly as it is.

The dude taps me on the arm. I turn, lifting a brow. He’s a bit older than I realized at a first glance, maybe thirty or so. He’s my height and he wears a short-sleeve salmon-colored button shirt and jeans. His left wrist is thickly decorated in leather bands, wristlets, and wooden-beaded bracelets. He has a thin build and designer glasses. I have never seen this dude before, and clearly he doesn’t know who I am because he starts talking at my face, his mouth so little, I can’t understand a fucking word.

Until he says three words I do understand: Kellen Michael Wright.

Fuck, are you serious? I straighten up at once, my eyes flashing open, and I extend a hand. “Clayton Watts,” I get out, feeling my voice shake, which sends a surge of insecurity through my body that I instantly resent.

He shakes my hand and smiles, then confirms precisely who he is with a few words, the last of which being “New York”, I think. Did Dr. Thwaite not warn him about me, or …?

I type into my phone quickly that I’m deaf, then show him the screen. He reads it, then nods and pulls out his own phone, holding up a finger to tell me to wait as he types one-handed. Then he flashes me his own screen, telling me he’s looking forward to a quick tour once he takes a leak.

I smirk and let out a chuckle, then nod at him and say, “I’ll be outside,” before dismissing myself from the bathroom.

Well. So far, he’s not the dick I was expecting. Instead, he’s all nice and normal and shit.

I sit on a bench in the hallway, waiting for Kellen to do his business in the bathroom while I stare down at my phone and beg telepathically for Dessie to answer my text and put me out of my misery. To be fair, I’m certain I subjected Dessie to a misery of her own when I was lost in a swamp of bitterness all Sunday, refusing to answer her texts.

I’m such an idiot. I deserve this.

I clench shut my eyes and squeeze my phone until my hands cramp. Behind those eyelids, I feel the pull of the dream world as I imagine Dessie and I back on that couch, slowly pulling each other’s clothes off. Why did she stop us? Why did she put an end to something that was so fucking perfect and real and hot? I hadn’t been that intimate with anything other than my right hand for so long, I felt like a fucking horny teen again.

That’s what Dessie does to me. And Dream Dessie is about five times as cruel as doesn’t-return-my-texts Dessie. She pushes me down on that imaginary couch and opens her bra to me. When her breasts emerge in front of my face, I feel my cock stiffen in my pants so much, it aches.

There’s something about being sleepy that makes a guy so susceptible to having a raging-hard boner.

I press the phone down into my lap, eyes still closed, and grunt against my hard-on that grows bigger and harder by the second.

Dessie’s tits are in my face and I can’t shake away this fantasy. “Clayton,” I imagine her whimpering in a voice I’ve never heard before. “Put your cock inside me, Clayton. Deep inside.” Fuck, Dessie, I want to so bad. She’s squirming on top of me, gyrating those sexy, tight hips of hers against my junk. “Fuck me. Oh, Clayton, I’m so fucking wet for you.”

She’d probably never talk like that.

It doesn’t matter in dream land. I can’t grind my cock through my pants any harder. What if she texted back right now? The vibration would race through my cock like it was her actual hand, gripping it. Please, Dessie, I might as well beg. Please text me. I need to feel you in so many ways right now.

A hand on my shoulder shakes me from the dream. I flick my eyes open.

Kellen’s looking down at me, drying his hands with a paper towel. His lips move: “You okay?”

Scrunched up as I am, I probably look like I have a cramp or something. For a split second, I honestly debate whether I should slip back into the bathroom and choke one out real quick. “Yeah, I’m good,” I say instead. “Is … Is it okay if you type what you … what you say so we can—?”

He nods curtly, holding up a hand as he, again, types one-handed into his phone. Kellen must have one speedy-ass thumb. He lifts the screen, telling me he’s ready and excited to see what he’s got to work with whenever I am.

I shift my legs, praying my stiffy is strangled into submission enough not to tent my jeans, then rise from the bench and lead the way to the main stage auditorium.

After an hour or so with Kellen Michael Wright, I have made the unfortunate discovery that he is, in fact, a very knowledgeable, talented, and personable guy who is patient as hell in communicating to me through texts on his phone. I respond with voice as much as I can, pushing myself to talk despite my unremitting insecurities.

I hate to say it, but I can probably learn a shitload from this shithead.

It’s easy to take him around the theater this early, as there’s only a handful of classes happening in the rehearsal room and the black box, but nothing on the main stage where all his attention will be in designing the lights. I show him the grid. I show him what we have available on the fly system. I show him the booth and the two spots, though he won’t be using either.

I’m about to take him back to the office when my phone trembles.

“One second,” I tell him, though he’s distracted by a Fresnel he’s examining on the lighting rack anyway.

I stare down at my phone in disbelief:

DESSIE

Was it because I didn’t put out?

I gawk at her text. Is she fucking serious? I read it seven billion times, growing more pissed with every pass of my eyes over the words. Since Kellen is still occupied, I mash my thumbs to respond:

ME

Why would u say that?

DESSIE

Just wondering why you went

cold fish on me.

I’ve had two whole days

to consider what I did.

ME

U didn’t do anything.

Can we get a bite?

To chat?

Breakfast?

Lunch, maybe?

10 or 11?

DESSIE

Okay.

Okay? That’s it? So is it 10 or 11? Breakfast or lunch? Yes or no? Fuck, she’s being so infuriating! I gotta remind myself that I’m the damn reason for all this weirdness. It’s my fucking fault.

Kellen shows me the screen of his phone, asking me where the office is because he wants to check in with “Ol’ Marvin” before he goes. I nod and tell him to follow me, pocketing my phone and swallowing a growl along with all my frustrated thoughts of Dessie.

I lead him to the office doors. After we exchange numbers, Kellen thanks me with a handshake, which I take to be my permission to go before he slips into the office. I check my phone one last time, then shove it away after finding the screen irritatingly blank.

When I look up to push open the glass doors of the lobby, Dessie is making her way in.

We stop, frozen by one another’s presence.

“Hi,” I greet her first, my eyes wide.

She’s beautiful today. Her hair falls in waves and tangles of brown, and she’s in a green sundress with yellow flowers along the bottom rim of it, which is about the most colorful thing I’ve seen her wear yet. I’m already imagining how smooth her legs would be if I ran my hands up them, sliding that dress up with it and discovering the color of her panties. Maybe if I ask nicely enough, she won’t wear any at all.

She gives me a little wave of her hand—Hi. Her eyes, light brown and shimmering, seem guarded. It cuts me deep that I don’t know what she’s thinking, if she’s already over me, just tolerating me, or still gives half a shit about what went on between us Saturday. I almost devoured her. I was so close. She wanted it too. We craved each other’s taste all night; I could tell in the magnetic way she drew toward me when I pulled away, or how every nerve in my body vibrated with electricity when her wicked finger traced my tattoo. I’d draw a roadmap of ink all over my body if it meant having her touch all over me.

“How’re you?” I ask her dumbly.

She gives me a shrug and a muted smile, then runs a hand through her hair, drawing some of it behind an ear. God, she looks so beautiful. She presses her lips together, and for some reason, that makes me think of how she squeezed her legs together when I touched her on my couch.

She still wants me, I decide, a stroke of confidence racing up my back, straightening it. “You wanna grab a bite?” I ask her, crossing my arms and leaning on the glass next to her, which brings me so close to Dessie that I can smell her hair.

“I have class,” she says demonstratively, then points at the hallway.

I bite the inside of my cheek, frustrated.

Then her hand finds my arm. I sink into her gorgeous eyes. Just the touch of her soft fingers on my forearm invigorates me to the core. I was a frozen-solid yeti in a realm of ice and endless cold, and she’s thawed me in seconds.

“Afterwards, maybe,” she adds.

“Afterwards,” I agree, my eyes lighting up.

The next second, Kellen has emerged from the hall and his face shimmers with surprise, his eyebrows lifting up high. He says something and Dessie turns around to face him, and the look on her face is, to say the very least, caught off-guard. She seems to sputter and her face turns three shades of pink. No smile finds her, despite her apparent attempt at being polite and shaking his hand, albeit stiffly. The two of them exchange words, none of which I understand.

I feel my pulse throb in my throat.

They know each other. Of course.

Kellen says something and Dessie looks uneasy, her beautiful hair dancing as she glances away. Kellen smiles self-assuredly, then puts a big hand on her shoulder and gives it a rub. The fuck is he touching her for? She smiles stiffly and seems to shrug away, then gives him a nod and says something else.

All this fucking talking. All this fucking touching.

All this fucking silence.

Kellen says his goodbye, then makes his way around her and gives me a wave, to which I respond with a cold, detached nod. The glass doors close behind him with a gentle thrum I feel through my body.

Dessie’s face is visibly darkened by that encounter. She looks up at me and I put on a smile right away, determined not to show the bitterness that’s sitting in my chest. I could give two fucks about Kellen, even if he’s all nice to me. His presence clearly didn’t improve Dessie’s day, and it’s led me down a path of possibility that I don’t want to entertain. Are they old flames? Did he have his hands all over her in New York? Is he some abusive asshole from her past? The possibilities burn across my synapses like wildfire.

I give a sideways nod at the glass, then lift my eyebrows. “So you know him?”

She bites her lip, looks to the left, to the right, and then she double-taps the thumb of a fist to her pretty pink lips—Secret.

I nod knowingly. I don’t even know what the hell’s between them and I already want to pummel Kellen until he’s bent in half. “Does he know it’s a secret?”

She nods, though uncertainly. Her eyes are all over the place, thoughts and worries racing across them.

“Why’d he put his hands on you?” I mumble.

What the fuck am I saying? I can’t imagine anything more possessive-sounding to have said than that. Are we in fucking high school or some shit? I want to know what the fuck’s gone on between them. Maybe I’m provoking her to spill.

“Maybe ‘cause you look so beautiful today,” I suggest for her.

Gag me. Someone fucking gag me.

She smiles, her cheeks turning pink. Her eyes averted, she points at her classroom again without a word, then gives me a little wave and walks away. I fight another urge to call after her and say something else dumb. Apparently, I’m just full of dumb words. I’m a dumb word factory.

I want to know what’s gone down between them, but maybe that can wait. Dessie’s talking to me again. That’s fucking everything to me right now.

We’re talking.

I take a breath, half the tension inside me released with it, and I push through the glass doors, taking a seat on the bench outside and letting the morning sun bathe over me.

I get to have a bite with her after her class, and that’s the best news I’ve gotten in days.

And if I play my cards right, maybe I’ll get a bite of her, too.

DESSIE

We share a table in the UC food court. He’s got two giant fried fish fillet sandwiches and I have a grilled cheese.

And the noise here is deafening, even at barely 11 in the morning.

It’s amazing, but also maybe a bit sad, how quickly I forgave him. I think I forgave him. When I got that text Monday night at the Throng, my first reaction was utter, unapologetic thrill. I was so fucking happy to have heard from him, even after suffering nearly two days of radio silence. It was Eric who told me not to answer. “Give him a taste of his own,” he insisted, but I think he was channeling bitterness from his own boy troubles and projecting them onto me.

I held my phone that whole night, caressing it like a chocolate addict with the world’s last Snickers.

Now here we are, sharing lunch in the dense noise of a hundred people shouting, laughing, and yelling at each other from across booths and tables. As I suffer in the chaos, I peer over the table at Clayton eating his sandwich and realize with a start that this experience is drastically different for him. Where I’m assaulted by the relentless onslaught of noise, Clayton only knows peace.

He smirks at me across the table after taking his first generous bite, chewing with a strained expression on his face.

Well, okay. Maybe there’s a form of inner peace that he may presently be lacking.

After he swallows, he says something to me, his mouth half-blocked by his fish fillet sandwich, hands propped up at the elbows and his meal hanging loose between them.

I can’t hear him. Oh, the irony. “What?”

He lowers his sandwich, revealing his sexy, plush lips, then speaks louder. “So you know Kellen?”

I kinda knew that, of all topics to enjoy, Kellen Wright would be the first thing he brought up. “Yes,” I say, nodding for emphasis.

“Nice guy?” he prompts me with a lift of his brow, taking another humungous bite of his sandwich.

The way his mouth moves, his jaw tightening and relaxing in his massive, muscular efforts of chewing, is so fucking erotic that I can’t stand it. His lips alone are art. Add that to the whole visually-stimulating workout of his teeth and sharp jawline, and I’m about as distracted as a lunch mate can possibly be. I’m already having fond recollections of how his mouth worked mine when my lips were his meal.

“Nice,” I agree vaguely, nodding again, then help myself to a bite of my grilled cheese.

He asks me a question through his full mouth. I catch exactly zero words of it, lifting my eyebrows in confusion. He swallows hard, then lifts his chin and repeats, “Did you two date?”

I roll my eyes. “My dad … mentored him,” I explain, punching the word.

“Your dad? The one who pulled a string?” he goes on, his face wrinkling as he chews.

“Yes. That dad.”

His eyes pull away suddenly, and I see a flicker of darkness in them. I’ve become so adept at reading the little expressions that play war games across Clayton’s face. The jolt in his eye bothers me.

“What?” I prompt him, but he doesn’t seem to be paying attention, lost in a thought.

Kellen and I met during one of the shows my dad was designing in New York. For the first few days that I knew him, I thought he was a member of the chorus. Then I learned he was a lighting intern of sorts, but thought he was shy. When a Friday night rehearsal came to its end and the last stage light was shut off, Kellen kissed me unexpectedly in the dark behind the fold of a curtain where I was sorting props, proving to me how very not shy he was. Then he tried to talk me out of going to the cast party two weeks later where I would then discover how not single he was. It was one of my first lessons in how faithless and fickle city men can be, constantly shopping for the next best thing while gripping their girlfriends so tightly.

Maybe I have a soured secret or two of my own that I’m not sure I want to expose Clayton to just yet.

I set my sandwich down, type something into my phone, then give a little wave, drawing his attention back to see the contents of my screen:

I don’t know why Kellen’s here.

On Monday I found out that

Victoria knows who I am
and now

I’m afraid between the two of them,
everyone will find out

:( :(

He frowns at the message, then pulls out his own phone and, after cramming the last bite of his first fish fillet, types:

U’re cute when u’re pissed.

To that, I glare at him.

He chuckles, full-mouthed, then puts a reassuring hand on top of mine and gives it a rub. The very next second, he seems to think that the gesture was too much and quickly retracts his hand, swallowing hard before starting on his second sandwich.

The gesture wasn’t too much. It granted a much-needed warmth to the coldness I’ve felt since leaving the theater.

But it doesn’t quite ease my uncertainty about our hot-and-cold weekend. I type, then lift my screen:

Are you going to explain

Sunday’s silence
or what?

His sandwich lowers to the table, a surrender, and his face hardens. He swallows his bite, meets my eyes, then says a couple words too quietly.

“Louder,” I urge him.

He leans partway over the table, propped up by his elbows, his arms bulging as he does. “I was a coward,” he murmurs. His lips this much closer to me, I could just lean in as much as he is and kiss him right now. “Been a while since I’ve been with a girl.”

“Me too,” I mouth.

His face wrinkles. “You’ve been with a girl?”

I slap his arm, pushing him away with a laugh. He doesn’t budge, the stone statue that he is.

“That’s kinda hot,” he teases me.

“So we’ve both been alone for a while,” I mutter.

He nods resolutely.

“And we’re both … kinda scared … of each other?” I suggest, speaking slowly.

He shrugs, then nods at that, too.

His shoulders are so big and he looks so delicious in that tight-fitting shirt, the fabric pulling across his chest distractingly. His eyes are alight with interest and his lips … his lips are right fucking there.

Then he says, “You two dated, didn’t you.”

It isn’t quite a question, more of an accusation. I press my lips together, unsure if he’s actually asking, or just trying to playfully get a rise out of me again. I smack his arm again, harder than before, and earn a little Clayton-brand smirk of amusement.

Then I decide, of all things, to torture him. I type into my phone, then shove it right in his face. He has to back away a bit to read it:

No.

But he did kiss me.

I think he wanted to get
closer to my dad through me.

I felt used.

He also had a hot girlfriend
in the cast
that I didn’t know about.

I don’t think very highly of him.

Clayton’s chest puffs up after reading that, his jaw tightening. An odd look of validation crosses his face. “Thought something was off about him,” he says.

I smirk. “Yeah? Smelled all the lies and deceit he was drenched in?”

Clayton takes a sip of his drink, then says, “Truth is, I resent him being …” He swallows, rubs his ear, then finishes, “I resent the fucker being here. I wanted to design the lights for the main stage show. He took that job from me.”

A shiver of worry reenters my mind as I listen to him. It was first born the moment I recognized Kellen at the theater, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on what bothered me so much until just now. My father mentored Kellen like a little lighting-god protégé. Did my father have anything to do with Kellen showing up out of nowhere to design lights for the show?

And is that connected with “the string” my father pulled in getting me into this Theatre program?

Am I the reason Clayton’s opportunity was stolen?

Just like I’m the reason Victoria’s chance at a lead was swiped out from under her ready, able hands?

Is there anything my arrival here hasn’t ruined?

“Dessie?”

I look up, realizing that I’d gone silent. I don’t know if he said anything else, so lost in my own dark hurricane of anxiety that I wasn’t paying attention.

“Sorry,” I mutter, shaking away my worries. Only time will answer my questions—time and an overdue phone call to my dad. “I resent him, too.”

A question seems to glimmer in Clayton’s eyes, but he doesn’t ask it, drawing his sandwich back up to his lips to take another mouthful as I watch, a mixture of longing and doubt swimming inside me as I wonder if Clayton’s pieced it together himself. Does he already suspect I have anything to do with Kellen’s arrival?

He finishes his sandwich and I finish my drink in silence. He smiles at me twice and I return them with a small one of my own, studying my phone and trying to think about the routine I need to have prepared for my voice class in an hour. Something to do with vowels and combining them with different poses and odd stretches. Ugh, I’m going to fail.

When we leave the food court a moment later, he stops me at the door, the blinding sun silhouetting his face in an otherworldly, beautiful way.

Away from the noise of the building and entirely unable to see his face or lips, I only hear him as his voice brushes against my ears. “Do you want to hang out tonight?”

In contrast, he likely sees my face perfectly lit, the sun painting me in the brightest shade of every color it has to offer. “I have rehearsal.”

“After rehearsal,” the shadow murmurs.

“Well …” Squinting against the glaring light, I shrug. “I was invited to the Throng to sing, but …”

“Sing? They want you to sing again?”

“I went last night and … the musicians basically invited me back tonight,” I explain. “They want me to sing again, but I don’t think I’m going to go,” I finish with a frown and a shake of my head.

“Why not? You’re amazing.”

“You don’t know what I sound like! How do you know?” I spit back playfully, peering into the shadow that’s Clayton. “I don’t think—”

“I’ll bring the guys,” he says, and I hear a smile in his voice. “We can hang out afterwards if you’re up for it. Everyone should hear you.”

I smile, despite myself. Clayton at the Throng again so I can sing my song to him, my muse who sets my insides aflame? How can I say no to all of that?

“Sounds good,” I murmur with a nod.

Clayton leans a bit to my right, eclipsing the sun and giving me the gift of his beautiful face for one fleeting moment.

“See you then, Dessie,” he murmurs, the sound of my name through his velvety voice sending a tremor of excitement down my body, before we part ways.

I fly through the vocal performance as if it wasn’t ever a vex on my mind. The class even seems to smile back at me, and the whole world spins as if it were the basketball on the end of some guy’s finger. Clayton’s finger. He’s got my whole world and he’s spinning it.

I don’t even dread going into rehearsal as much, despite how horrible my first day was. I sit next to Eric and pay attention the whole time, no “sickly waiting for Clayton to answer my text” distracting me the whole four hours.

And I take Eric’s advice and suck. I suck so hard when I recite my lines. I even chuckle at the irony that, despite our requirement of being off-book for act one, we still have to hold our scripts so that we can write down the blocking and directions we’re given. Really, each time I look at the script to jot down a note, I take the chance to suck up my next line with my eyes, then suck as I recite it.

Suck Town.

When we break after two hours for a fifteen, Eric puts an arm around me and says, “You’re sucking really well today.”

“You too,” I note, since Eric got to finally do his first Simon scene. “Your ‘drunk’ is spot-on. I should know; I’ve seen you at the Throng.”

“Speaking of, are we still on?”

“Yep. And,” I add, giving him my playful eyes, “a special someone and his two roommates are coming.”

That stops Eric dead in his green Converse. “No way.”

“Way,” I state with a grin. “Very, very way.”

Eric dances into the men’s bathroom with a howl of excitement as I saunter off to the quiet, unoccupied lobby which, at 8:08pm, is somewhat like a very long, dark dorm room, feeling strangely intimate and safe. I stare out of the tall glass windows at the courtyard, watching students pass under streetlamps as the chill of the AC touches my skin, and I pull out my phone.

I need to make a call and I’m not sure I really want to make it. Yes, of course I could wait until tomorrow, but I also need to get some answers to my questions. I’m walking on uneven ground until I do.

I press the phone to my ear, my eyes centering on the back of a bench outside where a pair of lovers are holding each other, the tops of their heads glowing under the pale white streetlamp.

“Dad?”

“Dessie, sweetie,” he says, his voice nearly singing with happiness. “How’s your life down there, sweetie? Isn’t Klangburg just charming?”

“It’s really great, Dad. Thanks so much. I’m really having … I’m really having a time down here,” I finish with a doleful sigh.

“Sweetie?”

He hears the doubt, even in my sigh. In complete contrast to my oblivious mother, my dad picks up on every little nuance in my voice; he always has.

“I’m just … curious …” I start, wondering whether I really, truly want to broach this subject right now, “how exactly I came to … enjoy this time here.”

My dad doesn’t sidestep around any subject. “All I had to do was call up Marv and tell him what a fine, promising young lady you are,” he discloses at once.

Marv? “And who’s Marv?”

“Marv, sweetheart! The Director of the School of Theatre. Haven’t you met him yet? He said he’d see you first thing and make sure you’re taken care of.”

I feel my head spinning. “The Director himself? Doctor Marvin Thwaite?”

“That’s the one. Is there a problem?”

I guess I was a bit naïve to not consider who my father’s contact was. Of course it’d be someone at the top. “I didn’t realize you two knew each other.”

“We went to college together, sweetie. He’s doing really well for himself, being head of the department and all. Pays to have friends in high places, eh?”

Presuming you don’t stoop to an all-time low with said high-placed friends. “Dad, why is Kellen here?”

“Oh, so he’s arrived? I wasn’t sure if it was this week or next. With all our focus on Winona’s show in London, I forget what day of the week it is unless Mia puts the schedule right in front of me.”

I don’t know who Mia is, whether a secretary or a friend or yet another of my father’s countless budding lighting design interns. “He’s arrived,” I state coolly.

“At least you’ll have a familiar face down there with you,” he says, meaning well.

No, I didn’t tell the story to my dad about Kellen Wright’s ill-timed advance on me. Being the selfless (read: spineless) individual I was four years ago, I thought that telling my dad that his twenty-nine-year-old golden boy was making a move on his eighteen-year-old daughter would have put an abrupt and horrible end to the man’s career before it even started. For all my dad knows, Kellen is still the angel he pretends to be. And to be fair, even with eleven years on me, Kellen has a youthful face that make him look far more innocent than he is.

“Dad,” I say, daring to step on his toes, “did you send Kellen down here … for me?”

My dad seems to find that amusing, breaths of his chuckling dancing through the phone in tiny bursts of static. “Leave the matchmaking to your sister. I’d never deign to commit such an act.”

“That’s not what I meant,” I mumble.

“I sent him there as a favor to Marv,” my dad carries on. “You know, to drum up a little media for the school. Ticket sales have been low, interest in the program has decreased, you know how it can be.”

“He … was part of the deal?” I ask, my pulse rising.

“What deal?”

“Marv lets me into his program, and you send him one of your lighting designer minions in exchange? Am I … Am I hearing this right?”

“Sweetheart, you’re twisting it around.”

“Do you realize that, in doing this, you just took an opportunity from … from someone else who could have designed lights and actually learned something?”

“It’s only one show, sweetie, and it’s really for the betterment of the whole department. Imagine, when all the shows sell out and Klangburg gets noticed, receiving more funds from benefactors, which can—”

“So it’s all about money? Is that it?”

My heart racing, I’m not even listening to him anymore; I just want to pick a fight. I’m furious that I’m—even indirectly—responsible for Clayton having lost his opportunity.

“The ‘big picture’ is a lot bigger than you realize, Dessie, and you’re standing too close. It’s better for everyone this way. The school. Its future. Your peers. And you’re enjoying your role in Our Town, aren’t you? Isn’t it what you’ve always wanted?”

I feel like some princess high up in a stony tower and my father’s handed me a porcelain doll. Was this handed to me? All of it? I didn’t earn my way into this school, fighting hard like Clayton did. For all I know, I didn’t even earn the role I’m playing.

Oh, god. Did he even arrange that? Does he know Nina too, or did Dr. Thwaite convince her to hand me the lead role, just like I was handed everything else?

I feel sick.

“Sweetheart?”

He’s been talking in my ear, but all I feel is rage. I was naïve not to have considered any of this before. It’s strange, how a call to my dad can make me aware of the pair of rose-tinted glasses I never noticed were balanced on the tip of my nose.

The lovers on the bench, the ones I’m staring at through the windows, they pull apart and I see the tears in their eyes. In the space of seconds, they’re shouting at each other.

How quickly things can change.

“We sent you to Italy,” my dad goes on, “but that slipper didn’t fit. Claudio & Rigby’s was a great opportunity for you, but that ended with an unfortunate exit scene and … regrettable consequences. Did you ever consider the backlash, Dessie? We sent you on countless auditions and you even got to audit those acting workshops at NYU. We—”

“And so you sent me here,” I say, watching the sweet couple tear each other apart through the glass, “but couldn’t bear for me to have a normal experience like I wanted, so you made sure to package it all up nice and pretty, dust it with promises of success and a handshake, and let your daughter believe in the lie.”

“Dessie …”

“I have to get back to rehearsal, Dad.” My voice is heavy and broken. “You know, to rehearse that role I don’t really deserve.”

“You deserve the world, sweetheart.”

I hang up, clenching the phone as tightly as I am my jaw. The lovers outside walk away, and so do I.

The rest of the rehearsal is considerably less pleasant, and when Eric asks me what’s wrong, that’s when I engage in my first true bit of acting, putting on a light smile and convincing him that I’m totally fine and can’t wait to sing my heart out. And for the first time in any rehearsal in my life, a person is actually convinced by my performance; Eric grins, squeezes my shoulder, and advises me to “up the sexy-sexy” in my song tonight. “Get Clay-boy all hot and bothered.”

And until I’m up on that stage and singing, I’ll sit here and hug my knees to my chest, leaning against the wall and waiting patiently for the storm of my father’s words to clear.

CLAYTON

I wanted to sit in the back where I usually do, but Brant thought it’d be a better idea to sit up close so we can really see her. Surrounded on all sides by other college dudes makes me nervous. I constantly check over my shoulders to make sure nothing weird is happening.

Dmitri’s on the other side of the tall table we’re all sitting around and he’s signing to me what he’s saying as he tells Brant about his latest short story, which involves a video game that fulfills any sexual fantasy the player has, and the player in Dmitri’s story turns out to have sick, crazy-extreme interests that basically turns the video game into a murderous monster.

Meanwhile, I’m having fun negotiating with a fucking barstool. It’s one of those tall seat-like ones where I don’t know whether to sit in it or lean on it.

Brant hits my shoulder, then points. I turn to find three people coming in through the doors. Eric, who I met last year but never got to know, leads the trio with Chloe at his side, who looks like the scary byproduct of a raven, Death itself, and an extra from some unreleased Tim Burton flick, if I had to guess.

Behind them is Dessie, the beauty who owns a room the moment she walks in. She changed, wearing a sexy sleeveless red top and tight jeans. Fuck me …

But her face seems pensive. I see the tension in her body before she’s reached us. Her foot kicks into a chair and she glares down at it, annoyed. She squints against the smoke in the air, a scowl on her face for a moment as she gazes over the room.

Then her eyes land on me and her expression changes. The tension there drops away. The trace of a smile crosses her face and her stride becomes lighter.

Did I do that to her?

I’m fucking floating right now at the sight of her.

I hope I’m not grinning like a dumb shit, because I’m definitely grinning like a dumb shit in my mind.

“Dessie,” I say when she’s come to a stop in front of me.

“Clayton,” her lips say.

I’m really holding back right now. I want to grab hold of her and claim her as mine in front of everyone in this room. I want every ogling dude in this room to know that she’s taken. I want to put my mouth on her pretty pink lips and taste her.

Her gaze shifts, and in the next instant, she’s greeting my roommates. Brant gives her half a hug, which is more than I even gave her, the big drooling ogre that I am, and Dmitri offers her a curt nod and a dimply smile after readjusting his glasses. The table only has two more chairs, so Brant offers his to Dessie, opting to just stand squished between Dmitri and her. Eric and Chloe take the two that remain, making our table an unnecessarily crowded one.

Eric reaches his hand over the table, introducing himself to Dmitri, if I had to guess. It belatedly occurs to me that Eric’s gay. I snort, amused at the prospect of anything happening between those two. Good luck cracking Dmitri’s bisexual-slash-asexual egg, I’d tell him.

Dessie touches my arm, getting my attention, then asks what I snorted about. I shake my head, smiling. “Nothing. Want something to drink?” She shakes her head and smiles back. I study the side of her face for a while as she watches the others chat away. I love how her eyes light up, her face turning as she listens to the conversations that break out over the table. I’m not a part of any of them, yet vicariously through her, I feel somehow connected to it all. Chloe says something and Dessie laughs. Eric reaches out and runs a finger down Dmitri’s tattoo, seeming to ask about it. Brant leans over the table to shout what I can only assume is something lewd and suggestive to Chloe, who doesn’t seem amused by the humor, rolling her eyes. Dessie, however, laughs so hard that she falls into me, her hands clinging to my shoulder as she laughs.

God, I want her to stay right there on my shoulder and make a fucking home. I love when she clings to me. Before this night is over, I vow to myself, I’m gonna get her to claw those sexy fingers of hers down my back.

Over the next half hour, more people start to pack into the Throng, and I feel pretty fortunate that we all got a table when we did. What the fuck with Tuesday nights? It’s never this busy unless it’s a weekend.

Dessie seems to notice the same thing, because she nudges me and says, “It got really loud!”

I smirk and take the opportunity for a joke. “Totally loud,” I agree. “Can you ask them to keep it down? Having trouble hearing my friends here.”

She laughs too hard at that, then slaps me on the arm and says something.

I focus on her lips. “What?”

She says, “I’m happy I came.”

Squeezed into the table like she is, her breasts rise and fall with every breath. I don’t know if that’s due to her bra, or her top, or being squeezed between me and Brant, or fucking magic or what, but I’m enjoying the view as I peer down at her in all her glory.

I lean in and say, “Can’t wait ‘til you’re up there.”

She studies my eyes too long, her own glowing in the dim light that hangs above our table. If I’m not mistaking that look, I’m feeling a pull toward her lips. She’s inviting me to kiss her, just with that daring, mischievous look in her eyes.

Then she looks up at the stage. I look too, only to discover everyone applauding suddenly.

The very next moment, Dessie’s left my side. I watch as the guitarist relinquishes his stool to her, sliding to the side of the pianist as Dessie steps onto the stage. Everyone at my table is clapping, so I do the same, following their lead until I see their hands stop moving. Then the only thing in the room that’s got my attention is Dessie.

And she’s looking right at me from the stage. Her body glows under the harsh stage light. I have to say, from my experience in technical theatre, it takes a special kind of person to make ugly light look pretty.

And fuck, she does that job without trying.

Dessie’s hand runs up the microphone. She brings her lips to it, then introduces herself to the room.

But I can’t catch any of the words. Frustrated, I pull out my phone, determined to find that horrible speech-to-text app I’d downloaded. Then, coming to my rescue, Dmitri starts moving his hands for me, and I could kiss him for his keen intuition.

Hey, I’m Dessie, my awesome roommate interprets for me. Some of you know me from last time. Or last night. Or whatever, I’m not good at these things. Ha! These crazy musicians, Dirk and—what’s your name?—Lorenzo, wanted me back here to sing one of my little tunes. Want to hear it? I have something … but it’s a little angsty. I … Dmitri stops, looking up at Dessie to gather what’s happening, because she’s laughing. When she starts speaking again, he resumes: Alright, then! I’ll sing it. I hope you like it. I have no idea what the musicians are going to do, but they’re good at improvising. This one’s called, “The Liar”.

Dessie closes her eyes to bring herself to that place where all the music and beauty comes from. All that tension I saw the moment she came in, it’s like it was never there. Totally relaxed, loose as the breeze, she holds the microphone and kisses it to her pink lips.

And through Dmitri, I watch the words flow:

These nails that I wear,

the curls in my hair,

my talent and my flair,

it’s all fake. I’m a liar.

And the makeup on your face,

wearing leather or wearing lace,

or that cologne you embrace,

each just another lie, I say,

just another thing in the way.

You’re a liar, too.

That’s not how you really look.

Just another billion dollar lie

sold to you by a billion dollar book.

And that’s not how you really smell.

Whether from soap, cologne, or shampoo,

I don’t think you know yourself as well

as you think you do.

Just like me, an actress who lies all day

reading another line from another play

being some other person, some other name.

We’re all liars just the same.

And just when you’re ready to let it go,

too exhausted to keep up the show,

you get a glimpse inside another’s eyes

and you’ll finally see

the only way free

is to be a liar who never lies.

After the last lyrics are signed, the musicians seem to still be filling the space with music, the guitarist’s hands strumming as Dessie hums against the mic, her eyes closed and lost in the song.

And I’m lost in her, my arms folded and my jaw tight.

She opens her eyes and they find me.

I wonder if she sees my lies.

My truths.

My way free.

And then the room shakes with applause, and I lift my own hands to join them, watching as Dessie takes in the cheering with a laugh, a pink face, and then a grand, demonstrative bow.

She returns to the table and her friends explode with their reactions, offering compliments and happy faces and laughter. Dmitri tells her how beautiful her voice was, but was worried about what the lyrics meant: If I’ve lied to you, he says to her as he signs at the same time for my benefit, then I’m totally sorry and, you know, please don’t write a song about me.

After some time, Dessie turns and says something. I look at her, waiting for her to repeat what she said when suddenly there’s a screen in my face:

Want to get out of here?

I smirk my consent, then slap Brant’s shoulder, telling him that we’re gonna head out. Dmitri takes note of my departure, waving goodbye. To him, I sign back: We’re gonna need the apartment for a bit.

Dmitri’s response is a dimply flat-line for lips and a resolute nod.

Good boy.

After leaving the place, my skin feels a noticeable departure of vibrations and noise, drinking in the calm silence of the street like a cool glass of water. Or maybe that’s just literally the breeze of the night air on my thirsty skin.

We might as well be holding hands, but we’re not. We’re not at that point. Honestly, I’m not even sure I’m really the hand-holding type. I don’t know why I’m suddenly obsessed with that idea. Maybe it’s how close she’s walking by my side. Maybe I’m wondering if I should put an arm around her or—

No, fuck that. What am I thinking?

I look over at her. Either it happens to be the moment she looks at me too, or else she’s watching me as we walk. I chuckle dryly. Not sure if that laugh came out or not, but I felt it in my chest.

Then I notice her lips move. I might be wrong, but I think she asks if we’re heading back to my place.

“If that’s okay with you,” I say back.

To that, she nods.

I’m fucking floating right now.

When the door’s in my face, I can barely get the key in I’m so fucking excited. I’ve been desperate for another night alone with her for the past three days. I’ve craved her touch on my skin and longed to put my arms around her body. I want my hands on her skin so fucking bad that I’m practically hopping right now.

“Want anything to drink?” I ask automatically, edging quickly toward the kitchen while peering over a shoulder, keeping her in my gaze.

She bites her lip.

I stop cold at the kitchen counter, watching her. The world grows very, very still. “So … is that a yes?”

Her lips part. She takes a breath, her eyes lifting to meet mine. There’s something very intense about her. I think she’s expecting me to make the first move. She wants me to cast everything off the counter with a reckless swipe of my hand before gripping her and slamming her on the counter to fuck her. The fantasy is painted in her eyes. The yearning for it …

“Yeah?” I prompt her. “A drink?”

Then, the tears touch her eyes.

Uh, fuck. Misread.

“Dessie?”

She shakes her head, the tears sitting up there in her eyes, refusing to fall. Then she lifts her chin and, with a coldness in her eyes, she says something.

I don’t catch all her words. “Liar,” I think she said. “Don’t deserve,” I think she also said. My insides turn to stone as I watch her, frustrated by her quick lips.

“Dessie,” I repeat, coming up to her and grasping her shoulders with my hands.

She looks away and clenches shut her eyes, her jaw tightened.

She’s angry.

“Dessie.” I try to get her to look at me, bending my neck and rubbing her shoulders calmingly. Fuck, her skin feels so smooth. “Dessie, talk.”

“I am talking!” she shouts, her furious, tear-filled eyes meeting mine. I see the shout in her neck pulling taut, her nostrils flaring, her whole body contracting in the effort. “It’s all I ever do!”

I’m so fucking confused. “I’m sorry,” I tell her, all the guilt from this weekend that I thought we had gotten past rushing back into my stomach. “I should not have blown you off. I was scared. I was a fucking idiot. You deserve a guy so much better than me.”

“No.” Her eyes widen. “You deserve better than me,” she says, slapping her own chest. She waves a palm in front of her face once, then throws a thumb past her ear—Better. She pokes a finger at her chest—Me.

Is she fucking crazy? “I’m the one who doesn’t deserve you, Dessie. Don’t mistake that for a second. You’re too fucking good for me.”

She takes a deep breath, shutting her eyes, and then her lips move.

And this time, I catch the words.

Every word.

I knew what she was going to say because it’s exactly the conclusion I had come to earlier when we ate lunch together at the UC. Her father got her into this school. Her father is a famous lighting designer. She knew Kellen. She’s the reason he’s here, designing the lights for the main stage show.

And she’s the reason I’m not.

“My being here … has ruined … everything,” she says.

But all I see is strength in her. Those tears, she won’t even allow them the courtesy of falling. She isn’t trying to earn my sympathy; she’s owning all of this. If she’d ask me, she’s owning too much of it.

She didn’t ask for Kellen Douchebag Wright.

She didn’t ask to get all intimate with me and put herself between me and my dreams. She just fucking met me a couple weeks ago. She owes me nothing.

And here I am, standing in front of this strong, incredible woman who has so much passion in her that she’s bursting at every carefully-stitched seam, singing on stages and earning artistic respect from all these beer-guzzling morons. That’s respect her father did not buy for her, respect she got all on her own.

And here I am with this incessant raging hard-on in my pants that’s been distracting me for the past hour, and I don’t deserve a single fucking tear of hers.

The truth is, her being here saved me.

“Your dad can give you a school,” I tell her, pushing through the vacuum in my ears as my teeth and throat and chest vibrate with my speech, “your dad can give you a whole play,” and I see her trying to protest, so I speak even louder, praying my words are reaching her, “but your dad can’t give you what you did on that little stage an hour ago. Did you see their eyes? Did you see all those people in that room, the way they listened to you when you … when you sang?”

Her eyes shift, the tears threatening to spill as she speaks to me through her clenched teeth. “The one person … who I want … to hear that song,” she mouths, her whole body trembling, “can’t … hear … anything.”

“I hear you.”

Her eyes flash at those words. Her brows flinch as she stares at me uncertainly, the emotion frozen on her pained, broken face.

“I hear you,” I repeat to Dessie, every nerve in my body pulling tight. “You aren’t the only one who’s had parents try to ruin you. You aren’t the only one who’s fought the destiny that everyone keeps trying to push down onto you. I hear you.” I even feel my voice cracking. Today might set a new record for how many words I’ve let myself speak out loud. It’s all Dessie; she’s pulling me out of myself. “You aren’t alone in this battle to find your voice. To find where you belong. To break free.”

The emotion hanging between her eyes and mine is practically tangible. I worry there’s even tears in my own eyes now, tears I also refuse to spill for that stupid fucking world out there.

“I’m sick of people thinking they know who I am,” I whisper, feeling the breath thrust its way out with each word. I take her face, a hand on either cheek, then pour into her eyes. “People trying to tell me what kind of man I am.”

“What kind of woman I am,” she echoes back.

“Telling me I’m just Texas trash.”

“Telling me I’m just a New York snob.”

“Dessie, I hear you.”

The anger has drained from her face, replaced with something else entirely.

“Clayton …” she mouths.

“I hear you.”

Our lips collide. Dessie’s breath washes over my face in uneven torrents as our hands clasp to each other’s bodies.

Her hands grab the base of my shirt. A tremor of anticipation lances up my side as her fingers move.

There goes my shirt.

I pin her to the wall, our mouths still locked as we mutually try to consume the other’s face. The warmth between us is a fire I’m helpless to try putting out.

My hands brush up her sexy hips.

She bucks against my body, our lips unlocking so I can free her from that sexy red top she’s wearing.

To the floor it goes.

She finds her lips a new meal at my earlobe. Then her teeth are invited to the party.

I moan against her, needles of pleasure racing up my neck and exploding where her teeth dig into me. Doesn’t she know how dangerous that is? I could claw the wall until there’s nine doorways into my room with the way she’s making work of my ear.

I can’t hold back any longer. Goddamn, Dessie …

I pick her up under her knees, her arms throwing themselves around me as I push us into my bedroom. The mattress gives as we land on it with a bounce, and she’s slammed onto her back. Her eyes flash up at me with alarm.

I hope she can handle me.

I play rough.

Like the beast I am, I crawl over her, then launch at her lips with mine. She reciprocates, just as hungry. We don’t let each other utter another pointless word; our fingers and locked lips do all the talking.

I thrust my hands under Dessie, startling her as I aggressively work the back of her bra. I unhook it with blind finesse.

Then her breasts are free and my face is buried in them like an animal. I feel the vibrations in her chest. “Oh, fuck … Clayton, fuck!” I’ll imagine she’s saying up there, crying the words out for her own benefit.

Then I bite her left nipple for my benefit.

I slap a hand over her face, feeding her my fingers as she gasps onto them—I feel her jaw open wide and hot breath push from her gaping mouth. She sucks in a finger of mine while her devilish nails draw down my back, which inspires a deep, beastly growl from my own body.

Her clawing of my back only strengthens the hold of my teeth on her helpless nipple. I bet it’s almost too much for her to bear, judging from how her breath against my hand just sped up.

There’s something about her surrendering of her body to me, even in pain, that’s so fucking erotic.

I release her nipple and reach down, working the buttons of her jeans. Yet again, her eyes gleam as she watches what I do. These jeans are in my way, my eyes tell her. And they’re about to not be.

They slip off her body like butter and find a place to perch on the dresser, or wall, or wherever the fuck I carelessly pitch them.

I yank down her panties and cast them to the side too. She’s all mine tonight, and I’ll make sure every inch of her knows it.

From the glint in her eyes that looks both excited and scared, I’d say she’s learning fast.

With my hardened eyes on her stunned ones, I pull a condom wrapper out of my pocket and bite the end, letting it hang from my teeth as I pull open my pants with force, working the buttons.

She watches, breathing heavy, unblinking.

The corner of my lips curve into a smile as I drop the pants to my ankles, the underwear going with them, and step out of them. I won’t be needing those. I watch her zero in on my cock, her eyes widening.

She wants it. I can see the wetness from where I’m looking down at her. I know she’s ready for it.

And I’m ready to give it.

I give the wrapper in my teeth a deft tug, freeing the condom, then spitting the wrapper to the side. Watching her with hungry intent, I roll it on.

Her gaze on me is unwavering.

I grip under her thighs and pull her up to my hips, firmly pressed against me.

Her breathing is heavy. She wants this as much as I do. No other words need to be said.

Except perhaps this: “Hold on to something.”

Her legs lock behind my back and her fingers claw into the bed, bracing herself. Smart woman.

My cock slides right inside.

She gasps sharply, her lips parting and her chest rising, those gorgeous breasts rising with them.

I pump her slow at first, making sure my eyes never leave hers. I want to see every little thing I do to her as the pain and pleasure break across her face in little earthquakes. I want to feel her body as she fuses with mine, her legs locked, her fingers digging into the sheets as she pushes her hips into me, taking my cock deeper.

Entering her didn’t sate my hunger.

It strengthened it.

I clasp her shoulders and pull her down hard, forcing her hips to meet my every thrust. I can’t get deep enough inside her. It’s driving me crazy.

She squirms against my body, bouncing with my fevered, frustrated movements. I don’t know what sounds I’m making, but I feel a chorus of grunting in my chest, vibrations working their way up and down my arms as I cling to Dessie and keep her right where I need her. She is so fucking tight.

I’m already so close. I’ve been desperate for this release. No couch-bound fantasy or hallway daydream can possibly match the fire that’s ignited between me and her in this stifling room.

I grip her breasts, my thumbs grinding over her nipples, which causes her to throw her head back, our eye contact broken.

And that won’t do. “Look at me.”

She reels, twisting out of her bliss and focusing her astonished gaze onto me.

“Look at me,” I repeat, fucking her into the mattress, my legs flexed taut with every shove, my arms bulging as I brace myself to bear down into her. The impatient look in her eyes emboldens me.

I slide my right hand between our sweat-drenched bodies to skillfully rub her swollen clit. The imminent orgasm becomes evident in her eyes too.

We’re both so close.

Her lips part as she spills her breath at me, beads of sweat dressing her forehead and chest, giving the most beautiful sheen to her body. My face reaches for hers, desperate to taste her.

“Look at me,” I whisper. “I want you looking at me when you come.”

“Clayton…” she mouths back.

I feel her contract, and her eyes see heaven as the anguish of release spills across her face. I fuck her through that orgasm, determined to squeeze every last drop of pleasure out of her. I won’t let her miss a single breath of it.

“I want to taste you,” I breathe at her when her eyes come back. I’m so close. “I want—”

And then our mouths connect right on time. I can’t hold back. My load empties into her just as a moan erupts from my chest, vibrating through our twisting lips. I shoot over and over again, groaning against her mouth as a cocktail of desire and agony floods every nerve in my body.

Then, all I know is an ocean of calm.

I collapse onto her, gasping for my life. Her breath chases mine, hot against my ear. I feel her tongue there as she kisses the side of my face.

I lift my head. “Dessie,” I moan.

She lifts her head for a kiss. I give it to her sweetly, the beast sated for now. Then, she pulls away to say one little word to me.

Amused, I grin and whisper, “You’re welcome.”

DESSIE

I gently stroke his sleeping face.

He opens an eye.

“Dessie,” he mumbles sleepily, grinning.

I bite my lip, a giggle of delirium caught in my chest like a bird in a cage, rattling around and unable to break free. That’s basically the only way I can react after a night with a man who made me feel unlike anyone has before. None of the boys from my past could’ve ever done what Clayton did with that strength of his, with that strong mouth, with those massive arms that put me right where he wanted me so he could have his way. I’m pretty sure he’s ruined me for all other men, past, present, and future.

I feel the soreness of muscles I didn’t know I had. We barely slept. He brought me to orgasm so many more times, I literally lost count.

Clayton’s sleepy-eyed face emerges over mine. His lips touch my cheek gently, and then he hovers there, looking down into my eyes.

I feel like I’ve become a puddle in his bed. Clayton Watts’s bed. I’m a puddle in fucking Clayton Watts’s bed.

“Breakfast?” he murmurs quietly. I nod.

Twenty minutes later, we sit on barstools in front of his kitchen counter eating frozen waffles he tossed into the toaster that taste like makeup sponges glazed with the gooiest syrup I’ve ever had the displeasure of eating. I’m polite and eat them anyway because, after last night’s ample physical exertions, I discover I’ve worked up quite an appetite and would probably eat the cushion from a couch.

After my last bite, I glance back at the living room to find Brant crashed on the loveseat clutching an orange-and-blue afghan, his mouth hanging open and the remote barely balanced on the edge of his knee, just a nudge away from falling off.

“I guess he didn’t make it to his room,” I note, thumbing at Brant.

Clayton shrugs as he catches where I’m pointing, then he looks at me and says, “I got class in an hour.”

“Me too,” I say back.

Then, almost like nothing, he puts a kiss on my cheek and mumbles, “Gotta put something on.”

To his sexy back and boxer-brief-sporting ass, I murmur, “Pity.”

There’s a smile as big as the sky on my face when the morning light touches it. The walk from his place to campus is already familiar to me, as if I’d done it a hundred times. We make a merciful detour to my dorm so I can quickly shower and change and look a bit less … wrecked. Clayton waits for me on a courtyard bench, typing on his phone. When I’m decent again, he walks me back, leaving me in front of the theater to go to his psychology class, and we experience a short moment of not knowing whether to kiss or hug or just wave. I see the uncertainty in his eyes and my hands seem to twitch with the same intentions as his. Finally, he opts to squeeze my arm, which was almost a half-hug, before he goes. His face reddens as he whips around the corner, which makes me laugh.

I push through the glass doors and waltz into the black box for my acting class, zipping right past Ariel, whose blasé stare of condescension at what she likely just witnessed through the window is not missed.

And really, after how close Clayton and I have grown in just one glorious rollercoaster of a weekend followed by a couple of surprise-filled days, how can I let anything—or anyone—ruin it?

My good mood is invincible. Nina gives me a harsh yet instructive critique on my performance piece while Ariel watches from the back row, her arms crossed and her eyes narrowed. And how do I come out of that class?

Smiling like a cat with a bird in my pocket.

Fuck you, mermaid. You can’t touch me.

I find Sam in our usual spot in the UC food court, and I insist on buying lunch for her. Something tells me she’s made a habit of coming here at this precise time because she knows I do. Plus, inevitably, I always give her about half or more of whatever I eat.

“Take off your glasses,” I say over my teriyaki sub.

Sam lifts her blunt, horrific eyebrows. “Hmm?” she moans through a mouthful of potato wedges.

“Glasses,” I order with a smirk. “Off.”

With reluctance, she pulls off her glasses. Well, the bad news is, those thick frames do a good job of concealing how big and bulbous her nose really is. The good news is, beyond those smudgy lenses, she’s been hiding a set of soft hazel eyes I’ve never noticed before. I always mistakenly thought they were brown.

“Interesting,” I murmur, studying her.

“I can’t see your face,” she complains.

“Let’s get away from campus,” I suggest. “We don’t have any classes until tonight. I want to go shopping.”

She fumbles to get her glasses back on her face. “Shopping? I don’t—”

“You’ve worn that shirt three times since Friday.”

She glances down at her shirt, as if doubting it. When she looks back up at me, she surrenders with an unenthusiastic shrug. “I guess I could use a little shopping. I think there’s a thrift shop on Avenue D.”

A thrift shop is not what I have in mind for her.

An hour later finds us in a store on the high-dollar side of town, much to Sam’s dismay. I run my hand through the soft, colorful racks, feeling oddly like I’m back home on some errand in town with my sister when she was a little bit less of a nose-upturned diva. Cece would rush up to a pretty dress, gasping as she spun around and showed it to me held up to her neck and draped down her body. I’d pick a matching dress two sizes bigger and we’d try them on together, then burst out of the dressing rooms at the same time and surprise each other, laughing.

I miss the way she used to be.

Sam moans from within the changing room, complaining about how she looks. “Shush,” I tell her. “Get your booty out here and let me see you.”

The door opens. I get a good look.

“Alright, not your color. Try this.” I toss another one at her. “And please, posture. No one looks good when they’re bent into the shape of a coat hanger. Be the coat, Sam, not the hanger.”

I guess I’m the new Cece and Sam’s my little sister. When she comes out of the dressing room again, her face looks lighter, and I nod with my approval.

What I foretold to be an hour-long overdue outing with my roommate turns into three, and I’m taking her down the street with an armful of bags filled with dresses, shirts, new jeans, and some sexy-ass shoes. I even throw in a few for myself.

“I can’t let you pay for all this,” Sam complains at the counter of the next store.

“I’m not,” I tell her innocently. “My credit card is.”

Swipe. Cha-ching.

Soon, the front glass window of a beauty salon greets our eyes.

Sam scowls at me. “We’re not gonna have one of those moments where you push me in there and have them give me some swanky makeover and I come out looking like last year’s prom queen.”

“No,” I assure her. “You’ll come out looking like next year’s prom queen.”

Since each stylist’s area is hidden by big annoying bamboo walls, I don’t get to see Sam until the sun is setting the horizon on fire behind me and the haircut is completely finished. I literally don’t recognize her.

“That’s … not the cut we discussed,” I murmur, staring at her wide-eyed.

“It’s kinda the one I wanted,” she says, then rubs her eyes. “I can’t see how it looks. They made me take my glasses off.”

Her hair is about eighty percent gone. What’s left in its place is a short spread of talon-shaped spikes that sweep near the front into some sort of jet-colored tidal wave.

Sam’s breathing quickens. “You’re worrying me.”

I hand the girl at the front counter my card without even looking at her, my eyes glued to Sam’s hair.

“It’s horrible,” Sam groans, deadpan. “It’s hideous. I’m gonna scare children. That’s what it is, isn’t it?”

I get my card back, swipe Sam’s glasses off the counter, and put them on her. The next instant, she slumps over to the nearest mirror, then engages in a strange sort of staring contest with herself, many odd, unreadable emotions cutting through her face.

I come up behind her. “Pretty damn hot, huh?” I murmur, breaking a smile.

Sam’s eyebrows, completely reshaped, slowly lift, as if she were seeing daylight for the first time. She doesn’t say anything, staring at herself in a daze.

Now it’s my turn to wonder if she hates the cut. “You know, hair grows back,” I reason with her, “and if you don’t like it—”

“I love it,” she says with her brand of deadpan joy. “I love it so much. It’s really the best thing. Wow.”

Every one of her words, monotonous and flat. She makes “joy” sound miserable. She makes “love” sound like an exhausting climb up a hillside. Yet even with all that indifference that is Samantha Hart, I know better than to rely on the mere sound of her words; she does love her haircut. She loves it so much, she can’t look away from the mirror.

I smile inside at a job well-done.

By the time we get back to campus, I realize I’m already five minutes late to my lighting crew shift. The glass door nearly meets my nose before it meets my hand, and I stumble going down the short hall to the auditorium.

Clayton waits for me, his legs dangling over the lip of the stage. He’s since changed and showered, as is evidenced by the new white shirt and jeans. Also, his hair seems to be fixed up a bit, like he threw a splash of water over his head and gave it a few rubs.

“I’m late,” I mouth soundlessly when I reach him.

He seems amused, smirking out of the side of his mouth as he gives me a once-over. “Doesn’t look like appropriate attire for crew work.”

“I picked up this dress today when I went on a shopping spree with my roommate,” I tell Clayton with a coy smile. “I thought that you … might like it.”

“Like it?” he echoes.

From the look on his face, I think he more than likes it.

“By the way,” he goes on, “Dick won’t be by pretty much for the rest of the semester.” I wrinkle my brow questioningly. “It means I’m your boss. It’s my say on how late or inappropriately dressed you are.”

I cross my arms and squint defiantly at him. “So … am I in trouble?”

Watching my lips so intently, a dark, roguish glint enters his eyes. He nods slowly, then hops off the edge of the stage and saunters up to me, staring down at me over his big chest and intimidating size.

“Big trouble,” resonates his deep, silky voice.

I bite my lip.

“I was told to send you to rehearsal after we finish everything on this list.” He waves a piece of paper in the air, then slaps it onto the stage. “Just so happens, I finished the list an hour ago.”

My heart races. “Oh?”

“But I don’t feel like sending you to rehearsal.”

“I don’t feel like going.”

A hand firmly settles on the small of my back. “Let’s double-check some of the items on this list.”

I stare up into his dark gaze. “Yes, boss.”

He grins.

Then, with a superior flick of his chin, he leads me up the steps to the stage. I follow, my heart fluttering excitedly.

“Lighting rack organized?” he inquires, his eyes finding me.

“Check,” I say, then press my lips together.

He rounds about the stage, coming to a bunch of hooks that line the back wall. “All the cords wrapped and sorted?”

Feeling playful, I pull at one of the hooks, a set of yellow cords dropping to the ground in a pile.

His eyes zero in on me.

I shrug innocently. “Oops.”

The very next instant, he has that cord in his grip. He steps forward, and suddenly I’m against the wall.

“This needs to be wound back up,” he says quietly, grabbing me and beginning to loop the yellow cord around my wrists.

“Clayton,” I hiss at him, my eyes darting around.

“No one’s here,” he assures me with a mischievous tone, wrapping the cord around and around itself, then pulling tight. “No one at all.” He flips it over the hook, then pulls.

My bound hands fly up with the cable, startling me. Oh my god. My heart hammers like a prisoner in my ribcage. My breath is stolen.

Hanging onto that cord, having all the power in his mighty grip, he puts a finger of his free hand into his mouth, sucking it long and hard. I watch his lips work, biting my own.

Then he pulls that finger out of his mouth with a pop and, his evil grin tightening, he thrusts that hand under my dress.

“Clayton!” I protest again.

His face intensely boring into mine, his hand negotiates its way under my dress and into my panties with the same slick persuasion as his lips.

His finger glides inside.

A surge of insanity courses through me. Fuck! Just one little movement and my body rebels, every muscle in me submitting to the power of Clayton’s finger.

Vainly, I pull against the cord, only to remind myself how very trapped I am.

In response, Clayton pulls tighter, stretching me until I’m nearly on my tippy-toes. I’m completely in his control.

His finger pushes in deeper—or maybe he’s added a second one, I can’t tell.

“Someone’s going to catch us,” I breathe, fighting my restricted hands—except I don’t really want to be free. Who in their right mind would?

He leans in, his face inches from mine. “You’re so wet,” he whispers. “You want me.”

“Yes,” I say, but the word turns into a desperate moan that pushes out of my throat. Oh my god. He’s making me so dizzy with his beautiful torment.

“Come on my fingers,” he whispers.

“Clayton …”

“Come for me.” His fingers twist.

I squirm against him, pushing my clit up against his palm, rubbing frantically and trying to get more friction. He presses up against my body. I feel his fingers dig deeper, pulsating inside me and working me like a damn puppet.

What the hell is he doing down there that feels so fucking good?

And then I feel myself letting go. I can’t stop it. I cry out in his face, my orgasm rocketing through me. Shockwaves of pleasure race up to my fingers, down to my toes, and through my clenching stomach.

I flick open my eyes.

His victorious face hovers in front of mine. Then, his fingers slip out of me and, without breaking his fierce gaze for a second, he brings those fingers to his wicked mouth and slips them in, his tongue dancing up and down each digit as he tastes me.

He lets go of the cord and it slides off the hook, my hands dropping with it. Gently, he unties his thick knot, releasing my wrists and winding the cord back up over his shoulder, like his job’s done.

He offers me a wink before tossing the wound-up cord back onto the wall. Then, he faces me to say, “Looks like our little list’s complete. You’re free to return to rehearsal, Dessie.”

Massaging my wrists, I lift my eyes to him, feeling bold, and throw my arms around his neck. I kiss him without warning, tasting myself on his swollen lips. “I think I’d rather work overtime,” I whisper.

An amused smirk darkens his face.

I don’t suspect I’m leaving anytime soon.

DESSIE

We’re only able to get away with our Wednesday Night Lighting Crew Sexcapades for two more weeks before rehearsal would take its due priority, forcing me to attend the earlier and far less desirable Tuesday afternoon lighting crew shift that fits neatly between my movement and voice classes.

Of course, Clayton makes sure to be there during said shifts. Unfortunately, so are five other guys.

We meet up for lunch or dinner on the “good end” of fraternity row a few times a week. It almost feels weird to eat alone now. I always seem to learn a handful of new signs each time we get together. I practice each one to him while he patiently corrects me. I know signing in public isn’t something he likes to do, but he’s become way more comfortable with it around me.

We both pull each other out of our comfy boxes.

I stay at his place two or three times a week. I’m sure Sam doesn’t mind the random nights she gets to have the dorm room all to herself, composing her music at top volume. I told her to install her software on my laptop so she can use my computer when I’m not there. Turns out, my computer is approximately nine billion times faster than hers.

She doesn’t know it, but I’m totally letting her keep that laptop; I can afford a new one.

It’s only a matter of days before Clayton and I become so highly attuned to each other’s schedules that we surprise each other after classes. It becomes a routine on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons for him to hang out in the lobby until I get out of my voice class, and then we grab dinner together before I head back to the theater for rehearsal.

“Is this how you do it?” I ask him one Thursday evening after I take a bite of cake, signing that my chocolate cake’s tasty. Clayton fights a laugh because apparently I just signed: Church is tasty! When I repeat the sign back to him, annoyed, he laughs harder because my second version comes out as: My computer is a tasty cake! When I put a piece of that cake into his face, he isn’t laughing anymore, and then for a few minutes we become one of “those couples” as I kiss the chocolate off his face. I might say, it’s one of the best desserts I’ve had in a while.

“So, what are we?”

He squints, having missed what I said.

My feet shuffle under the table. Maybe I shouldn’t push the subject. “Never mind.”

He growls, frustrated. He really hates when I don’t repeat something I’ve said.

I lick my lips, still tasting chocolate. I poke my chest—I. Then, from the place I just poked, I pull an imaginary pencil out with just my thumb and middle finger—Like. I’m drawing a blank for the remaining signs, so I mouth the words, “Whatever we are.”

Folding his arms on the table, he leans over and grunts, “Me too.”

I smile. I just said I wouldn’t push this subject, but I can’t help myself. “So … are we a thing?”

He seems to read my words perfectly this time, as I see a hint of a smirk teasing onto his lips as he studies me pensively. His hesitation almost worries me until he mumbles, “I sure as fuck hope so.”

The answer sets a cage of butterflies loose inside me. That sensation never gets old.

Not around Clayton.

Unfortunately, that sensation also happens every time I set foot into rehearsal. Moving to the main stage for rehearsals has pressed the sobering reality onto me that opening night will be on me before I know it and the auditorium will be full of people who’ve bought tickets to see me in my wonderfully subpar and highly disappointing rendition of Emily Webb in Our Town. Nina does nothing to bolster my confidence, constantly barking at me and asking weird questions that seem rhetorical, yet she wants a response each time. And annoying Nina clearly doesn’t earn me any love from the rest of the cast.

After an especially grueling Friday rehearsal where I royally flubbed at least five of my lines in act three, destroying any sense of dramatic tension that existed, I meet Eric by the exit door and sigh, asking, “When exactly am I supposed to stop sucking at rehearsal?”

To that, he responds, “Yesterday,” with an apologetic wince.

But there is one perk to rehearsing on the main stage: Clayton is periodically around, focusing lights in the grid, discussing things with Kellen somewhere in the back of the auditorium, or even backstage as he organizes things and helps the set and props crew. Despite our proximity, we keep everything professional during rehearsal.

Also, I’m rather amazed at how well things seem to be going between him and Kellen. Although, I really wouldn’t mind Kellen accidentally slipping on a banana peel in the grid and plummeting to the stage below with a shriek and a bone-crunching splat.

Wow. My bitterness over his presence really knows how to pull the dark and morbid out of me.

It becomes a regular joy of mine to visit the Throng every Saturday night for a performance. I meet up with the musicians in my free time, practicing new songs. They help me with melody and song structure, which makes me half-appreciate the attention that Sam gives her own work, with all that knowhow she gains from her classes. I may suck like hell when I’m handed an acting role, but put me in front of a microphone with some keen musicians and I will sing a ship full of men into the rocks at the shore.

Twice, I’ve caught Victoria at the Throng. One time, she seemed to be listening to my song, but with half-opened, unimpressed eyes. The second time, she was carrying on a conversation with the orange-bearded Freddie in the very back during my whole performance.

I don’t mind, really. It totally doesn’t make my blood boil.

But Clayton Watts sure does, because he’s always in that audience, and both of his roommates have taken quite a liking to me. Every Saturday after my gig is over, the musicians compliment me, give me high-fives like I’m just another dude in the band, then throw out their ideas for what they want me to come up with next weekend. “Please write a song about my ex,” the guitarist begs me. “She set fire to my bed. She’s a fucking lunatic.” Then, the moment I step offstage, I meet with Clayton and his roommates, who have taken to sitting with Eric and Chloe. Nothing’s official, but I think Chloe might be warming up to Brant, and I may be totally off, but I think there’s a spark or two flying between Eric and Dmitri. Clayton did tell me that Dmitri swings both ways, and I can’t help but notice how cutely clingy Eric’s gotten toward Dmitri, insisting on sitting next to him during my gigs.

“Want to crash at my place?” Clayton always asks, as if he still needs to, even four Saturdays later.

“Good idea,” I always tease him back.

And then another night of sweating, wrinkled bed sheets, and slamming his headboard against the wall commences.

I always worry that his roommates get tired of me being around all the time, but they seem to be more amused by it. On my way out one Sunday morning, Brant looks at me over his cup of coffee and says, “You mean you can still walk after last night?”

I give him the finger.

He gives me two—placed over his mouth with his tongue wiggling between them.

Good ol’ Brant.

It isn’t until Monday after my acting class that I run into Victoria and Chloe in the lobby. Chloe’s face is a mess of black ink running from her eyes to her chin. Victoria sits next to her with a consoling hand on her back, and the moment she sees me, her eyes turn dark.

I come up to the pair of them, undaunted by Victoria’s coldness. “Chloe?”

Chloe gives one short look at me, then sniffles. “That fucker.”

“What fucker?” I prompt her.

Victoria sighs, long and dramatically, then says, “Can you give us space, Desdemona? Chloe’s having troubles and her friend here is trying to console her.” She rubs Chloe’s back in little circles with one hand, clenching her thigh with the other.

I ignore Victoria’s snark. “What happened?” I ask Chloe gently, crouching down by her side.

“That male slut,” she spits out, sniffling. “Ugh. I’m such a stupid mess. I never get this way over a boy. I am such an idiot.”

“No, you’re not,” murmurs Victoria, rubbing her back with mounting zest, as if she were trying to scrub the glass off of a window. “You’re smart and you’re full of love. That ass is just a good-for-nothing womanizer.”

“Brant?” I say suddenly. “Are we talking about—?”

“Don’t fucking say his name,” groans Chloe. She practically snarls, her teeth bared. “I could kill him. He doesn’t have any feelings. He just uses girls like, like, like, like rags and … and then he just …”

“We don’t have to rehash it all,” murmurs Victoria soothingly, and I get the impression that what she really means is: Don’t bother letting Dessie into any of this. I’m your real friend. I’m here. Dessie is a bitch.

I sigh. “I’m so sorry, Chloe.”

“None of them are any good,” Chloe spits back, her eyes sharp as needles. “Those boys all deserve each other, those woman-using chauvinists.”

Is she talking about Clayton now, too? “Wait a minute,” I start.

“I warned you,” Chloe goes on, looking up at me with those two wet paths of darkness down her face. “I said you should stay away from him. None of them are any good. They’re a pack of pricks and always were.”

“Chloe,” I press on, getting annoyed.

“He’s going to fuck you over, too. They’re best friends, two peanuts in a shell. When he’s bored of you, he’ll dump your ass—”

“Chloe!”

“And he and Brant will laugh about you,” she goes on, “and share stories about you behind your back. You’ll just be another dent on the headboard. Wait for it.”

“You don’t know a damn thing about Clayton at all,” I shout at her, furious.

Something is being rehearsed at the other end of the lobby—six freshmen working on a group project—and they go silent at my outburst. Chloe glares at me from her seat and Victoria, all too ready for another excuse to hate me, just looks up at me with a pained sort of put-on sympathetic expression.

“I think you should go,” Victoria quietly suggests.

“I think I will,” I respond just as stingingly.

The glass doors shut softly at my back, despite my effort to slam them. I feel everyone’s eyes staring at me through the windows as I pass through the courtyard. If I’m honest, Chloe and I weren’t really super close to begin with, but I could not just stand by while she poured all her resentment on both Clayton and Brant. I mean, sure, Brant’s a total player; I called it the moment I met him at the bowling alley. But if she’s mad at him, why did she have to bring up Clayton and pull him into the mix? They might be best friends, but they’re nothing alike.

Still, even just thinking that, a seed of doubt has planted itself in my already unrested stomach.

It isn’t until I get back to my dorm that I take a glance at the calendar and realize opening night is this Friday.

Of course I knew already, but the days still somehow snuck up on me. I knew it was coming for weeks, but seeing it in black and white makes it a reality.

Too much of a reality.

I throw myself into the bathroom just in time to cling to the rim of the toilet, then proceed to ungently turn myself inside-out.

CLAYTON

Kellen Michael Wright says some scholarly know-it-all bullshit to me in the lighting booth when we’re alone. I nod, pretending I heard him.

I didn’t hear a fucking word.

People don’t realize how much we speak with our bodies. You don’t need lips or words to communicate. The flick of an eye says so much more. The tensing of the shoulders. The bend of a back.

Maybe that’s why they say eighty percent of sign language is your expression, and not the actual signs you make with your hands.

I get sentences from the way your feet fold when you’re seated. Or how your legs are inclined toward—or away—from the person you’re talking to. You tell me whether you’re comfortable around me by letting your arms hang at your side, or thrusting your hands into your pockets, or crossing your arms protectively over your chest. I note the angle of your head, where your chin points, the wrinkles in your face between which either amusement or resentment is expressed.

It’s a fucking book, from one end of your body to the other. And Kellen says it all without speaking.

He looks at me, awaiting an answer to some question I didn’t hear.

I nod. “Exactly,” I agree, just wanting this stupid shit to be over with so I can get back to Dessie. She should be out of her acting class by now, and it’s dress week, which is when life gets tough for both of us. She has dress rehearsal every night while the crews give their full focus to the show, making adjustments to the costumes, set, sound, and lights as we communicate with the director to set up lighting cues, like when the lights come on or fade out or change color, and so on.

It’s Monday. Only five days separate her from opening night. I can’t imagine what a wreck she must be. It doesn’t matter how good I tell her she is; she won’t hear a word of it.

Suddenly, the screen of Kellen’s tablet slides over the table in front of my eyes. In place of the description of a lighting cue, he’s typed:

Are you here today?

Getting anything

I’m saying at all?

Or am I wasting my breath

trying to teach you?

I smirk and face him, unable to hide my irritation for some reason. “I must’ve missed what you just said. Can you repeat it?”

He erases his words on the tablet, then types onto it in front of me:

Can’t rely on you seeing

what I’m saying anymore?

Need me to type everything out

for you suddenly???

Looking back at him, I see the exasperation in his eyes. I see the frustration in his hunched shoulders. I also see the curl of dislike in his parted lips, the way it makes his chin dimple.

It’s not just my absentmindedness. He’s annoyed by something else entirely, and taking into account all of what Dessie’s told me about this piece of work—and how public Dessie and I have been over the past several weeks—I can take a guess as to what’s tied his pretentious panties into a pretzel: he doesn’t like that Dessie and I are together.

“I’m fine,” I tell his lips, feeling the tension in my jaw work into each word. “Repeat yourself once and I will understand.”

He mashes his fingers into the tablet, yet again:

You sure about that???

I’m teaching you valuable lessons here.

I can easily do this by myself.

I barely read the message. My eyes zero in on his. I give him every ounce of fury behind my gaze as I consider whether to punch him in the face for what he did to Dessie years ago, or punch him in the jaw for the condescending way he’s talking to me now, or just let it all go and taking the higher ground.

“I’m here to learn,” I say through gritted teeth.

Then, twisting his face away, I see Kellen mouth something to himself.

“What was that?” I prompt him.

He shakes his head, taking his tablet back to resume his work, except this time he ignores me, not saying a word.

I won’t let it go. “What did you just say?”

He rolls his eyes, then mouths the word, “Nothing,” at me before returning to his little thousand-dollar shiny show-off tablet.

I can’t hold back with this motherfucker. “Maybe it escaped your attention, but I’m deaf,” I explain to him, drawing his gaze back to me, “and it’s fucking rude to say something under your breath when you know damn well I can’t hear you.”

He studies my face for a moment, pensive and superior. Then, without the assistance of his tablet, he says, “She told you about us.”

My nostrils flare. I say nothing.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, his mouth curling into a triumphant smirk. “That’s what this is, isn’t it?”

I can’t be sure of his words, not exactly, but I know the gleam of arrogance in another man’s eyes when I see it, even if it’s through his pair of designer glasses.

He leans in, his face so close that I smell the onion from the bagel he ate this morning. His lips part and he says, “You’re pissed because I got inside her first.”

My fist meets his face before I draw my next breath.

The force is so strong, he flies back in his rolling chair, knocking against the sound console.

And apparently I’m not done. I’m on my feet and my fist meets his face again because the first time just wasn’t satisfying enough.

The second hit cracks his designer glasses in half.

Satisfied.

Kellen’s on the floor before I know it, his hands thrown up to block himself against any more surprise fists. He doesn’t fight back. He quivers and pushes his back against the foot of the table. I already see his face reddening from my impact. That’ll leave a monster of a bruise. It’s strange, for as hard as I hit him, for there to be no blood.

I look at my own fist to find a tiny bloody spot where I must’ve nicked a knuckle on his glasses.

There it is.

I glare at him. “I wonder what Dessie’s dad would think about your predatory appetite years ago. His eighteen-year-old daughter back then, with his twenty-nine-year-old … whatever the fuck you are.” I crouch down. He cringes away, terrified. With his hands shielding his face, I can’t tell if he’s pleading for me not to kill him, begging for his life in a whiny, sniveling voice, or not saying a word at all. “Thanks for teaching me so much about lighting. You really fucking lit up my eyes to what a lowlife prick you are, and how much better of a man Dessie deserves.”

The way his broken glasses sit askew on his face, his cheek turning redder by the second, I could almost laugh at him.

Until I remember some fifteen-year-old kid from Yellow Mills High on the floor of a locker room, cowering in the exact same way, pushing himself as far away from the dangerous, fist-happy Clayton as he could.

Every trace of bloodlust is gone in an instant.

I leave Kellen whimpering—or trembling in silence, or crying, whatever he’s doing—and I shove through the door of the lighting booth and descend the stairs to the lobby.

I haven’t been this hot about anything in a long time. I feel my peripheral view vibrating with anger and my teeth are starting to ache.

I just punched Kellen in the face. Twice.

I broke his glasses.

My career is fucking over.

I hardly notice Chloe and Victoria sitting in the lobby when I pass by, but when I do, I’m only met with their glares.

I can’t even be bothered with either of them. I need to see Dessie and I need to explain what I’ve done. Fuck, it’s her opening week, I remind myself all over again. Why am I so good at fucking things up?

Do I tell Dr. Thwaite, or let the fucker do it first?

I push out of the building, furious. I don’t know if I’m more angry at myself, or at Kellen for being a prick, or at Dr. Thwaite for pushing him on me. Who is to blame here? The chemist for not knowing what volatile chemicals he was pouring into the same flask? The flask for containing said chemicals as they mixed and erupted? The chemicals themselves for being so damn volatile, despite it being in their nature to explode upon mixing?

Fuck if I know.

The sky is grey and heavy. Halfway to Dessie’s dorm, droplets of rain begin to kiss my hair. I suck the drop of blood off my knuckle, feeling the sting of regret already. I shouldn’t have punched him. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, double-fuck.

I’ve ruined everything.

That power-tripping prick is going to go straight to Thwaite and have me removed from the program for my assault. He’s going to press charges, hiring his big fancy lawyers with his big-shot money, and rape every last cent out of my bank account, which took me years and years of sweat and tears to earn. It’ll all be his, in some sickening turn of irony that began and ended with my fist.

I end up cheek-to-wood when I reach Dessie’s, feeling the vibrations of my own knocks as my face presses against the door.

The door opens, nearly spilling me inside, and I find Dessie’s alarmed eyes staring back.

I see her stiff shoulders. I see her tensed jaw and lips, the tightness of her fingers squeezing the doorknob, and her taut forehead.

Something’s wrong with her, too.

“Are you okay?” I ask her first.

After a moment of indecision, she sighs and falls into my chest, wrapping her arms around me and vibrating with deep breaths that match my own. My clothes are a little damp from the light rain that caught me outside, but she doesn’t seem to care. We stand there in the doorway for countless minutes just holding each other, saying nothing.

Whatever’s bothering her stays inside her, and what’s bothering me stays inside my clenched fists and strained eyes.

After some time, she pulls away and draws me into her room. The door stays open behind me as we lower onto her bed. The windowpane fills with little droplets and streaks of rain. The room is dim and cold, the coldness made worse by the feel of the air conditioning against my rain-speckled clothes.

Dessie faces me and starts to spill her worries in broken signs and words. The gist seems to be that Chloe’s heart was broken, apparently, and Victoria and her are saying awful things about me now, for whatever reason. Added to that, she’s about to perform this Friday to her first-ever audience since her time in Italy, and she’s having a mental breakdown—or something to that effect.

I have my arm around her the whole time, and I can’t help but feel comforted by holding her body against mine, no matter the shit that just went down before I took flight from the theater or the turmoil that’s making a mess of my stomach.

Despite not being able to keep my hands very steady, I speak back to her while signing at the same time: “You’re going to be fine, Dessie. From what I could see in the rehearsals, you look confident up there. No matter how you feel inside, it doesn’t show.”

“I feel like a failure,” she signs and says to me. “I feel like a cheat. I feel like someone else better than me deserves to be on that stage.”

Half the signs are wrong, but I understand well enough. This isn’t a lesson in sign language; it’s a lesson in self-confidence, of which Dessie is lacking. How can I convince her of the beauty I see every time she graces the stage? How can I convince her that she commands the attention of the audience even without the assistance of my stupid, inadequate lights?

“See it like one of your songs,” I tell her, fighting through the fear of what irreversible damage I’ve done to my career in the past hour. I’m so angry, I could punch him again until I do draw blood—and it’d be blood from his face, not my knuckles. “See it like a song at the Throng where you own that microphone and that audience is captivated by you. You have this story you need to tell, so tell it.”

Somewhere in that last sentence, my phone shakes in my pocket. When I pull it out, my stomach falls through the floor.

DOC THWAITE

I need to see you

as soon as possible.

Can you drop by my office

within the hour?

Well, I should’ve known it was coming. I can’t tell if I’m wet from the rain or if there’s an instant pool of sweat under my arms. I feel a chill race up my back, but I don’t know if it’s from fear or anger. I could fold that fucker in half right now.

Dessie taps my thigh, then signs: You okay?

The last thing I want to do is draw her into my problems. “I need to head back to the theater,” I say and sign to her. “Maybe we can meet up at my place after rehearsal? I may … I may be occupied … with …”

“The lighting,” she finishes for me, nodding with understanding. “I need some time alone to rehearse before Sam’s back from class,” she says and signs, using the sign for “restaurant” in place of “rehearse”.

And really, I’d much rather be at a restaurant kicking back with her than returning to that theater, where I’m quite sure I’ll not be allowed to step foot into another rehearsal ever again.

Needing it suddenly, I push my face forcefully into hers. Our mouths interlock as if they were starved for one another. Her hand grips my arm instinctively, as if bracing herself for my sudden impact, and my hand grips her thigh hungrily.

I could do so much more to her right now. I want to slide that hand up between her legs and make her moan.

Then, I feel her moan.

Oops.

With my hand tucked between her legs with more aggression than I’d planned, my mouth moves down her neck, nibbling as I go. I feel her trembling against me, her fingers clawing into my arm.

When my mouth reaches her breast, suddenly I stop. All the breath falls out of me and I feel myself seize up with anger.

I can’t even enjoy this.

I feel the vibration of words in her chest. My face pressed against her, I growl with frustration. I don’t know whether to hit someone, break something, or scream out and cry.

Instead, I calmly lift my face to hers. “I gotta go.”

She studies my eyes uncertainly, her lips parted.

I take a breath. “Doctor Thwaite. He texted me, called to his office for a … for a meeting.”

Dessie’s eyes widen. “Doctor Thwaite?” she says. “He actually texts you? You get text messages from the Director of the School of Theatre himself?”

I interrupt her with a kiss, causing her to swallow the last word or two. “Being deaf and being the head lighting guy has its perks,” I mutter.

Head lighting guy—not for long.

I rise off the bed. Before I leave the room, I glance back at her and say, “Tonight? My place, after rehearsal?”

Her eyes small, she simply nods.

Dessie, you know how to break my heart and put it back together with just one simple nod.

I let the door close softly behind me.

The West Hall falls at my back. What was once a light drizzle has grown into a torrential downpour. I feel the thunder at my feet as I plod through puddles in the road. The tunnel under the Art building provides a short reprieve before the courtyard between the Music and Theatre buildings thrusts me back into the unforgiving rain. Edging by the windows under a lip of canopy, I move unhurriedly toward the glass doors.

Twice my wet hand slips on the handle before the damn thing lets me inside. Then, once my feet meet the tiled entrance, I nearly slip, catching myself on the trunk of a fake plant near the door. I don’t bother glancing at the lobby to see if anyone witnessed; I just rush ahead, pushing through a crowd of freshmen who look like they’re waiting out the storm before heading to their next class.

I make a quick trip to the restroom, using some paper towels to dry off my hair and shirt as best as I can. It doesn’t matter how I present myself. I know the outcome of this meeting is going to be the same no matter which way my hair’s falling.

I fight an urge to punch the reflection in the mirror. My knuckle’s bled enough today.

The office is eerily empty. I see Dr. Thwaite’s door is open, so I let myself in. He sits at his desk, an older woman in a chair by his side laughing. When the pair of them look up, the laughter ceases.

I’m ready.

Dr. Thwaite gestures toward a free chair in front of his desk. I take my seat and stare at him. Then, as he begins to speak, the woman at his side moves her hands. Oh, she’s the interpreter.

I’m back in high school again, meeting with the principal because of another not-so-innocent kid I beat up, an interpreter seated by the desk, and my sad, irritated parents sitting across from them.

But there are no parents here. Just me, the Doc, and some woman I’ve never met, an interpreter who is not about to get banged in a supply closet after this meeting’s over.

The woman signs his words: Thanks for dropping by on such short notice. We’ve had a situation arise. Kellen has had an emergency. He let me know through an apologetic email, and he’s returning to New York at once.

I swallow hard, my eyes reeled in on the woman’s long, wrinkled hands with the intensity of a hawk.

The woman goes on: I know the lighting work is mostly finished, but there are still details to iron out before opening night. You are the most intimate with Kellen’s design. Is it possible for you to finish it on your own, because of Kellen’s untimely and sudden departure?

I feel sweat all over my forehead. My breath is so heavy, every effort at filling my lungs is exhausting. The room spins around me. Am I the butt of some joke right now? Is Kellen fucking with my head?

The woman prompts me again: Clayton? Are you able to? If it is too much work, Dick can easily do it on his own. I simply wanted to extend the opportunity to you.

“Yes,” I finally say, out of breath. “Yes. Thank you for the chance,” I say to the woman’s hands without being able to look Doctor Thwaite in the eyes. I feel like if he saw them, he’d somehow know the truth.

The woman smiles. Good, she signs.

I stagger out of the office twenty minutes later after he covers all the details, which basically adds about six to eight more hours this week of work at the theater, which I am more than willing to do, considering I thought, after the incident, that I’d be spending exactly zero more hours at the theater.

I take some time to calm down by the side door where the smokers live in a permanent cloud of smoke around that Arnie dude who always seems to be out here. It’s on a bench outside that side door that I stare at my hands and try to make sense out of what happened.

Did Kellen literally just pack up his things and go?

Did I scare him so badly, he opted to hightail it back home instead of confront me again?

Did his guilt over what he did to Dessie outweigh the arrogance he displayed to me?

Maybe that’s it. Maybe he couldn’t risk me—and maybe also Dessie—exposing what he’d done, ruining his reputation with Dessie’s dad and/or Thwaite.

But that doesn’t quite add up either. He could simply have played a her-word-against-his sort of thing. I’ve seen guys like that before, guys who push their weight around, who wear their importance or their family name like armor, invincible to anything that comes their way.

Though, his soft face and those fuck-off designer glasses didn’t prove so invincible to my fist.

Rehearsal glues me to Dick and to the lighting instruments more than it does to the stage, which is regrettable since I wanted to watch Dessie and give her some words of encouragement when I see her later. Every action seems surreal now with Kellen gone, likely with the bruise I left on his cheek still smarting, and having had not only no consequence served to me, but being given a reward instead. Dick is far calmer, far more fun, and arguably even more educational to work with. We become a team and end up finishing Monday’s work in half the time than we’d expected. Because part of Kellen’s work for the funeral in act three wasn’t finished, I even get to implement that idea I had, if I were able to design the show myself. Dick goes along with it, happy to just have the work done. “What the hell was Kellen doing with you that took him so damn long?” Dick jokes to me, if I got his words right. I tell him it would take anyone longer to hang and focus lights with a stick up their ass, and Dick laughs a bit too hard at that.

When it’s nearly eleven and the stars are trying to poke through the pitch-nothing of the sky, Dessie finds me waiting for her on a bench. Her hair is messy and tangled, which gives her this feral sexiness that gets me going the moment I see her. When I bend in for a kiss, though, she seems distracted, her eyes lost in the distance somewhere. “What’s wrong?” I ask her, but all she signs back is: I’m tired.

When we make it to the apartment, Brant and Dmitri are gone. Normally that means Dessie and I can let loose and have a little fun, but there’s tension in her eyes and no smile touches her face. When she sets down her things, she goes straight to my bed and lies down without another word. I watch her through the bedroom door for a moment, confused. Was something said to her at rehearsal? Is Victoria being a bitch again? Victoria attends some of the rehearsals now, sent alternatingly with some of the other costume crew members to tend to meticulous costume adjustments.

For some reason, I’m not too sure that she wants me over there to comfort her. I feel so much distance suddenly, and can’t separate my misgivings about Kellen’s sudden departure with Dessie’s coldness to me. Some dark, piteous part of me feels like I deserve this.

But then why did she agree to come over?

Brant’s door opens suddenly and he peeks his head out, his eyes finding mine.

I guess we aren’t as alone as I thought we were.

Since Dessie’s eyes are closed and she’s cuddled up with one of my pillows, I let her rest, closing the door softly, then draw up to the kitchen counter where Brant’s perched himself on a stool, snacking straight out of a cereal box. He asks me if things are okay—I assume he means between Dessie and I, according to the nod of his head at my room. I shrug, pushing palms into my eyes and sighing deeply.

Brant taps me on the arm and puts a screen in my face, causing my eyes to squint:

Shes not mad at u

bout the Chloe thing,

is she??

I read his text several times. Then, I put two-and-two together, and a whole new wave of anger finds its way up my neck, reddening my face. “What the fuck did you do to Chloe?” I ask, turning on him.

“Dude, it wasn’t serious to begin with,” he tells me, raising his hands in defense, “and she got all clingy, and then she said she loved me, and—”

“You have hundreds of girls on this campus to choose from,” I throw back at him, my temper set off in an instant, “and you pick one of Dessie’s friends?”

“I didn’t pick her. She picked me.”

“The fuck you did,” I retort, shoving a hand into his chest. Brant falls against the wall, and whatever trace of humor was in his face is now gone. “I taught you how to even talk to girls. Remember, bitch? You seem to forget that fact, you scared piece of shit. Back then, you couldn’t even approach one without pissing your little pants.”

Angry, he tries to throw some signs at me, saying that I’m the scared piece of shit—but, for the word “scared”, he just wiggles his hands in the air, and how can Brant ever forget his favorite sign “poop”?

“I taught you how to talk to girls to give you confidence,” I say over his dumb signing. “Not to turn you into the fuckin’ philanderer you’ve become. If the girls you meet were smart, they’d stay the fuck away.”

He says something to me, but I’m not in the mood to read lips; it’s his turn to read mine.

“And respect?” I push on. “Where the fuck’s your respect, Brant? You can pull it out all you want, put your mark on every tree you pass, but you keep that dick away from my girl and away from her friends. It’s called fucking respect.”

He lifts his chin and starts shouting at me. I don’t have a clue what he’s saying.

“Real smart,” I say through all his shouting. “Keep it up, Brant. Keep screaming and yelling at your deaf friend. Scream a little louder, help your buddy out, I can’t hear you yet.”

He shoves his hands into my chest, still yelling. I hardly budge.

“That all you got, you fuckin’ slut?”

He shoves me again. I put a hand on his chest and give him my own version of a shove, and that puts him flat against the wall once again. I see the stunned look in his eye as his hat flips off his head from the impact, dropping to the floor.

I come up to Brant, nose-to-nose, and pin him to the wall with my mere presence. With a growl that’s summoned from somewhere dark and deadly, I say, “You’re not worth any decent woman’s time.”

His eyes meet mine. I expected him to knock me really good in the face for that one. Maybe I want him to. Maybe I need to be knocked the fuck out so I can quit feeling all this rage inside me that has nowhere to go. This rage has lived in me for so long, the rage of being submitted to a silent world, of being thrust off the pedestal I didn’t realize I was standing on at the smart and tender age of twelve. It makes it so much easier to be alone. It makes it so much easier to hate people. The rage has been my friend since day one, protecting me from the assholes who tried to fuck with me.

All the fury seems to drain from Brant’s eyes. This close, I see that anger slowly replaced with hurt.

I swallow hard. I don’t know whether to regret the words, apologize, or punch a hole through the wall by his head.

Then his eyes shift. I turn around. Dessie’s standing in the hallway.

How much of this did she hear?

She signs: Is this the “you” that you’ve been hiding? You have an anger problem? Her signs are all wrong, but I get the gist, and the gist sucks.

My fists are so balled up, I could draw blood from my own palms.

“I don’t have an anger problem,” I growl through the stinging silence, then sarcastically add, “I have a deaf problem.”

He texted me, she returns with her hands, and then she spells out his name: K-E-L-L-E-N.

My fist breaking his glasses in half replays ten times in my head. I feel my teeth clattering together.

“He told me to beware of you,” she says and signs. Instead of “beware”, she signs “scared”, which I guess is just as accurate. I watch her lips, each word causing its due damage. “He didn’t tell me why, but I know he left early. Eric told me at rehearsal. What happened? Did he leave because of you?”

All I can do is stare at her. What would be the easiest thing to say? I punched him because of what he said about her, making me sound like some possessive jerk? Or, had I not stopped, I would’ve thrown fists into him until there was nothing left of his pompous fucking face?

Why does it feel like I lose no matter what I say?

“He just … He just had to go.” My words ride on the last wisp of breath in my lungs.

Her bag’s hanging at her side. I just now notice it. She pulls it over a shoulder, telling me she has to go.

“Dessie,” I plead.

Then I follow, calling after her. Only once she’s outside the door does she finally glance back. It isn’t her leaving that hurts me the most.

It’s the look of fear in those eyes.

DESSIE

The rain hasn’t stopped all week. They’re saying if it keeps it up this badly, our turnout for the weekend may suffer.

To that, I say, let it suffer.

I couldn’t dream of a better outcome than to perform in front of an audience of three.

Or two.

Or none.

I listen to the spattering of rain against my dorm window, not wanting to go to sleep just yet, because that means it’ll be Friday, and with Friday comes the dreaded opening night.

I breathe deeply, willing myself to calm down.

I’ve spent days trying to reconcile how I feel about Clayton, about Chloe and Victoria and their judging eyes, about Kellen and his cryptic warning—or Clayton and his cryptic explanation of said warning. The enraged look in his eyes when he’d finished yelling at Brant keeps resurfacing, scaring me anew.

I know what it’s like to get close to someone, only to have them turn into someone else entirely. I know how far a man’s willing to go to convince a woman he’s the best thing under the sun, while actually being as unreliable as the moon, its phase changing each night.

And I’m so scared to experience that again.

No matter how good his arms feel around me.

Or his tongue.

Or his …

I run a hand down my body, squeezing shut my eyes and trying to envision his sexy face from the first time he stared at me with that hunger in his eyes. My hand is cool as ice as it makes its way between my legs. I gasp as a finger teases me below. Clayton Watts.

He’s bad news, Des.

I huff, annoyed at the invading voices. I try to recapture his face, my finger searching for pleasure. I moan, finding it again. I breathe deeply.

All the new students want him. Stay away.

He’s bad, bad news.

No one goes near the Watts boy.

I huff again, pushing away all the stupid warnings from my stupid friends.

Their thorns will prick you just the same. It’s in their nature.

I touch myself. I feel my heart picking up pace. I lick my lips and run my fingers up and down my other lips. My legs squeeze together instinctively, then open up, desperate for him.

He didn’t hear your song. Not one note.

He’s deaf.

My eyes flick open. Suddenly, it’s not his sexy face that I see; it’s his half-turned, oblivious face at the Theatre mixer. The first time I ever saw him. I hear myself trying to get his attention again.

Then, I see him walk away like I wasn’t even worth his breath.

I see him after he caught me singing to myself in the auditorium. The menacing twist of his lips into a frown … the tattoo drawn up his neck … his heavy-lidded eyes as he stares me down.

I don’t have an anger problem.

I have a deaf problem.

For some reason, it strikes me harder now than ever. My fantasy is shattered, and as fast as it’d come, suddenly I’m just a girl on a bed with a hand between my legs.

My eyes pool with tears. I bite on my lip, refusing to let them fall. Then when I turn on my side to sleep, they spill onto my pillow.

I don’t know if I get any sleep. I feel like I blink and then the morning’s come, and magically Sam and her light snoring are back from wherever she was, and the date on my phone is the one Friday in all of time that I’m most dreading.

It’s like I have stage fright and I’m nowhere near the stage.

I want to throw up, but my stomach is so empty and I haven’t eaten since breakfast yesterday.

My head spins when I sit up, the morning light touching my face in orange, fiery stripes through the blinds. There isn’t a speck of rain spattering on the window; only golden sunshine and birds chirping.

Fucking great.

After I’m dressed for the day and have a bag packed for tonight with my post-show outfit and stage makeup, I catch Sam sitting on the edge of her bed wearing one of her old shirts and staring forlornly out the window.

“You alright?” I ask, joining her by the window.

She smirks and says, “Well. There’s this guy Tomas. Spelled without an ‘H’. And he wanted to do something with me this weekend.”

“That’s good news! Oh.” I frown. “Do you even like him?”

“That’s the problem. I mean, he’s cute, I guess.” Hearing Sam call a guy “cute” in her monotone voice is probably an experience I’ll never be able to compare to anything, ever. “But, like, he plays the bassoon.”

I lift my eyebrows. “Yeah?”

“I can’t be with someone who plays the bassoon.”

I spot the frat boys playing Frisbee in the courtyard, but today they have their shirts on. I wonder if the rain brought a cool front with it.

“There’ll be some things about the guys we’re into that we think we can’t handle,” I tell her in a wistful tone, watching as one of the guys races across the grass, nearly colliding into the fountain to catch the Frisbee. “Maybe if we tried to hear the bassoon in a new way, we might find that we can … sympathize with the bassoon. Maybe it doesn’t sound as awful as we thought. Maybe it’s even … sort of beautiful.”

Who exactly am I talking about right now?

Sam sighs her words: “You’ve obviously never heard a bassoon.”

I face her. “Why don’t you bring him to my show tonight? I have a pair of comps. I’ll set them aside for you at the box office. It’ll be safe, you’ll get to see a horrible show in which I showcase my abysmal lack of talent, and afterwards, you’ll have the perfect excuse to just come back here if you don’t want to spend any more time with him.”

“Bassoon boy,” she mutters sulkily.

I sit on my bed across from her. My bag lands at my feet with a heavy thud. “I bet you could compose some pretty songs together with your piano and his bassoon.”

“Or a flute. Or an oboe. Or literally anything other than a bassoon.”

“Give him a chance,” I tell her, “but only if you like him. I’m leaving those tickets for you, whether you use them or not.”

She meets my eyes with her big, hazel ones. She gives a short sigh, then says, “I never thanked you for all the … the clothes, and … for my hair, and … and …”

“No thanks needed,” I assure her. “I didn’t do it because there was anything wrong with you, Sam. You should be whatever you want to be, look however you want to look. Wear that old, unspeakable shirt if you want,” I add teasingly. “I … really, I just wanted to show you another world out there. I want you to see other options. I want you to wonder what causes someone to love the bassoon so damn much that he picks it as the instrument to give his music a voice.”

“Insanity, probably,” she reasons.

“Everyone deserves a piece of the world,” I go on, standing on my soapbox in this cramped little half-lit dorm room, “but we aren’t all given equal chances in life, are we? Regardless, it’s important that we do our best with what we have, despite other people’s every effort in keeping us as pressed into the ground as possible. What better way to live than to make those people’s efforts a waste?”

I wonder how many times my mother’s carefree criticism kept me from pursuing a passion of mine. I feel my beautiful sister’s cold eyes as they survey my latest failure, and I wonder how often I’ve let their efforts keep me trapped in this pretty little Lebeau box of expectations of what I ought to be.

To my impassioned speech, Sam lifts her chin and says, “I guess a bassoon can kinda sound like an English horn. Kinda. Not really.”

That’s a start. “You know what, Sam? I’m starved,” I say and realize at the same time. “Want to grab some breakfast with me before class?”

“Yes,” she deadpans, eyes widening.

Breakfast never tasted so good. The nerves leave me alone, granting me an oasis of peace as I enjoy a tasty meal. Sam tells me about her midterms, which consist of three separate compositions, a group project involving composers from the Baroque era, and something about music history. She envies my ability to stand on a stage in front of people, and I tell her to hold off on that envy until after tonight.

My acting class is a merciful reprieve, as I’d already performed my pieces last week and simply have to sit back and watch others today as they are systematically humiliated or praised in front of the class by the long-nosed, cool-eyed Nina. I can’t be bothered to pay attention to their public torture; I have my own to dread.

After class when I make a quick trip to the box office to secure my roommate’s tickets, I’m dismayed to find that the show is nearly sold out already. The best I can get Sam is two tickets on the end of row R, which is not ideal, but it’ll have to do.

When the tickets are paid for and left at will call, Ariel floats up to my side. “Picking up tickets for your family?” she asks in a saccharine tone. “I hope you got front row!”

I shake my head without looking at her. “Roommate,” I mumble.

“Break a leg tonight,” she says almost too quickly, as if she wasn’t really interested in who the hell the tickets are for. “I hear the house is nearly sold out.”

“Just made that discovery myself,” I share. “See you later.” I turn to go, sliding out the glass doors.

She follows. “You know, I think it’s for the best.”

I frown. What the hell is she talking about? “Sorry?”

“You and him. Same thing that happened to me, sweetheart. I did try to warn you. Hey,” she says brightly, “I have someone you should meet. He’s really, really sweet. He’s a friend of mine. When I first met him, I thought he was gay, but he’s actually just super nice and, like, totally not gay. But by the time I found out, I was already engaged to Lance, so …”

She talks so fast, I have to stop. We barely made it out of the courtyard. “What the hell are you going on about?”

Ariel blinks. “I want to introduce you to him, obviously. I mean, not tonight, of course. It can be whenever you like. I mean—”

“I don’t need to meet anyone,” I spit back. Who the fuck does she think she is? “Why the hell would I need to meet your gay friend?”

“No. He’s not gay. That’s the point, Dessie. I’m trying to introduce you to someone nice, now that you and Clayton are over.”

“We’re not over,” I state. I’m so annoyed, I feel my pulse in my ears.

Ariel sighs and shakes her head. “Oh, Dessie. Everyone has eyes, you know. Eric heard it all from Dmitri, and everyone pretty much knows that you two are caput.”

“I think the whole damn department can keep their fucking nose out of my business,” I fire back at her, seething. “We’re not over.”

“Oh, Dessie,” she breathes once more, shaking her head.

I leave her standing there, unable to hear another breathy sigh or whiny offering from that unbearably annoying ex-girlfriend who acts like she knows what’s best for everyone. I never said we were over. And, as far as I know, Clayton hasn’t said anything similarly about us. The last time I saw him, he had a big fight with Brant over me and Chloe and using women and … I had to leave.

Since that day, our relationship has been reduced to worries and wishes that float around in my head. I haven’t sent him a text and he hasn’t sent me one. Although I think I might’ve caught sight of him once in the grid, I could be mistaken, and other than that, I haven’t seen a trace of him. It’s like he’s deliberately avoiding me.

If I’m honest, I think he scared himself as much as he scared me.

And really, Kellen’s a little shit. Whatever Clayton did or didn’t do to him, I’m sure he deserved it. But still …

I stop at a tree just before the tunnel that goes under the School of Art, plopping down in the grass by the side of the pathway and sulking. Nothing lately has been easy. I don’t know how I feel about Clayton and I. I don’t know what I feel about the show I’m about to premiere tonight. Part of me has been wanting to call my parents all week, but I’ve refrained because I’m afraid of what they’ll say, and whether or not their words will work to completely unravel me before I step foot on that stage. Believe it or not, my mother has a wicked talent of making my confidence crumble to dust before my eyes, even when she’s trying to encourage me. And I won’t even try to describe my sister’s so-called brand of motivation.

I pull out my phone and reread through texts that Clayton and I have shared over the past few weeks. A few back-and-forth messages revive the smile on my face, and before I know it, afternoon’s come and all that’s left of my day is a light dinner—provided I can keep myself from un-eating it—and show time.

After a quick lie-down in my dorm room and a hurried meal in the Quad cafeteria, I head for the theater to face my destiny. Considering how many footsteps I’ve likely taken in my life, it’s bizarre to me that the relatively short trip from my dorm room to the theater would prove to be such a chore. I’m so nervous that my feet keep wanting to kick into one another. I stumble twice as I pass by the University Center, then nearly walk into the wall as I go through the tunnel under the Art building. I might need new feet before the show tonight.

The sky slowly turns over, the deep dusky blue of evening covering it with the fiery sunset nowhere to be found—its view likely blocked by the scorpion tail of the Theatre building itself—as I make my way in through the side door at the back. The lobby is off-limits to us actors, or so I was told before leaving Thursday night’s dress rehearsal.

The stench of stage makeup fills the dressing room. My castmates banter loudly across the room at each other, and there seems to be a hilarious joke every five seconds, for as frequently (and obnoxiously) as they laugh. I take my seat in front of my assigned mirror and, with shaky hands, I pull open my bag and begin laying out all the sponges, foundations, and brushes that I’ll need. Then, after quickly changing into a makeup shirt, I begin the process of slowly becoming Emily Webb by smearing designer mud all over my face.

“You ready for this?”

The question comes from the actress who plays Mrs. Myrtle Webb, my mother in the play. “You want me to lie, or say something happy and encouraging?” I mumble back to her.

She chuckles, rubbing highlight on her eyelids. “Truth. I always go for truth.”

“I’m scared shitless,” I say, hesitating before I apply the tiniest bit of shadow beneath my cheekbones, which I hollow by sucking them in.

“Me too! I always get nervous opening night. Then, once I get the first night out of the way, the rest of the run is a breeze.”

Just when I’m about to respond, I hear the squeaking of wheels. Turning to the noise, I see a costumes rack being wheeled in by two costume crew members, Victoria and some blonde I don’t know.

Of course one of them would be Victoria.

The blonde girl tends to a torn gown, taking it to the corner of the room to stitch it up. While she sews, Victoria hangs by the rack, aloof, pulling self-consciously at her turquoise costumes apron, her fingers playing anxiously with a tiny tomato-shaped pincushion that hangs by her waist.

I return my attention to my makeup. I may never fall in love with the musty smell of it. “After opening night, it’s a breeze, huh?” I smile at that. “Then once tonight passes, everything’s going to be lovely.”

“It’s really like there’s two rehearsal processes,” she goes on. “The one you do without an audience, and the one you do with one.”

“Audiences make everything so weird,” I moan, blending highlight on my cheekbones.

“Laughing when you don’t expect them to. Not laughing when you do. Applauding too long. Some guy with a horrible cough in the front row. That fucking baby in the third.”

I laugh a bit too hard at her joke, catching sight of Victoria through the mirror. She’s watching me, still picking at that squishy pin-filled tomato and waiting for someone to need something from her.

“Is your family coming this weekend or next?” she asks.

The question makes my hand slip, getting a speck of highlight in my hair. “No,” I answer.

“Too busy to come down all the way from New York, huh?”

I have to remind myself that people here know where I’m from, even if they don’t know exactly who my family is. Well, assuming Victoria hasn’t secretly told everyone behind my back.

Then, from the door, two words ring clear through the room.

“DESDEMONA LEBEAU.”

I jerk, looking up. Ariel stands at the doorway looking gorgeous in a blue satin gown, her waves of blonde hair cascading down her front. Her lips are a perfect, plush, red rose petal. I’m so distracted with how elegant she looks that I forget she just shouted my name.

A hush has swept through the dressing room.

“Ariel?” I return.

Ariel pushes past Victoria standing by the door, taking three steps into the room, each of her steps in those heels of hers clacking loudly against the floor.

“Desdemona Lebeau,” she announces again. “Of course. Every bit of it makes sense now. A person like you getting the part that I deserved.”

I blanch. Now Ariel is the one who wanted the lead role? I guess I’d be naïve to think otherwise; every woman in the department wanted the part of Emily Webb.

“What do you mean by that?” I shoot back at her, twisting around in my chair.

I couldn’t hear my own thoughts a second ago. Now, the dressing room is so silent, I hear the jingle of a hairpin touching the counter at the other end of the room.

“You haven’t heard the commotion?” she says, making the question sound like an accusation. “They had to bring in campus security to secure the doors of the lobby.”

I have no idea what she’s talking about.

“Make way,” says Ariel demonstratively, waving her hands around the room like a magician, “for the one and only Desdemona Lebeau. Do you all even realize who you’ve been acting with? This princess here who robbed me of my senior year lead because her famous mommy and daddy bought it for her?”

Oh, fuck.

Fuck this. Fuck that. Fuck mermaids. Fuck everything.

“Ariel,” I plead fruitlessly.

“So was this your plan all along?” she blurts, spreading her hands. “Bring in your parents from New York on your opening night and cause a scene and make this huge deal over your big Texas debut?”

Wait a minute.

Wait one fucking minute.

“They’re here?” I breathe, horrified.

“And call in the press, of course. Channel 11 News. 13. Whoever the hell’s in the area. Weather? Traffic? Who cares. The Lebeaus are in town. You are a real piece of work, you know that?”

I can’t even produce words. My heart is lodged somewhere up in my brain, and all I can hear is my pulse and my own erratic breathing. The room spins while I try to imagine the horrific sight of my mom and dad in the lobby right now, slowly being escorted like precious pieces of gold into the auditorium to claim whatever seats they must have secured for themselves ahead of time. Did Doctor Thwaite invite them? Did they come on their own, my mom desperate for more attention and my dad curious to see what his darling Kellen has designed? Is my sister with them?

“I’m sorry.” My voice is so small and pathetic. I don’t know if I’m apologizing to her, or to the whole room. I look around and all I see are confused eyes, contemptuous eyes, blank eyes. I don’t have a friend in this whole building suddenly. Even the actress next to me who I was just talking to, she looks at me like I’m a total stranger. “I’m sorry. I was … I just wanted … Ariel, I’m sorry. I was—”

“Sorry? Sorry for lying to everyone in this room?” she prompts me, her voice turning all sugary again, the same tone she used to warn me about Clayton. “Sorry for … what?”

I lick my dry lips. I can’t seem to swallow. “I’m sorry for—”

“She’s sorry,” says Victoria from the costumes rack, “that you’re being such a royal bitch, Ariel.”

Gasps and whispers wash over the room like a sudden breeze.

Victoria, her arms crossed, saunters away from the rack, facing Ariel in the center of the room. She gives her a pointed once-over.

“Dessie here’s sorry that she even had to keep her identity a secret,” Victoria goes on, “because bitches like you can’t handle it.”

Girls snicker in the back. The blonde one from costumes gawps at her partner, her stitching work forgotten in her lap.

“You think you’re the only one who got robbed of that Emily role? I wanted it, too,” says Victoria with a careless sweep of her hand. “Hell, I dreamed about that role all summer. Now, I get to sit backstage and watch Dessie perform it.”

Ariel folds her arms, her eyes seething with derision.

“And does that ruffle my pretty feathers? Sure,” says Victoria with a shrug. “You know what else does? The sheer lack of roles in the Theatre world for people of color. Am I barging into the dressing rooms of every all-white cast to tell them about all their precious privilege? Fuck no. I’m a big girl. I’ll keep auditioning for whatever the hell I want. I will play Emily someday in some other production. But Desdemona Lebeau, she can have this production.”

“Yeah,” agrees Ariel, her tone quickly converted from sugar to acid, “and she can invite her famous parents to have a big showy opening night, and that’s somehow fair, because—”

“Oh, trust me, I know all about embarrassing parents,” Victoria cuts her off, waving her hand in Ariel’s indignant face. “You don’t want to be moving into the dorms with your dad yelling Cantonese down the halls at twenty words a second, trust me. I can only imagine what kind of hell Dessie has to contend with, and why she had to run all the way down here to Texas to get the fuck away from it.” She whips her head around to face me. “Am I right?”

I suck on my own lips.

“And what do I say to that?” Victoria presses on, her eyes on me. “Kudos to Dessie. And what a shame that her damn paparazzi-drawing family had to follow her. I mean, look at her poor face. Does she look thrilled with your news that her parents are here, Ariel?” She turns back to Ariel, needles in her eyes. “Truth, you wanted. Go ahead. Look in her eyes. The truth’s been there all along. The only one who’s lying to themselves is you.”

Ariel looks at me now. I wonder if she’s looking for any truth in my face, or if she’s just imagining ninety-nine ways to murder me. Her eyes are a completely unreadable mix of confusion and resentment, which is about the farthest from how she’d treated me so far in acting class. For a second, I catch myself wondering if she, in fact, was the one dumped by Clayton. I never saw this side of her until now.

Less the mermaid. More the sea hag.

Ariel finally parts her lips, though it takes her a handful of seconds to make any words. “I don’t trust liars. I don’t like liars. Clayton. You. You’re made for each other, a pair of liars.”

“We’re all liars,” says Victoria with a roll of her eyes, “or did you not hear Dessie’s song? I’m a liar. You’re a liar. Yay, let’s throw a big ol’ liar party and get the fuck over it.” She takes two steps toward Ariel. “This is the dressing room. Where the cast belongs. Seeing as you’re not part of the cast, I suggest you go throw yourself a not-in-the-cast party, and get … over … it.”

To that, Ariel lifts her chin, too proud to show how deep Victoria’s words cut her, and strolls out of the dressing room. The others start to break into murmurs and scandalized whispers, even chuckling.

And I’d risen from my chair and didn’t even realize it. My back pressed against the makeup counter, I feel dozens of eyes on me. I have no idea how to feel about what just went down.

Then Marcy, who plays Rebecca Gibbs, tilts her head. In a light and curious voice, she asks, “Who are your parents?”

I swallow, facing her. The others in the room seem to await my answer. Well, out with it. “My mother is Winona Lebeau.”

I don’t even get my father’s name out before three of the girls gasp with their surprise. “You mean the Winona Lebeau who opened Telltale off-Broadway?” asks someone across the room.

“Oh my god. She did Hair on Broadway. And Hairspray, too.”

“Chicago,” throws in another voice.

“She won a Tony two years in a row,” hisses someone else.

“Wait, wait. That Lebeau??”

“Holy crap. You’re Theatre royalty!”

“She’s Theatre royalty.”

“Can I meet her? Oh, please let me get her autograph!”

The murmurs of scandal quickly somersault into a wave of joyous laughter and excitement as my castmates start to share stories amongst themselves, bolstered somehow by the news.

And above all that noise and gaiety, my eyes lift to find Victoria’s.

I step away from the makeup counter, drawing myself up to her. She smirks knowingly at me while I stand there wondering where the hell her sudden reversal came from.

Well, I do have a mouth I can use. “Why’d you stick up for me?” I ask.

Every lick of bitterness that lived in Victoria’s eyes drains away, and suddenly she’s the fun person I met in our dorm hallway over a month ago. “I wasn’t being fair to you,” she murmurs quietly, but I still hear her through the noise. “You wanted to have a life down here that you could call your own. I get it. I totally do. And I’m just awful for holding that against you.” She sighs. “We make better friends than enemies. Reading scripts until 3 AM with Chloe just isn’t as much fun.”

I feel my heart swell. I think I needed this, after the fast-spinning carousel my emotions have been on lately. I put on a teasing smile, then say, “You just want my mom’s autograph, don’t you.”

She glances to the left, to the right, then leans in and whispers, “I totally fucking do.”

CLAYTON

I’m squinting through the glass of the lighting booth, curious what the hell’s happening in the front few rows. I can’t quite make anything out, so I pass it off as a bunch of rowdy freshmen, rolling my eyes and kicking my feet up, waiting for the show to start. Really, I don’t give a shit about anything until the part when Dessie comes onstage and lights up my fucking world.

I don’t care that I can’t have her. I don’t care that everything’s gone to shit, just as long as she’s focused, she’s happy, and she’s living the dream she wants to live.

Regardless of whether that dream includes me or not.

A tap on my shoulder nearly scares the shit out of me. I spin in my chair to find Dick standing there, an excited look on his face. He says some words to me that I miss. I lift my chin and furrow my brow.

“Wi-no-na Le-beau,” he mouths, punching each syllable. “She’s … here. The … lobby … is … a … fucking … madhouse.”

I blink. Dessie’s parents?

Dick slaps me on the back suddenly, then types something out on his phone and shows me the screen:

You do realize

who Dessie’s father is,

don’t you?

I bite the inside of my cheek. Of course I do.

I return his enthusiasm with a slow, cool-tempered nod. Dick says something else to me, then slaps my back once more before excitedly hopping out of the door and down the stairs to the lobby. I lean forward, staring through the glass and focusing on the front rows again. Is all the craziness over Dessie’s parents, the celebs who’ve apparently decided to come and show their support for their daughter?

A sting of resentment touches me. Dessie’s no longer mine. Doesn’t matter whose daughter she is. Once her father gets word of what a dark and unstable guy I am, he won’t want his daughter anywhere near me.

And haven’t I said it since day one? She deserves better. I’m no good for her.

I clench my teeth and watch listlessly through the window, waiting for my opportunity to darken one world and light up another.

Twenty minutes later, I get the cue on my phone, texted to me from the stage manager backstage—that is, the actual stage manager. I wait for the cue light to glow. The moment it does, I slowly fade out the houselights, casting the audience into darkness, before bringing up the lights for act one.

The actor Stage Manager, who acts basically as the narrator of the show, comes out onto the stage, greets the audience, and then presents the scene to them, telling them where the Gibbs house is, where the Webb house is, and so on. Sullenly, I read along with my marked-up script in front of me, guesstimating the lines judging from who’s on stage and what’s happening.

This whole experience would be so much better if I hadn’t lost my fucking temper and punched those glasses off Kellen’s face. Sure, it felt good and I gained peace, but I lost something else. And I’m pretty sure knowing that I’d be going home with Dessie tonight would feel a hell of a lot better than that punch did.

This is my own fault. I’m married to my anger. I always will be.

Then the scene finally arrives. Desdemona Lebeau makes her stage debut entering as a young Emily Webb, dressed in a cute sort of early-1900s dress, her hair loose and flowing.

I’m so fucking proud to give her light.

I push a hand against my mouth, sighing into it as I watch Dessie.

It hurts, just to see her.

I saw her every day this week at rehearsal, and every day was a knife to my gut that drew no blood. The wound’s always too deep to see, and I went home every night with the pain of it. No amount of squeezing any fucking pillow could quiet the ache.

Against any scream in the world, emotional pain screams louder.

The first intermission almost catches me by surprise, so entranced and pained by watching Dessie onstage that I lose track of time. After a sigh, I suck in my lips and mash fingers into my phone.

ME

Is Brant still being weird?

Not ten seconds later, I get my reply.

DMITRI

It isn’t too bad.

You know him.

I think he’s bowling.

Hey, you do realize

I’m in the audience tonight,

right?

I snort. I was so wrapped up in worries and frustrations of Dessie that I completely forgot about him being here to support Eric who, I might add, plays a very convincing drunk choir director Simon.

ME

Yeah, of course.

Hope you liked act one.

There’s two more.

Get ready for some #feels

DMITRI

You should talk to her

after the show.

I sigh, pushing my phone away after that text. Doesn’t he realize there’s really no fucking use? Her parents are here. They pretty much serve as a wall of protection between us. I’ve already upset her enough.

It’s funny, how Kellen lost the fistfight, but won the battle.

I take deep breaths, count the minutes, and prepare for act two.

Houselights down. Stage lights up. We move into act two, taking place three years later—as explained by the helpful Stage Manager. I get to watch George and Emily in a flashback where they fall in love, and then they get married in the present, despite their misgivings.

Dessie kisses someone else’s lips onstage, and I feel my cock twitch. I know what power lives in those unassuming lips of hers, power I’ve had the joy of knowing intimately.

Shit. I’m getting hard. Not the appropriate reaction I was expecting to have.

Act two tumbles into the second intermission, during which I need to take a serious fucking leak. Since the lighting booth so intelligently empties into the lobby instead of backstage, I slip into the main lobby bathroom around the ten-minute mark, just to give enough of the audience members time to handle their own business before I do mine.

After releasing the Nile river into the farthest urinal, I flush it and push my hands under a running faucet, soaping up and scrubbing harder than necessary, letting out my frustration. I splash water over my face, sighing as the droplets race down to my chin.

When I open my eyes, the man at the other sink is staring at me, his eyebrows lifted searchingly.

Shit. Was he talking to me? “Sorry,” I tell him. “I’m deaf.”

The man seems amused for a moment. He has kind eyes, touched by his smile. Then, to my surprise, he raises his hands: Are you okay?

My unintended bathroom buddy signs. Not what I was expecting.

I sign back: Yeah, fine.

He doesn’t seem convinced. To be fair, I wasn’t very convincing. He signs: How are you liking the show?

I give a shrug: I think it’s good. Then, finding myself oddly at ease with this man suddenly, I add, I’m running the lights up in the booth. I also designed one third of the lighting in the show, though I’m not credited in the program. With half a smile, I shush him and say, “Don’t tell anyone.”

He smiles, impressed: Very nice. Which third?

The one you’re about to see, my hands return. But really, the only actor onstage who’s worth any light is Dessie. She’s the one who plays Emily Webb.

The man’s brow furrows: Why do you say that?

I don’t know what comes over me. This kind-eyed man is suddenly my best friend. He’s “speaking” my language. My chest tightens as I sign: She has so much talent. You don’t know this, but she also sings. And her voice … I can’t hear it, but … I close my eyes, the feelings I had at the Throng surging into my hands, making them move: But I can “hear” it. I see what her songs do to people. She doesn’t get it. My eyes flip open as I keep signing: I’m sorry if I seem a bit messed up about her. We … used to date.

Now, a real smile fills the man’s face. He leans against the sink, studying me as he signs: Used to date?

The sting of bitterness makes itself known in my stomach again: She dumped me. Kinda. Maybe. I’m not sure what we are.

He lifts a fist with the thumb and pinkie pointed out: Why?

I shrug: Because I … didn’t appreciate how amazing she is.

He smirks, giving my words some thought, then signs: Actually, it sounds like you do.

I tap my wrist, the universal—and actual—sign for “time”, then say, “I better get back before someone yells at me. Not that I’ll hear them.”

The man guffaws so loud, I swear I feel the vibrations through my feet. He nods curtly as I hold the door open, letting him out first.

The lonesomeness of the lighting booth swallows me whole again after that short interaction in the bathroom with Captain Kind-Eyes. I breathe a deep, despondent sigh before I settle back into my chair.

The little red cue light blinks just in time.

I lift the lights into the third and final act—a sobering departure from the first two. Nine years have passed now, and the townsfolk gather for a funeral.

Emily’s funeral.

Desdemona appears onstage near a spread of stark-looking chairs, in which are seated other characters from the show who have passed away, including Eric’s character, Simon Stimson, who hung himself. I can’t even follow her lines in the script, too glued to the sight of her onstage as she watches her own funeral, George crying over her grave.

She isn’t ready to join the dead. Dessie, with hope stinging her eyes, begs the Stage Manager to relive one day of her life. When her wish is granted, she quickly comes to regret it as the day speeds by too fast, none of its precious moments able to be held on to. Forlorn, she asks if any of the living really know what a gift each moment of their lives is.

I stare at her on that bleak stage standing in a pool of blue, chilly light, wondering if I know what a gift each moment spent with her was before I lost it all.

I don’t appreciate how amazing she is.

Then she surrenders, taking the one empty seat among the dead, the chair that was waiting for her all along. I drain all the saturation from her side of the stage—my brilliant lighting contribution—as the faces of the dead wash over in colorlessness.

I suck in a jagged breath of air, biting on my fist as I watch the third act draw to its sullen end.

How can she not see how beautiful she is?

Cue the lights.

Fade out.

DESSIE

When the curtains close, I feel weightless.

I breathe the deepest sigh of relief.

Eric’s hand fumbles for mine as I grip it tight for the curtain call, taking my bow with the rest of the cast. Applause rushes over me in waves, filling my ears as the tears fill my eyes.

Not to sound all conceited or anything, but I’m really proud of myself. I’m, like, really damn proud of myself.

The curtains drop again, and Eric reels around and gives me the biggest, bone-crunching squeeze, then he squeals and says, “Oh, what a killer opening night! Dessie, that was just the best!”

“You were great,” I tell him.

“You know, the key to acting drunk …” he starts as we head back to the dressing rooms.

“Yes! Is to not act drunk! And you know what? I took that advice, so my secret was, I tried to suck really bad,” I explain to him, “in hopes that I would fail at sucking and, thus, do a decent job of Emily.”

He stops outside the women’s dressing room. “I think you did a more-than-decent job. Great leg-breaking, Dessie.” He gives me a little peck on the cheek, then giggles. “I can’t wait to see Dmitri after! Oh,” he says suddenly, his smile breaking. “I didn’t mean—”

“No, no, no,” I assure him. “Please. They’re roommates. It doesn’t—”

“I know, but still, y’know.” He bites his lip, shuffling his feet.

“Are you two a thing?” I prompt him with a nudge to his side. “You and Dmitri?”

Eric shrugs. “Not really. I think we make better friends. He’s sort of an oddball. I guess I kinda am too, but I don’t know. If he met a girl or another guy, I think I’d be more happy for him than jealous, if you get what I mean.”

I rub his shoulder encouragingly. “I do. You’re a good person, Eric. Oh, by the way, Vicki and I are totally talking again.”

“I heard! Don’t let her catch you calling her that or else it’s all over again,” he teases me.

“Sure thing, Other Eric.” I wink at him, then rush back into the dressing room to avoid him smacking me.

After washing all the makeup off my face, I slip out of Emily’s skin and jump into my post-show outfit: a sleek, black sleeveless dress cut just above the knee. I pair it with some cute flats (because after doing a whole play, fuck heels), then run a brush through my hair to tame it at least a little bit before I confront my family—and whatever insanity is likely to accompany it.

The walk down the halls from the dressing room to the lobby is longer than usual, as if the halls were made of elastic and stretched themselves to twice their usual length. I find a tangle of nerves in my stomach, as if I were still anticipating tonight’s performance.

Maybe the real show hasn’t begun yet.

When the doors to the lobby open, a torrent of noise crashes into me long before any faces do. I gently ease my way through the crowd, hoping to be making my way toward my parents, wherever the hell they are in this madness—if they’re even out here. For all I know, they were escorted out a side door or advised to stay in the auditorium until the worst of the crowd dispersed.

Then a sea of heads part and I see my parents.

My mother looks fabulous as usual, her hair perfectly curled and bound up tight to her skull, which shows off her glinting earrings and inhumanly long, slender neck. She wears a deep-plunging blue dress adorned in sparkly gems that gain density near the floor. At her side is my father, who was sensible enough to wear a humble sweater vest with a button shirt gently poking out of the neck. His sandy-blond hair is parted neatly, which is a welcome departure from the usual mess he keeps it in. He notices me first and lets a big grin take his face before he opens his arms.

“Dessie,” he sings through the noise of the crowd.

I hug him, squeezing so tight it hurts. “Thanks for coming, Dad.”

“Wouldn’t have dared miss it, sweetie,” his voice empties into my ear, strained from how tightly we’re hugging.

My mother’s locked into a conversation with Doctor Thwaite, her voice as loud and sparkly as her dress. She has a hand lightly affixed to her chest as the other waves in the air in time to her endless speech.

On the other side of the Doc, I belatedly notice my sister. She’s blindingly beautiful in her glittery skintight dress, which looks like it was cut directly from a block of diamond.

“Cece?”

Her smile is tight as a vise when she bends into me for the world’s stiffest hug.

“Well done,” she moans into my ear in that perfect English dialect. The way she says it, it’s like she’s commending a toddler for scribbling a circle with orange curlicues around it and calling it a lion.

“Thanks, Cece,” I say anyway. “I didn’t realize you all were coming.”

“Of course. And,” she adds with a lift of her eyebrows, her dialect still unbroken, “I do expect you to get your tush on a plane and see me when my show opens.”

Pleasantries and congratulations and thanks are shared over and over as members of the crowd slowly make their way around, whether by kindly asking my mother for an autograph or by complimenting my performance. With each thanks, my heart swells bigger and bigger.

“It is quite loud here, isn’t it?” my mother notes to me before she even offers her own congratulations. “Do you think we could move into one of the back hallways where it’s a touch quieter?”

Of course I oblige, because that’s what anyone does when Winona Lebeau asks for something. Doctor Thwaite bids them a farewell and a safe flight home before the four of us slip into the hallway that leads back to the dressing rooms, classrooms, and offices.

“Dessie,” my mother finally says, bending to give me a little kiss on either of my cheeks. “You sweet thing. Have you conquered your little pond yet? It’s such a delight to see you on that stage.”

She is so artful at coupling a biting, backhanded compliment with an actual one. “I didn’t find this pond to be all that little.”

“It’s a decent place to grow into the shark you need to be for when you come home and try your hand at more professional endeavors,” my mother clarifies helpfully, tapping on her phone. “Oh, Geoffrey, Lucille won’t be able to make the appointment tomorrow.”

Cece sighs at our mother—even her sighs are English. “Quit trying to force poor Desdemona into doing something she doesn’t want to do. There’s room for all sorts of actors in this world. Some like the bite and the fight of the north. Some like the calm and the palms of the south.” She smirks cheekily at me. “I came up with that one on my own.”

I bite my lip, unsure whether this is a fight I want to pick or not.

Then my dad says something unexpected. “I think what your mom and sister are trying to tell you, sweetheart, is that you did a very fine job tonight, and you should be damn proud of yourself. And,” he adds, throwing an arm around me and yanking me into him for a side-hug, like I’m the son he never had and just won the ballgame, “I appreciate you, Dessie. I’m alive and I want to appreciate every little moment while I’m able to.” He kisses the top of my head. “Job well done.”

I survey the expressions of my mother and sister. For this brief moment, my mother’s still gripping her phone, but her eyes are on me, and my sister’s wearing that annoyingly tight and uncomfortable smile, but she also seems to look upon me with a sweetness that’s so rare, I thought she outgrew it at age ten.

“Thanks,” I tell them. “All of you. It means so much, really, truly. Oh, Mom,” I blurt suddenly. “You got a program, right?”

She pops open her purse and fishes it out. “This thing?”

Yes, that folded piece of nothing-paper. My mom’s so used to the professionally printed playbills that she likely hasn’t seen a folded paper program since 1996. “Can you do me a favor?” I ask her. “Sign your name on it, then write, ‘To Victoria,’ and put something inspiring. It’s for my hall mate.”

She smirks knowingly, then takes out a pen from her purse and scribbles dramatically on the paper. When she hands it to me, the front reads: To Victoria, something inspiring. A friend of Dessie’s is a friend of mine. Winona Lebeau.

I smile, clutching that program close. My mother’s sense of humor is still alive after all.

“I really wish we had more time, you sweet thing,” murmurs my mother, “but the car and driver are waiting outside for us to catch the red eye back to New York. Your sister and I are heading to London Monday and have so many things to get done this weekend before we set off, but we couldn’t bear to miss your opening night.”

“I know,” I mutter miserably. Funny, I was dreading them coming, and now I’m dreading them going.

“We will see you soon for winter break,” my father murmurs quietly to me, “and I do promise, I won’t meddle. No special treatments. If it’s your wish to stay here at Klangburg, you have my support.”

“Thanks,” I say back, unable to help the feeling that something is missing from this whole pleasant experience.

“Geoffrey, we’ll miss our flight.”

“Oh, honey,” he sighs with mock annoyance. “Can’t we waste a few more dear minutes with our daughter?” He brings me in for another tight hug, then says, “And do give my props to the lighting designer.”

I smirk into my dad’s chest. “He took off back to New York with his tail tucked, I’m afraid.”

“The other lighting designer,” he amends.

My forehead screws up in confusion. Clayton? But before I’m able to ask the question, he pulls away and my mother and sister are given room to float forth for their stiff farewell hugs and birdlike kisses. Then, not two moments later, I’m standing outside the glass windows and waving goodbye as they disappear into the night like three peculiar ghosts, my heart heavy and my eyes suddenly deciding they want to spill all that emotion I was supposed to have onstage.

A pretty chime from my pocket startles me, disrupting the calm of the night breeze. I look down at the screen.

SAM

sorry i didn’t see you

after the show.

we waited around for a bit

but you were with your family.

thank you for the tickets.

tomas is cool, i guess.

we are at the dorm.

please knock if you come back.

i think he might kiss me.

i dunno.

I giggle, staring at the text. I’m so happy for Sam that I could cry.

I’m a second from putting my phone away when suddenly it starts to ring. I stare at it defiantly. Someone’s calling me? Who the hell uses phones anymore to actually call someone? I bring it into view and find my dad’s headshot staring back at me.

I bring it to my ear. “Did you forget something?”

“Your mother was in such a hurry to leave, I did forget something. It was something I wanted to tell you.”

I hear my mother scoff at him in the background. “I wasn’t in a hurry, Geoffrey, but if you’re just so desperate to miss our flight …”

“What’d you forget to tell me?” I ask, pressing through my mom’s fussing.

“I had an experience in the bathroom at intermission,” he says.

I wince. “You guys had Tex-Mex for lunch? Am I sure I want to hear about this?”

He guffaws through the phone, deep and heartily. “No, sweetheart. Marv took us out for a nice dinner before the show. My experience involved running into the fellow who ran the lights and, apparently, finished the job that Kellen did not. I got to brush up a bit on my ASL, which I hadn’t used since Great Aunt Esther passed away.”

I was so young when she died, I forgot that she was deaf.

“Seems we’re all skilled in the business of not appreciating what we have when we have it,” he remarks. “Fine-looking young man. He had quite a lot to say about what he thought of your talent. I didn’t know you’d taken to singing again in your spare time, sweetheart.”

I clutch at my chest. Clayton and my dad …? “I have,” I confess. “I go to a local hangout and … and there’s these musicians …” I swallow. “He told you about that?”

“He’s quite a fan of your music, even without being able to hear it. That’s quite a feat, if you ask me!” he adds with a laugh. “You know, the Lebeau talent can come in many forms. I don’t think we’ve had a singer in the family since your late grandmother. Oh, the set of cords on that powerhouse of a woman. Dessie,” he murmurs over my mother scrupulously directing the driver in the background, “regardless of its form, you have a voice, and you belong in the Theatre world. Whether you act, or sing, or do it all, you have a spot on that stage, sweetheart.”

Tears have a whole new reason to touch my eyes now. “Thank you.”

“Anyway, that young man’s got it right. I might add that he has a strong artistic voice himself, if that act three was any indication. Marv ought to know the lighting talent that’s hiding under his nose.” My dad sighs happily into the phone, then says, “Stay safe down here in Texas, sweetie. We’ll call you later when we land.”

“Love you, Dad.”

“Don’t ever say I pulled a string. You earned and owned that stage tonight, sweetheart, and you’ll own the next.” Then, after that, silence.

I hug my phone for a moment before finally putting it away for good. I take a deep breath, trying to push away the image of my dad and Clayton sharing a bathroom bonding experience. I could almost laugh, if I weren’t feeling so strangely brokenhearted.

When I push back into the theater to get my things, I find the lobby cleared except for two or three stragglers who are laughing loudly and chatting with Eric. He turns around and calls out, “Are you hitting up the Throng tonight, D-lady?”

I shake my head no. “Opening night wore me out,” I say lamely. “I think I’m just gonna head back to my dorm room and interrupt my roommate trying to make out with a bassoonist.”

He winces disappointedly. “Maybe tomorrow night, then.”

“Great job tonight,” I reiterate before pushing into the hallway.

Only three people are left in the dressing room by the time I return. I pack away my makeup and stow all my things into the cabinet above my station, figuring it to be safe there for tomorrow night’s show. With a smirk, I drop by the costumes rack and find Victoria’s crew apron hanging there. I roll up the autographed program and stash it into the apron pocket; that’ll prove to be a most welcome surprise.

Then, I give my tired face one last, long look in the mirror before dismissing myself from the room with an unsatisfied sigh.

Whipping around the corner, I make my trek down the long hall to the lobby, only to find it completely empty now. Even Eric and his friends have taken off. I stare at the vacant chairs for a while, lost in the memory of how noisy and awful it was just thirty or forty minutes ago.

Why does the silence feel so much louder?

“Dessie.”

I turn. Clayton stands there by the auditorium doors dressed in his crew blacks: a black t-shirt that pulls across his chest, black slacks that hang loose at his hips, and a pair of black boots that give his feet such a dominant quality. He wears a leather cuff around one wrist, too, which I notice when his hand goes up to the wall, bracing himself as he leans against it.

And my eyes meet his, dark and focused on me as if he’d been watching me all night. Well, he had been—from the lighting booth.

“Clayton,” I return.

“If your parents could hear you sing,” he says, shaking his head. “If they could see what you do to a room full of people with that beautiful voice of yours …”

“You ran into my dad in the restroom.”

His eyebrows pull together. “What?”

“You ran,” I take a step toward him, “into my dad,” I take another step, “in the restroom.”

His eyes flash with realization. Then, he chuckles unexpectedly.

“What’s so funny?” I prompt him.

“What the fuck is it,” he mumbles, “with me meeting people you know … in fucking bathrooms?”

I shake my head. “What do you mean?”

“Never mind,” he finishes with a smirk. “You were saying?”

“Well, about my dad,” I continue, trying to sign at the same time. “He said something about us not … appreciating … what we have when we have it.” Instead of signing the word “appreciating”, which I don’t know, I spell it out. “Is that something you told him?”

His eyes are so intense right now. He looks fucking famished, like a wolf that’s been left in the wild for days with no food.

I see the answer in his eyes. “I may have not given you the chance you deserve,” I whisper, drawing close enough so that the spicy scent of his cologne can intoxicate me. I lean against the wall, inches from his face. “Are you afraid of hurting me?”

“I’m always afraid of that,” he whispers and signs.

I poke a finger into his chest. “I want to know the real you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I’m Desdemona Lebeau,” I tell him unblinkingly. “I’m a pebble in the shadow of my fabulous, talented sister. I’m a blot on my mother’s golden name. I came to this campus and lied about who I was,” I keep on, signing as much as I know while pausing to spell out what I don’t, “while being afraid of men lying to me about who they are, and … suddenly I wonder if I even have a right to be afraid at all. Am I just as bad as the men who’ve lied to me in my past?”

He brings a finger to my hair, drawing a strand of it out of my face. Just the sensation of that sends a shiver of anticipation down the whole length of my body.

“So, yes,” I conclude, finding my voice again. “That’s … the real me. And I want to know you, Clayton Watts. I want to know it all.”

“Maybe I’m just afraid,” he says slowly, “that when you get to know the real me, you’ll make the unfortunate discovery that I’m … really boring.”

I smile. “I doubt that.”

His every breath pours over my forehead. Heat rises to my cheeks as my body instinctively inclines toward him. I don’t know how much longer I can contain myself. This week has been an emotional mess without my Clayton.

“I’ve missed you,” he whispers to my ear.

Electricity lances its way down my neck, through my chest, into my stomach, and branching off far below. I crave his touch so bad that I’m worried I might hurt him if I give him every ounce of my hunger right now. I could demolish him.

I sign to him: I’ve missed—

He grabs my hands mid-sign.

I look up at him, startled.

“Read my lips,” he mouths without voice. “I want to take you back to my place right now, and show you how very much, how very, very, very fucking much I appreciate every moment with you.”

And I read every word.

Ten minutes later, the door to his apartment explodes with the noise of two people who can’t catch a breath.

The door slams at my back.

His hand’s up my dress and I’m thrust onto the kitchen counter, breathless.

My fingers tangle into his dark, tortured hair. I pull hard, inspiring a deep grunt of pleasure—or pain. His fingers claw at my panties, pulling them down so hard, they tear.

“Clayton!” I cry out as he throws my legs over his shoulder, his face buried in my crotch as he lifts me off the counter.

The next instant, I’m dropped onto his bed.

He straddles me and breathes deep, his eyes feral and black.

He’s so fucking hard right now that his cock is about to bust out of those slacks. So I help him out of them. Then he rips me out of my dress. And then his shirt is pitched somewhere and forgotten.

After getting naked in record time, I find myself getting bold, and it’s me who’s off the bed and throwing him down. Clayton grunts, his eyes shimmering with astonishment as I climb over him like a panther, grinning with my intent.

And he lets me take the lead. I straddle his naked waist, pinning him right where I want him.

There’s nothing standing in the way, skin against skin, just sweat and heat and … us.

“Get on top of me,” he says suddenly.

I squint, confused. “I already am,” I protest.

Then he makes his meaning clear by grabbing my hips and pulling me forward. Way forward.

On top of his face.

“Clayton!” I cry out, gripping the headboard for support as my eyes go wide. Oh my god, his tongue. I squeeze my legs around his head, trapping him hungrily in place. If he’s going to work his tongue like that, I won’t let him stop until I’m finished with him.

His head dives deeper.

Pleasure washes over me as I howl out, clasping the headboard with so much strength, I worry I could break it.

He grips my thighs firmly, encouraging me.

Then he thrusts his tongue in even deeper, breaching me.

My thighs tighten more.

His name’s the last word I can manage before his tongue slides so deep inside me that I discover a whole new vocabulary of squirming rapture.

He continues his relentless tongue-lashing, grabbing my ass with his big hands while lifting his head off the bed to push himself as deep into me as he can. He alternates between fucking me with his tongue and sucking on my clit. The tighter I seem to squeeze his head, the stronger he pushes his face into me, consuming me.

I can’t stop him if I wanted to. I’m as trapped as his head is. Holy fuck, I’m at the edge already.

Unexpectedly, he stops, grabbing my hips and sliding me off of his face as he comes up for air, which causes me to groan in frustration. I was so fucking close. He chuckles at my distress. I glare back.

I guess that was the appetizer. Now I’m ready for the main course.

And from the look in his eyes, so’s he. Clayton’s eager hand slaps the nightstand and, with a quick maneuver of fingers, a condom’s freed from its tight wrapper only to be made prisoner to his huge, hard-as-fuck cock.

Then, just when he thinks he’s the one calling the shots again, it’s me grabbing hold of the reins. I grip his chest and position myself on top of him. Your meek little Dessie’s grown up, I tell him with my sharp, hungry eyes. My hips dance, smooth as silk as I squirm cruelly, rubbing myself against the tip of his bobbing, furious cock.

This must be really fucking maddening for him. I can drive a man insane in the space of seconds just with my hips.

“Mmm, Dessie …”

My name vibrates down his chest, ending with a growl.

I lean forward. All my hair comes with me, curtaining our view and providing me a tunnel of deep brown that ends at Clayton’s beautiful face. He’s looking straight up into my eyes, as if cursing what my evil little movements are doing to him.

“Let me inside you,” he begs me, gnashing his teeth.

I bite my lip, then gently lower myself just one, cruel inch.

The tip of his cock slips in.

Agony and heaven in one tiny gesture.

But it seems he thinks two can play, for he starts to move his hips slowly. The tip slides in and out, in and out, and soon it’s me who’s throwing my head back, tortured by his movements.

He slips in some more.

“Fuck,” I breathe.

I can’t help it. I reach up and grab my own breasts, fingers pinching the nipples.

In one powerful movement, he sits up and catches the small of my back, lifting me. I squirm as Clayton’s dick slides another inch into me during the maneuver. God, I’ve never wanted to be fucked so badly. He holds me in his lap, one hand bracing my back and guiding my hips as he works to open me up for him.

Then his mouth replaces my fingers, biting that nipple I was so determined to torture myself.

I shudder in his grasp.

He slips even further inside.

Then he trades his teeth for tongue, bathing my nipple and earning himself an even deeper convulsion of pleasure from within me that I cannot control.

He reaches around and takes a handful of my hair, then pulls my whole body down, slipping completely inside.

An earthquake of flesh, sweat, and heat runs down our bodies as his hot breath dances over my breasts. He moves his hips now, pumping me slowly at first as his mouth hungrily works that nipple he’s made his prisoner.

I grab hold of his hair so tightly, I don’t know if I mean to keep him on my nipple or pull him away. It hurts so much. It feels so good.

“Fuck, Clayton. Fuck!”

Pain and pleasure are such close, fickle neighbors.

He moves on to my other breast, desperate for its taste. Hungry for something else too, he greedily pumps me deeper, harder, faster.

I feel myself tightening around him.

Our fingers grip tightly onto anything they’re touching—my ass, his back, my hair, his neck.

Our bodies become a unified machine of rapture pumping in rhythm.

Each breath brings another.

Each thrust inspires the next.

We’re both close. I feel his tightness and he must feel mine, because his breaths are coming quicker. He sucks that nipple, giving it his teeth as he dares to bring me even closer to the edge.

I’m spilling over.

I pull his hair hard, craning his neck. He releases my breast and looks up into my face.

“Clayton.”

“Dessie.”

And then he lets loose inside me, wave after wave after wave of pent-up passion spilling out. My mouth drops as I feel myself climax too, crying out with him.

His eyes never leave mine.

Then our lips lock, sealing the heat between us as we collapse onto the bed, the sweaty sheets embracing us as we gently descend from the unfathomable high we reached together.

His eyes on me. My eyes on him.

Breath after breath.

CLAYTON

- Six Months Later -

The spring musical opens tonight.

I have my first lighting design credit in the program.

I have an opening night good-show gift in my pocket for Dessie.

I’m nervous and I’m excited and I’m debating whether it was a good idea to eat lunch at all, because it might end up all over the lobby floor.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I pace in front of the glass windows as the audience slowly gathers, pulling up in their cars, dropped off by taxis, students walking in. I see their smiling faces, couples holding hands, some dressed down, some dressed up.

I wipe a sheen of sweat off my forehead and breathe deep, just like Dessie taught me.

It’s hilarious, how shockingly calm Dessie is. She was calm during all the rehearsals, singing her heart out on that stage. Everyone knew she was going to get the lead this time, and it had nothing to do with her dad, or with her name, or with anything other than the fact that she had a voice that could touch every corner of the room and make everyone fall in love with her.

I think back to when she took me home with her for Christmas. Fuck, I could not keep my jaw closed when I saw Times Square for the first time in my life. It was so bright that even after the sun fell, it was like high noon. I had also severely underestimated how cold it’d be. Holy shit. She even warned me. Hell, she learned ten different ways to sign to me how frigid, freezing, chilly, bitter, icy, shivery, and otherwise horribly cold it would be that time of year.

I met her parents for the first time. Well, second time for her dad, but really, a chance meeting in a restroom pales in comparison to my getting to meet him officially at Dessie’s New York City home. The lights were drawn across the room like a fucking dream, and the tree in the living room spanned to the ceiling. It was enormous. I must’ve stood there for a full minute staring up at its awesome height. Dessie made some joke, asking with her hands if I was figuring out in my head how I’d light the tree differently.

It was in a warm, fire-lit gazebo on Christmas Eve that we had exchanged presents. She gifted me with a hot designer leather jacket that fit so perfectly, I’d swear it was handmade for me. Well, actually it kind of was. Dessie was sneaky about it. Swearing it was to practice for some costumes thing that Victoria was doing, she took all my measurements and, unbeknownst to me, sent them to a contact of her sister’s in New York—some up-and-coming fashion designer who spent eleven years in France after graduating from NYU—detailing precisely how she wanted this jacket to fit. And she got the style just right; I look like the perfect mix of up-to-no-good and sophisticated-as-fuck.

My gift to her was a charm bracelet I got for a steal at a pawn shop. It had the exact balance of beauty, fragility, and strength that I felt fit Dessie so perfectly. I’d adorned it with three charms: a musical note to represent her beautiful voice, a little light bulb to represent my visual voice, and a linked “C” and “D” that … well, they speak for themselves. I left room for more charms to be added on special occasions.

When I kissed her that New Year’s Eve, I’d never felt more complete. I was frigid as fuck and couldn’t feel my dick, but I watched that ball drop, I had Dessie in my arms, and I was the happiest man alive.

And then she dropped the L word on me.

For some reason, I didn’t return it. I felt it. I had it. I still have it, but couldn’t get that word past my frozen lips. What the fuck was wrong with me? The moment was perfect and I let it slip away.

Now, Dessie will be leaving to go back home when this semester’s over. And that’s just in six weeks. Six weeks I know will fly right the fuck by. Then, she’ll have an amazing summer in New York. She told me her sister’s latest “gorgeous boyfriend” also happens to be the owner of a chain of popular piano bars, and he was looking for a regular act to rotate through them over the summer. Of course, Dessie was Cece’s first—and perhaps only—recommendation.

What do I have to look forward to this summer? Cleaning pools. Landscaping work. Construction too, if I can work something out with Pete like I did last year. Anything to build up the funds for my fourth and final year. Normally, that sounds like bliss to me.

But the thought of staying here without Dessie … I feel so guilty, to be so fucking happy for her, yet torn apart inside.

I grip my good-show gift so tightly in my pocket, it hurts.

Brant busts through the glass doors, pulling me from my thoughts, and the first thing I notice is a red hand-shaped mark across his cheek. I squint at him, making the universal sign for “what the fuck, dude?” which doesn’t take a sign-language-inclined person to understand. He tells me that, just now, his girl from last week ran into his girl from this week, a slap or two ensued from one or both girls upon his sputtering face, and now he may or may not have an extra ticket to the show.

I shake my head and laugh, pulling Brant in for a hug and saying, “You’re one fucking mess, that’s for sure.” With a slap to his chest, I add, “I taught you how to talk to girls. Maybe I should have taught you how to keep it in your pants sometimes, too. Moderation and shit.”

He smirks at me, points to his red-as-a-tomato cheek, and says, “With this pretty face?”

Just before the audience is given the five-minute get-your-asses-to-your-seats warning, Dmitri pops in and snatches Brant’s extra ticket. Together, they disappear into the theater, chatting away.

Oh, fuck. The five-minute warning.

My good-show gift.

She can’t start her show without my fucking gift.

Before I realize what I’m doing, I shove through the double doors leading down the back hallways to the dressing room. My feet carry me faster than I can keep up with them, stumbling twice as I make my way. My heart’s thrashing against the bone bars of my ribcage like an angry prisoner determined to break free.

My eyes blink when I reach the dressing room. Where is she?

I spot the backside of Victoria dressed in her costume for the show. I rush up to her and spin her around, her startled eyes meeting mine.

“Where’s Dessie?” I ask at once.

She mouths back: “Onstage already.”

Fuck. They must’ve already called places.

“Thanks,” I say, then smile tightly. “You look great. Break a leg.”

The next instant finds me at the stage door. I pull it open, ignoring the waving hands of someone behind me who may or may not be the stage manager as I fly into the wing, my eyes searching for my woman. I hunt through the darkness, pushing forth. Eyes and faces turn, the actors in the wings who are waiting for the show to start.

I want to cherish every moment I have with her. I ache at the idea that this is our last show together before the semester ends. My insides burn at the mere thought that when summer comes, Dessie goes, and I’ll have to spend three fucking months without her.

Every moment matters.

This is the opening of our show together—her as the voice to this show, and me as the bringer of light to her dark stage.

And I need to speak my piece. And I need to speak it now.

And she needs my good-show gift.

To badly misquote Emily-freakin’-Webb from Our Town, don’t us stupid living people know how precious each moment of our lives is? Even a lazy moment in my apartment, lounging on the couch with Dessie in my arms while we watch some dumb thing on TV? Even another everyday lunch we share in the UC cafeteria? Even a walk to class that we’ve walked a billion times before? Did I truly appreciate each of those seemingly insignificant moments before they slipped by?

Even now, tripping through the darkness backstage searching for my Desdemona. Even now as the final minutes tick away …

The final seconds …

I stand behind the curtain—breathe in, breathe out—as I fiddle with my bare wrist. My charm bracelet. I can’t fucking find it.

That beautiful bracelet he got me for Christmas.

I wear it for good luck every show—much to my costumers’ chagrin. Then yesterday before I left for rehearsal, I couldn’t find it.

I am so furious with myself.

But I have to focus right now. There’s an audience out there, a show to do, and a cast I can’t let down.

When I think about it, Claudio Vergas did a number or two on me. So did the absent Damien Rigby. And the little training-camp-getaway that was Italy, they planted a few seeds that I have come to appreciate. Every mistake I’ve made has strengthened me. Every crushing defeat and red-faced humiliation has served as a necessary stepping stone to reach this place, right here, in front of the curtain.

I don’t regret a single thing. Maybe I’ll even write Claudio a letter to thank him. I’ll send the letter with a package containing a brand new mug to replace the one he threw at my head.

The audience hums with anticipation. Their excitement feeds me, energy racing up and down my body as I wait for the curtain to rise.

“Dessie!”

I spin, my whole backstage universe knocked to the side. I blink through the semidarkness. “Clayton? What—What are you—?”

His hands grasp mine. “I’m so sorry, Dessie. I didn’t give you your good-show gift.”

I gawp, freeing my hands from his. “Are you serious?” I sign and say to him frantically, lit only by the indistinct blue wash of light onstage. “Clayton, the show’s about to begin!”

“They can’t start without me, now can they?” He chuckles, then extends his palm. “Give me your wrist.”

After a brief moment of hesitation, I sigh and surrender my bare wrist to him. He pulls something from his pocket, then gently attaches it to my wrist.

My charm bracelet! But there’s something added to it. I lift my wrist to inspect the new charm. It’s a hand symbol. A fist presented with only the thumb, pinkie, and index fingers extended. It’s the sign for—

“I love you, Dessie,” he whispers.

I bring my eyes up to his, touched. “Clayton.”

“I couldn’t stand letting you go back to New York without telling you that I love you. I’m totally fucking in love with you. Maybe you already knew. I want to stop being a coward and just … fucking say it. And I want you to wear it. I want you to wear my love and … and think of me when … when you’re in those piano bars and you’re singing your beautiful fuckin’ heart out.”

I grab his hands, putting a halt to his frantic signing. He meets my eyes, his own wet with inspiration, with sadness, with several emotions.

Without words, I sign to him: I wanted to tell you tonight after the show, but if you insist on doing this, well, Clayton, I guess we’re doing this right now.

He stares at me, taken aback. The intensity of his eyes sharpens as he awaits my hands’ next movements.

I tell him: I know we talked about moving in together in the fall, but I don’t want to spend the summer without you either. My father wants to offer you an internship at his theater in New York.

Clayton’s eyes shimmer against the dim blue lighting, wide as the eyes of flashlights.

I continue: You’d work alongside some seriously cool professionals up there. And yes, it’s a paid internship. It’s an amazing opportunity and it’s there for you … if you want it.

Clayton’s lips have parted as he stares at my hands in disbelief. I watch the warring thoughts race across his face in a matter of seconds. He doesn’t know what to think. I wonder if maybe I should’ve saved this piece of information for later like I’d planned.

He whispers, “I’m … I’m not a charity case for … for your—”

“No.” I pull his attention to my hands, then sign: Clayton, this is not a handout. My father saw your work. He thinks you’re talented and really likes you. You remind him a lot of himself when he was young and had big ideas.

The stage manager hisses from the side of the stage that they’re ready to start the show. Words squawk at her through her headset, the static carrying to me.

Naturally, I ignore them. I have one more thing to say to my man. And—my hands carry on, bringing his bewildered, wide-eyed attention back to me—for the record …

I present my fist to him with the thumb, pinkie, and index finger extended. It’s the combination of an “I”, an “L”, and a “Y”—I love you.

The next second, he rushes into me for a kiss. My lips crush into his hungry ones as his hands slip around my waist, pulling me against him with all his strength.

I’m pretty sure I hear some sighs of delight by my fellow castmates, who clearly have been watching and witnessing this whole exchange.

Let’s never mind that they have no idea what the fuck I was saying with my hands. That’s between me and this gorgeous man that I love.

When Clayton finally lets me go, he whispers to me, “Show time.”

“Light me up, love,” I return to him with a wink.

He departs through the wing. I face the curtains once again, but with a renewed sense of purpose. I can’t wipe the smile off my face as I grip my wrist, my fingers touching the new charm that rests there.

I don’t know what waits for us in our future. All I know is, Clayton Watts will be with me every step of the way, and I can’t fucking wait to experience every little exciting, precious moment of it. I can certainly tell our summer’s going to be a whirlwind of pursuing our passions.

I wonder what new songs will find me in those quaint, New York City piano bars.

I wonder what brilliant strokes of light Clayton will bring to those stages.

I see the crowds. I hear the murmur of an eager audience at the edge of their seats, tittering with anticipation, whispering amongst themselves as they wait excitedly for the curtains to rise.

And I stand here in the darkness backstage, all the music bursting within me and ready to be freed.

The curtains rise. Cue the music.

Lights up.

The end.

Continue for the bonus exclusive epilogue to Read My Lips!

Or you can skip straight to it by clicking here: Skip to Bonus Epilogue

Thank you so much for joining me for another one of my stories. And if this is your first time reading one of my books, thanks for giving me a try!

If you’d like to read Beneath The Skin, book 2 in the series, which follows Brant as he jumps into the art school and meets a woman that just might be his match, click here to skip straight to it: Beneath The Skin.

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Continue for an introduction to my other work and series, including my post-apocalyptic fantasy series The Beautiful Dead, my epic dystopian saga Outlier, and my series of standalone M/M novellas called The Brazen Boys.

Or, you can skip directly to the bonus epilogue for Read My Lips by clicking below. Note: It is recommended to read Beneath The Skin before reading the bonus epilogue, as it chronologically takes place after the events of Beneath The Skin: Skip to Bonus Epilogue

Other Work By Daryl Banner

Introduce yourself to The Brazen Boys.

Each Brazen Boy is a standalone M/M romance novella and can be read in any order. All novellas are only $0.99 or available to read with KU (Kindle Unlimited)

“Dorm Game (The Brazen Boys)”

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Andrew is the muscular dream boy from Intro to Psych. Michael is the lonely kid desperate for a new roommate. When a class project - and one very reckless decision - forces them together, an unstoppable game of teasing, torment, and pleasure begins. Michael will soon learn that Andrew’s sexual interests are far from ordinary ...

“On The Edge (The Brazen Boys)”

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It is Derek's birthday and there's nothing he wants more than the mysterious, musclebound boy from the website who goes by the name Edge. When an accidental keystroke brings the dream boy to Derek's house - in the flesh - Derek soon learns he's in for a lot more than he would ever bargain for in a surprise birthday gift ...

“Owned By The Freshman (The Brazen Boys)”

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Thomas Kozlowski, the not-so-easily impressed acting professor, can’t get his hot new college freshman Justin Brady out of his head. Sexy bod, killer smile and a taste for taking charge, this cocky nineteen-year-old is Thom’s forbidden fantasy. The professor wants a lesson in getting owned, and the strapping young freshman is all too eager to give it.

“Dog Tags (The Brazen Boys)”

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Growing up, Jesse was lonely, bullied, and misunderstood. Brandon was the scary, messed-up boy next door. When Jesse hears that Brandon is home on leave from the military, he discovers his childhood neighbor’s Army training has turned him into a hard-bodied beast. Jesse can’t keep his eyes off of him. They are no longer children. They have different needs. The summer just became full of possibilities.

“All Yours Tonight (The Brazen Boys)”

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Wes is an expert at healing the world one paying customer at a time. Being a male escort, he is used to keeping emotional distance between him and his clients. But when Bradley, the ever-adorable good-boy-gone-bad, crosses his path, his life takes an unexpected turn for the crazy. His rules are broken. His boundaries, destroyed. Everything Wes thought he knew about men and the intimacy they crave
is about to fall apart.

“Straight Up (The Brazen Boys)”

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“Straight” small-town boy Benny has a secret: he is miserably in love with his punk roommate and childhood best friend Trent. When Benny goes on a date with the town’s “sure thing” girl, his night is wrecked by the ever-flamboyant Charlie, who doesn’t seem to buy that Benny is just another straight boy. Love, longing, and secrets torment Benny, and when a night of drunken partying goes too far, his crush on Trent might become more than just a fantasy ...

“Houseboy Rules (The Brazen Boys)”

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Liam Hightower has a lot of money and seven different houseboys he can play sexy games with at his leisure. But when he hires eighteen-year-old Evan fresh out of high school, Liam discovers what his life was missing. The smart forbidden fruit called Evan is not like the other boys. When Liam's sexual appetite crosses a line, Evan flips the rules on his boss, teaching him a hard lesson on what it means to obey the houseboy rules.

“Slippery When Wet (The Brazen Boys)”

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Uptight and perpetually-single Scott can't wait to embark on a seven day cruise with his straight best friend. Trouble is, stressed-out Scott doesn't know how to "vacation". When he stumbles into the unapologetically carefree and stunning boy named Hendry, Scott's dry heart gets an overdue drenching. With only seven days on the luxury cruise ship, things between the boys are about to get slippery.

Want to go on a group date and try the Brazen Boys four at a time?

Check out the Brazen Boys Box Sets, available here:

The Brazen Boys : The Complete Series

Get all 8 Brazen Boys, plus “Commando”, the sequel to Dog Tags, in this collection:

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** Be on the lookout for an all new M/M full-length series, coming soon! **

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Are you a fan of dystopian series? Try out the epic, gritty, character-driven Outlier series by Daryl Banner: full-length novels set in an immersive medieval/futuristic world. Its sprawling story is told through a strong ensemble of unique & unlikely heroes. It contains M/M and M/F sexuality, adult language, and violence.

“Outlier: Rebellion (Book 1)”

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The world is destroyed, save for the Last City Of Atlas where every citizen is born with a unique, special ability and, for some unknown reason, humans no longer sleep or dream. Poor, starved, and armed with only their lowly powers, an unlikely crew of slum-born form a secret rebel group with the sole purpose of assassinating the Banshee King, who rules from the Lifted City above where those born rich—and with great powers—live in luxury. When all seems hopeless, the rebellion discovers that their newest member—a boy who can sleep and dream—just might be the key to their victory.

“Outlier: Legacy (Book 2)”

http://www.amzn.com/B0172A5OHE

In the second installment of the OUTLIER series, rebels armed with unique and fantastic abilities called Legacies continue to shake the Last City of Atlas from below, rising against the majestic, high-tech Lifted City and its cruel Banshee King, who can annihilate an army with just one scream. Friendships are made and broken as loyalties change. Love is ignited ... and savagely avenged. Can peace ever hope to be found? Will lost loved ones reunite? Unlikely alliances form and incredible new powers are discovered in the wake of the coming war between slum and sky. Weapons find your hand ... It is time to discover your Legacy.

“Outlier: Reign Of Madness (Book 3)”

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/24803966-outlier

(Coming soon.)

It has been two months since the Madness took over. In the third installment of the OUTLIER series, our band of unlikely heroes—both slum-born and sky—survive in a very changed, volatile world. The slums ignite with chaos. Ancient powers awaken. Doomsday is on the heels of everyone as the Mad King entertains himself by casting his fiery “Finger Of Madness” down upon the slums below, destroying anything in the red light’s path. Our heroes are about to learn the sobering reality that not everyone is safe from death’s uncaring, cold grip. And when the fog of war settles, will there even be a city left to save?

“Outlier: Beyond Oblivion (Book 4)”
(Not yet released.)

“Outlier: Five Kings (Book 5)”
(Not yet released.)

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Have you read The Beautiful Dead by Daryl Banner? Take the journey with the freshly-pulled-from-the-earth Undead Winter and her unusual friends in this genre-defying post-apocalyptic fantasy series that has captivated countless hearts (beating and unbeating) across the world.

Each trilogy can be read independently, but it’s best to read them in order.

They are available to read with Amazon’s Kindle Unlimited (KU).

The Beautiful Dead Trilogy:

“The Beautiful Dead (Book 1)”

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She’s dead. In fact, the whole world’s dead. Every single person, apparently. Unburied and reimagined into a beautiful living-dead woman called Winter, she is doomed to spend the rest of eternity in a quaint, peaceful city with no hunger, no sickness and no bills to pay. Her Second Life is perfect in every way possible. So why is she so bent on destroying it all? After angering the mayor, befriending rebel headless teenagers and igniting romance with a dark and brooding neighbor, she finds herself wrestling madly with a First Life she cannot remember and this Second Life she cannot accept. Not to mention the maniacal army of rotting corpses who want her dead. Again. But none of that matters in comparison to an even bigger problem. There’s a guest in her house. A rude, good-looking man on the run ... a man with a heartbeat.

“Dead Of Winter (The Beautiful Dead, Book 2)”

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No one said being an Undead is easy. Winter’s Second Life became a lot more complicated when the Living moved into her hometown of Trenton. Undead neighbors fight with their Breathing ones. Food is sparse. And, worst of all, the season is taking a change for the colder. A desperate plea for help to a neighboring city turns deadly and soon Winter finds herself facing an old friend from her past whose plot to annihilate all life on the planet may have everything to do with her. And what about the man-with-the-heartbeat in her house? Is there even room for love in such a ruined, unforgiving world? New friends are made. Others are lost forever. In the dead of winter, no one is safe.

“Almost Alive (The Beautiful Dead, Book 3)”

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Twelve years have passed since the devastation. The world is changed. What once was a planet struggling to survive is now a planet bursting to life. The humans are thriving. Gardens are growing. Trees are reaching up to the sky and the Undeadly clutch on the planet is slowly letting go. But what does that mean for Winter and her friends? In the wake of spring, the last of the desperate Undead gather, fighting to maintain their place in a world that no longer wants them. Mother Nature slowly but certainly works to purge the planet of the Dead, just when Winter thought she had finally embraced this Second Life. Her new friends are back and old nemeses return for the final chapter in Winter's Undead journey.

The Sunless Reach Trilogy:

“The Whispers (The Beautiful Dead, Book 4)”

http://www.amzn.com/B01CF003YU

Note: This book starts a NEW Beautiful Dead trilogy and can be read independently from the first three, though you will have the most enriching experience by reading them in order.

Jennifer needs to know the truth about the Beautiful Dead. Do they really exist, or is it all a lie? She faces punishment from the university if she pursues her forbidden Undeadly studies - but she could also change the world. One reckless decision (that may or may not be totally illegal) sends Jennifer and her friends embarking on an adventure of a deathtime to find the truth at last. She did not expect, however, to discover the fate of all humanity resting in her little Living hands.

“The Winters (The Beautiful Dead, Book 5)”
(Coming soon.)

“The Wakings (The Beautiful Dead, Book 6)”
(Not yet released.)

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Turn the page to read the BONUS EPILOGUE for Read My Lips!

This bonus epilogue chronologically takes place after the events of Beneath The Skin (Book 2)

NOTE: It is recommended to read Beneath The Skin before reading this bonus epilogue.

To skip to Beneath The Skin, click here: Beneath The Skin.

CLAYTON

- One Year Later -

The Summer After Graduation

I never planned to have someone in my life.

The way I pictured it, I was going to be the house on the street that everyone avoided. I was going to be the dark tech wizard whose hands were always blackened and cut up from metalwork. I was going to grow up and live in a shell of my own misery, bitterness, and distaste for humankind.

And then Dessie shattered that dream and replaced it with a new one.

Everyone’s here. All the couples and all the singles. Dmitri even brought this girl he’s been getting fresh with in one of his creative writing classes, a blonde with a beautiful face who always seems to squint at everyone she smiles at. The pair of them are snuggled up at the end of the table, which is the longest damn table we could find here at the Throng & Song that could seat everyone. Brant is near him with his girl too, and though he’s always had one girl or another by his side for all the years I’ve known him, I know this one’s going to be around for a while. It’s something about the way he looks into her eyes and how she seems to have none of it, not easily impressed, keeping him on his toes and smirking knowingly when he tries one of his signature Brant moves. She’s a keeper, that take-no-nonsense attitude tells me.

Sam has been oddly quiet. And I don’t mean that in some sort of humorous ironic sort of way, considering I’m deaf. I can tell when someone seems off or doesn’t seem to be engaging in the conversation at the table. She’s been picking at her nails and eyeing her boyfriend a lot, who sits there like a lump on a log as he chats across the table with Eric about something I can’t quite make out—their lips are moving too fast to read.

As I kick back and watch my friends, I start to muse about what they’re discussing. I’m guessing Dmitri is telling Eric and his girl all about the story he’s working on—maybe it’s about a world where everyone’s bisexual and no one has to second-guess whether or not a dude or a chick is into them; everyone just goes for it—but no matter what his story entails, the girl at his side seems more interested in carefully selecting each nacho she pulls from her basket, daintily plucking them with her index finger and thumb, then eating them in tiny bites. It takes her six nibbles to eat one damn nacho—I counted.

Dmitri finally meets my eyes after finishing a point he was apparently trying to make—which Eric seems to have lost interest in, judging from the roll of his eyes and the crossing of his arms. Dmitri smiles and lifts his hands, signing at me: How are you doing? Have you eaten?

Knowing that he, ironically, wouldn’t be able to hear me if I spoke, considering the usual noise and loudness of this place, I lift my hands and sign back at him: Not hungry. Have you seen Dessie?

An odd look crosses his face before he swallows hard, itches his nose, then replies: No. I’m sure she’ll be here soon. When do you guys leave? Brant wanted to throw you guys a going-away party.

His peculiar behavior doesn’t go unnoticed, but I ignore it for now and reply: End of the summer.

He’s talking about when Dessie and I leave for New York. The truth is, I’m terrified to go. Sure, I’ve been there a number of times with Dessie—twice at Christmas to see her family, once last summer, once in the spring—but every time I go, I feel like I’m visiting a new city. It never seems the same, as if the city itself is some giant temperamental organism that thrives and writhes restlessly, never settling. I sometimes look at my lighting designs that way: always struggling to find the right angle, to spill the right way on the stage, to color and accent the actors in just the right balance of vibrant and muted lights. Maybe New York City is the perfect place for us and I’m just slow to see it.

All this anxiety in my stomach, though … I know it all goes away when I’m with Dessie. No matter the obstacle, no matter the fears that grab at your feet the farther you try to climb in life, when she’s at my side, I feel fucking boundless. She’s my strength and she knows it. I wish I could give her half as much as what she’s given me. I can’t even begin to imagine how much differently my life would be right now without her in it.

With these thoughts floating through my head, I catch myself looking up, studying the lighting instruments that hang above and are used to light the modest stage upon which the band—and eventually tonight, Dessie—perform on. I observe them thoughtfully, trying to predict which ones are used for what, and how I might arrange them differently had I been involved at all in the design choices this restaurant slash piano bar employs.

Just then, I notice a lighting instrument that seems slightly out of place. It seems to have a strange gobo installed—if I’m looking at it correctly. Gobos are basically stencils placed inside or in front of an instrument to control the shape of the light that shines out of it. I squint at that gobo, trying to make out its shape. Maybe it’s something the band uses. Maybe it’s their logo or something.

A vibration ringing through the table brings my attention back to my friends. I look up at a waving hand. It’s Brant, his eyes flashing with excitement. He nudges Dmitri, then starts to move his hands.

Holy shit. Brant is signing at me.

He says: I want to have sex with the table really bad. I like singing vaginas. Can I suck your cock please?

I quirk an eyebrow. The fuck …?

Dmitri starts laughing his ass off, which inspires a look of utter bafflement on Brant’s face. Too late, Brant realizes he’s been pranked, as I watch his mouth form the words, “What did I just sign? Dmitri?? What the fuck did I just sign to Clayton?”

I join in the laughter, unable to help myself. Brant meets my eyes, shaking his head with his mouth wrinkled in frustration, then he grabs Dmitri and puts him in a headlock, wrestling him to the ground and inspiring an eye roll both from Dmitri’s girl as well as Brant’s.

I notice light flood in from the front door, but sink when I see it isn’t Dessie. My eyes comb the crowd, anxious for her to walk through that door. She’s been working on a new song. I can’t fucking wait to hear it.

Yes, hear it. Every time she sings, I hear her music. I hear it in the way her eyes clench shut on the high notes and her nose wrinkles, as if the beauty of her music is so great, she literally feels pain. I hear it in the way she caresses the microphone stand, squirming and embracing it like a lover. I hear it in the way her lips move, working every lyric and squeezing every drop of passion from those notes that vibrate out from her core.

Make no mistake about it. My world may be silent, but it’s her song that fills every inch of space between her mouth and my patient, hungry ears. I love that woman with every damaged piece of me—both good and bad.

Now if she’d just get her sexy ass here, I could tell that to her face.

DESSIE

“We’re so fucking late,” I cry out.

“Blame it on the damn GPS. Ugh. This is such a mess,” whines Victoria.

“I told you to use Google Maps.”

“I know, I know. We’re basically on the right road, it’s just that it’s—”

“Bumper-to-bumper traffic.” I sulk in my seat, frustrated beyond measure. I really should have planned this whole thing better. “This is all my fault. By the time we get there, everyone will have gone home. I’m going to be singing to a table of two.”

“Dessie.” Victoria faces me importantly, taking her eyes off the road since we’re not moving at all anyway. I look at her, paying attention despite my sad eyes and pouty lip. “You can sing to a table of one for all I care. Clayton’s the only one who matters where this particular song is concerned, anyway. And he sure as hell will wait for you.”

I turn to my side, staring at Victoria. I feel my insides calming at her words. “You’re so right,” I mutter finally.

“Just you and him,” she goes on soothingly. “It doesn’t matter what time we get there. Screw everyone else.”

I smile. “You remember when we first met and had that falling out and, like, we hated each other for a month?”

“It was longer than a month, but yeah, I remember.” She smirks knowingly, looking away with a chuckle.

“I’m so glad we made up. We make much better friends than enemies.”

She nods slowly. “Agreed.”

“Even if you have terrible taste in music.” I grab the iPhone off the dash, thumbing through her Spotify for something better to jam to.

She totally lets me, maybe too tired from today’s “adventure” to care. The car moves a little, then brakes again. Moves, brakes. Moves, brakes. It becomes a steady, tortuous rhythm that genuinely makes me consider if we’ll even make it back to the Throng before midnight.

“So why him?”

I look up from the phone, thrown by the question. “What do you mean?”

“Why Clayton?” She shrugs, her hands hanging from the bottom of the steering wheel. “I mean, everyone and their dog warned you about him. He has anger issues. Or had. Or has. He’s got this big shady question mark of a past.”

“Not so much a question mark anymore,” I point out quietly.

“I’m certainly not trying to plant a big ol’ bag of doubt in your heart,” she adds with a sympathetic touch to my arm, “but there was just a zillion reasons to break it off and find someone else when you two first started dating and things got rocky. Why’d you stick around?” she asks, cocking her head at me. “Why him?”

I smile coyly, considering her question. Honestly, it’s something I’ve been juggling around in my mind all day. Why Clayton, indeed? Why is he the man for me? “I’ve always felt like there’s something dark and damaged about me,” I start off. “I don’t want to sound too self-deprecating, but after living a childhood in the shadow of my perfect sister Cece and the incomparable monolith of a shadow cast by my mother, I always felt like there was something wrong with me … or failed, or broken, or completely lacking. My life changed when I took the leap and came down here to Klangburg University. Clayton … He’s been misunderstood his whole life. He’s fought demons thanklessly. It’s not even about him being deaf, even if that’s a huge part of him. He doesn’t see it as a struggle, and neither do I. It’s just a quality about him, and a quality to be proud of, at that. He has brown eyes. He has brown hair. He has a laugh that lights me up, a smile that can kill, and he’s deaf. And he loves lighting up the world, and why shouldn’t he? There’s so much darkness in it. And whether I like to admit it or not, there’s darkness in me. He lights up my life.” I scoff at my own words suddenly, rolling my eyes to face Victoria. “Ugh, that was cheesy. Never let me say ‘He lights up my life’ again.”

But when my eyes meet Victoria’s, I don’t find her sharing in the cheesiness. Quite the opposite, I find her teary-eyed and touched, a hand drawn to her mouth. “Oh, Dessie,” she murmurs.

“What?” I blurt, concerned.

“You have to tell him that. All of that. That was so beautiful.” She sniffles, then wipes away a tear. “Shit, girl, you made me cry. Shit, fuck, damn. ‘Lights up my life’ … Lord, help me, if I ever found someone like that.” She wipes away another tear from the other eye, flicking it away.

“You will,” I assure her, taking her hand into mine and giving it a squeeze. “You will.”

“We’re getting you to the Throng in time. We’re getting you up on that stage.” She faces me importantly, her eyes shimmering with emotion. “And you’re singing him your song.”

CLAYTON

It’s two hours later that the lights suddenly dim, as if preparing for the show. I flinch because I wasn’t expecting it to start. Where’s Dessie? I look at my tablemates, concerned, but none of them seem to share my worries as they all focus up on the stage, which now bears the full brunt of the lights boldly shining.

And then Dessie appears. I melt at the sight of her. I love that woman so fucking much. She wears the red top I got her for her birthday, which flows and caresses her body in all the right places. Her hair cascades in tangles and waves around her shoulders, a coil or two resting on her beautiful breasts. Her face is angelic and smooth and beautiful. I want to toss the table over, rush up to her, and make love with her right there where she stands.

She eyes me importantly, then mouths the words, “I love you,” at me.

I hold up the sign right back at her—a fist with just the thumb, index finger, and pinky sticking out: I love you.

She takes a deep breath, her chest rising and falling, and then she starts to speak, and she signs at the same time so I know exactly what it is that she says: “Thank you so much for coming here tonight. I know I’m late. A particular errand I had to run put quite a wrinkle in my schedule today. Thank you for your patience. I have a song that I’ve written and prepared with the help of the band, as well as my good friend Sam, that I would like to share with you. It’s a deeply personal song. And …”

She stops, her eyes meeting mine again. She smiles, overcome with some sort of emotion that seems to boil up from within her, spilling over.

“And,” she resumes, both with her mouth and her hands, “I want to dedicate this to my boyfriend, my love, my one and only. It’s called, His Song Of Silence.”

Vibrations thrum through the room. I feel the work of a bass guitar, or perhaps the deep, bass notes on the piano. I feel the surge of music through the room and the effect it has on those at the table with me. Dessie rocks slowly to the music, dancing with the notes that swarm and flutter and push past her like a breeze.

Then she opens her eyes, presses her lips to the microphone, and she sings. Her hands join the dance, feeding me her beautiful lyrics in sign form.

And I listen.

A tree sings a song of leaves

Knows what it ought to do

Knows what it ought to be

A bird sings a song of homes

Where it ought to fly

Where its family roams

But there is another, another sound no one hears

It’s a song of silence

It’s a song of fears

And when I press my head to my lover’s chest

It’s the only song I hear

Yes, there’s another, another music no one knows

That song of silence

A song that grows

I wish I was lucky enough to hear that music

That only my lover knows

Maybe if I’m lucky enough to wake every day

Next to my lover

Then I’ll discover

The song of silence he’s come to embrace

I see my love for him

All over his face

Another light fades in, slowly mixing with the rest, until its color burns bright and sets it apart from the others. A spotlight now shines on a dark wall in the back of the room, a light that comes from that strange instrument I was observing earlier, the instrument with the peculiarly-shaped gobo installed within it.

The shape of the light against the back wall is a ring.

My eyes flash open at the realization. A ring …

Dessie continues her song:

And if I’m not just another, another woman in your life

Take this ring from me, baby

Let me be your lucky wife

And if you’ll have me forever, let me know

So you can light up my life

Every day. Every morning.

Every show.

Suddenly, there’s a slap on my back. Brant’s there and he’s guiding me out of my chair. He was in on this. They were all in on this. I can’t even seem to make my legs work on their own. Is this really happening? The chair falls back when I rise, but I pay it no mind. I see hands moving everywhere—Are they applauding?—and Brant guides me to the stage.

I draw closer and closer to Dessie, my love, my everything. I’m breathing so deeply. The world is going blurry. Fuck, am I crying?

“Baby …” she says and signs. “My love … Clayton.”

She pulls a silver ring out of her pocket that’s textured to look like a coil of rope. I’m paralyzed by the rugged beauty of it as it glimmers in the stage light between her fingers.

“Will you marry me?” she mouths.

And I read her lips.

I read her lips perfectly.

“Yes,” I tell her in one fleeting breath.

The corners of my eyes erupt in the visual noise of celebration, of bodies moving and hands applauding. Dessie slips the ring on my finger and meets my eyes.

“You’re so beautiful,” I tell her, overcome. “Every day, forever, always, you’re my favorite song.”

“And you’re my light,” she says, and I hear her words with every cell in my body.

I pull her close, our lips uniting, and embrace her in my arms. The room can celebrate with all its noise made by hundreds of other people’s happiness—and all the hands in the room that erupt in applause, clapping their excitement and approval. Hundreds of lips that shout their joy and their celebration.

But it’s only one person’s happiness I’ll ever need. Only one set of hands. Only one set of lips. Hers, hers, hers.

The End.

Thank you so much for reading the bonus epilogue to Read My Lips!

If you’d like to return to the table of contents for Beneath The Skin, click below:

Beneath The Skin

Table of 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

Epilogue

Author’s Note

Sneak Peek

Read My Lips

Other Works By Daryl Banner

Read My Lips Bonus Epilogue

Beneath The Skin