by Virna DePaul
I was shunned and treated like a leper. My fellow students. My other professors. They looked at me differently. Sneered at me, not always behind my back. Quite simply, I folded under the pressure. Filled with righteous anger, I quit school, telling myself I’d go back eventually. That I just needed a break first. Time to get my head on straight. Then my mom had gotten sick and I had more practical things to think about.
I mean, what was I really going to do with a music degree? Did I really think I had what it took to be a star?
Now, five years later, I’m still working at a grocery store handing out samples and for all I know, will be until I die.
My thoughts right now, though, are more along the lines of not telling Bastian any of this. What would he think of me being such a coward?
Turning away from him, I mutter into the darkness, “I just didn’t want to be in school anymore, okay? There’s nothing else to tell.”
Bastian goes quiet, and I want to believe he’s given up. Then he turns toward me, saying thoughtfully, “You work at a place like Cooper’s for years, as loyal as any employee, but decide to quit college just like that? I don’t understand.”
I don’t understand it either. How did my life end up like this? I was supposed to graduate and become a professional musician, maybe record albums and go on tour.
“I was young and dumb,” I say shortly. “Now, are you going to keep grilling me?”
He laughs a little, stroking my arm again. “Sorry, sorry. I’m just so curious about you. You’re the most fascinating woman I’ve ever met.”
At that, I flip over to face him. I can just make out his expression in the darkness. “I’m the most interesting woman you’ve ever met? You must have met a lot of really boring women.”
“Maybe. But there’s something about you . . .” He links our hands together, and I shiver a little. “You’re different,” he says, as if he’s confused by this realization.
I squeeze his hand. “I could’ve told you that. But now that you’ve decided to make this ‘ask uncomfortable questions’ hour, I have one for you.”
He waits, clearly unaware of what I have in mind.
“What’s up with the dick pics online?”
He coughs suddenly, and I pat him on the back. Then he sighs, long and loud.
“You found those, did you?” he asks, resigned.
“Yep, and I was at a coffee shop, so you can imagine how everyone there thought I was a creep. You don’t seem like a naked photos kind of guy.” I know I’m pressing, but in this case? Tit for tat.
“I’m not. But I used to be not a nice guy.” I can see him wince. “My lawyers are still sending cease and desist letters to sites hosting the photos, but I guess they just keep popping up.”
I think of the photos, how sexy and intense Bastian looked. Not to mention how nice his cock looked.
I reach down, lightly massaging him through the sheet. “I’m just glad the photos didn’t lie,” I say in a low voice.
He lets me fondle him for five more seconds before he growls and flips me onto my back, then kisses me until I gasp and surrender.
17
Julia
The next week starts as usual: me handing out samples and wondering when I can see Bastian again. After he dropped me off at my place, I basically did nothing the rest of the weekend except think about him. I’d laugh at myself if I weren’t so freaked out by how much I’m falling for him.
I don’t want to think I’m falling in love with him, but I know that things are getting deeper than I ever could’ve imagined.
On my lunch break, I watch a Seinfeld rerun on the old TV in the break room, slowly chewing my ham and cheese sandwich. I have only a half hour for lunch, so I usually bring something to eat and hang out in there. It’s a dingy little place in the back of Cooper’s, with worn plastic chairs and a few stained tables with wobbly legs. The TV is definitely older than I am and gets service for only one channel. But I’m by myself, and not handing out samples of coconut curry chicken wings (Joe sent in a request via customer service that we serve them again), so I consider that a small victory.
Inevitably my thoughts lead to Bastian. Bastian kissing me, touching me, laughing with me. His words from that night haunt me, about going back to school. I’ve thought about the same thing so many times, but the thought of returning to finish makes me feel like I’m dying. It’s almost become a sort of phobia, like if I return to school everyone from before will know what I did and I’ll be ostracized again.
Not to mention, what if I fail a second time? I couldn’t bear it.
So for now, that means eating ham and cheese sandwiches in the break room of Cooper’s and hoping that Joe doesn’t eat all of my chicken wings this time around.
You’re just afraid. You’re playing things safe, my mind whispers as I return to work.
I don’t deny it. I hate my job, and I dislike my apartment, but they’re safe. Normal. I know how they work. I know how She-Hulk will react if I’m late returning from lunch, and I know how the shower at my apartment runs out of hot water after exactly six and a half minutes.
I know these things, and they’re comfortable. The thought of changing them, going back to school, upending my boring little life?
Not comfortable at all.
At the end of my shift—which luckily did not involve Joe inhaling all of my samples, as I made sure to hide some in my stand when he walked by—I’m heading out to get my bike and ride home when I get a text. I assume it’s Bastian, but to my surprise, it’s Ryland.
Wanna go out Saturday? he asks. We’ll be going to Gary’s Pub for some happy hour nachos and beer.
It was fun jamming with him that one time and he’d said nice things about my talent. But I have to admit, I’d forgotten about Ryland completely after that. It’s not very flattering to him, but Bastian has filled my thoughts—and other parts of me, I think with a shiver—completely. Part of me wants to tell Ryland I’m busy. Bastian hasn’t asked me to do anything with him this weekend, though, and the thought of hanging out in my apartment all by myself isn’t very appealing. Plus, it sounds like Ryland is going with a group, so it isn’t as though we’re going on a date.
Sure, what time? I finally reply.
6:30. I hope you like lots of jalapenos on your nachos!
I don’t, but I don’t tell Ryland this. Maybe we can actually play music together again. Besides, although I’d like to see Bastian, it’s probably better that we spend at least some time apart. In order to keep our relationship casual and all.
But no matter how hard I try to keep my feelings casual, I know I’m not succeeding. It’s almost as if I’ll take anything I can get from him.
Bastian and I text off and on the rest of the week. I can tell he feels badly about ghosting on me last week, and it makes my heart warm. Our texts are flirty and sometimes naughty, and I’m always anticipating his reply with excitement.
On Saturday, I almost forget about agreeing to meet Ryland at Gary’s; it’s 6:00 when I remember. I throw on jeans and one of the few clean tops in my closet, grab my phone and run out the door. I’m barely wearing any makeup, but it’s Ryland and his friends, so who cares? I get to Gary’s at 6:40 and look around for a large group of people. I spot some guys at a table in the back, but no Ryland.
“Julia!”
I turn, and there’s Ryland, walking toward me. He’s not in his rocker gear, but still wearing what I know is an expensive jacket with tight jeans.
“Can I get you a beer?” Ryland asks.
He leads me to the bar itself, and I sit on a stool next to him. I keep looking around, wondering where everyone is. Are we just earlier than everyone else? Maybe his friends aren’t all that punctual.
“Are you looking for somebody?” he asks as he hands me a beer the bartender gave him.
“Where’s everyone else?”
“Everyone else, who? It’s just us, babe.” He laughs, slinging an arm around my shoulders.
I stare a
t him. Then I realize that I had made the assumption about this being a group outing. And that in Ryland’s mind, we’re on a date.
I freeze. His arm seems unnaturally heavy across my shoulders, and I gently shrug him off. He gives me a hurt look, but I don’t care. I’m debating whether I should be angry or not. Did he deliberately mislead me, or am I just an idiot for not realizing his intentions?
I sip my beer, wondering what I should do. I’m about to tell Ryland that there’s been a misunderstanding when I spot a gleam of dark hair about five seats down. My heart beats wildly as I realize it’s none other than Bastian.
And he’s seen me with Ryland. Based on his thunderous expression, he’s not happy about it.
I’m about to jump up and tell Bastian this isn’t what he thinks it is, when Ryland pushes a plate of nachos in front of me. “Eat up! I asked for no jalapeños on one side, since I wasn’t sure if you liked them.”
Guilt fills me. Ryland is treating me like he would any girl he likes, while the man that I like is thinking I’m cheating on him. My mind is whirling and I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to make a scene, especially since people recognize Ryland and are watching him with me. I wonder if me going on a date with him will end up on some gossip blog. I groan inwardly.
Could this night get any more disastrous?
“Look, Ryland,” I begin.
“Here, have some. They’re my favorite.” He acts like he’s trying to feed me, bringing some nachos close to my mouth. The nachos, I have to admit, look amazing.
I let him feed me to appease him, but the cheesy goodness turns to cardboard on my tongue. Bastian’s looked away now, but I can see him hunched over his drink, probably convinced I’m the worst sort of woman.
“Look, Ryland,” I try again. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”
“About what?” He shoves a chip inside his mouth, crunching it loudly. “Do you not like nachos?”
“Yes—I mean no, I like nachos fine. But I was under the impression you were bringing a bunch of people. Not that we’d be . . . alone.”
His brow furrowed, he asks, “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I didn’t know this was a date.” I swallow, knowing I have to say it. “If I’d known,” I say quietly, “I wouldn’t have accepted. I’m sorry.”
He stares at me, and then a red flush crawls up his handsome face. I can’t tell if he’s embarrassed or angry—or both—and he eats more nachos before he replies.
“So you were just leading me on?”
Now it’s my turn to stare. “What are you—? I wasn’t leading you on!”
“Then why text with me, agree to play music with me, and now go out with me? How does that not look like you were leading me on?”
I don’t know how to reply to that. From his perspective, it does look like I was leading him on. The nachos I’ve eaten congeal in my stomach, and I wonder if I can run to the bathroom and hide there until Ryland leaves.
“Is there a problem here?”
I almost fall off my stool, I swivel so fast when I hear Bastian’s voice. Ryland, though, just sets his beer down and gives Bastian a disgusted look.
“Are you following me now?” Ryland asks.
“I’m too busy to chase you around.”
Bastian’s attention turns fully to me, and his gaze burns through me. I haven’t done anything wrong. I know that. It feels like I have, though. Bastian’s definitely thinking that I’ve done something wrong, and that gets me to sit up straighter. He has no right to judge me, especially without hearing the full story!
“Ryland,” I say as I get down off the stool, “I have to go. I’m sorry—for everything. Talk to you later?”
He curls his lip. “Whatever.”
Bastian takes my hand, and although I’m tempted to stomp on his foot, I follow him to the back. We’re in a hallway that leads to the kitchen, and I can hear people talking and food being prepared. It smells like cheese and grease.
“Mind telling me what that was all about?” Bastian’s got his arms crossed, and his expression is thunderous.
If I weren’t so irritated with him, I’d think he was sexy as hell.
I’m not in the mood, though, to indulge him. “Since when are you my keeper?” It sounds defensive, and I wince inwardly.
He uncrosses his arms and steps toward me, pushing me against the wall. “I’m not your keeper,” he says in a soft voice, “but I sure as hell have a right to know why you were on a date with my client.”
Now I really want to stomp on his foot. Is that what this is about? That I’m breaching some kind of work code? Looking at his face, though, I know it’s not that. He’s jealous; he looks like he could throw me over his shoulder and run off with me into the night like some caveman.
“It’s none of your business,” I hiss.
Julia, my mind whispers, you’re making this worse.
Now Bastian has stepped so close to me I can feel his pelvis pressing up against me and the warmth of his breath on my face. His chest rises and falls in quick breaths, his eyes narrowed.
“I’ll ask you again. What were you doing with Ryland Masters?”
When I feel his hardness press against my belly, my initial anger fades away. I realize that I’ve gained power over Sebastian Rich, and it’s heady. Not to mention? Part of me is shocked by his reaction. Who knew that this man would lose his head over little old Julia Rominger?
I slide my hands up his chest onto his shoulders. “Are you jealous?” I arch upward slightly, my breasts rubbing against him.
“Why won’t you answer the question?”
“Why won’t you?”
“Julia,” he growls in warning, “you’re playing with fire.”
I don’t think. I just say, “Then I want to get burned.”
18
Bastian
Going to Gary’s Pub usually means a cheap beer and fatty food served with a side of grease, and sometimes a man needs just that type of thing. Sitting down at my usual spot by the bar, I order a pale ale, sipping it as I watch the people around me.
I haven’t seen Julia since last weekend, but I’ve made certain to text her and call her every day since. It’s not like it’s been a burden; I wanted to talk to her. She’s a funny conversationalist, and more often than not, I’m laughing out loud at something she’s texted me. Suddenly, I’m like some teenage boy constantly waiting for his girlfriend to text. Hearing my phone sound sends a bolt of adrenaline straight through me.
I plan to ask Julia out to see a movie tomorrow night, but then I hear a voice—is that Julia herself? Excitement fills me, until I see who she’s with.
My client and thorn in my side, Ryland Masters.
They’re seated close together, and they’re obviously alone. Ryland leans close to her, asking her something. He gives her a plate of nachos, and then to top it all off, he puts his arm around her. Although she shrugs off his arm, she lets him feed her, like they’re some kind of couple.
At this point, I’m seething. Is Julia really out on a date with Ryland Masters? I don’t know if I’m angrier that she’s seeing my client or that she’s seeing someone other than me.
But I know the answer to that question. I can’t stand to see her with any other man.
Why would she agree to go on a date with Ryland unless she liked him? I clench my beer glass so hard the bartender gives me an eyebrow raise. Is she sleeping with him? The thought makes me nauseated. Images of her and Ryland fucking fill my brain, and it only makes me crazier.
I turn back to watch them. I can hear Ryland’s voice, but he’s turned away from me. But from where I’m sitting, he sounds pissed.
That’s it, I think. I’m going over there.
Approaching the pair, I ask in my calmest voice, “Is there a problem here?”
Ryland looks at me with such undisguised disgust that I almost laugh. Julia, though, looks frustrated and, dare I say? Guilty.
I have to talk to her. Now. Alone.
She asked to keep things casual, my mind reminds me helpfully.
I know that. I know I’m being unreasonable. Pushy, bossy—an asshole. That doesn’t stop me, though.
I push her against the wall, and despite my best intentions, I get hard. I can’t help it; whenever I’m with her, I want her. She smells like flowers and I want to lick her from head to toe. Her cheeks are flushed with anger, and God almighty, I want to kiss her as much as I want to shake her.
She won’t answer my questions, though. Instead, she twines her arms around my neck like some seductive vine.
“Julia,” I say in warning, “you’re playing with fire.”
The next words out of her mouth snap my last ounce of control.
“Then I want to get burned,” she whispers.
I kiss her. I capture her mouth, clutching her to me. I tangle my hand in her hair, tipping her head back for more access. It’s a messy kiss, and there’s little finesse in it, but I don’t care. This isn’t about finesse. It’s about control. I want to mark her and make her know that she’s mine.
She doesn’t pull away. Instead she sifts her fingers through my hair, her breath hitching when I bite her shoulder. Sucking the skin, I make sure to leave a mark.
“You’re mine,” I say. “You’re mine, and I want everyone here to know it. I’m going to mark you and claim you and when you leave, everyone will see what I’ve done.” I’m talking crazy, I’m losing my mind, but I don’t care. And when Julia sobs out a moan? It ignites the flames even higher.