Inevitable Detour (Inevitability Book 1)

by S. R. Grey

  Gah. A thrill shoots through me at the thought of spending even a mere minute with Farren. Now there’s an inevitable detour I’d like to take. Much like his sister, Farren is gorgeous. He has the same raven-black hair, same model-perfect features, like full lips and high cheekbones. His eyes, however, are not aquamarine. They’re better; they’re a unique and stunning shade of green. Not that I’ve had the pleasure of viewing these stunning green eyes in person. Only in pictures have I seen them, since, sadly, I’ve never actually met Farren. He’s not around much. He was in the military for years, special ops according to Haven. And though he was discharged over a year ago, he still spends a good deal of time in other countries for his “work.” Consequently, he’s never visited Oakwood College campus. That’s why I’ve never met him. And that is why I’m so incredibly upset about New York. That would have been my chance. Travel or no, he’d have to stop home at some point.

  Oh well. Guess I’ll have to continue to rely on pictures and short videos of Haven’s incredibly handsome brother to fuel my libido. And by fuel, I mean on all cylinders. I may not have much of an interest in sex, but I am still a woman. And, as a woman, I sense a man like Farren could change my mind on the sex-thing. He’s like some dream guy—tall, dark, and too handsome for words.

  So, yeah, I’m into him. It’s mostly a secret, though. However, I must confess that once, several months ago, Haven caught me uploading pictures of Farren from her computer to my phone.

  “Cyberstalking my brother, I see,” she teased as she walked over to where I was seated—rather uneasily at that point—on the sofa in our living room, her laptop in my hands.

  “No, no,” I stammered while trying to close all the open windows…of Farren in uniform, Farren standing next to Haven, and Farren—a recent shot—in a finely tailored suit.

  “He does look good in that one,” she said, tapping the screen before the picture of her brother in a dark suit disappeared.

  She was right. Farren in a business suit was all kinds of serious hot, so I had to agree. Then, I turned from the computer and asked, “Does he have to wear suits for his new job?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know, Essa. I guess.”

  “What exactly is his new job?” I pressed. “You said he’s some kind of personal security contractor, right? What does that mean, exactly?”

  “I don’t really know,” Haven admitted. Then, with a laugh, she said, “All I know is whatever Farren does he gets paid a lot of money.”

  “I hope it’s nothing illegal,” I mumbled under my breath.

  Hey, it’s not so farfetched to think such a thing. Not only does Farren fund his sister’s college education—as well as all her expenses—but he also has plenty of money for himself. He owns some of the best real estate in the world, including a luxurious New York City apartment. The place is sweet, very sweet, located on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, in a high-rise building right next to Central Park. I’ve seen pictures, and it looks like the kind of place a celebrity would live in. Not that I care about the money Farren has, but the fact that he has so much of it does make me curious.

  See, Farren and Haven Shaw were not born into any kind of money, not like the level of wealth Farren currently possesses. Their childhood circumstances were far from ideal and not anywhere near upscale. Their dad, a man named Alan Shaw, disappeared, seemingly into thin air, when they were very young. At the time, Farren was ten and Haven was only three. Their mom was left to struggle on her own to support her two young children. And she was doing okay, until she was killed in a car crash. Seventeen-year-old Farren and ten-year-old Haven were sent to live with their aunt—someone who absolutely did not want the burden of her sister’s kids. Her aunt was cold and indifferent. Haven has said many times that her aunt was far from nice. That’s why Farren joined the army the day he turned eighteen. He left and started sending Haven money right away. Their aunt was always cheap with them, buying the kids only the bare essentials. Despite all of those things, to this day, Haven still craves family. She tries so hard to maintain a relationship with her aunt. But the woman rarely—if ever—returns Haven’s calls.

  My phone vibrates, bringing me back to the present. It’s another text from Haven.

  Where are you? You better get your ass home soon. We’re still going out tonight, right?

  Of course, I type back. I haven’t forgotten that we’re celebrating the fact we survived our third year of college.

  We did, didn’t we?

  Hell, yeah, I type back. Seniors next year. Woohoo.

  I’ll drink to that, Haven replies.

  Me, too.

  Hey, by the way, I hope you’re planning on having more than two beers tonight. Rules are out the window.

  Ha-ha. And, yes, rules are out the window.

  Good, she texts. Who knows, Essa, maybe you’ll get so loosened up that you’ll end up meeting your fantasy man.

  If only she knew it’s her brother who stars in my fantasies. Just thinking about the man—and he is a man, not some fumbling college boy—gets me all worked up. But it’s ridiculous to continue on like this. I’ll surely never meet Farren, seeing as New York City is off the table.

  Resigned to live my parent-directed life, which certainly does not include hot guys, I push all thoughts of my secret fantasy, Farren Shaw, to the back of my mind. Gathering up my purse, I stand. But before I leave, I think about the lecture I listened in on.

  Fate…

  Destiny…

  What’s in store for me? Where will these so-called predetermined events lead me? Somewhere, everywhere, nowhere. The possibilities are endless. Still, I have to wonder if there will ever be an inevitable detour in my life.

  “Yeah, right,” I quietly scoff. The only inevitability in my future is that my life will continue as planned. But the instructor’s words resonate in my head, reminding me that we can’t escape our destiny and that we always end up where we’re supposed to be.

  Of course, for that to happen, it may require a bit more defiance on my part. Particularly when it comes to my parents and where they expect me to spend this summer.

  Good, okay. That’s fine with me.

  ’Cause I think I’m finally ready to start pressing B every chance I get.

  The Mexican-themed bar, located a few blocks from the tiny frame house where Haven and I rent a second-floor apartment, is completely packed. I shouldn’t be surprised. The lone bar in the otherwise quiet and sedate tree-lined neighborhood—located just off campus—is always busy. But with tonight bearing the distinction of being a Friday and the end of finals week, Señor Frog’s is utterly crazy.

  “Looks like everyone decided to celebrate here tonight,” I yell over to Haven.

  It’s hot and sweaty in the bar, the small dance floor is packed, and a heavy bass beat is practically shaking the whole building.

  Haven spins on her barstool to face me, her aquamarine eyes widening in agreement. She nods and takes a sip from her frothy margarita. Lowering the salt-rimmed glass, she yells back, “I know, right?”

  The track changes to something less rowdy, and I’m finally able to speak without having to scream. Just as I’m about to say something to Haven in a nice, normal tone, some jock saunters over and oh-so-obviously bumps into her shoulder.

  She almost spills her drink, but still manages to smile. Not in a flirtatious way, she’s just being nice.

  Jock-boy says, “Oh, hey, sorry ’bout that.”

  He reaches out to touch her arm, but Haven smoothly shifts and avoids his grasp. “No worries,” she says tightly, still smiling.

  The jock finally gets the hint and moves on with a shrug.

  Haven rolls her eyes my way and mouths, “Men.”

  I just nod back, since I’m used to guys hitting on my friend. It’s pretty much like this every time we go out. Haven is beautiful and sexy, especially tonight in her distressed denim miniskirt, black combat boots, and a clingy red sweater with one shoulder down. Her bra strap is exposed, black, a
perfect match to her fishnet stockings. Only Haven could successfully pull off such a hot, urban look in such a rural and conservative town.

  I, on the other hand, am dressed like most of the other girls in the bar. I have on dark skinny jeans, a lacy black shirt over a white tank, and a pair of flat sandals that I threw on before leaving the house. As a concession to Haven, I let her do my hair and makeup. That’s why my blondish locks are down, all wavy and bouncy, and my whiskey-colored eyes are lined with lots of smoky color.

  That reminds me…

  I swipe a finger under my lashes, rubbing twice, just in case I’m smudging.

  Haven’s own smoke-lined eyes slide to me, and she says, “So, let’s review. Tell me again what your parents’ crazy reasoning is for why you can’t come to New York City this summer?”

  “Ugh, Haven.” I cover my face with my hands and speak through my fingers. “What do you think? It’s the same as always. They want me to stick around campus and take summer classes.”

  Haven tugs my hands away from my face. When I acquiesce, I see she’s frowning. She shakes her head slowly, and a lock of raven hair falls to her cheek. She tucks it behind her ear.

  “That’s bullshit, Es,” she says. “You, of all people, do not need summer classes.”

  “I know,” I lament, since my parents’ stance is unbelievably ridiculous to me, too.

  Haven sighs. “You’re a twenty-two-year-old woman. You need to take a stand at some point. You should just tell your parents to go fuck themselves.”

  I’m in the middle of taking a drink from my bottle of beer, and I practically spew Corona Light all over the polished-wood bar.

  “Um, right,” I mutter. I nod to her margarita and say, “Just how much tequila is in that drink, anyway?”

  I’m only half-serious, but Haven replies without missing a beat. “Three shots of Patrón.”

  “Sheesh, good thing we walked here,” I mumble.

  Haven doesn’t disagree. “For sure,” she says with the glass halfway to her mouth.

  After taking a sip, she adds, “So, what are your plans? Are you going to defy or comply with Mr. and Mrs. Brant?”

  I let out a long sigh. “I’d like to defy,” I admit. “But you know I’d get cut off. That would mean no more school, no more anteing up my share of the rent for our cute apartment—”

  “They wouldn’t stop paying for your classes,” Haven interrupts, her voice soft despite her cutting me off.

  “That’s probably true,” I say. “But I’d definitely be back in the dorms.”

  Haven shudders. “I know, sweetie. Your parents probably would cut out anything they deemed unnecessary.”

  “Which would mean most everything,” I say, sighing.

  With a genuinely apologetic tone, Haven says, “I shouldn’t have said anything, Essa. Besides, all is not lost. You can always drive up to the Big Apple and visit for a few days.”

  I don’t say anything, but I doubt a visit to New York will ever really happen. I’m too chicken to take a chance like that. What if something went wrong? My parents would flip.

  For Haven’s sake, though, I smile and nod.

  Haven smiles back and then motions for the bartender. “Hey, let’s do a shot,” she says to me. “We need to lighten the mood. We’re supposed to be celebrating tonight, right?”

  “Right,” I agree, before I tip back my bottle and finish off what’s left of my beer.

  Haven eyes me curiously.

  Since it looks like I will, indeed, be abandoning my two-beer rule tonight, I declare, “Let’s get fucked up.”

  She replies, “Hell, yeah. I’m all for that.”

  A mere minute later, we’re downing shots of tequila. Another round of shots follows, and then Haven and I hit the dance floor. I am officially drunk, so when Haven initiates a bump-and-grind routine with me, I roll with it.

  Soon, half the bar is watching us—the male half. Haven leans in and whispers in my ear, “Hey, let’s give them a show.”

  Before I know what a “show” involves, Haven’s lips are on mine. There’s nothing romantic or erotic about the kiss, however. My best friend’s lips feel warm and soft as they press against mine. I know the intent behind her action is born purely from affection, so I kiss her back. Soon, though, there’s whooping and hollering and calls to “touch each other’s tits.”

  “Okay, that’s enough of that,” I murmur, breathless and dizzy as I take a step back.

  Haven laughs. And we continue to dance, albeit with less grinding, until the song ends.

  When the next song begins and it’s nothing we like, she grabs my arm. “Come on, Essa,” she says. “I think we need more shots.”

  My head is spinning, and everything is kind of fuzzy. But who am I to ruin our good time? Intent on being a good sport, I heartily agree that more shots are what we need. On our way to the bar, though, a sense of uneasiness creeps over me. Even in my inebriated condition, I feel as if Haven and I are being watched. Some deep intuition warns me that these are not college-boy stares.

  Glancing up to a raised portion of the bar overlooking the dance floor, I spot two men in business suits watching as Haven and I make our way through the crowd. The men, who are clearly older than us, try not to be blatantly obvious. When they catch me staring at them, they turn away quickly and engage in conversation. I assess them. Maybe they’re not so bad. They’re both nice-looking, and compared to the rest of the guys in the club, these men ooze suaveness and sophistication.

  Feeling brave from the alcohol, and with clearly impaired judgment, I lean in close to Haven and whisper loudly in her ear, “Two hotties at three o’clock.”

  Her eyes dart over to where the men are seated at a high table, giving them a commanding presence.

  “Oh, hell, Essa,” Haven gushes over her shoulder to me. “Good pickup. Hmm, wonder what two guys like that are doing here. They’re not kids,” she continues, stating the obvious. “They must be at least thirty.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure,” I muse.

  Stopping in the middle of the crowd, she spins to me, bounces on her toes, and says excitedly, “We should go talk to them. This could be your chance, Essa. Maybe you’ll like one of them.”

  “Whoa, slow down,” I say.

  This is a level of enthusiasm I don’t know what to do with. Personally, I’m nervous as hell at the thought of actually meeting these strange men. Suddenly wishing I’d kept my mouth shut, I step around Haven. Over my shoulder, I say lightly, “Jeez, Haven, didn’t you get enough of older men with Professor Douche Fuck?”

  She catches up to me, leans in, and says quietly, “Aww, you’re just nervous.”

  “Damn straight,” I reply.

  “Trust me, Essa,” Haven continues. “If you’re fortunate enough to experience an older man—one who knows what he’s doing—then you’ll understand.”

  I make a scoffing noise. “No thanks. Older, younger, the same age, I’m really not interested. You know I’ve sworn off sex.”

  Haven stops and levels me with an are-you-kidding-me expression. “I never thought you were serious,” she says.

  We’ve reached the bar, and we wedge our bodies in between two standing patrons. Haven is facing me, inches away, as she hisses, “You need to forget about that God-awful, three-thrust experience you had with the study-partner dude.”

  “He wasn’t a study partner,” I mutter, just as the song in the background is changing. “He was cowriting an article for the school paper with me.”

  “What?” she yells over the now very loud music.

  I yell back, “He wasn’t my study partner.”

  “Whatever,” Haven says, shrugging her slender shoulders. “In any case, you need to dust yourself off and get back on the horse.” She nudges my arm. “Like, literally, Essa.”

  “I don’t know…” I’m glad it’s dark and she can’t see me blushing. “…maybe.”

  Despite my embarrassment, I can’t deny that Haven has a valid point. I sometimes thin
k the same thing. Maybe that’s why I’m still taking birth control pills, even after the Saint Patrick’s Day bad-sex debacle. I lie to myself. I tell myself I stay on the pill for clearer skin. But, really, there’s one guy I’d scrap my no-sex-ever-again plan for—Haven’s brother, Farren. And maybe that would have been in the cards, if New York was happening.

  But it’s not, alas…

  My gaze flickers to the two men in the bar. They are both older, like Farren. One has dark hair, the other is a blond. From far away like this, and with inebriation blurring my vision, I start to think the dark-haired man could pass for Farren. Maybe.

  Dark-haired Man catches me staring. He nods and lifts his drink—something that looks like whiskey in a rocks glass.

  Beer goggles or not, while staring at the Farren look-alike, I dreamily murmur to Haven, “Hmm, maybe you’re right. Maybe I should, uh, how did you put it? Get back on the horse, right?”

  I don’t dare add that I may be drunk enough to pretend my dark-haired admirer is Farren. I’d never tell my friend—who’s currently staring at me, mouth agape—that I lust this hard for her brother. She’d probably think I’m crazy, considering I’ve never even met Farren.

  Losing the shocked expression, Haven clears her throat and says, “You know what, Essa. I’m proud of you. You’re being daring.” She studies me, glances at the guys, and then returning her gaze to me, says, “You like the dark-haired one, don’t you?”

  “He’s okay,” I say, shrugging.

  Jesus, I hope she doesn’t notice the man’s resemblance to her brother.

  But I don’t think she sees the connection, since she starts pulling me in the direction of the men. “Come on,” she says, laughing. “Let’s go get you laid.”

  I grimace. I may talk big, but am I drunk enough to have sex with a stranger?