Entwined

by Kat Catesby

  “Move up a seat, Emilia,” he whispers and nods to the empty space next to me.

  NO. NO. NO.

  My brain is screaming at me to stay put so that I can escape.

  Why the hell do I need to escape?

  He’s just some college kid…a mind-blowing, devastatingly handsome college kid, granted. What the hell is up with me?

  I shuffle into the next seat, dragging my satchel across the floor and fumbling as I drop my pen. He glides effortlessly into place next to me and produces his laptop in record time. I frown at the weird sort of elegance he seems to possess as I finally grasp the tip of my pen from where if fell awkwardly underneath my seat.

  “Frowning doesn’t suit you,” he says smoothly.

  ? (That’s all my brain can manage at this point).

  I face the front and try to breathe fresh air deep into my lungs in the hope of restoring my equilibrium.

  What do I do now?

  He’s basically asked to sit with me, and he knows my name already?

  “How do you know my name?” I manage with a lot more confidence than I actually have.

  “It’s the only female name left on the attendance list,” he directs my gaze with a jerk of his chiseled chin towards a piece of paper that seems to have materialized from nowhere. The ‘Attendance List’ that made its way up one half of the lecture hall for students to sign and is now working its way back down to the front of my half of the lecture hall. He signs next to his name with a flourish and hands it to me and sure enough, I’m the only girl left on the list and given that there are no other women sat in front of me, I guess it wasn’t much of a deduction. I shift awkwardly in my seat, hyper-aware of his intense staring and sign my signature before leaning down the row to pass the sheet of paper along.

  “As you know my name, I feel you have me at a disadvantage,” I try to sound light-hearted, but I’m not even convincing to my own ears.

  He gazes leisurely at me, a smile from some inside joke tugging at the corners of his full, perfectly sculpted lips. “My name is Jackson Smoak,” he eventually answers and extends his hand to me.

  Alarm bells start ringing deafeningly in my ears and I willfully ignore them and place my hand in his. “Emilia Vincent,” I reply, his firm hand gripping mine.

  He opens his sexy mouth to say something but I’m saved by the entrance of a portly, stony-faced Professor with a master-of-the-universe complex who begins his lecture with the ‘appropriate’ amount of freshman bashing.

  At some point, I notice that I’ve zoned out his drone and am doing a convincing job of not wasting all of my concentration on Jackson. I’m not sure I can tell you what I did think about, I suspect it was nothing at all, given how shell-shocked I am by this point. I can tell you that my brain outright refuses to acknowledge my crazy hallucination and all of the frightening emotions that went with it.

  After an age, the lecture is over and students begin packing up their belongings – I look down to see that I haven’t written a single thing.

  Hmm, perhaps this isn’t the subject for me after all.

  “So, when is good for you?” Jackson asks.

  I grudgingly turn my attention to him and stare at him blankly.

  “Did you pay any attention?” His accusatory tone grates and my spine snaps in irritation, so I give him my best don’t-fuck-with-me frown, all the while ignoring his nagging comment about frowning not suiting me.

  He has the good grace to smile apologetically and points to a hand out that has found its way onto my notepad. I stare at it quizzically. Did he put that there?

  “We have a small paper to write in pairs for next weeks’ lecture, so shall I take your number and call you to arrange a time to work on it?”

  My brain races to process this and catch up. We have to write a paper? I have to see him again? He wants to take my number? I hear the alarm bells again…

  “Friday, at 11 am in the library. That’s my study time anyway so if you can’t make it at the last minute it doesn’t matter as I’ll be there anyway.” I’m surprised by my quick thinking.

  “You have a study day already?” he mocks.

  “Sarcasm doesn’t suit you,” I retort airily, repeating his words to me and feeling a glimmer of smug satisfaction.

  “So, that’s a no to having your number?” He smirks as he stands.

  “No…it’s a ‘Hell No’ to you having my number.”

  Dark amusement flashes across his face and something dangerous flickers in his eyes, but right now I don’t want to think about it, so I walk past him, march down the stairs and out the door without a backward glance.

  Chapter Two

  I spend the rest of the afternoon trying – and failing – not to analyze everything about my encounter with Jackson.

  He has me in a spin; I don’t know what the hell I saw when he looked at me and I have even less of a clue about what I’m supposed to feel about it.

  It doesn’t take much to realize that the non-alarm bell, non-screaming half of my brain thoroughly enjoyed the idea of being held tightly by him. I want to be that close to him, to be completely intoxicated by his presence…his strength…those eyes…that scent…I want to be close enough to press my lips against his to see if he tastes as good as he smells. I want to know if he fucks the way he kisses; with confidence, power, and prowess.

  I want to know where the hell that last thought came from.

  I think it’s safe to say that I’m running on hormonal desire right now.

  And what’s with all the screaming alarms anyway? Why on earth am I compelled to want to get away from him and be a hostile bitch when I can’t?

  I know he’s a player, but that’s really no justification for my antagonistic behavior. And there really isn’t anything untoward about your classmate wanting to exchange numbers so that you can both arrange to write a paper together.

  And how can I want to keep a very safe distance from him at the same time as wanting to invade his personal space? I’m starting to think I need some serious help…professional help. I’m a freaking head-case.

  Then there’s the one question that perhaps I should’ve been focusing on all along…why, at the last minute, did he choose to sit next to me?

  I sure as hell wouldn’t willingly sit next to someone who was staring at me like an idiot, so why did he? And if he, somehow miraculously, didn’t notice my little meltdown, it still doesn’t explain why, out of all the empty seats and many beautiful girls in that room, he sat next to me.

  He didn’t even take an empty seat; he demanded that I move to accommodate him. At the time, I didn’t think to look and see what his friends made of his behavior; one minute he’s following them and the next he’s bailed and sat with a strange, shy, openly hostile girl that he decides shouldn’t frown.

  To say I’m confused is an understatement.

  * * *

  Friday comes around too quickly and I find myself sat in a quiet corner of the library with my stomach in my mouth.

  This inconvenient organ relocation prevented me from eating any breakfast and that won’t help my goal to be less of a bitch with Jackson…because let’s be honest, I had no real reason to be a bitch last time.

  I wish I could say that I haven’t given him a second thought since Monday or that I haven’t been secretly hoping to see him around campus – preferably not with his tongue in another girls mouth – or that he and his compelling eyes have not been invading my thoughts and distracting me numerous times a day...

  …I wish I was a better liar.

  But I’m more than a bit pathetic and I’ve thought of nearly nothing else. The warning portion of my brain has been completely overpowered by the half that has enjoyed this intoxication. This hungrier, dirtier part of myself wants to strip Jackson completely naked and…oh…that is not a suitable daydream for the library.

  I’m studiously ignoring the fact that I haven’t slept properly since I met him and that twice this week, I’ve woken up screaming at the
top of my lungs, drenched in sweat and too terrified to cross-examine the nightmare.

  The lack of sleep is also not going to help me be nice towards Jackson, because my good conscience won out regarding my attitude towards the mysterious man who irritates me. I weighed my options: on the one hand, I could be rude to him to get him to leave me alone, but that didn’t work out so well on Monday, or I can be polite and hope he quickly discovers how shy and boring I am and then leaves me alone. I went with option two…mostly because I don’t like being mean to people.

  There’s also the small, deluded voice that says if I am nice to him, maybe he’ll get naked with me…that’s the voice that confuses me the most. I desperately need to work out my jumbled feelings towards this man I barely know, so my plan is to be civil – not going to be easy on an empty stomach with no sleep – and to get this paper sorted as quickly as possible so that I don’t have to see him again. That way, I get my life back…uncomplicated and unconsumed with thoughts of him.

  To get me out of my own head, I decide listening to music is the relaxing way forward, so I grab my headphones and head towards the stacks containing the Astronomy textbooks and journals.

  The music soothes my jittery nerves with its soulful melodies. I have an eclectic taste in music ranging from rock to cheesy pop – mostly it’s anything I can sing and dance to, but today I’ve selected a playlist I created to chill me out. It only contains songs with soft, melodic beats and soulful voices; the type of songs created to envelop you and allow you to lose yourself in the peaceful rhythms.

  It works, and before long I’m swaying to the beat and slowly dancing along the bookcase until I locate a suitable textbook; this corner of the library is unusually quiet, so there are no witnesses.

  I don’t see him, but I can feel his eyes pouring over me and I stop mid-sway to turn and see him casually leaning against the bookshelf a meter behind me, his delicious lips pulled into a lazy grin as his eyes rake over me from head to toe.

  I feel naked from his perusal and the dirty voice in my head loves it and wants to play filthy, sweaty games with the sexy specimen before me. My rational brain wants to re-engage with my mouth and pick my jaw up off the floor.

  In the dusty light of the library, Jackson looks…indescribably handsome. All sex-on-legs in his casual jean, shirt combo with disheveled dark hair and killer cheekbones.

  Fuck me.

  I want him.

  Right here, right now, in the middle of the library. I want this man I barely know to pin me against the bookcase and fuck me hard and senseless. Blushing at my wayward thoughts, I try to regain my composure as I remove my headphones.

  “Hey, beautiful. Sorry, I’m late,” he murmurs seductively.

  Shit. Breathe Emilia, breathe. “Hey,” I reply lamely.

  “Found anything interesting?”

  “Well, I don’t really know what I’m looking for considering I paid zero attention in class. I can’t even tell you the Professor’s name,” I admit sheepishly.

  “Yes, you did seem a little…preoccupied,” his full watt smile derails my thought process. He knows.

  He knows the complete brain frazzling effect he has on me and I get the impression he’s enjoying watching me stumble and blush, and I don’t know what possesses me, but I actually giggle at this remark.

  “That’s a lovely sound,” he says sincerely.

  “It’s the first time I’ve laughed in weeks.”

  Jackson seems momentarily upset by this, but the expression disappears as quickly as it appeared leaving me to question what I saw.

  “Dr. Ashton,” he says as if he’s talking perfect sense.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The Astronomy Professor. His name is Dr. Ashton. This is probably a good one to start with,” his large hand selects a book and heads back toward my table where I notice he’s already set out his notepad and laptop.

  How did he know this was my table?

  “It’s the closest table to the Astronomy section and I remembered you had a blue bag,” he answers my unspoken question, which freaks me the fuck out. “You look confused by how I knew you were sitting here,” he says by way of explanation, inadvertently reading my mind again.

  We sit in silence for a few moments while he flicks through the textbook and I feel compelled to try and make conversation.

  “I’m sorry if I was rude to you the other day,” even if you totally asked for it by giving me stick for frowning and not paying attention…yeah, that’s the hangry voice talking.

  “I wasn’t aware that you were, and anyway, it’s always healthy for me to remember that not every woman wants to throw her number my way,” he smirks. It’s a dangerously hot, flirtatious smile and I feel my composure going up in flames…much like the rest of me.

  “Yeah, guess I didn’t feel compelled to give it to you when every time I see you, you’re in another compromising position and always with a different girl,” I tease. “I’m not the notch-in-a-bedpost type of girl.”

  “That fact, I am acutely aware of.”

  What does that mean?

  I’m not so socially awkward that I can’t get laid if I want. My preference is to have genuine connections and relationships, but I could hook up with a guy if I wanted…right? I frown at the numerous connotations his remark has.

  “I wasn’t trying to be unkind when I said frowning doesn’t suit you, you have a beautiful face that doesn’t deserve to be screwed into a frown,” he says as if me being beautiful is some sort of common knowledge fact. My face burns fiercely at his compliment.

  “But how else am I supposed to express my displeasure at you? Roll my eyes perhaps?”

  His chest vibrates with a deep laugh that does strange things to my already rubbery insides. “It’s probably more that I don’t like you frowning at me as opposed to there being something wrong with your face when you do it, which seems to be how you’re interpreting it,” I swear he really is reading my mind.

  “Well, I’ll interpret that to mean that you don’t like being the reason I frown,” I tease and his beautiful eyes flicker with amusement.

  “Not when I have a thousand ways to make you anything but displeased with me,” he murmurs wickedly.

  Holy shit.

  My heart just stopped beating. I’m teased with the imagery of me straddling him where he sits and kissing him as if my life depends on it. One fist in my hair, holding my face to his while his tongue devours me shamelessly, while the other arm wraps around my waist, clamping me in place so I can feel every solid inch of his impressive erection through his jeans…

  “Your blush just got worse,” he indelicately points out. “Tell me, what were you thinking to inspire such a reaction?”

  Not a chance, my brain screams. There’s no way in hell I’m telling him the dirty details that just crossed my mind.

  “I’m thinking that we’re not getting very far with this paper.” That’s the best I can come up with to steer our conversation back to safer, non-sexual sounding territory.

  He looks at me, brows raised, as if to argue with me but thinks better of it and starts pointing out useful sections of text that we can use for our paper, while I work on a structure for the content we intend to use.

  I quickly discover that I’ve underestimated Jackson and assumed he’s nothing but a hot-jock-player type who’s lacking in the brain cell department. Turns out, I’m very wrong. He commands my attention with a sharp intellect I hadn’t credited him with having and speaks with such confidence I find myself envious of his self-assurance.

  After an hour or so of productive work – miraculously I somehow managed to acclimate myself to his presence so that I wasn’t dumb-struck every time I looked at him – he began moving the conversation back to personal territory again.

  “So, tell me about yourself? Big family? Only child? Hate your parents?” he probes lightly.

  “Only child. Adopted. Love my parents. Great childhood. Nothing particularly interesting to report. You?” I
sound like I’m reeling off a shopping list.

  “Just me, my dad and my brother who’s off traveling the world. My mother died when I was young, but we still had a pretty good childhood.” He’s very blasé about it and I have a lot of trouble trying to picture him in a family setting; he’s just too masculine, too dominant.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “It was a long time ago, I’m ok with it. Did your birth parents pass away?”

  I stumble a moment before I answer – I don’t give them a lot of thought. “I don’t know. Maybe not though as I was abandoned when I was a couple of days old and adopted a few weeks later. No one knows where I came from. My parents looked into it and I think they found something, but it can’t be good as they never told me and they are crazy insane when it comes to my safety.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not. It genuinely doesn’t bother me and I barely give them any thought. I’ve had a great life with parents who love me. Maybe I’m being harsh, but I suspect life with parents who could abandon a child with no explanation would probably have been shit. I got the better deal and I wouldn’t change it. James and Margot are my real parents, as far as I’m concerned.”

  He smiles kindly at me and waits a few moments before hitting me with his next, quite frankly random, question.

  “Why do you wear contacts?”

  “Why does anyone wear contacts?” I suppose he has been close enough to my face to have noticed the lenses, but still, he must have really been paying attention.

  “Well, generally it’s to correct vision impairments,” he retorts in an amused yet patronizing manner. “But yours are colored and I’m curious to know why? Most people who wear colored contacts do so on Halloween so that they can have lime green eyes or some shit like that. Today isn’t Halloween and your eyes are a normal looking pale blue.”

  I stare open-mouthed at him with a look that probably resembles a fish; he really paid attention. No one’s noticed that before.