Dil or No Dil

by Suleikha Snyder

  “Hmm. So, from clarity to a lack of clarity? That explains a lot.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” She scowled.

  “You’ve been making fun of me since the minute I knocked on your door, but I’m out of line?”

  “No.” He was…insightful. And that annoyed her. “And I’m sorry I made fun of you.” It was his turn to lift his eyebrows. “Okay, I’m a little sorry I made fun of you. Shouldn’t you be off discussing Ed Sheeran and Girls with someone your own age?”

  “I never do what I should.” He shrugged. And then he leaned across the table and kissed her.

  Dusty couldn’t have been more surprised if the world opened up and swallowed her whole. And Trev kissing her was infinitely less traumatic. His mouth was firm, tart from his beer, and sure. She tasted heat and sparks and opened her lips for him without even thinking twice. Less careful with her body than with her apartment door. Because here, now, she let him in without hesitation, leaning forward until the small high-top table rocked between them.

  He dug his hand into her hair. She curled her fingers into his shirt. They probably broke a public indecency law or two. And she didn’t care. “Let’s go home,” she said. “Take me back to 6A.”

  ***

  Two subway transfers and a wintry walk later, they were back in familiar territory: the dingy, dimly lit hallway of the 6th floor. The small talk they’d made between Williamsburg and Flatbush was white noise. Dusty couldn’t remember any of it. Or her sense. Or her long-standing bitterness about poor little rich kids in flannel shirts and trucker hats. Because kissing Trev had taken precedence.

  They made out in the painfully, wonderfully, slow elevator. Practically spilled out onto their floor and bumped through the hall like pinballs. She tried not to laugh too hard, moan too much, knowing that their neighbors could hear them, but his hands were everywhere…beneath her coat, under her shirt…and his mouth knew way too many dirty things for someone so young.

  “This is crazy,” she told him as he fumbled for his keys.

  “You’ll have the world’s shortest Walk of Shame,” he countered as he led her over the threshold.

  She caught him by the hand, tugging him close so she could whisper against his jaw. “Oh, honey. After I get done with you, it’ll be a Strut of Pride.”

  The apartment was dark. They navigated scattered shoes and boxes and a bicycle propped up against the wall. It was a one bedroom converted into two, and he led her—thankfully—away from a futon in the living room to the proper bedroom with a door. “My roommate’s out of town this weekend,” he explained, breathless from another round of ridiculously hot kisses.

  She shrugged out of her coat. Dropped her purse. “Is that why you were out trawling for a hookup? So you wouldn’t have to worry about performing for an audience?”

  “God, you are mean.” A laugh spilled out of him as he kicked off his shoes, the boots hitting a wall with a thump. “Are you going to put gum in my hair next? Pull my pigtails?”

  “Oh, I’ll pull your hair all right,” she promised.

  She heard his breath catch. And a flurry of movement. And then he was yanking her into his arms. The lean, skinny hipster had stealth muscles. His biceps were taut, his stomach flatter than hers would ever hope to be. He nipped at her lower lip before kissing her senseless and backing her up against the foot of his bed.

  Apparently bossy bitches turned him on. She wasn’t about to complain.

  No. All she had was encouragement. Instructions. Ones he followed to the letter. Undress me. Kiss my neck. Don’t stop. She yanked his Henley over his head. He unbuttoned and kicked off his jeans. And when he was naked above her, he just…stopped. Stared down at her. Those big blue eyes full of hunger and wonder and a dozen other things she never would’ve expected to see.

  Dusty had to laugh. “I really did not plan on hate-fucking my barely legal neighbor tonight,” she confessed, stroking a shaky line from his jaw to his stomach. And then lower still.

  “I am incredibly legal,” Trevor assured. He gestured to where her hand had stopped. “And not feeling particularly hateful.”

  No, he was feeling very amenable. About eight inches worth of affectionate. How had he hidden such a monster cock in all of those tight skinny jeans? It was a feat worthy of a circus.

  “We’ve been annoying each other for weeks,” she reminded, gently taking him in hand and reaching for a condom.

  “Foreplay.” He shuddered under her ministrations, hissing as the latex pulled tight over his erection. “Jesus, Dusty, you are so sexy.”

  She had no problems with her self-esteem. She still found this declaration a little hard to believe. “Barring tonight, you’ve only ever seen me at ass o’clock in the morning or late at night. When I look like shit.”

  “When you look like you’ve just rolled out of bed,” he corrected, his voice a sex-roughened growl. “You know that thing you said about wearing my boxers? I beat off to that image not ten minutes later. And a couple more times that week. And those sheep pajamas? Jesus. Sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  Oh. Oh, that was a lot to process. “You are seriously disturbed.”

  Trevor chuckled, not the least bit insulted, and settled between her thighs. “Says the woman who yells at strangers.”

  “You’re not going to mind that so much in a few minutes.”

  And Dusty certainly didn’t mind the pounding that ensued.

  In fact, they soon came to a mutually beneficial agreement that Trev in 6A could feel free to wake her up like this any time.

  Opening Act

  Reporter Saroj Shah has been in love with bass player and bartender Adam Harper since her first day of college—seven years ago. Forever thinking of her as part-friend and part-little sister, he’s just been too blind, and too clueless, to see it. Until one pivotal moment pulls her into the spotlight.

  The moment Saroj steps on stage, Adam sees his friend in a new light. He can’t take his mind off of her and realizes they could make beautiful music together. But seven years is a long time and Saroj is ready to move on. Adam will have to hit the right note if he wants to prove to Saroj he was worth the wait.

  Chapter One

  The music was brooding, dissonant, like Pearl Jam without the distinctive growl of Eddie Vedder’s gravelly vocals. The Brute Squad was the grunge scene over two decades later, playing angst and corporate apathy for girls barely out of their diapers when Kurt Cobain killed himself. It spoke to Saroj on a level she would never be able to explain, words she couldn’t translate for a non-speaker. It took her back to sixth grade, putting on too-large flannel shirts and painting her fingernails black as her mother clicked her tongue and bemoaned what “Amrika” was doing to her sweet little girl.

  “Arré, Saroj. What will become of you?” she’d ask in Gujarati, while Saroj pretended a few years away from Ahmedabad had made her forget the language.

  Whatever America had done, it was still doing now, as she gave herself up to the crashing guitars, the angry drums…and Adam Harper, with his strong, capable fingers stroking moans from his bass.

  Always Adam.

  What she’d become was a little…obsessed with him. More than was healthy for sure. The “what if?” was always there. Even now.

  And tonight wasn’t going to be the night Adam suddenly realized Saroj was his soul mate. The scales weren’t going to drop from his eyes. The heavens were not going to part and shower her with infinite wisdom. She wasn’t going to make a teen-movie transformation into the hottest chick in the room—and not just because she was a lot of years out of her teens. It was an ordinary night, like the several hundred that had come before it. There were no stars to wish on, no mystical portents, and no fashion fairy godmothers to save the day. There was only the sound of groupies squealing and the smell of spilled beer and adrenaline-laced sweat.

  And yet she still couldn’t stop staring at him. Not even when the guys wrapped up and began to disperse into the crowd. It was in these little
moments that she forgot she’d moved on, and guys like Sanjeev and Jake and Harry vanished into puffs of smoke; she felt like she’d never been on a date in her life.

  On a high from the two-set show, Adam was a walking, talking smile as he chatted with a few of the girls who always came out to support the band. He’d pulled off his lucky Cincinnati Reds cap, and his dark hair stood up in adorably messy tufts. His grayish-blue eyes were lit with laughter, and they matched his tight, clinging shirt…which showed its affection not by laughing along with him but by hugging him close. Saroj wanted to do that, too: plaster herself to his chest and breathe in his skin.

  She’d wanted it since she was eighteen. Though perhaps just a tiny bit less now. She was older, wiser, not quite so hopeless as that doe-eyed freshman.

  The first time she saw him—washing his hands in the sink of a dorm bathroom she hadn’t realized was coed—she decided he was Channing Tatum, Ryan Reynolds, and Josh from Clueless wrapped up in one tall, handsome, All-American package. She’d probably blushed and stammered more from that, than discovering she would be sharing a bathroom with a bunch of guys for an entire year.

  Even now, after graduation and a few years covering the local music scene, covering the band—and feigning journalistic objectivity—he stopped her heart. Stopped it. Started it. Owned it. He’d had it since college…tucked away with the collected works of Shakespeare and his engineering study guides.

  But if you asked Adam, the only thing he’d kept from undergrad was their friend Johnny Ray. They were best friends, roommates, practically joined at the hip, even though they were as different as could be. If Adam was midday, Johnny was two in the morning. Adam smelled like soap and sun; Johnny was sex and…sharpness.

  It crept up on her, the scent of him—not as overt as the offensive assault of Axe body spray, but unmistakable nonetheless, and jerked her out of her thoughts.

  “Hey, Saroj. Earth to Miz Shah.” The cologne was jarring, but the drawled greeting almost startled her out of her skin. Like she’d called Johnny to her side just by thinking about him. Candyman and Bloody Mary, sugar and spice. He said her name again, drawing out the “o” like a sex noise. “How you doin’, sweetheart?”

  Sweetheart. Seriously? Two years younger than them, the world’s least committed college senior, still majoring in partying, Johnny Ray Morris played lead guitar for the Brute Squad. And games. Oh, how Johnny loved to play games. Usually the kind that fell between Spin the Bottle and Seven Minutes in Heaven. “Honestly, Johnny. I don’t know if I should slap you or hug you.”

  “I vote neither.” He slid his arm around her waist and drew her close, all flirtation and fun as he charted the path of her gaze. His lips were warm against Saroj’s throat as he murmured, “How about we give the choirboy something to be jealous of, huh?” Just teasing. But his hand, inching its way up her thigh and bunching up her dress, was blazing hot and fully intent on following through.

  She slapped it away. Uh-uh. That was not happening. “Stop that. The choirboy doesn’t care,” she pointed out, glancing over to where Adam was up to his neck in starry-eyed college girls. They were three-deep at the bar, and Johnny could probably strip her naked and nobody would notice. Nobody except her, because while Johnny Ray Morris didn’t do a damn thing for her, she didn’t mind the things he was doing to her. Tingles. Heat. Want. Not as wanted as Adam could make her feel, but definitely better than a battery-operated boyfriend.

  No one had touched her like this lately. No one had bothered. That was what she’d tell herself later about giving in just a little. That it wasn’t because she thought it could make Adam jealous, but because she hadn’t been kissed by anyone in so long that Johnny’s attention felt like a full-on seduction. It was simple and flattering and good. Almost good enough.

  Johnny was drunk and blond and talented, and his chest under Saroj’s palms was hewn from hours of weight training. He was a pretty boy, GTL-ed within an inch of his carefree life. The only reason he wasn’t in the middle of all the girls clamoring for Adam’s attention was because he’d slept with most of them already. Hanging out with her on the fringes was basically a night off. Even God took the seventh day to rest, he’d said to her once.

  “Come on. Adam’ll care,” he assured her with another husky, persuasive laugh in his voice. “Believe me, he’ll care.”

  She didn’t believe him. But she still leaned into his kiss. He tasted like sin, like the Devil went down on Georgia, and it almost felt right. She hadn’t made out with someone for the sheer fun of it in ages…but Johnny Ray had other plans. He pressed her flat against the wall, angling so they were visible from the bar area. Everything Johnny did was underscored by deliberation. He had a director’s eye and always mapped out the band’s viral YouTube videos shot by shot. So this, too, he took charge of: putting her hands on his hips, tilting her head to the side so he could mouth her pulse and start work on a wicked hickey.

  The tingles he’d kicked off inside her wanted to turn into shivers. But she held back, focusing instead on the scene and playing the part of a lovelorn heroine grabbing a little action where she could. Johnny’s kiss was genuine, the enthusiastic advances of a guy who just liked women…and if she gathered correctly from some of his late-night hookups, also the occasional guy. He made it easy to need and to take. She hadn’t done anything like this in forever, hadn’t giggled at the sexy absurdity of a public make-out session. It was pretty ridiculous. And pretty fun.

  “You’re welcome,” Johnny whispered, justifiably self-satisfied.

  Just as she was about to thank him properly, he was yanked backward and nearly off his feet. Like a character in a horror movie…except the hand on his shoulder didn’t belong to a monster or alien. And neither did the voice growling, “What the hell, JR?”

  Adam.

  Saroj almost pitched forward, still scrambling for Johnny’s heat, his breadth and weight. She sputtered her own, “What the hell?” as she tugged down the skirt of her sundress. “Oh my God. What are you doing, Adam?”

  But he wasn’t even looking at her. He never really looked at her. His attention was focused on Johnny. And it wasn’t only attention. It was anger, disgust, shock, and a dozen other things she couldn’t name. Johnny threw off Adam’s grip and laughed, his sky-blue eyes twinkling with satisfaction. “Told you,” he pitched toward Saroj.

  “Told her what?” Adam asked, his handsome face a thundercloud. “What the hell is going on here? What were you doing, JR?”

  Johnny’s smile only got wider. “What you never will.” He shrugged, hooking his thumbs in his belt loops.

  Saroj tried to collect her wits. Johnny’s talent had scattered most of them and Adam’s interruption—who knew Johnny Ray would correctly anticipate that?—had pulverized the rest. But she was present enough to wince at Johnny’s observation, to duck her head and hide behind the curtain of her hair. God. How embarrassing.

  “Saroj?” Finally, Adam turned to her, gentling his voice and putting so many questions into the two tiny syllables that comprised her name. “You okay?” As if he had a right to ask after her, like Johnny had mauled her against her will.

  Johnny stepped between them before she could say anything. Adam towered over him, all long limbs and broad shoulders to his compact, gym-built body, but it didn’t faze him or put a stop to his sense of gallantry. “Leave her alone, man. She’s had an Adam Harper-induced chastity vow for years. This is on me. I was tired of watching her be a nun for you. I thought we could have a little fun.”

  God save her from misplaced heroics. Could the floor could open up and swallow her whole? She’d enjoyed his lips and his hands and his body…but Johnny Ray’s usefulness was swiftly coming to an end. “Shut up,” Saroj murmured, kicking at his ankle. She raised her head and swept her hair aside. “It is not just on Johnny. I was enjoying myself. I’ve missed fun.”

  Disappointment was written all over Adam’s face. That’s what he had for her: disappointment, judgment, pity. A nice variation on yea
rs of sympathy, compassion, and polite chitchat.

  “You know what? Forget it. Screw this. Screw you,” she snapped at Adam. “You’re not the boss of my social life.” She moved away from the wall. Let the boys hash it out; she was getting out of here.

  “Saroj, wait!” Adam caught up with her in two quick strides.

  “I’ve been waiting,” she said before she could think better of it. “And it’s been too damn long. Johnny Ray was up for a little playing, so I went with it. That’s it. It’s done. What more is there to say?”

  “Wow.” Adam exhaled in a huff, dragging his hands through his dark brown hair. “Wow, I’d say there’s a lot to say to that.”

  No. There wasn’t. She knew better. This was obligation, pure and simple. Some idea Adam had about honor and virtue and keeping her name out of Johnny Ray’s little black book. She’d known him too long, loved him too much. Now, with the taste of Johnny’s Southern Comfort still on her lips, it was finally time to let Adam go. So she shook her head and kept walking, shrugging past people until she was almost to the door.

  “Saroj, stop.” He didn’t grab her like he’d grabbed Johnny. Instead, he planted himself directly in her path. She had no choice but to collide with the wall of his chest. Only then did he touch her, closing his fingers lightly around her wrists. “Talk to me,” he said, like he actually wanted to hear the words.

  “That’s all I’ve ever done with you, Adam, is talk. And I’m tired.” She confessed it in a whisper, trying to avoid the sincerity flickering in his eyes. “I’m tired of watching you across a crowded room. I’m tired of coming to your shows. I’m tired of thinking you’re cute and shutting down my mom every time she suggests I find a nice Gujarati boy. I’m tired of holding on to even the tiniest bit of hope that all this talk is going to make you feel the same way as I do. And I’m tired of being tired. I’m over it.”