Chemical Attraction: The Social Experiment 3

by Addison Moore

  “I don’t know. Let’s see. How cold is it out tonight?”

  “About fifty-five degrees.” He bounces on his heels, proud of his short-lived stint as a weatherman.

  “What a coincidence—it matches your IQ.”

  He barks out a laugh. “I assure you it’s just a touch higher. You don’t get an eighty share of a primetime slot for nothing, sweetheart.”

  A flash of anger rings out through me like a tuning fork at the sound of that pet name he keeps trying to gift me, and the sudden urge to stab his eyes out with my needle-sharp manicure is real.

  “That’s right. You run this circus, don’t you? Rumor has it, you have to fail a personality test to work here.” I cringe a moment, hoping that neither Seth nor Petra heard, and judging by the fact they’re off sharing a laugh by the refreshment table assures me they didn’t. Not to mention the fact I’m supposed to be stroking, not bruising his ego.

  Dexter groans, his lids lowering another notch, and the sight sends the tenderest part of me into an involuntary spasm. “You really did ride in on a broom, didn’t you?”

  My mouth falls open at the witchy dig.

  Dexter steps in close, his body heat wrapping around me like a pair of searing arms. There’s something innately sexual about him that’s hard for even me to deny. As much as I’d like to rub his broken heart in his face, there’s a distinct part of my anatomy that begs to go there first.

  “You’re a colossal embarrassment to this university,” I hiss, completely overriding any false urges I might have had regarding the stroking of his oversized ego. “Once they unmask you, and they will, all they’ll find is a soulless body that is miraculously functioning without a beating heart.”

  “Action!” someone shouts from behind. “Let’s do this!”

  Seth pops up and buoys me to the makeshift stairwell at the base of Inflate-Gate Mountain. “About halfway down, the two of you will pause. That’s the perfect time to insert your story.”

  “My story? Oh, the sob story, right.” I glare over at Dexter for conjuring up this foolishness to begin with. Lenard and I hoist ourselves to the top of what feels like the threshold to outer space, and I’m shocked as hell I didn’t incur a nose bleed, or the fact my fillings haven’t imploded. Who knew there actually was a stairway to heaven? I glance down at the miniature people below and the ground as it pulsates in and out like a threat and quickly regret this little sidestep to sanity I’ve taken.

  Much to our surprise, there’s an entire production crew waiting for us at the top, and they’re quick to help Lenard and me into those inflated suits I spotted earlier. Only they’re not so much Sumo garb as they are Velcro-coated. It turns out, we won’t be gliding headfirst into a concussion after all. We’ll be struggling our way down the steep embankment on what amounts to a fly strip.

  “First one down wins the prize!” one of the interchangeable nameless, faceless handlers shouts.

  “What’s the prize?” I’m only mildly curious. If there’s a Porsche involved, I might just strip myself of this safety suit and nosedive down now. But I have a feeling it’s more of a booby prize—as in good old Lenny here will be moved to cop a feel before the night is through. I’d hate to see him do it. It will be awful hard to shoot from the free throw line one handed.

  “It’s up to you.” The nameless, faceless, utterly disappointing stagehand grins as he gives Lenard and me a push toward planet Earth.

  A shrill scream razors out of my lungs, shredding my throat and my vocal cords along with it. I will never forgive Violet Hathaway for turning what should have been the best year of my life into a variable first-class tour of the seventh circle of hell. Sure, Sophie and Vi each came away with the love of their lives—but what will I end up with? Judging by that wall of plastic I’m about to slap into face-first, a broken neck might just be an educated guess.

  Whoomp!

  “Shit,” I mutter into the stiff, grimy surface that my face is currently plastered to. The body suit I’ve donned is sticking to the fuzzy lines that run lengthwise all the way down this hellish thrill ride, and it’s not until I pry an eye open do I realize I’m still hanging out somewhere in the stratosphere. Lenard is nowhere to be seen. I crane my neck in every direction until I spot him about thirty feet below me, army crawling his way even farther away by the minute. “Crap.” It takes everything in me to rip myself from the bionic hold this seemingly innocent fat suit has on me. The sound of jeans ripping accompanies my every move, and if these are the acoustics I’ll be stuck with for as long as it takes me to get back to solid ground, I’m pretty sure I’ll be hearing this in my sleep for years to come.

  I rip and tear, curse and holler until I land sideways next to Lenard, panting like an imbecile while he looks as if he’s ready for a nap cocooned in his Velcro-fashioned hammock.

  A small blip on the screen of humanity jumps and waves his arms at me from below. Judging by that shining chrome dome, I’m guessing it’s Seth. He offers two enthusiastic thumbs-up. I take it this is where I throw myself a pity party.

  The blood rushes to my head as I try my best to right myself, but it’s no use. I look like an idiot strapped to a cutting board.

  Lenard nods my way. “So, Ember—tell me a little about yourself. What have been the defining moments in your life? What’s made you into the person you are today?” Each word comes out as staccato as the next. If the two of us don’t reek bad production from a defunct drama department, I don’t know what does.

  I take a moment to glare down at the army of cameras pointed at us like trained snipers.

  As much as I want to inform him that it was Dexter Houston and his giant donkey balls that have molded me into something short of a clown at a children’s party, I don’t. Instead, I segue into what it was like growing up poor in Pine Ridge, marginalized simply for the fact of the socioeconomic status of your neighbors. And before I know it, I’m shoveling out details regarding shady Eddie, the sperm donor who spilt his load to make me happen, then made my mother sorry for ever meeting him for the next million years before he did us the favor of taking off for greener pastures. I tell him about the waitressing gig at Buffalo Bills, where a pink sequin bra and panties were about all I was asked to wear, about the night Arlo found out I gave up on carving out a future for myself in order to help my mother keep her lights on, and how I eventually clawed my way into one of the most prestigious universities in the country.

  “And that’s essentially how I landed here with you,” I say, hiccupping through tears as Lenard takes ahold of my hand and does his best to roll his way over to me. A horrible ripping sound explodes from him, the sound I imagine a 747 makes while losing a wing at thirty-thousand feet—horrifically loud and frightening, considering what’s to come.

  Hey? Maybe this whole social experiment—this pour-your-soul-out date is all a bigger part of some cosmic agenda where I finally come face-to-face with my inner demons.

  Lenard launches over me with a thud, landing his inflated crotch near my face and his finger up my left nostril in an attempt to hold my hand. Or I come face-to-face with humiliation. Either way, it works.

  Needless to say, not a single romantic moment is to be had as Lenard and I work as a team trying to scoot ourselves down this nightmare one eardrum splitting move at a time. Once we hit the bottom, even the crew looks as if they’ve had it with us.

  “Did I win?” Lenard asks no one in particular, and exactly no one bothers to answer. Instead, we’re stripped of our mics, and Lenard takes off with a meager wave. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he just ducked into one of the trailers with a cute little thing from production.

  Seth comes up with a somber look on his face.

  “How’d I do? Am I affable? Or did I cement my status as the Wicked Witch East of the Rockies? I’m secretly rooting for the cute pointy shoes and a wand. Can production furnish me with those for next time? And I’d like to see about getting a big hairy mole placed right about here.” I dot my chin with my fi
nger, and Seth smirks.

  “You’re both, I think—an affable witch.” His brows do a little waggle. “And I’m not sure how you did it, but the jury is still officially out—for now you’re in the clear. So, no love connection yet, huh?”

  My mouth falls open at the implication. “You think Lenard and I are blowing this, don’t you?” We are, but the truth really does hurt. “Maybe if you didn’t hurl us down a toy mountain and tossed a lobster and a steak our way instead, we might actually get somewhere. I think both Lenny and I would rather nosh on some good food than bang our heads against a wall for a half hour straight. I’m pretty sure a concussion does not a romantic evening make.”

  He glances back to where his cohorts are huddled. “You know I think you’re onto something. I’ll run it by production and see if they agree. I’ll send you an email next week with details.”

  “I’ll be holding my breath.” I offer up a wry smile. “And, Seth? Thanks for suggesting I slit my guts open for the sake of ratings.” I wrinkle my nose. “It felt good in a strange way.”

  He offers a pat to my back. “If anything comes of this, it’s cheaper than therapy.” He takes off, and I can’t help but think a few more stunts like this one and I’ll need the most expensive therapy on the planet to excise my newfound fears from me.

  “You did great,” a deep voice strums from behind, and I turn to find Dexter darkened by shadows as the sun ducks down behind the chocolate mountains. His shoulders stretch wide as a linebacker’s. His features look much more chiseled in this dim light. He’s atrociously handsome in the most lethal manner possible, and a part of me demands to drop to my knees in worship.

  “I did lousy,” I say, plucking my purse from the bin I dumped it in and fishing out my keys. “Lenard and I have zero chemistry. I mean, wasn’t that the point?” I step in close to him, slightly pissed he’s made such poor decisions about my love life and yet more than greedy to take in his intoxicating cologne. “I need someone electrifying, someone who’s excited to be with me—who I’m excited to be with.” I get lost in Dexter Houston’s dark stormy eyes as my heart drums wildly in my chest. That dirty stubble on his cheeks indicates the end of another sexy day, and I can’t help but growl at him for making my insides melt like sugar over an open fire. Dexter Houston certainly doesn’t fight fair during daylight hours, but with the magic of night falling hard and fast around us, it makes him that much more delicious.

  “You need excitement?” His lips curve with wicked intent.

  I close the gap between us and give his tie a smooth tug. “I said I need someone exciting. There’s a big difference, Dexter.” I toss the tie back in his face. “Figure it out.”

  His jaw goes slack as that silly grin glides right off his face. It seems I’ve pissed the big boss off. Boo-hoo. I bet he’ll have me swimming through maggots next week just to prove the point he has that much power.

  “What did you think would happen on that whirlwind of terror?” I ask. “Is that your idea of a romantic date? If you had a hot blonde within arm’s reach, I hardly think you’d dress her in an impenetrable rubber suit and make her tumble around the fairgrounds of terror.”

  His lips twitch again in a way that’s beginning to both infuriate me and heat me up in all the right places.

  “I prefer brunettes myself.” A slow spreading smile erects itself, leaving his teeth glowing like the Cheshire Cat’s. “And no. My hot date would be nowhere near the fairgrounds of terror.” That perennially bored look crosses his face once again. “I’ll make sure your next date is so romantic, Cupid himself vomits on the saccharine scene.” He offers me a brief nod before taking off toward the parking lot. “Meet me at the Winding Rose Trail tomorrow at three.”

  “Tomorrow? But I thought I didn’t pick up Chelle until Thursday,” I shout after him.

  “You do. Tomorrow you’ll be given a different task.” He turns back, and the whites of his eyes flash like lightning. “Biking with me.”

  A laugh gets caught in my throat. Biking with Dexter. I shake my head.

  I’ll be there, all right. And something tells me I’ll be a brunette. There’s no way I’m losing out on free coffee for the next entire year. Every sip will taste twice as sweet knowing that I broke Dexter Houston’s haughty heart to earn it.

  * * *

  Brunette. Brunette! My hair shines a glossy—glorious shade of mahogany as I unload my bike from the trunk of my car and grab my helmet. There’s no way I’m donning this thing until Dexter has had the appropriate amount of exposure to my new luscious tresses.

  Moroccan Sand. That’s the color I went with last night while combing through the multitude of offerings at CVS. I threw in a teal eyeliner and a cherry-flavored lip gloss while I was there. The teal smudged over my upper lid makes my eyes pop like sirens against this new dramatic dark-haired backdrop, and that cherry lip gloss currently coating my pucker is going to make his mouth water once he tastes it for himself.

  That conversation I had with Sophie and Vi comes back to me, and I frown as I slam my trunk. Holding off on kissing Dexter, making him pant for it, only seems to infuriate me more. For some reason, everything about Dexter Houston infuriates me these days—with the exception of his sweet babe, of course. She’s an angel, and I know just the place I’m taking us when I pick her up from school Thursday—Pine Ridge to do a little dabbling in the arts. That way, she gets to paint all the ceramics her little heart desires, and I get to visit with dear old Mom. It’s a win-win. Besides, I’d much rather my mother is briefed on all that dark history I vomited out at Lenard’s feet last night. I’d die if she saw it on air without the proper priming. Arlo crosses my mind, and just as I’m wondering what to do about my brother, a tall, vexingly handsome man strides by with a pair of bike shorts vacuum sealing his rear—my limbs shake, begging to try to bounce a quarter off it.

  “Is that how you roll?” I shout after him, and he does a double take in my direction. “Invite a girl out for a date and then treat her as if she were invisible?”

  His eyes grow large as he takes me in. A frozen look of horror takes over his features, and I’ll be a horse’s ass if he confesses to detesting brunettes in the next five minutes. Quite frankly, I don’t care. I’ve made the move from blonde to bold, and I’m not changing it back for anybody. Every single time I’ve looked in the mirror since I’ve done the delicious deed, I’ve craved both coffee and chocolate. Coincidence? I think not. I’ve never met a man who’s had the power to whet my appetite quite the way Moroccan Sand has. And to top it off, I’ve already mentally booked a flight to Hawaii just to dig my feet in an oven-heated tropical beach. It might not be Morocco, but the flight time is shorter, and I can almost afford a one-way ticket.

  “September Sparks?” He stomps his way back as if he were affronted, his bike still dangling from his arm as if it were made of Styrofoam. But, judging by the way his biceps are frozen in a severe form of flexion, that bike might as well be made of lead.

  “That’s right.” I schlep my bike over to him while batting my lashes like mad. “Mama’s got a brand new banging ’do. Daddy like?” Holy crap. Note to self: google the shit out of decent pick-up lines when you get home. At this rate, he’ll think I’m certifiable and cheesy.

  The muscles in his jaw pop as he studies me with marked aggression. “Daddy like.” He shakes his head just enough as if approving of a meal he’s been dying to sink his teeth into, and I can’t help but giggle like a schoolgirl. If this keeps up, I’ll have Dexter eating from the palm of my hand—even if I am lacing the just desserts I’m offering up with arsenic.

  His brows pinch in the middle, and he ticks his head back suddenly. “What made you do that? Did you do that for me?” His mouth falls open, and he looks as if he’s holding back a laugh.

  “No! Hell no.” My blood boils at the thought of him getting his ego stroked into oblivion—and then, just like that, I remember it’s my duty to do so.

  Make him grovel. It will only taste sweeter when I pluc
k out his bleeding heart and crush it like a tin can.

  I clear my throat. “But then, maybe I did.” I offer up a cheeky wink before snapping on my helmet, hopping onto my bike, and hitting the trail ahead of him.

  Dexter comes up quickly on my side—riding against the cliff’s edge this time around, while I’m snuggled safely against the warm wall of granite. If one of us should fly off the edge this time, I’ll make sure it’s Dexter. Chelle’s beautiful face etches itself in the sky ahead of me, and I can’t help but groan. Okay, so homicide is completely off the table this afternoon, but that won’t deter me from verbally slicing off his balls whenever I feel like it. Sophie and Vi form in the sky in place of Chelle, and it’s an all-around shitshow. Okay, I get it. No slicing off any quasi-vital body parts. But none of the above visual hallucinations—real or imagined—will stop me from jabbing him with a dig every now and again. I mean, even the best relationships have a rationing of good-natured ribbing. Only in this case, his ego will slowly die by way of a thousand paper cuts. My tongue is sharp and wild. It’s a damn shame not to let it out of the stall every now and again.

  Dexter takes the lead and takes a left up ahead rather than pressing forward to the exact spot he dangled me by my pretty pony. I suppose he smelled the possibility of a friendly push coming on. I’ll admit, it was mighty tempting. I wonder how he’d like it if I took the opportunity to go on a groping spree before spinning him on his ear and dragging him to safety? Okay, so he wasn’t necessarily groping, but it doesn’t mean I have to hold back if the moment arises either. For a second, I lose myself in the thought of running my hands down that diamond-chiseled chest of his. Those furiously cut abs I’m sure he’s housing. Face it, you don’t get arms that look hulkish and leave the six-pack out of the fun. How I would love to slather him with ice cream and enjoy one delicious me—

  “Oh God!” I cry as my front tire hooks onto something and jackknifes right then left, sending me sailing over the handlebars and into the summer grass with its vibrant green loft. My body slams to the ground, my back hitting hard with a thud, and my head bouncing twice like a rubber ball.