Chemical Attraction: The Social Experiment 3

by Addison Moore

  “Shit.” Dexter appears above me, his face warbling in and out like a bad movie.

  “I’ve hit my head,” I whisper stupidly.

  “I think you’ve hit just about everything you own.” He gently removes my helmet and helps me to a sitting position. “Look at me,” he says it stern, and oddly—two collapsed lungs be damned—he’s lighting a fire in my panties that I alone won’t have the power to put out. “You might have a concussion.”

  “I don’t, I can promise you that.” Concussion equals hospital and I’m not going. I do my best to sit up my gaze still pinned on his. “Your eyes look so amazing,” I muse as I take in their crimson glory. He pulls me over his lap and lands my cheek against his chest until I’m relaxed, catching my breath as I gaze up at him in wonder. “How I wish you were anyone but Dexter Houston.” Crap. I hate it when my mouth goes off without my permission. With my luck, my brain has rewired itself and that’s all I’ll ever be able to do again.

  “Now that’s interesting. Who would you rather I be?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s rename you. Lester Grubs?”

  His brows flex a moment. “I’m sure we can do better than that. Give it another go.”

  “Lester Grubs was the janitor at my middle school. He looked the other way when I threw away my uneaten lunch. I hated cafeteria food.”

  “And I’ve earned his esteemed moniker by what criteria?” He pulls back and inspects me again. “I’ll have you know, I’m rethinking the concussion. You might need a medic after all.”

  I shrug. “Fine. I’ll call you whatever you want, just no doctors. I’m terrified of needles, and I hate hospitals. The only way you’ll get me near one is kicking and screaming.”

  “Really?” He offers up a lopsided grin, and my stomach does that adolescent roller coaster thing. God how I hate that adolescent roller coaster thing, but so few things give it to me—outside of an actual roller coaster—I rather appreciate the ride. “Your next date just so happens to take place in a—”

  My finger lands over his lips, sealing them shut. “Don’t even think about it. It’s bad enough I eviscerated myself to help nudge your Nielsen ratings. You can thank Seth for that by the way. I hope he gets a raise. My mother will be getting the heart attack, thank you very much. She’s not one to air her dirty laundry. And I aired it, shook it out, and rubbed the grimiest part in the camera’s face.” I tuck my forehead to his chest a moment as the feeling comes back to my body once again.

  “Seth, huh?” His fingers warm my arm as a sweet breeze trickles by, forcing the summer grass to bow in a sea of rippling waves. “I’m sorry if you felt pressured to do something you weren’t ready to do.”

  “Ready?” I pull back to get a better look at him. “I’m pretty sure I’d never be ready to do that.” A ragged breath escapes me. “Oddly, it felt like getting a weight off my chest. I guess I should have told someone earlier, anyone outside of the millions I waited to divulge it to.”

  “Can I ask how your relationship with your father is now?” His fingers dig softly in the back of my hair, and I curl in closer to him like a kitten.

  “I haven’t spoken with him in about two years. He eventually cleaned up enough and got a job out in California. He married an artist in Venice, and they work as a team trying to hawk her work. My mom says he’s finally at peace, whatever that means.” All of the anger, the hurt I’ve felt toward my father bottlenecks in my throat, and I can’t get another word past the painful congestion it’s caused. I bite down on my bottom lip hard, trying to fight the unexpected tears that demand to join the party. My chest bucks, and I struggle to rein it in. “Sorry, I must have hit my head harder than I thought.” I do my best to give a little laugh. A tear or two escapes me, and I hate that I look like such a child. “I guess I just wish he didn’t leave my mom in the dust like that, you know?”

  Dexter wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me in closer. “People can be idiots.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s sort of the leader of the pack. He’s the fearless idiot leader, and I never want to be like that. Nor will I ever attach myself to anyone with a remote wandering eye.”

  “Thus the relationship issues.” He nods as if agreeing with himself, and I give his chest a generous swat.

  “Are you analyzing me?”

  “Nope.” A dark laugh rumbles from him. “I’m simply saying I can see why you would be cautious.”

  “Darn right, I am. You only need to touch a hot stove once to know you don’t want to get burned again. I don’t do relationships.” Sophie and Vi appear in the theater of my mind, shaking their heads at me. “I mean, traditionally speaking.” I’m back to batting my lashes at him. “So, what has you so freaked out about commitment? I heard you loud and clear on night one.”

  His gaze glides past me into the horizon, his eyes wide and blank as if he were staring into an abyss. “Some people aren’t cut out for the long haul.”

  “Like you?” I tap my finger over his chin, playing with the soft divot that’s hardly noticeable to the naked eye. And, my God, my eyes would love to see this man naked. I mean, is that a bowling ball he’s stuffed into those bike shorts, or am I sitting on a boulder? There are some things you gotta see for yourself to believe. Amiright, or amiright? I give him a little wink without meaning to, and he sighs as if surrendering.

  “My sister died when she was six. I was ten at the time. She was the world to me, my favorite playmate, my best friend. It was my job to protect her, and I couldn’t do it. She fell out of a tree house at a neighbor’s. She was in a coma for two weeks. She never came out of it.” He blinks hard, and his lashes line with moisture. That’s all it takes. Tears pour from me, and they’re all for Dexter.

  “I’m so sorry.” I bawl as I wrap myself around him. Dexter had become an anchor in an angry, unstable world, and the wind is threatening to blow me away like a withering leaf. “That’s so terrible. I can’t imagine how you’d ever recover from that.”

  “I have an older brother. He helps. But you don’t get over it. I don’t expect to.” He gently wipes the tears from my cheek, and I reach up and catch a lone tear pooling in the creases of that pained smile he’s putting on for me. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “It’s not a mystery why you don’t want to stick around. You’re afraid you can’t protect them.”

  His affect falls flat. “Honey, I was dumped twice.”

  “Never mind.” I blink a quick smile. “Good thing I’m not a psych major.”

  “Good thing.” His forehead wrinkles, and I’m guessing there was a modicum of truth hidden in my analysis after all.

  My lips tremble uncontrollably. “What was her name, your sister?”

  His cheeks pull down as he presses his lips together tight until they glow unreasonably pale. “I haven’t said her name in years.”

  “Say it.” I give a little shrug. “You might find it makes you feel better. She was real,” I say it weakly. “Take the power away from death. You can still have that piece of her. It belongs to you.” I nod through the deluge pouring from me like a faucet.

  Dexter lands his forehead over mine, his lips flexing in and out of a dry smile. “Her name was Meghan.”

  His gaze hooks to mine, sharp and dangerous as if he were about to sail off the edge of his own emotional cliff, and I’d do anything to stop him, to save him like he saved me. So I do the only thing I can think of. I lean up and latch my mouth over his before he dives over the edge and loses his sanity. My lips linger over his as I twist my body to better accommodate the very action I have no plans of abandoning anytime soon. His mouth is hot and hungry, and he tastes like mint, so very delicious I cannot get enough. To hell with the rules. Dexter earned this kiss, and I’m giving it to him lock, stock, and smoldering hot barrel. I want it. And a part of me hopes he wants it, too.

  Dexter pulls me in close before digging his fingers into the back of my hair, his chest expanding beneath me, wide and spacious like a brand new pathway I’m a
bout to embark on. How I ever ended up here I will never know, but already I never want to leave. How I wish Dexter Houston was anybody else—some frat boy I met on campus, a bartender who I couldn’t help but make doe eyes with, the janitor at Leland—anybody but the man who spiked my heart on a spit and is relishing watching it burn. The man I spilled my heart out to for ratings.

  A soft moan floats from me as our kiss intensifies. His fingers glide down the nape of my neck as he warms my back with them. Dexter Houston wields his tongue like a molten hot spear as he lashes me with it, hot and fierce and in every way exquisite. I was supposed to seduce him.

  He was never supposed to seduce me.

  Dexter

  Ember Sparks was never supposed to seduce me, but now that she has, I’m curious about her motives. All day that kiss lingers in my mind like a grenade going off hour after hour. We clung to one another mercilessly for a small eternity before leaving that afternoon. Ember has been through a few tough situations, and for whatever reason, we met in the middle of our pain. Tragedy will do that to you—make you desperate, weak. It can compromise who you were meant to be, sanding down your rough edges when you least expect it. I didn’t want them sanded down. I prefer myself knife-sharp around the edges. It makes life more bearable, more palatable for those of us who need the grit inside of us just to survive. That’s how it felt after Meg died. Clawing my way to some semblance of sanity day after day. Even at that young age, I understood how necessary it was to steel myself against a world where anyone can be yanked out of your life brutally, barbarically like a tooth without Novocain. Yes, it hurt to lose my sister, but I wasn’t about to lose anyone else. Not like that. And as much as it was true, that I have been serially dumped, it’s also equally true that I paved the way for those most fortunate disposals. In the end, it was always me controlling the strings to our demise. The puppet master to my own heartbreaks. It feels better that way. I smell a rejection in the future, and I take a proactive stance. Not sure why I’ve never severed the cord myself. Now there’s something for Em’s armchair psychiatry. But I’m not about to lay it at her feet to chew on. Nope. In fact, I’m too focused on the fact I’ll be chewing on something myself in a few short weeks—a Porterhouse the size of my surname’s home. That’s right. A rare steak the size of Texas will be my reward once I land Ember’s frozen little heart in my hand. Memories of that kiss, the conversation that preceded that kiss comes to mind. She didn’t seem frozen or bitter that day, and I can’t help but wonder if the thaw came quicker than expected.

  I head into the Underground and find a seat in the back before ordering my usual three chili cheese dogs and an extra-large Coke. For some reason, working at Leland has me eating like a teenager again, and yet I don’t mind. I save the sushi and Sake for nights out. The Underground has come to be known to me as something more of a high school cafeteria that serves beer to minors rather than the glorified bar it strives to be.

  A couple of familiar faces show up and take a seat at my table, uninvited might I note, just as my food arrives. Rowen and Lane each help themselves to a chili cheese dog as I watch.

  “Please, take it all,” I say as they shovel them in, two bites at a time. “What brings you my way? Or was it simply the scent from my meal?” It wouldn’t surprise me at all if this were a new trend among college students, sitting wherever they please, eating off anybody’s plate. It’s a different day than it was ten years ago when I was a student here myself. Trish and I were already together at that point, and for a fleeting moment, I thought I had forever in the grasp of my hand—thus the proposal and the quickie wedding which followed suit. It’s not a memory I like to relive. My marriage to Trish, though brief, is a painful reminder that even the hardest of hearts—and those missing that proverbial vital organ such as myself—can still succumb to love’s illusion. But something good came of it—two things, Chelle and the kernel of an idea that led to my beloved research project, The Social Experiment.

  “Freaking good.” Rowen reaches for my drink, and I slide it out of reach.

  “Down,” I say as I glower at the two of them.

  Lane shakes his head my way. “Dude, she dyed her hair for you.”

  My lips curve with wicked delight at the idea. “She did, didn’t she?”

  Rowen lifts a brow. “It’s all Sophie and Vi talk about—how smitten she is with you.”

  “Smitten?” My ego floats to the ceiling.

  “Dexter.” Lane shakes his head. That pathetic look in his eyes is all for me. “Have you met Ember? She’s an unscalable wall—emotionally speaking.”

  Rowen nods in agreement. “She’s not your run-of-the-mill smitten kitten.”

  The thought weighs me down, and for the life of me I can’t figure out why. “What’s going on?”

  “We’re not sure.” Rowen glances to Lane. “But the girls are being funny about it and not in a ha-ha way.”

  “Oh, they’re laughing,” Lane assures me as he takes my drink, and this time I watch it glide across the table as he downs half of it. “And I think they’re laughing at you.”

  “But she dyed her hair.” My head inches back as I try to process this from every angle. “She kissed me. She melted in my arms like butter on a griddle and laid it on me for an hour straight. You can’t fake shit like that.” I close my eyes a moment at the vulgarity I tagged it with. That kiss was beautiful, perhaps the nicest of my life. “You think she faked it?”

  The two of them shrug at the thought before Rowen strums his fingers over the table.

  “So you think you’re inching your way to that Porterhouse?”

  “I know I am. I’ve got time. Long before these next few weeks are up, she’ll be professing her love for me from the rooftops.”

  Lane tips his head at the thought. “And the TSE?”

  “Screw the TSE.” I offer a shit-eating grin. “I built that heart-shaped world, and I can topple it if I want to. Besides, one miss is hardly a dent in the infrastructure.”

  “And when it’s over?” Rowen’s features harden as if he were pissed at what it might mean for Ember.

  “When it’s over”—an enormous breath fills my lungs—“I let her down easy.”

  Lane narrows his brows at me, looking just as ticked as Rowen. “You’d better, dude. You won’t just have Ember to contend with. You’ll have Sophie and Vi after you, too.”

  A dull laugh thumps from me. “It wouldn’t be the first time I had an entire league of women wanting to snap my balls shut in a vise.”

  They wince at the visual.

  “You’d better watch your back. I’m just saying.” Rowen takes another bite out of my meal, taking his time with it. “Ember Sparks isn’t one to mess with. Maybe you chose the wrong coed to get you that steak dinner.”

  “Maybe.” But I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure Ember is the only one I’d like to deliver this brand of affliction, but I don’t say it.

  Ember Sparks is going to fall in love with me whether she realizes it or not. Maybe the hair thing was nothing more than a joke. Maybe she thinks I’m one, too. One thing is for sure—she will fall in love with someone before the experiment is through.

  And that someone is me.

  * * *

  Thursday, Ember’s first day with Chelle, I decide to leave work early and head to the house, only they never made it. I call Chelle and discover they’ve gone on an adventure to Pine Ridge to visit a ceramic shop, so I head that way, too.

  Jolie’s Clay House is located on the town’s dusty main strip, right next door to a taxidermy shop and a bakery on the other side. I step in and find two enthusiastic girls sitting at an elongated table, the younger of which lights up like a Christmas tree at the sight of me.

  “Daddy!” Chelle launches my way like a rocket. “Isn’t this great? Paint with us!”

  I nod hello over at Ember who offers a vexing smile.

  Chelle gives my sleeve a hard tug. “You need to pick out a biscuit ware because it’s been fired from its job,
” she says it with such assurance I almost believe her.

  A husky laugh comes from behind as an older blonde with familiar vibrant eyes steps forward. “She means bisque—pottery that’s been fired once. All you need to do is paint it, and I’ll fire it for you free of charge and glaze it.”

  Ember swoops over between us. “Dexter, this is my mom, Jolie.” She wraps her arm around this older version of herself, and I can’t help but grin.

  “Jolie of Jolie’s Clay House?” I offer her hand a hearty shake.

  “That would be me.” She primps her hair and blushes at her brush with fame. “Go ahead and pick anything out. It’s on me today. Except maybe that oversized coffee cup the size of a bathtub. I don’t have a kiln big enough for it.” She dots a finger over her daughter’s nose. “Arlo is gonna help me talk to Elvis at the crematorium and see if he can help out with that.”

  Ember wrinkles her nose at the thought. “Good to know.”

  “It’s great to meet you,” I offer. “I’m Dexter Houston, Chelle’s—”

  “Daddy”— she wags a finger at me—“oh yes, I know. And you’re also my baby girl’s boss.”

  Ember’s pouty pink lips twist in a knot. “He’s my love master, too.”

  Jolie swats the air just shy of Ember’s lips. “Oh, hush for goodness’ sake. There’s a child present.” She leans in close to Chelle. “Hon, I’ve got an entire Disney collection on that wall over there. If you look on the third shelf, I have a Snow White that looks just like you.”

  “My mommy calls me Snow!”

  “Well, I can see why.” Her eyes brighten as she watches Chelle dart for the goods. Jolie rises to meet up with her daughter once again. “Now, tell me all the juicy details. How long has this little tryst been going on? Is this the love match that crazy turd you told me about paired you up with?”

  Ember’s mouth falls open a moment, a breath catching in her throat, and I’d bet money she was holding back a laugh. “No, Mom, this would be the crazy turd. He’s paired me with a boy named Lenard who is destined to have eight-foot-tall offspring right out of the womb.”