by K. Bromberg
“Well, since I’m more of the good-looking, financially stable, athletic type, I guess I’m golden.” His smile widens, proud of his answer.
“Far from it. I’d say more like silver.” I squint my eyes looking at the metallic color of his race suit as he steps toward me no longer blocking the sunlight and with blatant disregard for the line at his feet.
“Oh believe me, Quinlan, as long as it’s hard as metal, that’s all that matters,” he says, suggestion lacing his voice.
Did he really just say that? “Jesus. That right there is exactly why I’ve rejected you the other forty-two times you’ve asked me.”
“Well shit, I’m on number forty-three, so next time you’ll say yes.”
“Um, no,” I say with finality, but I can’t help the appreciation from coming through in my tone.
“Oh, Westin, I have your number, baby.” He takes a step back, and I glance back down to the line he’s cleared and smirk.
“Actually, you don’t.”
He laughs deep and loud and I know Colton will have heard it. Thanks a lot. “You’re right. I only have the number twenty but,” he says with a shrug, “I’m sure you’d be willing to work with that. Later, Quinlan.”
“Later, Luke,” I tell him as he turns his back and starts to walk away.
“One of these days you’re going to say yes,” he calls over his shoulder.
“No I’m not.”
“Yes you are,” he says one final time, causing me to laugh and wish I did feel something between us because hell if his unrelenting effort isn’t attractive in itself. Shit, it would be fun to take him up on the offer if not to just piss Colton off. Hm. Maybe I’ll do just that next time.
“What the fuck did he want?”
Then again, maybe I won’t. Not worth the trouble.
I turn to find Colton leaning against the wall, Gatorade in hand, fire suit unzipped, and chest grossly plastered with sweat.
“Um, you’re married now. You don’t need to flex your chest to try to get women anymore. It’s nasty.” Distraction at its finest.
“Didn’t have to try to get them before,” he says, emphasizing his point with the flash of a grin.
I just roll my eyes, first Luke and now my brother. I most definitely do not need to date a race car driver.
“You had to work to get me,” Rylee says as she walks up behind him and swats him on the butt.
He laughs and places a soft kiss on her lips. She pushes him away when he tries to take the kiss further. “You see that?” Colton says, tone playful. “Married for a year and she’s already starting to reject me.”
“You poor baby,” I mock.
“So did you say yes?” Rylee asks with a lift of her chin motioning to where Luke walked away.
Thanks, Rylee. I thought I was off the hook, but I guess not.
“Of course she didn’t say yes. My little sister is not going out with that asshole,” Colton says, toggling his head back and forth between us.
I’ve never understood what the big deal is. Luke and Colton went after the same woman. Colton won, big deal. Well, and then Luke threw a few punches because of it … and maybe, perhaps he let a bit of the hostility transfer over to the track a time or two.
“Cool it, Ace,” she says with a raise of her brows, beating me to the punch. “She can go out with anyone she wants. You’re not her keeper.”
I can see the muscle pulse in my brother’s clenched jaw as Rylee stands her ground with him—she’s the only person besides his best friend, Becks, and our dad who can.
“He’s an arrogant ass!” he spouts off, mouth agape like we’re both crazy.
“I seem to know someone else who was just as arrogant and just as good-looking,” she teases, holding her ground.
I can’t fight my smirk from spreading into a full-blown grin from Rylee’s comment that is right on target. Becks summons Colton to come over toward the car. He looks at me with the stern big-brother, don’t fuck with me look. It’s kind of cute.
And annoying.
“Relax! I told him no.” The pronouncement earns me a flash of a grin before he pecks a kiss on Rylee’s cheek.
He starts to walk away and then stops and turns back. “Keep it that way,” he warns before continuing over to Becks.
Rylee tsks out a sound as she follows something over my shoulder, and I turn to see Luke walking farther down the pits. He flashes me a grin before continuing into a building.
“You can’t deny that he is definite eye candy.” My neck hurts from the sudden whiplash at her words. “Oh come on, Quin, I may be married but I’m not dead.” She shrugs. “Don’t act like you wouldn’t see how many licks it takes to get to the center of his Tootsie Pop.”
And she says the comment so matter-of-factly I just burst out laughing. I swear to God all of the hormones she’s been taking to try to get pregnant have affected her usually demure manner.
“He wishes,” I say, still laughing.
“Well, he is persistent. You’ve got to give him that.”
“That’s all I’m giving him.”
Chapter 2
QUINLAN
The Southern California heat mixed with the second week of school has really done a number on me. I’m ready to melt into the cool air-conditioning of the Fine Arts offices as I pull open the door, tired from a late night hanging out with Layla—my fault but still aggravating nonetheless—and having had to deal with some dipshit undergrads in the teaching assistant session I just came from didn’t help matters.
Generally I don’t mind if a student doesn’t get a concept. I have no problem helping them so that they understand. But when the students are too busy chasing skirts and worrying about who the Trojans take on this weekend to listen, it’s not my problem they received bad marks on their first pop quiz.
And it’s not helping my mood that I need to get laid something fierce. And not by my own hand. There’s nothing worse than a woman in need of a good orgasm.
Or two.
Or three.
I drop my backpack on the counter with a sudden resolve to rectify the situation with the first willing candidate who meets my discriminating standards. Then again I’m on the verge of being desperate enough that I might throw them out of the window for the right mistake.
I start rifling through the bazillion pieces of paper stuffed in my mailbox—such is the life of a graduate student in the Cinematic Arts. Shit, save a tree people, use e-mail. I automatically toss the ones about elective seminars into the recycle bin without even reading them because at the beginning of a semester the last thing I have time for is something that does nothing to further help me write my dissertation.
“Quinlan! Just the person I wanted to see!”
As I turn around to face my graduate adviser, the smile comes naturally to my face since I’m one of the select few fortunate enough to be under her tutelage. “Hi, Dr. Stevens.” She gives me a stern look that causes me to laugh at the formality of my greeting, so I cave to her oft-repeated request and correct myself. “Hi, Carla.”
“Better.” She laughs the word out. “Now, I’m not looking for my husband when you say that,” she says, referring to her spouse, who is a cardiologist.
I nod my head in agreement. “Why do I have the feeling that I’m not going to like the fact that you wanted to see me?”
Please God don’t let her ask me to add something else to my already overflowing plate full of obligations, deadlines, and drafts I need to write.
“I’m kind of in a jam and I need your help.” She scrunches up her nose like she knows I’m not going to be too happy with what she’s going to say next. “Like I’ll give you a three-week extension on your first draft due date kind of help.”
I worry my bottom lip between my teeth and know that no matter what she asks, I’ll say yes. She’s my mentor for God’s sake. Anything not to disappoint her. “Okay?” I draw the word out into a question, fearful and curious all at the same time.
“Well, D
r. Elliot has brought in someone for a seminar that is starting”—she looks down at her watch and winces—“well, it started about five minutes ago actually. Anyway, he’s asked if I can help him. His TA, Callie, was supposed to do it, but she had a last-minute schedule change to accommodate one of her professors … and all of his other teaching assistants have classes right now….”
I bite back the urge to make a smart-ass comment about how Callie’s conflict is the need to flirt ridiculously with the professor she has the hots for, university protocol be damned. Instead I look at Carla and blow out an audible breath, certain that my expression reflects my displeasure.
I’m usually on top of all of the department’s goings-on but my last-minute trip to the Sonoma race to watch Colton mixed with playing bestie to nurse Layla through her unexpected breakup and the usual first month of school discord has left me in the dark about course specifics. It had better be a damn good class if I’m going to have to be stuck sitting through it.
“You know I’m agreeing to this because I’m already behind on my draft and need those weeks, right?”
“Exactly!” She smirks. “I don’t have that PhD behind my name for nothing.”
“That’s low.” I just shake my head as I reach over to grab my bag. “So give me the details.”
“You’re a lifesaver!” She reaches out and pats my shoulder. “So the seminar is on sex, drugs, and rock and roll in a manner of speaking.” She quirks her eyebrows up, asking if I’m okay with that.
Like I have a choice. I can just imagine some stiff professor giving a seminar about something so completely foreign to him. Now I’m going to have to waste my time mollycoddling someone when I have so many other things that would be a better use of my time. Sounds like a real barn burner.
“Who’s teaching it?” I ask, my tone reflecting the cynicism I feel over the contradiction between teacher and subject.
“A guest lecturer. I forget his name but he’s a member of some popular band.” She rolls her eyes. Her musical taste includes only classical music and jazz. “Oh and he’s cute,” she says with a smile and then cuts me off before I can ask her any more details. “Now shoo—he’s probably mangling the sound system as we speak. Microphone on upside down or something. Class is in the GFA building, room sixty-nine.”
Mentally I roll my eyes at the room number, thinking how something else that number represents would be a much better way to occupy my time than listening to a monotone oration. And I wonder how big of a name he can really be if Carla’s worried the he has his mic on upside down.
I shake my head one more time and sling my bag over my shoulder. “Thank you Quinlan,” she says in a saccharine sweet tone that makes me laugh.
“Just so you know, I’m cursing you right now,” I say over my shoulder as I open the door and begin the journey across campus.
I’m winded, hotter than hell, and cussing out Carla even more by the time I reach the closed door of the lecture hall. When I pull it open and step into the lobby, I can hear laughter from the students beyond the open theater doors.
Two coeds exit the bathroom across the foyer from me, both way overdressed for students attending a lecture, and one is applying lipstick while the other giggles uncontrollably. They walk past me and I hear hushed comments about how they “just had to see for themselves” if he’s as hot in person and “damn security for kicking them out” before they push through the doors I’ve just entered
My curiosity is now definitely piqued. Who the hell is the guest lecturer if there is security here?
Maybe it’s one of Dad’s friends. Stranger things have happened.
“So you see, it was the Grammys—it’s not like you can say no to him when he just won album of the year and asks you to hang out. Little did I know,” the male voice says in a low tenor that’s almost a contradiction: smooth like velvet but with a rasp that pulls at my libido and makes me think of bedroom murmurs and hot sex, “that I’d go with him and walk into a private club where everything is laid out like candy—drugs, women, record producers. He turned to me and said, ‘Welcome to Hollywood, son.’ Shit, I looked at Vince here and thought is this what I have to do to make it here? Play this game? Or can I do this the old-fashioned way? And I don’t mean sleep my way to the top either.”
The room erupts into laughter with a few whistles as I clear the doorway. I recognize him immediately. He may be on the stage at a distance but his face, his presence, is unmistakable. I’ve seen it gracing tabloids. TMZ, Rolling Stone—you name it, he’s been on their cover.
He’s Hawkin Play, front man and lead singer of the highly popular rock band Bent.
And according to his most recent press coverage, a man on the path to a drug-fueled destruction. So that exaggeration most likely means he was caught in possession of some drugs.
Why in the hell is he here?
I walk farther into the auditorium and falter at the top of the steps because just as my ears are attuned to his voice, my body reacts immediately to the overpowering sight of him.
And I sure as hell don’t want it to.
I tell myself it’s just because I need some action. That my battery-operated boyfriend is getting old and the visceral reaction of my racing pulse or the catch in my breath is just from my dry spell. Well, not really a complete dry spell per se, but rather a lack of toe-curling, mind-numbing, knock-you-on-your-ass sex that I haven’t been able to find lately. It’s the good lays that are hard to come by.
Don’t even think about it. He may be hot, but shit, I grew up with Colton, the ultimate player, so this girl knows what a player sounds and acts like. And from everything I’ve seen splashed across headlines and social media, Hawkin plays the part to perfection.
But the notion that just like the drug rumors blasted across the magazines, his reputation as a player could be manufactured just as easily lingers in my subconscious. I stare at him again as the class laughs, his ease in front of a large crowd more than apparent, and I immediately wonder if I had a chance with him if I’d take it.
What is wrong with me? My head says to stop thinking thoughts like that, things that are never going to happen, while my body is telling my legs to open wide.
I force myself away from thinking such ludicrous thoughts and focus instead on finding a seat in the room packed full of coeds. I begin walking slowly down the aisles, glancing back and forth to try to find an open spot but there’s not a single one available.
I glance forward to see a beefy guy walking toward me with an irritated expression on his face. It immediately hits me that I have nothing to prove I should be in this class, no paper, nothing to show to the security that appears to be bearing down on me that I’m not a fangirl and have a legitimate reason for attending the lecture. Well, maybe they’ll kick me out and then he won’t have a TA for the day.
Just one less class I’ll have to sit through. And one less asshole I’ll have to deal with.
He approaches me and reaches out a very muscular arm toward me. “Course paperwork?” He asks in a hushed whisper, trying to not disrupt whatever Mr. Rock Star at the front of the class is babbling on and on about.
I take in a deep breath, trying to figure how I’m going to play this. What I really want to do and what I know is right are two different things so I suck it up and take the higher road.
Reluctantly.
“I don’t have anything,” I whisper back. “But I’m the TA for the course.”
“Sure you are.” He chuckles with a roll of his eyes. “TA doesn’t stand for tits and ass, honey.”
I clench my jaw, reining in my frustration as we begin to draw the attention of those around us. “I just came from the department offices; I don’t have—”
“Is there a problem, Axe?” His liquid sex of a voice booms across the room, causing all of the heads in the room to whip over toward us on the stairway.
Axe, I presume, turns his body to look back at Hawkin, which opens up his line of sight to see me.
“No problem,” Axe says and before he can say anything else, Hawke speaks again.
“So nice of you to show up on time.” Sarcasm drips from his voice, and my eyes snap up to meet his despite the distance between us.
And I swear I hate everything about myself right now because I feel a jolt to my system and quick bang of lust between my thighs as our eyes connect and that slow, I’m-a-god-you-can-bow-before-me smile curls up one side of his mouth.
And damn it to hell if that doesn’t make him look even sexier.
But good looks sure as hell don’t make him any less of an asshole.
My own lips pull into a tight, scowling grimace, thoughts firing but the damn words don’t come because I’m still momentarily frozen by whatever just ricocheted between us.
“Well at least you’re quiet, huh? Not one to disrupt unless you count arguing with Axe on the stairs.”
How did I know he was going to be a prick? “I wasn’t arguing. I’m not a—”
“Look,” he says, cutting me off. “There’s one seat left and it’s right here.” He points to a space right in front of the lectern when a man hurriedly stands and vacates it. I watch the occupant stroll to the side of the room and turn to lean his back against the wall, arms crossed, grin wide, as all the while he shakes his head at Hawkin like they have a private joke between them.
He seems vaguely familiar but I don’t get a chance to figure it out because Hawkin speaks to me again. “C’mon now. I don’t bite—right guys?” He says to the rest of the lecture hall and the audience erupts in a cacophony of hoots and hollers egging me on to go take the seat.
I also hear a few offers from the females that they’ll take the seat if I don’t.
I’m sure they would. Particularly a seat that’s astride his hips if my hunch is right.
“Please, take your time. We like waiting.” His voice floats through the room but grates on my nerves.
I grit my teeth as I move reluctantly, my anger escalating with each step I descend toward the front of the room. As much as I don’t want to be here, dealing with the likes of a cocky asshole like him, my graduate career does have requirements, and I really don’t think pissing off who I have a feeling will be one of the most popular lecturers of the year is the brightest idea.