Chasing Darien (Chasing Series Book 1)

by J. M Stoneback

  The doorbell rings and I rush to the door, turn the knob and swing it open. Darien stands there. He looks like he just crawled out of bed. His messy hair stands up like a peacock’s, and he has on gray sweatpants with a long-sleeved black t-shirt. He yawns—I think the only thing he did was brush his teeth because he has a toothpaste smear on the side of his face. I peek out the hallway and glance back at him.

  “Where is Gunner?” I wet my thumb and wipe the toothpaste from his face and flatten his silky hair to his scalp. Don’t know why I did that.

  “He said you needed a ride to New York City.” He rubs his droopy eyes.

  “He didn’t text me.”

  “He said he did, but you didn’t respond.”

  I grab my phone from my purse, and he was right. I have two missed calls and a few text messages.

  Darien is taking you to the interview. Had to leave town for work. Sorry, I’ll make it up to you.

  Hey, sis, did Darien take you?

  CALL ME.

  I’m not about to be stuck in a car with Darien for over an hour. Not gonna happen. I shift on my feet. “Never mind, I’ll just call a cab.”

  “Why?” he asks, frowning.

  I don’t answer.

  “You scared of me or something?” His arm muscles flex as he folds his arms. My mind pictures him without a shirt, those sculpted muscles I saw on Facebook.

  “No.” I’m scared of not controlling myself around you.

  “Let’s go. Hell, I got shit to do.” He slaps me on the ass, and I yelp.

  I follow him to the car garage, and he opens the car door for me. I slide in, taking in the smell of leather and polish. It’s so nice and sleek. He hits the start button and puts the Porsche into gear. If it weren’t cold, I would ask him to let down the roof. Glancing at the time on the touchscreen dashboard, I hope we will make it in time for me not to blow my interview. The clouds are white and fluffy, making the crystal-blue sky sharp. I rattle off the address to him, and he types it in the GPS as he makes a left onto the main highway.

  What if I don’t get in? Then what? I don’t have a backup plan. Maybe I should have applied to other schools. Fidgeting in the leather seat, I play with the hem of my dress. I bought this purple flowery long-sleeved dress, along with the brown cowboy boots, just for the interview.

  Darien rubs my thigh and squeezes lightly. Oh my God. A shiver snakes up my spine. I could die from his touch. I focus on the Wal-Mart eighteen-wheeler in the right lane next to us.

  “You will do fine. Just don’t be too honest with the questions. Tell them what they want to hear and you will get in,” he says, placing his hand back on the steering wheel.

  “Is that your pep talk before you hit on women?” I ask bitchily.

  “Only the ones I know will fall for it.” He smirks.

  “God. You’re an asshole.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  We don’t speak until we make it to the school and I make it to the appointment in a timely fashion. As I approach the admissions office, Darien walks behind me and sits in one of the gray plastic chairs. A short dark-skinned woman with corkscrew curls wearing a low-cut ruby blouse with dark pants and flats greets me with her pearly whites. She’s stunning.

  We shake hands, and we introduce ourselves, and I follow her to a small office. Pictures of animation and fashion are on her eggshell wall.

  I straighten my spine as I hand her my portfolio. She opens it, studies a few of my artworks. I chose a few scripts from my comic book. Hope it’s not too personal. She makes “hmm” noises, and it’s driving me crazy. A smile stretches across her face. Good, that means she loves my artwork.

  “You have talent, kid. I give you that. When are you planning on attending FIT?” She rubs her black mole at the bottom of her chin.

  “In January, ma’am.” I rub my palms together so I won’t bite my nails.

  “Have you filled out your financial aid package?”

  “No, ma’am, I’m paying with cash,” I answer.

  “As long as you make the payment by December first then you will be able to attend.” She scribbles something down on a pink sticky note and hands it to me. It says “Thomas Curry” and a 1–800 number. “Tomorrow, speak to your advisor and he will assist you with orientation. I hope you like it here.”

  I stand up and shake her hand. I rush to the lobby with a big grin on my face. Darien tucks his phone into his pocket as I stroll in his direction.

  “You got in?”

  I nod.

  Inside the car, he asks, “Where do you want to go to celebrate?”

  I shake my head. “Can’t. Tate is coming over,” I lie.

  Darien grips the steering wheel so tight that his knuckles turn white as a piece of paper and his jaw ticks. Tension makes it stuffy, so I hit the button on the door, letting the cool breeze in. I study the spider veins in his arms and his paw-like hands. Even in regular clothing, he is insanely hot. My eyes veer to his sweatpants, and I wonder how big . . . Stop it, Alana. If he weren’t so much of an asshole, I would fuck him.

  His face displays unexpressed words that are ready to fall from his sexy plump lips. He looks at me sideways, and says, “If I didn’t know any better, I would say you were eye-fucking me.”

  Turning my view back to the window, I say, “Don’t be so full of yourself.”

  Thirty minutes into the trip, I whip out my iPhone and my nails click away on the glass screen as I text Tate. It will keep me distracted from Darien, and we don’t have to hold conversations. Should ask Tate for a dick pic. Maybe it will keep me from thinking about Darien’s dick. I’m such a slut.

  Me: Want to hang out?

  Tate: Sure, sweet cheeks. When and what time?

  Me: Surprise me.

  Tate: K.

  Darien turns on the street that we live on, and relief washes in my chest like a tidal wave. Glancing at me, he says, “Dump Tate.” His voice is flat.

  “What?”

  “Dump Tate.”

  He can’t be serious. “Why?”

  “Because I’m not into sharing,” he says with a straight face.

  The cocky bastard is serious. “You think I’m going to let you fuck me?” I sigh. He rolls his eyes as if that’s a real question and ignores it.

  “Get rid of the Justin Bieber wannabe, or I will.”

  I snort a humorless laugh and say, “You’re comical.”

  He pulls up to the car garage, cuts the engine. Slowly, I peel my seatbelt off, placing my fingers on the silver door handle.

  “Thanks for the ride,” I say, tugging on the door handle, but it doesn’t budge. I tap the unlock button and nothing happens. Frustrated, I press the button multiple times and pull on the handle as hard as I can.

  “You can’t open the door, it’s locked, sweetheart,” he deadpans. A smile meets his eyes.

  “Darien, let me out!” I say through clenched teeth.

  Well, if this isn’t batshit crazy, I don’t know what is. Who the hell does he think he is, bossing me around like I’m a peasant? Warning bells are going off in my head like sirens. I need to stay the hell away from him. Bet you if he didn’t have the body of a model, I wouldn’t be wet as the Atlantic Ocean. And that sexy foul mouth makes me want to throw my panties at him.

  “Do what I say.”

  We stare at each other, having our own silent conversation with our eyes.

  You know you want me.

  I do.

  Then stop fighting me.

  I want to strangle him. Would get out from the back seat, but he doesn’t have one. His stormy eyes dance with lust and fire. And there goes that cocky-ass grin. Boy, oh boy. Don’t know if I want to punch him or fuck him.

  I am going to beat him at his own game. I climb on his lap and the ridge of his hard erection rubs against my clit. If I move against him, I will come in my panties. Biting my bottom lip until it bleeds, I place my hands on the door handle. We both stare at each other for a minute that feels like forever. He slid
es his cold hands under my dress, cupping my ass cheeks. My body breaks into a million pieces and I want him to take me right now. I try not to imagine how good he will feel buried between my legs. Slowly, I roll my hips, grinding on him, his thick length pulsing. He has to be big and long because his length pokes my belly button. Plan to find out, but not today. The only thing separating us is my thin blue cotton thong and his sweatpants. He lays his forehead on my tits, and he is losing strength in his little game. The door clicks.

  “If you don’t hurry up and get off me, I’m going to shove my cock so far up your pussy you’re gonna feel it in your fucking stomach,” he growls.

  “Jesus, Darien.”

  “That’s what you are going to say in a few seconds. Now, move. Before I lose my goddamn mind.”

  I take my sweet time, climbing over him, watching him squirm in his seat, mentally patting myself on the back.

  “Fucking cock tease,” he mumbles under his breath as I slam the door in his face.

  Damn Darien for making me horny. I hate the fact that I find him so irresistible. Not gonna lie, I feel so fucking horrible for lusting after him when I should try to make things work with Tate. I will not make the same mistake that my ex-husband made. I won’t play with Tate’s heart. I should be with him—he is safe, treats me like glass, and he won’t break my heart. Darien is dangerous, reeks of it. The way he talks dirty to me turns me on so bad that I had to watch something to keep my mind off of him.

  An hour later, Tate and I peer at different paintings. When I told him to surprise me, I didn’t expect to go to an art gallery that is decorated with different types of paintings from history to contemporary and abstract. We watch a musical piece together about a woman killing a man she’s in love with. It’s interesting, and the singing is on point.

  “I love art galleries,” he says. Blue-collared shirt and tight black slacks hug his body, and a man bun flops on top of his head. He looks businesslike.

  “Why?” I ask as we exit the theater.

  “Because they can bring people together and make them forget their troubles.” His black loafers squeak against the marble floor. He must have had a shitty day.

  We walk side by side and our shoulders bump into each other. I run my hands through my thick hair. My ends feel like straw. I need a trim.

  “We need to t—”

  He covers my lips, and I picture Darien kissing me. As he runs his fingers through my hair, my shoulders slump and him pulling me closer doesn’t help much either. I find myself pulling away from him, and I pat his hard chest. I’m going to hell. Matter of fact, I’ll probably be the one driving the bus there for what I’m about to say.

  “I like you, but I think that we should be friends.” My voice is cracking.

  His lips press tight. He takes a step back, shoving his fingers in his pockets.

  “Are you okay?”

  He nods his head and asks, “Did I say something or do something wrong?”

  “No. I just don’t want to lead you on, and things aren’t going anywhere.”

  And in the heat of the moment, I almost slept with another guy I can’t stop thinking about. And I’m emotionally fucked up because of my ex-husband. Now I’m afraid to give you my heart.

  “You still want to be friends?” I ask honestly. Even though I don’t feel a connection with him, that doesn’t mean he is not a good person.

  He takes deep breaths and wraps his arms around my neck. My body meshes with his, and I feel the heat radiating off his body. “Of course. Are we still gonna fuck each other?” He strokes my shoulder.

  “Nah,” we say in unison.

  “We would ruin our friendship,” he says. Different voices echo throughout the gallery. A group of college students stands in front of an abstract picture, and the professor explains the history of the art.

  “We can always hang out,” I murmur.

  “Yeah.”

  I’m so glad he’s not mad about us being friends. The truth is, I am going to see Darien again. He is my brother’s friend, and he lives in the same building, and he sends my body into a rage of hormones when I’m around him. Don’t know if I can control myself around Darien.

  Darien

  A BRUNETTE WEARING a short black dress pops herself on my lap and I lean back into the leather seat. We ride through downtown Newark in the limo. Can’t see the city lights because the windows are tinted. Matt pops a bottle of champagne and pours it into everyone’s glass, spilling some on the black carpet.

  “Let’s toast,” Logan says. He is happy as a fucking birthday clown. Probably happy to get away from his badass kids and his girlfriend, Trish.

  The blonde woman yanks his red silk tie as she straddles his lap, holding up her glass, and says, “To success.”

  We clink our glasses together, and I swallow the watered-down alcohol. I need something harder than this. We are celebrating Matt’s success in opening his club. He owns multiple clubs throughout the country.

  Matt’s drunk ass pulls down a woman’s silk silver blouse, yanks out her big tits, and pours bourbon on her nipples and licks it off. She tries to rip off his crisp black collared shirt, but he tells her to stop. The guys banter about shit I could care less about.

  Fact: Alana is the biggest cock tease I ever met in my life. If I had a dollar for every time I got blue balls from thinking about Alana, I’d be a billionaire.

  Haven’t spoken to Red since I took her to the interview. And when she went to celebrate with Tate, I got pissed off. I’m gonna fuck her, but it will be on her terms and time. This is foreplay building for the grand finale. Red pretends she doesn’t want me like I didn’t catch her eye-fucking me. I thought about it all week, how she rubbed her clit against my cock, making me so goddamn horny. Cock tease. It took everything in me to show restraint. That woman already owns my dick and I haven’t fucked her yet.

  “You want me to take care of that for you, babe?” the brunette says, touching the imprint of my dick. Don’t want to taste anyone else but Alana.

  Shaking my head, I say, “Get off me.”

  I push her off me and she pouts like a five-year-old. When the blondie sits between Matt and Logan, she straddles Matt’s lap as he makes out with the woman with big tits. Women always hang around Matt like groupies. Don’t know what they see in the slimy bastard.

  We arrive at the club and a line is wrapped around the corner of the brick building. As we make it to the entrance, a camera flashes and the bouncer steps to the side and lets us through the door. Reggae music booms through the speaker, making the beige wooden floor shake under my Gucci loafers. I rub my gray cashmere sweater as I walk to the VIP section and the waitress brings me Louis XIII shots, much better than that cheap-ass champagne that I was drinking earlier. The thick crowd dances on the floor. A hottie with golden wavy hair sits next to me on the blue couch and squeezes my biceps.

  “You want to dance?” she yells.

  “Sure.”

  She grabs my arm, leads me to the dance floor, and grinds on my dick. When the song stops, she whispers in my ear to meet her at her hotel tonight. I tell her that I’ll think about it.

  It is time for Matt to make his speech, so we line up on the small stage. I scan the room as Matt gives his speech and my eyes land on Red. What is she doing here? Better not be with Tate. Speaking of that motherfucker, his background check came back squeaky clean. So clean that I thought about looking up his ancestor’s history to see if he is related to Jesus. Has been a straight-A student all his life, grew up in a two-parent home. Not a royal fuck-up like me.

  God, Alana is beautiful. Her purple cocktail dress hugs her small body, and her luscious red hair brushes her shoulders. My dick stands at attention. I adjust myself through my dark jeans. Been ready to scratch this itch with her so I can go on with my life. She is not alone. She’s with a guy with a suit on. Sitting at the bar, she throws her head back and laughs, patting the loser on his shoulder. I maneuver my way through the crowd. That guy has got his hand on
the small of her back, and when she turns around to speak to the bartender, the asshole puts a pill in her glass. My nostrils flare and I ball up my fist so tight that it hurts. Motherfucker.

  She turns around, and the guy scoots her closer to him. I rush to her as my heart leaps out of my goddamn chest. She places her lips on the rim of the glass, and I snatch it away. She glares and tries to snatch the drink from me. I hold it in the air.

  “What are you doing? Darien!” Her voice is high-pitched as she stomps her feet.

  “This fucker slipped a pill in your drink!” I turn to look at the lowlife, and he looks me up and down, squeezing his knuckles.

  “Mind your fucking business,” he says, standing so close, our noses touch. Spit flies on my cheek, and I take a handkerchief from my breast pocket and wipe it.

  Alana yanks on my arm. “Please. Don’t cause a scene.”

  Balling up my fist, I snatch my arm from her grip. “Get the fuck outta here,” I yell at the son of a bitch.

  “Make me,” he bites out.

  Alana tries to slide between us, but neither one of us flinches. Logan comes in my peripheral view and squeezes between me and the loser. “What’s going on?” he says, pushing us apart.

  “This fucker slipped something in Alana’s drink.” I glance at her, and she has her head down.

  “Okay, out you go.” Logan waves his hand, and two security guards escort him out of the club. The guy mumbles cuss words under his breath. I grab Red by the arm, pulling her in the other direction.

  “I’m taking you home.”

  She snatches her arm from my grip and says, “I’m not going anywhere. It’s my birthday, and I want to celebrate!”

  “You celebrate when you’re sober. Not tonight. I’m not going to babysit a grown-ass woman who can’t hold her liquor.” I grind my teeth.

  She turns to the bartender. “I want a bottle of vodka to go.” She’s slurring her words.

  I shake my head at the bartender with the lip ring and straw hair and she nods her head. Pulling my wallet from my breast pocket, I slap a hundred-dollar bill on the table, telling the bartender to keep the change. Wrapping my arms around Alana’s waist, I pull her close to me so she won’t stumble.