Rebel Heart

by LK Farlow

  No lie. All because I wanted to go to Prewit U and double major in business and education, with a concentration in literacy, instead of following in the footsteps of the always-perfect Elenore Adams with an MRS degree. God, most people are proud of their children for having fucking goals. But my parents? They wanted me to become a luncheon-planning, tea-drinking housewife whose only ambition was to be able to fold a fucking fitted sheet.

  Yeah, no thanks.

  For obvious reasons, I was never daddy’s little girl. Nah, the only thing that asshole and I have in common is our deep, coffee-colored eyes.

  My grandpa—my dad’s dad, mind you—is a whole ’nother story. I’ve always been a “grandpa’s girl.” From a young age, he’s been my person. The one human on this earth who loved me unconditionally. So, when dear old mom and dad cut me off, Gramps stepped up something fierce. Knowing how much it pissed off the parental units? Simply a bonus.

  A smile replaces my frown as I crank the ignition, the deafening roar of engine sending a jolt of happiness through my body. There’s nothing better than the sound of good, old-fashioned, American muscle. Mmm, yes. Please.

  Even though I’m short on time, I make a pit stop at the campus coffee shop and order two large lattes: a hot one for now, and an iced one for later. Because something—mainly my impending tutoring session with Jockstrap—tells me it’s gonna be a two-coffee kind of day.

  Two classes later, and I was free. Well, free until five o’clock, when I had to meet He Who Shall Not be Named. That left me with a measly forty-five minutes to kill…just enough time to grab a bite to eat before heading to hell.

  With a full belly and armed with my third coffee of the day, I whip my Chevelle into an open spot in the library parking lot, shocked as shit to see Brock pulling into the spot next to me.

  We exit our vehicles—his a big, shiny, jacked-up truck…probably overcompensating for his small dick. I take him in as he swaggers toward me; his dark hair is pushed back from his face and his baby blue polo shirt—free of any wrinkles—pops against his tanned skin and makes his blue eyes impossibly bluer. I can’t help but smirk when I see he’s paired said polo with charcoal-colored sweatpants and leather slip-on boat shoes.

  “Get dressed in the dark?” I ask, unable to help myself.

  My body heats as he drags his eyes all over me—until his mouth opens, ruining the moment. “Pot, meet kettle.”

  Dammit. I totally opened myself up for that one, but still. His eyes lingered on the exposed skin from the cut-out sleeves of my shirt—what the hell AJ? Since when do you want Brock Larson checking you out? Snap out of it!

  Brock moves in closer, running his knuckles over the hood of my car. “This looks just like your Gramps’s old ride.”

  “That’s because it is,” I snap, marching toward the library.

  Brock wastes no time and jogs to catch up. “Damn. You don’t gotta be so snippy, Abby Jane.”

  Abruptly, I stop and spin to face him. “AJ,” I clip out. “AJ. That’s what I go by now. Two letters. Surely you can handle that.”

  His chiseled face splits into a wide grin. This asshole is grinning at my reprimand. “You’ll always be Abby Jane to me.”

  BROCK

  The second the words pass my lips, Abby Janes looks ready to explode. Swear, if she were a cartoon character, smoke would be billowing from her ears. Using her momentary loss of focus, I stride past her, lightly checking her shoulder with mine. “You comin’?” I ask, just to rile her up a little more.

  “I swear to fucking God,” she hisses, following behind me.

  For some reason, I don’t feel like sharing her, so I lead us back to a secluded table that boasts only two chairs. Wasting no time, I make myself comfortable while she gawks at our seating arrangements.

  “Any reason you passed the three open four-seater tables?”

  “Just wanted to be alone with you,” I croon, pushing her chair back from the table with my foot. “Now, have a seat; time’s a-wastin’.”

  “You’re lucky I need that damn recommendation letter.”

  Her words hang between us. Abby Jane blanches, leading me to believe she didn’t mean to divulge that little tidbit.

  I hit her with my most boyish smile. “What letter would that be?”

  Flexing her jaw, she pointedly ignores me. “Let’s get started. We’ve already wasted fifteen minutes.”

  I’ll let her off the hook for now…but she best believe I’m filing that shit away for a rainy day.

  Much to my surprise, Abby Jane is as smart as a whip, and for the next forty minutes, we focus solely on the Brit Lit study guide laid out before us, only stopping when my cell phone begins ringing. I silence it without bothering to check who’s calling.

  But sure enough, it starts right back up. After ignoring the call, I turn off the ringer and lay it face down on the table. Right as I begin to find my groove, my damn phone begins vibrating against the wood, again and again, until finally, Abby Jane snaps. “Are you going to fucking answer that?”

  “Wasn’t planning on it.”

  “Why not?” she asks, scrunching up her nose, just like she always did as a kid when she didn’t understand something.

  “It’s not anybody I wanna talk to,” I say, hoping it’ll close the subject.

  Should have known better.

  “Why?”

  “Why do you care?” I counter, causing her to scoff.

  “I don’t.”

  “Mmmk. If you say so.”

  “I do fucking say so.”

  “Then it must be true.” I steeple my fingers beneath my chin and held my gaze steady with hers.

  “Jesus, your damn head is so big it’s a miracle you can support its weight.”

  “Got something else big too—”

  Abby Jane cuts me off with an upheld hand, just like I knew she would. “Don’t even wanna hear about your teeny weenie.”

  I balk at her words. “Nothing teeny about it babe, but you do you.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Whatever.”

  We both attempt to get back into our study, but my phone starts up again, the vibration causing her highlighter to roll off of the table. “Seriously? Just answer it.”

  Knowing we won’t get shit done if I don’t, I snatch up my phone and swipe across my screen to answer. “What do you want, Amanda?”

  What she means to be a breathy giggle comes through sounding so much like desperation, and I cringe for her. “Just to talk, Brocky.”

  “Don’t wanna talk. We have nothing to talk about.”

  “Silly boy. We need to talk about rings.”

  I scrub a hand over my face before pushing back from the table. I stalk a few rows away and try once again to explain to this little psycho that we are not now and never will be an item, much less engaged. “Amanda. Listen to me. We’re not dating. We’re not a couple. Please stop calling me.”

  She laughs like I’ve just told the most hilarious joke. “Oh, Brocky, don’t be silly. I know you need to sow your oats before settling down. Just…hurry, okay?” Amanda doesn’t give me the chance to respond before ending the call.

  I make my way back to the table, muttering as I go. “Girl troubles?” Abby Jane asks, sounding sincere.

  “Something like that.” And really, I’m not lying. Amanda Burkett is a girl and she is trouble…she also happens to be the girl my parents plan for me to marry. Unfortunately, for every ounce of loathing I feel toward the situation, Amanda feels elation. She’d give anything to have my family’s last name. Hell, it wouldn’t surprise me if she already has monogrammed towels with it.

  Abby Jane snorts out the cutest little laugh, melting away some of my frustration with Amanda. “Wanna talk about it?”

  “Not for real.”

  For a second, she looks hurt, but she recovers quickly. Like Abby Jane has feelings. “Good, because I don’t wanna hear about your latest hook-up.”

  I shoot her my most lecherous smile. “Your loss.”

&nbs
p; “Puh-lease,” she splutters, and fuck if I’m not a tiny bit offended. She continues right on though, and I crumple up the sheet of paper in front of me, fisting it so hard my knuckles are white. “I’d probably need a map and a magnifying glass to find…”

  Leaning across the small tabletop, I shove the wadded-up paper into her mouth, effectively silencing her. “Gonna stop you right there, Abby Jane, on two counts. One, you should know better than to speak about things you know nothing about, and two, I know at some point someone’s taught you not to say anything if you have nothing nice to say.”

  Pissed as hell, Abby Jane attempts to chew my head off, but the paper’s still in her mouth. “You muddafugger!” she yells, causing me to crack up. Only, my laughter’s short-lived when a giant-ass spitball hits me square in the middle of my forehead.

  I flash my eyes up to the pixie-sized she-devil seated across from me. “The fuck, Abby!”

  “Gonna stop you there, Brock.” Her voice sweet enough to give a dentist a cavity. “You should know the golden rule…do unto others and what not.”

  “Touché, Abs. Touché.” Her cheeks pink to match her hair at the use of her childhood nickname, and not gonna lie, it does something to my gut to see her looking at me like that.

  Actually, fuck that. I’m totally gonna lie. It doesn’t do shit. I’m probably just hungry. Yeah, that’s it. Thank God there’s a Chipotle on the way home.

  AJ

  T.G.I.F., motherfucker. After what feels like the longest week in the history of the universe, it’s finally Friday, and I’m so damn ready to blow off some steam.

  As Professor Doss finishes up her lecture on the themes of loyalty in Beowulf, I discreetly slip my phone from my bag and shoot a quick text to Stacia.

  Me: Quixote’s tonight?

  Stacia: God, yes. Pick me up at 9?

  Me: No. Come over and get ready with me.

  Stacia: Done. See you at 7.

  Grinning, I slip my phone back into my bag and tune back in just in time to hear Prof Doss dismiss us. After I slide my laptop back into my bag, I head down the stairs toward the front of the classroom, taking them two at a time. I’m almost to the door when Professor Doss hones in on me. “AJ. A minute please?”

  So. Close.

  “What’s up?” I ask, walking over to the podium where’s she’s gathering her belongings.

  “I just wanted an update on how things are going with Mr. Larson.”

  “They’re going.” I lift my right shoulder, the movement causing my bag to slip down my arm. She watches me like a hawk as I heft the strap up and over my head, securing it across my body.

  “Going well?”

  “Just going,” I answer honestly.

  “Let me remind you what’s at stake, Miss Adams.”

  Slightly chagrined, I nod my head, and just like that, she dismisses me.

  In true Stacia fashion, it’s half past seven by the time she finally pounds on my door before letting herself in. She stumbles through the threshold with two bags draped across her chest and her makeup Caboodle in hand.

  I arch my perfectly plucked and filled brow at her. “Why bother knocking if you’re going to walk in like you own the place anyway?”

  Stacia tilts her head to one side, and then to another, as if she’s actually pondering an answer to my question before finally shrugging. “Habit, I guess. Now, let’s get ready.” She heads back toward my bathroom, and I trail behind her.

  My apartment is another luxury Gramps’ trust afforded me. Housed in an old factory, the complex consists of only six units. The minute I toured the unit I’m in, I fell hard for the concrete floors, exposed brick, and high ceilings. It’s located within walking distance from campus and downtown, and at just over twelve-hundred square feet, it’s more than enough space for little old me—which probably explains why Stacia has so much stuff in my spare bedroom, even though she still lives at home.

  While Stacia plugs her curling iron in at my double vanity, I make quick work of pulling a few outfit choices from my closet before joining her. I opt for a super messy updo that gives my hair that freshly-fucked look that boys go so crazy for. I compliment my hair with bedroom eyes and a glossy, nude lip—a stark contrast to Stacia’s bold blue lipstick, but damn, she rocks it.

  Back in my bedroom, I strip out of my lounge clothes and move in front of my mirror, holding up hangers in front of me. Eventually, I settle on a skintight, white bandage dress with spaghetti straps that ends just shy of mid-thigh, pairing it with a pair of over-the-knee heeled boots.

  “Damn, girl,” Stacia exclaims when she turns to look at me. I do a little twirl and then inspect her outfit of choice. The loose, black crop top ends just under her bust and she’s paired it with a black leather miniskirt and royal blue peep-toe velvet pumps.

  “Back atcha, bitch.”

  She shoots me a beaming smile before pulling a bag of Malibu from her bag. “Pre-game?”

  “Always.”

  She uncaps the bottle and takes a healthy swig before passing it to me, where I follow suit. We pass the bottle back and forth two more times, and then we’re out the door and on our way.

  The line for Quixote’s almost wraps around the building. “Is Cage working tonight?” I ask Stacia, referring to her cousin who works the door here.

  “Girl, yes.”

  “Thank fuck. That line…”

  “Is not for us.” She finishes my sentence and we link arms, smiling as we bypass it.

  “ ‘Sup, Cage?” Stacia calls out as we approach her cousin, who has arms as wide as tree trunks.

  He nods his head, acknowledging us as he slaps wristbands on and ushers us through.

  The bass that was audible outside is now seeping into my skin, running through my veins, and rattling my bones. I fucking love it. Stacia grabs my hand and pulls me toward the dance floor, where a mass of bodies writhe, all set aglow by the flashing neon-colored lights.

  We immediately lose ourselves in the rhythm, dancing around one another until a beefcake with six-inch liberty spikes winds his way behind Stacia, gripping her hips and rolling his body in sync with hers. I catch her eye to make sure she’s open to his advances, and even though she prefers her men clean-cut, she shoots me a wink and a smile.

  I don’t mourn the loss of my dancing partner for long. Moments later, two big hands clasp my shoulders before trailing down my arms. Together, me and my mystery Casanova move to the pounding bass like we’ve been dancing together all our lives.

  Then, the song changes to something sensual and moody, and he steps impossibly closer. The heat of his body sears mine and he grips my hips, holding me to him, moving behind me almost like he’s moving in me. Our dance is the best foreplay of my life. It’s almost as if he can anticipate my every move. I dip, he dips. I grind my ass into him and he grinds right back, his impressive erection lighting me on fire.

  Ready to take this to the next level—also known as my apartment—I spin to face him. His scent invades my nostrils—a heady mix of sweat and Dolce and Gabbana Light Blue—and I swear I’m more drunk on him than the shots I took at home. I drag my eyes up his broad chest, admiring the way the black polo stretches across it, already fantasizing about his lips on mine, only to stop short when I land on my mystery man’s face.

  “What the fuck?” I screech, not caring one bit how crazy I sound.

  Brock smirks at me. “Don’t hate ’cause you liked it.”

  “As if!”

  “Get real, Abby Jane. You were grinding on my dick like you wished we were naked in bed.”

  Shoving at his chest, I take a step back. “You fucking wish.”

  Brock doesn’t bother with a reply. He just laughs deep and low before pivoting and heading toward the bar, where he posts up next to his older cousin, West. Turning away, I take a few deep, calming breaths. Even from across the room I can feel his eyes on me, heavy like a caress, and I’m determined not to show him just how affected I am.

  Desperate for a drink, I he
ad to the back bar and order a bottle of water, rolling it across the back of my neck before uncapping it and chugging it down. I’m about to set off in search of Stacia when a tall, sculpted Adonis approaches me. “Wanna dance?”

  Playing coy, I pretend to ponder his request. Truly, I don’t want to dance—not after Brock. But that just pisses me off, and I’m not about to let Jockstrap ruin my night, so I place my hand in Mr. Tall-and-Sexy’s and follow him out to the middle of the dance floor.

  He moves like he knows his way around the bedroom—and maybe even a pole—but I’m not complaining, and I’m certainly not comparing him to Brock. I’m also not searching out a certain black-polo-wearing jackass.

  And my heart definitely doesn’t drop when I see him dancing with a girl who looks like a real-life Barbie doll. Nope. Not at all.

  My inner-denial is interrupted when my dance partner’s hot breath fans across my cheek. “What’s your name, gorgeous?”

  Tilting my head back, my lips brush his neck as I murmur “AJ.” Our eyes catch, and I swear he’s about to kiss me when suddenly he’s yanked away from me.

  “What the fuck?” he roars, his eyes pinned on the bane of my existence.

  “The fuck is, she’s only seventeen, it’s past her bedtime, and her mother will gladly press charges against your jailbait-loving ass.”

  My eyes are wide with shock, and my blood feels like lava rushing through my veins. Oh-my-fuck, he did not just do that. “No! I’m not underage. Jesus Christ! I’m almost twenty-two!”

  My Adonis glances from me to Brock, and that sabotaging asshole raises a brow as if to say, of course she’s gonna lie now, she’s been caught. Tall-and-Sexy lifts his hands out in front of him. “I-I didn’t know.” He slowly backs up before turning and hauling ass away from us.

  “What is your prob—” Brock roughly grips my arm, though not hard enough to hurt, and practically drags me out of the club.