by Daryl Banner
I grip my good-show gift so tightly in my pocket, it hurts.
Brant busts through the glass doors, pulling me from my thoughts, and the first thing I notice is a red hand-shaped mark across his cheek. I squint at him, making the universal sign for “what the fuck, dude?” which doesn’t take a sign-language-inclined person to understand. He tells me that, just now, his girl from last week ran into his girl from this week, a slap or two ensued from one or both girls upon his sputtering face, and now he may or may not have an extra ticket to the show.
I shake my head and laugh, pulling Brant in for a hug and saying, “You’re one fucking mess, that’s for sure.” With a slap to his chest, I add, “I taught you how to talk to girls. Maybe I should have taught you how to keep it in your pants sometimes, too. Moderation and shit.”
He smirks at me, points to his red-as-a-tomato cheek, and says, “With this pretty face?”
Just before the audience is given the five-minute get-your-asses-to-your-seats warning, Dmitri pops in and snatches Brant’s extra ticket. Together, they disappear into the theater, chatting away.
Oh, fuck. The five-minute warning.
My good-show gift.
She can’t start her show without my fucking gift.
Before I realize what I’m doing, I shove through the double doors leading down the back hallways to the dressing room. My feet carry me faster than I can keep up with them, stumbling twice as I make my way. My heart’s thrashing against the bone bars of my ribcage like an angry prisoner determined to break free.
My eyes blink when I reach the dressing room. Where is she?
I spot the backside of Victoria dressed in her costume for the show. I rush up to her and spin her around, her startled eyes meeting mine.
“Where’s Dessie?” I ask at once.
She mouths back: “Onstage already.”
Fuck. They must’ve already called places.
“Thanks,” I say, then smile tightly. “You look great. Break a leg.”
The next instant finds me at the stage door. I pull it open, ignoring the waving hands of someone behind me who may or may not be the stage manager as I fly into the wing, my eyes searching for my woman. I hunt through the darkness, pushing forth. Eyes and faces turn, the actors in the wings who are waiting for the show to start.
I want to cherish every moment I have with her. I ache at the idea that this is our last show together before the semester ends. My insides burn at the mere thought that when summer comes, Dessie goes, and I’ll have to spend three fucking months without her.
Every moment matters.
This is the opening of our show together—her as the voice to this show, and me as the bringer of light to her dark stage.
And I need to speak my piece. And I need to speak it now.
And she needs my good-show gift.
To badly misquote Emily-freakin’-Webb from Our Town, don’t us stupid living people know how precious each moment of our lives is? Even a lazy moment in my apartment, lounging on the couch with Dessie in my arms while we watch some dumb thing on TV? Even another everyday lunch we share in the UC cafeteria? Even a walk to class that we’ve walked a billion times before? Did I truly appreciate each of those seemingly insignificant moments before they slipped by?
Even now, tripping through the darkness backstage searching for my Desdemona. Even now as the final minutes tick away …
The final seconds …
Dessie
I stand behind the curtain—breathe in, breathe out—as I fiddle with my bare wrist. My charm bracelet. I can’t fucking find it.
That beautiful bracelet he got me for Christmas.
I wear it for good luck every show—much to my costumers’ chagrin. Then yesterday before I left for rehearsal, I couldn’t find it.
I am so furious with myself.
But I have to focus right now. There’s an audience out there, a show to do, and a cast I can’t let down.
When I think about it, Claudio Vergas did a number or two on me. So did the absent Damien Rigby. And the little training-camp-getaway that was Italy, they planted a few seeds that I have come to appreciate. Every mistake I’ve made has strengthened me. Every crushing defeat and red-faced humiliation has served as a necessary stepping stone to reach this place, right here, in front of the curtain.
I don’t regret a single thing. Maybe I’ll even write Claudio a letter to thank him. I’ll send the letter with a package containing a brand new mug to replace the one he threw at my head.
The audience hums with anticipation. Their excitement feeds me, energy racing up and down my body as I wait for the curtain to rise.
“Dessie!”
I spin, my whole backstage universe knocked to the side. I blink through the semidarkness. “Clayton? What—What are you—?”
His hands grasp mine. “I’m so sorry, Dessie. I didn’t give you your good-show gift.”
I gawp, freeing my hands from his. “Are you serious?” I sign and say to him frantically, lit only by the indistinct blue wash of light onstage. “Clayton, the show’s about to begin!”
“They can’t start without me, now can they?” He chuckles, then extends his palm. “Give me your wrist.”
After a brief moment of hesitation, I sigh and surrender my bare wrist to him. He pulls something from his pocket, then gently attaches it to my wrist.
My charm bracelet! But there’s something added to it. I lift my wrist to inspect the new charm. It’s a hand symbol. A fist presented with only the thumb, pinkie, and index fingers extended. It’s the sign for—
“I love you, Dessie,” he whispers.
I bring my eyes up to his, touched. “Clayton.”
“I couldn’t stand letting you go back to New York without telling you that I love you. I’m totally fucking in love with you. Maybe you already knew. I want to stop being a coward and just … fucking say it. And I want you to wear it. I want you to wear my love and … and think of me when … when you’re in those piano bars and you’re singing your beautiful fuckin’ heart out.”
I grab his hands, putting a halt to his frantic signing. He meets my eyes, his own wet with inspiration, with sadness, with several emotions.
Without words, I sign to him: I wanted to tell you tonight after the show, but if you insist on doing this, well, Clayton, I guess we’re doing this right now.
He stares at me, taken aback. The intensity of his eyes sharpens as he awaits my hands’ next movements.
I tell him: I know we talked about moving in together in the fall, but I don’t want to spend the summer without you either. My father wants to offer you an internship at his theater in New York.
Clayton’s eyes shimmer against the dim blue lighting, wide as the eyes of flashlights.
I continue: You’d work alongside some seriously cool professionals up there. And yes, it’s a paid internship. It’s an amazing opportunity and it’s there for you … if you want it.
Clayton’s lips have parted as he stares at my hands in disbelief. I watch the warring thoughts race across his face in a matter of seconds. He doesn’t know what to think. I wonder if maybe I should’ve saved this piece of information for later like I’d planned.
He whispers, “I’m … I’m not a charity case for … for your—”
“No.” I pull his attention to my hands, then sign: Clayton, this is not a handout. My father saw your work. He thinks you’re talented and really likes you. You remind him a lot of himself when he was young and had big ideas.
The stage manager hisses from the side of the stage that they’re ready to start the show. Words squawk at her through her headset, the static carrying to me.
Naturally, I ignore them. I have one more thing to say to my man. And—my hands carry on, bringing his bewildered, wide-eyed attention back to me—for the record …
I present my fist to him with the thumb, pinkie, and index finger extended. It’s the combination of an “I”, an “L”, and a “Y”—I love you.
The next
second, he rushes into me for a kiss. My lips crush into his hungry ones as his hands slip around my waist, pulling me against him with all his strength.
I’m pretty sure I hear some sighs of delight by my fellow castmates, who clearly have been watching and witnessing this whole exchange.
Let’s never mind that they have no idea what the fuck I was saying with my hands. That’s between me and this gorgeous man that I love.
When Clayton finally lets me go, he whispers to me, “Show time.”
“Light me up, love,” I return to him with a wink.
He departs through the wing. I face the curtains once again, but with a renewed sense of purpose. I can’t wipe the smile off my face as I grip my wrist, my fingers touching the new charm that rests there.
I don’t know what waits for us in our future. All I know is, Clayton Watts will be with me every step of the way, and I can’t fucking wait to experience every little exciting, precious moment of it. I can certainly tell our summer’s going to be a whirlwind of pursuing our passions.
I wonder what new songs will find me in those quaint, New York City piano bars.
I wonder what brilliant strokes of light Clayton will bring to those stages.
I see the crowds. I hear the murmur of an eager audience at the edge of their seats, tittering with anticipation, whispering amongst themselves as they wait excitedly for the curtains to rise.
And I stand here in the darkness backstage, all the music bursting within me and ready to be freed.
The curtains rise. Cue the music.
Lights up.
The end.
Keep swiping the page to read Beneath The Skin, book 2 in the College Obsession Romance series, which follows Brant next semester as he goes into Art School!
Book 2: Beneath The Skin
Dedication
Thank you for picking up this book and braving another college obsession romance with me. It was different stepping out of the theater and into the art school, but I had some scandalous fun with Brant & Nell nonetheless, and I hope you do too!
I’ve had a few forays into and out of the art world throughout my life, but there was one experience in particular that changed me forever, though I didn’t know it at the time. It was an art class in middle school during a very tough and awkward time in my life. I had suffered a lot of bullying and ostracizing in sixth and seventh grade, being called the 3-or-6-letter F word before I even knew what it meant, with teachers who did little to nothing about it but turn a cheek. I reacted like any oddball kid would: I decided to make fun of myself first to take all the fun out of it for my bullies. Self-deprecation became my armor, and I grew out my hair and wore only black for my entire eighth grade year.
And I also enrolled in Art.
Unlike many of my other teachers, my Art teacher did not judge me for my odd choice in clothing, or my random black lipstick, or my strange bracelets and scary boots. I created a grotesque papier-mâché winged creature with blood on its fangs and called it Black Omen. To that, my teacher oohed at my creature’s sharp jawline and patted me on the back. I created a clay sculpture of a hand, blood pouring out of its palm and cascading down a golden wristlet it wore. To that, my teacher oohed and complimented the details in the fingernails.
She may not have realized it then—or maybe she did—but over the course of the year, she paved for me a very, very important foundation of trust upon which I’d build all of my future creative relationships upon—throughout my high school career, to my college career, even to this day in my adult life. She gave me the artistic freedom to express whatever it was that lived within me without judgment or concern. She didn’t call my parents and warn them that I was a troubled child. She didn’t urge me away from the darkness I was so clearly exhibiting. She never once shied away or recoiled from my work; she fucking embraced it. And with a cheery smile. And with a warm, grandmotherly shake of encouragement on the sleeve of my Nine Inch Nails shirt and my black wrist cuffs.
Maybe I didn’t even know the lesson she was teaching me. But she taught it nonetheless, and I am forever grateful for the freedom of creativity she allowed me to have.
Never say no to those dark demons inside you. Move in and make friends with them. Pour a few cups of tea and learn from them. Let them out to play now and then and learn to love the way they are for what they are. Even if they’re winged and fanged or have blood oozing from their palms. Maybe an Art teacher somewhere will look over your shoulder and smile approvingly.
This is for all you misters and mistresses of darkness out there. You’re not just loved in this world; you’re needed.
With so much love & Happy Reading,
Daryl
Prologue
Brant
They call me a player, but really I’m a lover.
I fall in love seven days a week.
Give me a few minutes and I’ll charm my way into any woman’s heart. Give me a few hours and I’ll have her flat on her back, headboard dented, panties on the lampshade, and begging for more—guaranteed. It’s all a game, and when I play, everyone wins.
Until the day I’m knocked off my feet by Nell, the bangin’ chick with the killer bod from the art school.
No, it isn’t some love-at-first-sight kind of thing. In fact, I hate how she looks at me with those sharp, gorgeous eyes and suddenly I’m tripping over my feet, my swagger lost. With just a flick of her long, dark hair, she deflects all my advances. She doesn’t laugh at my jokes. She makes me feel like I’m the joke. She’s playing the same game I do, but all the rules are different—and not in my favor.
What is it about this woman that drives me crazy?
I want to slip beneath her skin the way she’s so deftly slipped beneath mine.
Now, she’s got her hands on a new art project.
I’d rather she had them on me.
Chapter 1
Brant
Every chick who passes through my bed, I love her so hard.
So, so, so hard.
“You look pretty today,” I would tell the girl straddling me … if only her hand gripping my neck let up any.
“Harder!” she cries out, her hair thrashing everywhere as she twists and writhes atop me as if some ancient sex demon were possessing her. I’d happily take credit for her otherworldly pleasure if I thought I had anything to do with it. This crazy chick’s in another dimension.
“I can’t breathe,” I try to tell her through the chokehold.
“Oh, God, I’m so close,” she moans for the eighth time since she ripped off my favorite shirt—which I will mourn later—and threw me onto the cold, tiled floor of the art studio. If it weren’t for the privacy screen we’re behind, we’d be in full view of the empty studio, which I’m pretty sure is about to hold a class in less than ten minutes.
It’s okay; I’ve handled worse time constraints. “Keep it down,” I rasp through her clenching hands. “Someone will hear—”
“Harder!” she commands anyway. This crazy woman has the brute strength of a she-monster with eight vaginas.
Am I fucking her, or is she fucking me?
But I’m not one to back down from a challenge, even if I’m being slowly strangled to death. I make do, gripping her hips and performing a series of thrusts that beat any ab workout I’ve ever done. I’m getting close, too. I don’t know what the hell kind of flying horny mantis yoga position we’re in, but this shit’s not for beginners. Seriously, I think I’ve already herniated my spine in three places.
“Oh, GOD! Brian! Oh, Brian, fuck!”
“It’s Brant,” I choke out.
When she comes, her grip on my throat tightens so much, I feel veins popping, and tears of exasperation flood my eyes. And as my face becomes a roadmap for the blind, the woman emits an inhuman shriek (of pleasure, I hope?) that might have just rattled the privacy screen and made every nearby brush quiver in its jar.
We just exorcised a demon here.
“Thank you,” she murmurs vaguely, eyes closed. The
n she mercifully lets go of my throat and I suck in my first breath in an hour. “Oh, that was so good. That was so, so, so good.”
I’m still moving my hips, trying to get myself there now that I have a supply of oxygen to my brain. “I’m pretty close myself.”
“So, so good,” she finishes, then slides off my body.
My hard, wrapped cock pops out of her, wagging desperately in the open air. “Baby … You’re not gonna leave me hangin’ here, are you?”
“It’s just that this class is about to start, and I need to be down the hall for my own,” she complains after giving her phone a smirk. “Fuck, I’m gonna be late, too.”
She slips on her top, but only pulls up her jeans halfway before I’m at her back, gently running a finger down her arm.
“You gonna be so cruel to me, sweet thing?” I murmur in her ear, feeling her arm prickle at my touch. “My big guy’s feelin’ all left out. Don’t you want him to cross the finish line too? Hear the whistles and the roar of the crowd?”
“We’re about to hear the roar of a classroom.”
“My big guy’s still excited to see you,” I point out, poking her with it.
She giggles, then peers down, as if needing to check. Yeah, all eight inches of my “excitement” are pressed firmly against her thigh. I can see her eyes counting them.
She turns to me, that crazy hunger filling her face again. I smile back, despite a sudden concern that she could legitimately turn into a savage cat and pounce on me for lunch. “You didn’t come?”
I suppose it’s tricky to come when all your energy’s spent resisting a fight-or-flight response due to a very genuine fear of being fucked to death. “A real man always gets his lady off first,” I tell her instead, bringing my lips to her ear for a nibble. “A real man makes sure his lady is satisfied, smiling, and all full-up.” I know just how to work her; I could talk her right back out of those clothes and into round two if I wanted.