Beauty and the Mustache (51 page)

The next words spoken came from the girl and
were a bit whiny. “Money, dummy. Martin’s loaded—well, his family
is loaded, and they’ll buy me off. All you have to do is give him
the stuff tonight in his drink. I’ll take him upstairs, record the
whole thing. Bonus if I get pregnant.”

My mouth dropped open, my eyes wide, unable
to believe what I’d just heard. The awfulness, rustling, and lip
smacking continued.

“
You dope him and I’ll
rope him.” The girl’s pleasure gasps were audible and rather
ridiculous sounding.

“
Oh, yeah baby—touch me
there.” These breathy words were accompanied by the sound of a
beaker crashing to ground and a zipper being undone.

I winced, scowled. Really, people had no
manners or sense of decorum.

“
No-no- we can’t. He’ll be
here any minute. I need to leave.” The girl’s voice pleaded. I
noted that she sounded the perfect mixture of regretful and
hurried. “You need to make sure he stays at the house for the
party. I’ll be there at eleven, so give him the stuff around ten
thirty, okay?”

The zipper came back up, the man backed into
the cabinet. I jerked at the resultant bang of the doors. “How do
you know where he’ll be all the time?”

“
We dated,
remember?”

“
No. He fucked you. You
never dated. Martin Sandeke doesn’t date.”

“
Yeah, well, I know his
schedule. He comes here on Fridays and does… hell if I know with
his ugly little lab partner.”

Ugly?

I twisted my lips to the side, my heart
seized in my chest.

I hated the word ugly. It was an ugly
word.

Ugly, unsightly, gross,
misshapen, repelling
… I mentally recited.
For some reason, the synonym game didn’t help me this
time.

“
His lab partner? Wait,
I’ve heard about her. Isn’t her dad an astronaut or
something?”

“
Who cares? She’s nobody.
Kathy or Kelly or something, whatever.” The girl huffed, the heels
of her shoes carrying her farther away. “Forget about her, she’s
nothing. The point is you need to stay here and make sure he comes
tonight, okay? I got to go before he gets here.”

“
Bitch, you better not be
playing me.”

The girl responded but I didn’t catch the
words. My back itched and, while tucked in the cabinet, I couldn’t
reach the spot. In fact, it would be a difficult spot to reach even
if I were standing in an open field. Also, my mind was still
reciting synonyms for ugly.

I didn’t think I was
ugly.

I knew my hair was unremarkable. It was
long, straight, and black. I always wore it in a ponytail, bun, or
clip. This was because hair, other than warming my head, served no
purpose. Mostly, I ignored it.

I rather liked my eyes. They were grey. It
was an unusual color I’d been told on more than one occasion.
Granted, no one ever said they were pretty, but no one ever said
they were ugly either. That had to count for something.

I was no supermodel in height or weight, at
five foot seven and a size ten. But I wasn’t Jabba the Hut
either.

My teeth were reasonably straight, though I
had a noticeable gap between the front top two. I was also pale—the
color of paper my best friend, Sam, had once said. My eyebrows were
too thick, I knew this. Sam—short for Samantha—often remarked that
I should get them plucked, thinned out.

I ignored this advice, didn’t care about
thick eyebrows so long as they never became a unibrow like my aunt
Viki.

I glanced down at my comfortable
clothes—men’s wide leg, navy cargo pants with the cuff torn off,
worn converse, and an oversized Weezer t-shirt. I might be plain,
unremarkable, or even mousy. But it’s not like I was horrible beast
who turned people into stone with a single gaze. I was just… low
maintenance.

That was okay with me. I didn’t need
attention, didn’t want it. People, especially people my age and
especially other girls, made very little sense to me. I didn’t see
the value in spending hours in front of a mirror when I could be
playing video games or playing the guitar or reading a book
instead.

But sometimes, when I was with Martin and we
were calculating particulate levels, I wanted to be beautiful.
Really, it was the only time I wished I looked different. Then I
remembered he was a jerkface and everything went back to
normal.

I gave myself a mental shake and gritted my
teeth. Straining to listen, I pressed my ear against the cabinet
door and waited for signs that the unknown male was still
present.

The itch in the center of my back was
spreading and I didn’t know how much longer I could stand it. On
the itch scale, it was quickly moving from aggravating to brain
exploding torturous.

But then the sound of shuffling footsteps
approaching from the hall snagged my attention. They slowed, then
stopped.

“
Hey man. Whatsup?” Said
the mystery cussing fiend.

“
What are you doing here?”
I heard Martin ask—I guessed he was standing at the entrance to the
lab because his voice was somewhat muffled. Regardless, it made my
stomach erupt in rabid butterflies. I often had a physical response
to the sound of Martin speaking.

“
Wanted to make sure
you’re coming to the house party tonight.”

I heard more shuffling footsteps. They were
Martin’s. I’d know that nonchalant gait anywhere—because I was
pathetic and maybe a little obsessed with all things Martin
Sandeke. But the difference between my obsession with Martin and
the other girls’ obsession with Martin was that I had absolutely no
problem admiring his finer features from afar.

Because Martin really was kind of a
jerk.

He’d never been a jerk to
me, likely because I was an excellent lab partner, we spoke only
about chemistry, and he liked acing assignments; but I’d seen him
in action. He’d lose his temper and then
BOOM!
he’d go off on whatever poor
soul he happened to believe was responsible.

If it was a girl, they’d leave crying after
coming in contact with his razor wit (and, by razor, I mean cutting
and wound inducing). He never called them names, he didn’t have to.
He’d just tell them the truth.

If it was a guy, he might use only words.
But sometimes he used fists too. I’d been a witness to this
once—Martin beating the crap out of a slightly shorter but also
slightly broader jilted boyfriend of one of his one-night-stands.
At least, that was the rumor that went around after both of them
were escorted out of the dining hall by campus police.

Martin was an equal opportunity jerkface and
therefore best avoided outside of the chemistry lab.

No one spoke for a moment; then, I stiffened
when I heard Martin ask, “Where’s Parker?”

That was me. I’m Parker.

To be more precise, I’m Kaitlyn Parker, Katy
for short; but I doubt Martin knows my first name.

“
Parker? Who’s
Parker?”

“
My lab
partner.”

“
I thought your lab
partner was that girl—the one-”

“
She is a
girl.”

“
Her name is
Parker?”

I knew Martin was close now because I heard
him sigh. “What did you want again?”

“
The party tonight—you’re
still coming, right?”

“
I already told you I’d be
there.” Martin sounded ambivalent, bored, and maybe a little
distracted.

“
Good. Because I’m
counting on you to be my wingman.” The mystery speaker’s voice
started to fade, I guessed he was leaving, having secured what he
came for.

“
Yeah, whatever.” Was
Martin’s offhanded response.

“
I’ll see you tonight,
bro. You better come, I’m serious!”

Martin didn’t respond. I guessed the unknown
male finally exited because, after a silent pause, I heard him
release a very audible huff. It was heavy, exaggerated, and
flavored with exasperation.

Meanwhile, I was still in the chemistry
cabinet and the itch of the century had spread to my shoulders and
stomach. I was likely going to go crazy if I didn’t scratch it
within the next ten seconds. It felt like I was being repeatedly
stung by a legion of fire ants.

During those ten seconds I debated my
options.

I could stay in the cabinet, wait for Martin
to leave, go quietly insane, then send him an anonymous note about
the conversation I’d overheard.

Or, I could burst forth from my hiding
place, scratch my itch, look like the doofus I was, then hope he’d
forget as I regaled him with the details of the conversation I’d
overheard.

In the end it didn’t matter, because the
cabinet doors were abruptly opened. A whoosh of fresh air followed
and I found myself face-to-face with Martin Sandeke.

His eyes were blue and exceptionally
beautiful. They reminded me of blue flame. Well, usually they were
lovely, at present they were narrowed and sharp and focused
squarely on me. Beginning with my eyes, they moved down then up,
ending where they started.

He was truly a magnificent specimen. All
broad shoulders and narrow hips, with the thick muscular thighs of
a rower. His brown hair was streaked with blond—likely due to all
his time on the water and in the sun.

I wasn’t used to this—him
looking
at
me,
standing so close—thus, combined with my normal female
palpitations, I couldn’t quite draw breath for several
seconds.

At length he said, “Parker… what are you
doing?”

“
Uh…” I released the
breath I’d been holding and unthinkingly arched my back, reached
behind me to scratch my itch.

Maybe it was the effect of his eyes and
unavoidable handsomeness, or maybe it was because I’d seen him rip
girls to shreds and was therefore a little afraid a potential
non-chemistry related conversation, or maybe it was the itch
between my shoulder blades—but, without thinking, I blurted the
truth. “I was hiding in the cabinet.”

His brow furrowed; but his gaze relaxed
slightly, his confusion plain. “Why were you hiding in the
cabinet?”

I reached over my shoulder, stretching my
arm, and tried to reach the itch with my left hand instead of my
right. This didn’t work.

“
Why does anyone hide in a
chemistry cabinet?” I shrugged, mostly because I hoped the movement
would help me get to the itch.

He lifted a single eyebrow and grabbed me by
my upper arms; pulling and lifting me like I weighed next to
nothing. He set me safely on the ground.

Martin’s hands on my arms sent a bolt of
girly awareness to the pit of my stomach. It was paired with
belated embarrassment at being found as a burst of heat spread from
my chest to my neck.

He still gripped my arms when he asked, “Do
you hide in the cabinet often?”

“
Sometimes.” I said
distractedly, my jaw clenched, willing the mortified blush to
recede.

“
Is this an everyday
thing?”

“
No. Only on special
occasions, like when strange people arrive to plot your demise.” I
twisted out of his grip, reached for and failed to find the spot
needed to secure relief.

“
Plot my demise?” His eyes
darted over me again, I could tell he was studying my movements.
“What are you doing?”

“
Trying to reach an itch
between my shoulder blades.” My elbow was in the air now, my hand
down the neck of my shirt.

Martin’s eyes widened then blinked. Without
a word he stepped forward and into my personal space. Before I
could comprehend what was happening, he’d backed me into the lab
table and I was trapped. Martin was against me, his arms wrapped
around my body, his hands slipped under my t-shirt to the center of
my back, and his fingers itched the unreachable space between my
shoulder blades.

At first I tensed
because…
MARTIN SANDEKE’S ARMS ARE AROUND
ME, HIS HAND IS UNDER MY SHIRT, HE BODY IS PRESSED AGAINST
MINE!

OMG. WTF? BBQ!

But then, my brain’s very understandable
stunted fan-girl reaction to his movements was quickly eclipsed by
the blissful relief of an inch scratched.

I melted in his arms, my forehead resting
against his chest, and I moaned my satisfaction.

“
Oh, yes, God. That’s the
spot… Please, don’t stop.” I murmured, obviously out of my mind.
But it felt so good. So very, very good. Like sinking into a hot
bubble bath after walking a mile through a nor’easter.

Martin didn’t stop.

Well… not precisely.

Rather, over the course of a full minute, he
ceased using his nails and instead began caressing and massaging my
back with his fingers and hands. I realized too late that his head
had dipped to my neck and his lips were against my ear, his hot
breath tickling me and sending delightfully dangerous shivers
racing down my spine, back of my legs, to my toes.

“
Did I make it all
better?” He whispered then bit—yes, bit!—my neck, like he was
tasting me.

Then he bit me again.

I sucked in a breath and my eyes opened—even
as my body instinctively arched toward him. Reality burst through
the delightful fog of his ministrations like one of those
disturbing and jarring windup jack-in-the-box clowns.

After one and half semesters of nothing but
mundane academic interactions, I was in the chemistry lab with
Martin Sandeke and his hands were roaming, liberal and greedy. His
face was tucked in my neck. I was trapped against a lab table. Our
bodies were intimately connected.