Beneath The Skin (A College Obsession Romance) (7 page)

I find any excuse to get out of the apartment, and I’m the one paying for the most of it. Well, more accurately, my
parents
are. I ought to have more of a say as to what goes on within these four walls, but sometimes it feels like
they
own the pad. I’m a guest in my own home.

I haven’t gotten any decent tail in months. The summer was a wasteland of half-forgotten kisses and hair-pulling and names I can barely remember. The dancer chick I banged behind the screen in that art class? I know her name starts with a C, but I couldn’t save my own life if it depended on recalling the rest of it. I’m sure she can’t be bothered to remember my name either. We know what we have is a for-fun, for-now sort of thing. I’ve only banged her four times, anyway.

When I reach the usual fork in the road—one way leading to the Theatre, Music, and Art schools, the other leading to the astronomy class I have in T minus ten minutes—I spot her sauntering down the road toward the School of Art.

Just the sight of that tight, shapely body and her whips of jet black hair cast me down a hypnotic tunnel of fantasies and lady parts. I can’t close my mouth suddenly as I feel the animal take over, pulling my feet in the wrong direction. I’m taking a right suddenly where I ought to be taking a left, and soon, I’m catching up to the woman in front of whom I’ve been naked twice … and without any sex happening.

Who the hell stands naked in front of a woman that hot—
twice
—and doesn’t have sex?

I’m nearly tripping over the cracks in the pavement as I hurry down the path. It’s a handful of minutes later that I start to catch her scent like a damn dog. Raspberries. Vanilla. Something soft and subtle.

“Hey, hey, hey,” I sing as we reach the door at the same time. I pull it open for her. “After you.”

Her needle green eyes flick upwards, taking me in. I flash her my most gentlemanly smile as a bead of sweat tiptoes down my forehead.
Damn heat.
Finally, she regards my existence and passes through the door, her delicious, inviting scent dragging me in with her like a leash.

Not even a thank you?

“You heading to class?” I ask, coming to her side and attempting to keep up with her quick pace, her hair dancing gracefully from side to side as she struts.

“That’d be a logical conclusion,” she answers with her soft voice.

“What’re you gonna learn today?”

“How to paint,” she throws back sarcastically. “I’ve wondered how it all works. How
do
those painters get all that paint on the canvas?”

She’s toying with you, Brant. Toy with her back!
“I bet we could go off somewhere and learn something no paintbrush can teach you.”

“Is that so?” she asks, unimpressed.

“You’re gorgeous. I mean—” I blink away my words. What the hell did I just say? “Hey, how about I take your photo? I got this sweet cam around my neck.”
Sweet cam? Am I serious??
“Maybe I’ll do your beauty half the justice it deserves, if I’m lucky. I’m pretty lucky.”

“Oh, are you? Lucky?” She stops finally, right in the middle of the hall between two wide-open classroom doors. “You know how to use that big ol’ complicated thing?”

I swallow hard, feeling all jittery inside. Having her full attention freezes me up suddenly. “Yeah,” I squeak, then clear my throat and set my jaw, faking the confidence that I’ve totally lost. “Yep. I sure do.”

“Big ol’ scary camera like that?” she says, taking a step toward me.

I feel her heat. Or maybe it’s mine.

“Yep. I’m the … new c-camera guy. I wanna take your, uh …”

Camera guy?
What the hell am I saying?

“Camera boy.” Her breath falls over my face, inviting and cool.

“Is that a yes?” I whisper, my voice lost.

Her face clouds over suddenly, the green in her eyes turning dark unless I’m imagining it. “A boy like you with a hunk of metal around your neck doesn’t make you a photographer,” she murmurs so softly, I could forget her actual words and be convinced that she was trying to seduce me into a state of gooey, limbless bliss. It’s working, by the way. “You wouldn’t know art if it turned into a scorpion and slipped down your pants.”

“Joke’s on you,” I murmur back, taking my own step toward her. “I already have a scorpion in my pants. Wanna see?”

“I’ve already seen it. Twice.” Her voice is somewhere between a hair and a kitty’s sigh. “And it’s no scorpion. And you’re no artist.”

“Then what am I?”

“A dick,” she answers almost politely. “A walking, talking dick. And when you graduate, that’s the song they’ll sing about you. The dick that every lucky girl on this campus got to know so intimately. The dick who’s got more mileage on him than the New York City metro. You’re no artist, Brant the Camera Boy.”

So—random observation, not gonna lie—I’m hard as hell right now.

“Maybe I need to be taught,” I suggest, hoping that’s the bait she’s tossing me, if she’s tossing anything at all.

“I’m not a dog trainer.”

I’m encouraged by her taunt as I smile with dimples. “So show me what art is, mystery-woman-with-the-green-eyes-who-won’t-get-out-of-my-mind. Show me all the things I’m doing wrong here.”

I lick my lips.

Her eyes jerk down to them, distracted for a second.

I got you.

“I’m a hands-on kind of learner,” I insist.

She parts her lips. My face is inches from hers. My cock aches, as if my pants could explode if she lays just a single finger on me.

She says, “Saturday at six. Meet me by the Quad fountains.”

My face wrinkles. “Saturday? I gotta wait until—?”

And then she pulls away from me, creating a vacuum between us that nearly topples me onto the floor. Her hair whipping in my face, she saunters into the classroom ahead, paying me no more mind at all. My mouth hangs open as I grasp at the last tendril of her sexy, sultry scent.

I feel a hole in my chest where I’m sure a vital organ or two ought to be. Saturday at six? What the hell am I supposed to do until then other than hold my dick in my hand?

I meander out of the building, lost in my own head. I can’t explain even for a second what this woman is doing to me. All I know is, I’m feeling this surge of awkwardness that I haven’t felt since Clayton and I were kids growing up and it was
him
teaching me the ways of women. I remember the way I used to freeze in front of girls … The way my throat would constrict like some jungle boa had me by the neck, its tongue tickling my ear tauntingly whenever a female was around … The complete and abhorrent blankness that would fill my brain when all I wanted to do was tell a girl she was pretty.

I’m that fool all over again around this woman with the dark hair and the green gems for eyes. I am sharing an uncomfortably familiar likeness to my former, younger, pimplier self.

It’s like puberty, but in reverse.

I’m twenty-fucking-two. That’s too damned old to be experiencing any sort of puberty whether in reverse or not. Shit, my voice even cracked in front of her. How did that happen??

As if on cue, my phone buzzes. A text from Clayton himself, who’s always too busy to hang out, being so wrapped up with Dessie.

CLAY-BOY

Dude I gotta cancel.

I growl at my phone as if he can hear me through the screen. Even if we were face-to-face, actually, he couldn’t hear my growl; he’s deaf. He’d just see me making a snarl, then make fun of me and sign something obscene at me with his hands—some vile thing he and Dmitri will understand, and I’ll be left looking like the idiot staring between them.

ME

Why????

CLAY-BOY

Dessie said rehearsal

is supposed to go late tonight.

ME

She doesn’t need any more rehearsing.

She’s perfect and everyone loves her.

Blah, blah.

We need to hang, dude.

I got real problems.

CLAY-BOY

Misplaced ur penis?

Did u check ur pants?

ME

Girl at the art school has it and won’t let go.

I live in the middle of GAY HELL at my apartment.

You and Dmitri are graduating this year

and I’m gonna be a student forever.

Help.

Me.

Plz.

CLAY-BOY

Let’s get dinner Friday or something.

Our usual place, just U and me.

ME

I’m holding you to that.

After pocketing my phone, I curse my luck. Guess I’m on my own for dinner tonight. Maybe I’ll catch a bite and get some well-needed advice from Clayton on Friday without Dessie in the way. I mean, I like her and all, but when she’s around, Clayton’s eyes (which basically are also equivalent to his ears) are all focused on her. It’s both beautiful and nauseating. I’m happy for him, but seriously, aren’t they past the honeymoon phase by now? I’m shocked neither of them popped the question yet. They’re creeping up to their one year anniversary. For some reason, just thinking about that makes me feel kinda lonely.

And Brant’s sweet little emotions aren’t consoled in the least when I make it back to the apartment and find Eric cuddling with some dude I don’t recognize on my couch. The pair of them look up at my entry, as if
I’m
the one invading
their
space.

“Don’t mind me,” I mumble at them, tossing my bag on a barstool as I pass through the living room.

“Learn anything about the stars in astronomy today?” Eric asks, his voice a bit too sweet for sincerity.

“Yeah,” I grunt back. “They’re all fuckin’ crossed.”

My bedroom door shuts behind me. It’s only the third week of school and already I’m skipping classes. Oh well. Astronomy’s a blow-off anyway, I think. I know the planet names. Pluto’s been kicked out of the club. Jupiter and all the planets behind it are gassy, including
Uranus
, but we all know a chewable
Tums
gets rid of that problem. Then there’s Venus, the planet named after the Roman goddess of love or whatever, and it’s the only planet that rotates in reverse. Which I guess makes sense, because why the fuck
wouldn’t
the planet named after the goddess of love betray the rules of its own solar system, rebellious little bitch that it is.